Trumpets blew, orders were shouted and the troops began to move about their business.
A centurion came up. “Sir, there is a man crossing the river. He’s alone. What shall we do?”
“Let me see,” I said. I went to the river wall and Quintus came with me. The tribesmen were still on the bank, a faint patch of dark against the snow, like a smear of dirt upon a toga. Coming across the broken ice was a man. As he came closer we could see that he was running gently, his sword in his right hand and a spear in his left.
“Is he mad?” said Quintus in amazement.
“A spy perhaps, sir,” said a legionary, standing by with a bow held loosely before him.
I shook my head. “My spies don’t come in like that. He’s not on an embassy either, not with those weapons out.”
The duty centurion said quietly, “Perhaps he is mad.”
He came closer and closer. We could see that he was a man of middle age, his beard was streaked with grey and his face was contorted, but whether with hate or merely with the effort of running I could not tell. There was something strange and terrible about this man’s approach. He came on steadily as though nothing would stop him. He was shouting in a loud voice, but at first we could not hear what he said.
Quintus said, “He is mad.”
“Shall I fire, sir.”
“No. Wait for my orders.”
The man wore the dress of the Siling Vandals and he was bareheaded. When he was two hundred yards away I put my hands to my mouth and shouted to him: “Stop where you are or we shall shoot. Put your weapons down and declare yourself.” He took no notice. He was crying in a loud, high voice: “Butchers… murderers… my wife… my wife… children… butchers… starved… butchers… barbarians….” Fifty yards away he stopped, his chest heaving. “Butchers,” he cried. He straightened up and hurled the spear with tremendous force. It passed between two legionaries and buried itself on the parade ground at the feet of a startled soldier carrying a sack of grain. Then he ran forward again, his sword outstretched in his hand. I nodded swiftly to the centurion, who cried, “Fast… stand… loose.” Three arrows took him in the chest as he ran hard for the gate. He stopped dead. His body went backwards six feet with the force of the arrows, twisting as it did so and then, arching slightly, lay crumpled sideways upon the snow.
The soldiers lowered their bows and we all looked at each other in silence. No one knew what to say. It was bizarre and horrible, even for us who were professional soldiers. He had been a man out of his mind, as Quintus said.
“Collect his weapons,” I said. “Leave the body where it is. The wolves will deal with that.” I turned away and walked to the ladder. It was then that I made up my mind.
Quintus, following, said tersely, “Rando’s daughter?”
“Well?”
“Don’t do it. There’s no point now.”
I did not answer him and I left him standing by number four armoury, staring after me in bewilderment.
As I went through the camp I saw the signal fires flare as the tar and pitch caught light, and a stray dog yelped suddenly as it cowered againt a wall and a troop of horse clattered by. Inside the Adjutant’s office the clerks were burning all unnecessary documents while the rolls that were to be kept were being loaded into a waggon under the direction of an auxiliary. Fatigue parties went from hut to hut with incendiaries, so that each building might be fired without difficulty when the time came; while others fixed prepared sections of palisading at strategic crossings in the camp, so that if the outer wall fell the barbarians would still have to fight their way through, building by building. Here, an archer was busy flighting his arrows; there, a legionary was fitting javelins into racks along the firing platform; and the north and south gates were being shored up with great balks of timber. They would withstand even a battering ram when the time came. I spent the morning inside my office, answering questions and giving orders, while messengers came and went with a stream of information. A little before midday Quintus lounged in, his face wet with sweat.
“The girl,” he said. “You never answered my question.”
I had a headache and I was deathly worried. I looked up at him. He too looked tired, and a muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. He was always like that before the fighting—overtensed, wrought up and inclined to be irritable.
“Why the interest?” I said. “Do you want her for yourself?”
He began to look angry, flushed a dull red, started to say something, checked, turned and went out, slamming the door behind him. I grinned and went on with my work. Another messenger came in with news from Goar. Guntiarus had learned that his son was in the Alan’s hands and had promptly discontinued his supply trains to the enemy camp. “I do not trust him, however,” wrote Goar. “For the moment he is frightened. It will not last. If he moves against us I shall send him his son in small pieces. I have men on watch constantly, and will let you know the moment the enemy begins to break camp. Can you…” I read on to the end and then ate a meal of pork and beans, washed down with some wine that not even the Quartermaster would have drunk.
In the afternoon I picked up my stick and went out into the camp. I knocked on the door of her hut and a faint voice answered. I went in. She was standing by the table, her hands resting on its edge, and she was very pale. She trembled violently when she saw me; she reminded me of a sick dog. The shutters in the walls were still closed and the room smelt oddly. I threw them open. I said harshly, “The river has frozen over.”
She nodded, raised her head and looked at me with dilated eyes. “I thought so when—when I heard the trumpets.”
I glanced round the room, saw the crumpled bed, the dried vomit on the floor and the empty water jug on the soiled table. Of food there was no sign. “Do you always live in such a mess?” I said.
She locked her hands together and did not answer me. She just stared. She was too frightened to speak.
I went towards her and she backed away with a whimper. “Have you been here alone since the blizzard started?”
She nodded again. “Yes.”
“In the dark?”
“I had a light at first. Then the oil ran out. The door was locked as usual. No-one came. It was—very cold.”
I turned to the door. “Sentry. Get me the duty centurion. Now.” She had moved behind the table as though she needed it for support. I went up to her. She shrank back. “Is it time?” she whispered.
“Yes,” I said. “Time for you to go.”
“I am ready,” she said in a voice that I could hardly hear. “I am not afraid. No—that’s a lie. I am. Will it hurt terribly? I tried not to think about it. I asked the farrier. I asked him after—we were caught. I thought it would be easier if I knew—exactly. He gave me some. These are what will be used, aren’t they?” She opened her hands and I saw three great triangular shaped nails lying across her palm.
They were indeed what we used.
“My poor child,” I said. I held her in my arms and she began to cry. Five days in the dark, in that hut, thinking about what I had threatened, trying to summon up the courage to face the horror, the pain, the unendurable.
“I am sending you to the Bishop of Treverorum. He will look after you. If you remained here you would not be safe, not even from your own people. I have seen how men behave after a battle. Afterwards, whatever happens, you may go back if you wish.”
“Fabianus,” she whispered.
I said, “You must be brave. There are young men of your own people. Perhaps you had one. I don’t know.”
She tried to smile. “You did not ask me.”
No, I had not asked her. I remembered what Julian had once said. I never had asked people. I never had cared.