The Fort

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BRASUS WAS THE first to see the riders, and they were not the ones he was expecting. They were Romans though, drinkers of wine and unclean of soul, and they were soldiers. He whistled softly and one of his warriors looked up. They were below, two on either side of the gaping hole where the gate and the wall for ten paces on either side had been demolished, hiding behind the mounds of rubble. From down there they could see much less than he could from the window in the tower. The riders were a quarter of a mile away, only just over the brow of the ridge and invisible to the warriors. There were two of them in sight, leading two horses, and so far no sign of any more. They were too far away to hear his whistle, but he did not want to risk gesturing from the window and had to trust that his men would do the right thing now that they were alerted to trouble.

The Romans stopped and Brasus wondered whether to climb down to join his men, before deciding that it was better to watch the enemy. They were staring at the tower and the ruined walls around it. For the moment the driving rain had stopped, and Brasus sensed that the storm had passed and that the night would be dry. He doubted that the Romans understood the land well enough to realise this, and with little more than an hour left before nightfall, they were surely wondering whether the tower offered safety and shelter. Were there more of them? As far as he knew no patrols had come this high up towards the pass since the early autumn, which did not mean that one had not come now.

After an age, with Brasus regretting not having climbed down to join his men, the riders walked their horses forward again. They did not seem agitated, but one had a spear and the other had drawn his sword, and they moved with care.

There was no one behind them, or if there were, they were staying too far back to be of any help. Never before had the man come with soldiers or sent them to carry his letters. Perhaps he would not come today, delayed by the storm or wary if he had seen the cavalrymen. Brasus thought back to the solstice and the sending of the Messenger, when the Roman merchant had knelt as a captive with the two legionaries. For years the man had helped Decebalus, bringing him information, much of it secret and carrying letters back and forth so that the king could speak to Romans of high rank. Their treachery was contemptible, but useful, and perhaps no more than could be expected of such vermin, eaters of red meat and drinkers of wine. The merchant was paid for all this, paid with gold for the risks he ran and the shrewdness with which he performed his tasks.

Brasus wondered whether Decebalus had ordered the fat man taken to the ceremony to frighten him. Yet that was a risk. There were three captives because there were three Messengers prepared to carry word of the world of men to the Lord Zalmoxis. Yet there was risk, for as many captives were fated to die as Messengers, and the Second might have failed the test so that Brasus would become the Third, which meant that he would end his life on this earth to travel to the Heavens and also that the merchant would have been killed.

Less than fifty paces from the old gateway one of the Romans stopped, holding both the riderless horses, as his comrade trotted forward.

Brasus wanted to believe that fate and the will of the Lord Zalmoxis had decided that night, but the doubts kept bubbling up as the months had passed. The merchant was too valuable to the king to be killed, unless he wanted to prove his devotion by the worth of the offering. Brasus had liked to think that he was chosen by the god because of his own merit. Although only twenty, he was a chieftain, a proven warrior and leader of men, head of a family loyal to the king and pure of life and heart. He had been flattered to be chosen as Messenger, and though passion was vanity, he had to admit that there had been a thrill at the thought of transcending this body to join the god. Such a death was more blessed even than a death in battle.

The Roman was coming closer. Brasus saw his men waiting, weapons in hand. One was an archer and as he watched the man reached into his bag for an arrow. If there was a fight, then Brasus would shout down to him to shoot the one left behind and stop him getting away.

Brasus knew the tower well, which made it a shame to see it abandoned and in disrepair. His father had held this place for the king for many years. He remembered parting with the old man and sensing how strongly he yearned to defend it against the invaders in the last war with Rome. For the first year he was frustrated, until in the second the Romans came and his father fought them and held them for seventeen days before they breached the wall. As his men died fighting, his father had taken his own life in devotion to the god. That too was a good death.

Fate and the will of Zalmoxis, those were the drivers of men’s lives, and the pure accepted this truth and embraced their destiny. Yet now he struggled. He had been chosen as Messenger and yet not chosen to go to the god. The other two men were brave warriors, but neither was pileatus, neither a noble or leader of a clan. As reward the king favoured him, even promising to give Brasus one of his daughters in marriage. Instead of passage to the Heavens, he would receive land and power and a royal bride. Accepting this as his just fate might have been easier if it had not seemed so convenient. A loyal nobleman was honoured and rewarded, his devotion to the king confirmed, and the only Roman of value was spared to serve Decebalus. Was that simply the will of the god? If so, then the Lord Zalmoxis was very obliging. The thought was disturbing, gnawing away at his old certainties like a worm burrowing into fruit, but would not go away. He had seen too much in battles and all the little fights of the last war to be certain about anything. So many of the pure failed to act as they should, while other lesser men outshone them like comets – and even Rome and its creatures sometimes showed true purity.

The rider was almost at the rubble piled outside the breach in the wall where the gate and its towers had once stood. He had a yellow crest on his bronze helmet and that was the mark of a junior officer. Still there was no sign of anyone else. If they were not alone, then these men were taking a great risk.

‘We are friends!’ The man shouted in Latin. He had a strong accent, which Brasus did not recognise, and then he switched to a dialect of the Keltoi, so perhaps he was from one of the tribes of Gaul. ‘Friends!’ he tried in guttural Greek. The man held his sword high and then dropped it into the snow. ‘Friends!’

Brasus could see no sign of a trap, and revealing his own presence did not betray his men. He leaned forward out of the window and shouted down. ‘Friend!’

The cavalryman started at the reply, having probably decided that the tower was empty. Brasus gestured to him. ‘Dismount and come in! Slowly!’ Whether or not he understood the words the Gaul or whoever he was saw the beckoning arm. He swung down from his horse, dropped his shield to lie by the sword and walked up the rubble, arms spread wide to show that they were empty and that he was no threat.

‘Call the other!’ Brasus pointed at the distant rider and beckoned again. The man nodded, and shouted something back at his comrade, who came on. Then he gasped as warriors appeared on either side of him.

‘Just watch him!’ Brasus shouted to his men. ‘And wait for me.’

By the time he had come down the second cavalryman had come in. One of the warriors held their horses while the rest watched the prisoners.

‘Says his name is Ivonercus and this is his servant,’ the oldest of the warriors told him. He spoke the Celtic language and they had managed to communicate a little. ‘They’re both Britons and have run from the Roman army.’

‘Why have you come?’ Brasus asked in Latin.

‘To serve Decebalus,’ Ivonercus told him. ‘And to fight for him.’

The king always welcomed deserters. If their story was true then they would be taken into his service, but that was for another day. For the moment he explained that they were prisoners and would be guarded until they crossed back through the pass and reached safety. Only then – if they answered all questions satisfactorily – would they be given back their weapons.

‘I understand,’ Ivonercus assured him. The man seemed desperate to please.

‘Take them there,’ Brasus ordered, pointing at one of the out-buildings that still had most of its roof, ‘and guard them. Bring their horses inside so that they cannot be seen.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The older warrior did not say anymore, but the question was obvious from his expression.

‘We will wait another day for the messenger. Perhaps two if nothing else seems wrong.’ Brasus smiled. ‘One man watches the prisoners and another on guard – in the tower during daylight. There won’t be a lot of sleep.’

‘Two awake, two resting,’ the old warrior said. ‘It could be worse.’

‘There are five of us, and I shall take my turn like everyone else.’

‘My lord.’