Decebalus walked over to the black-clad priest and the man raised his arms and called in his hoarse voice. ‘The Lord of the Air has spoken. The pure shall live free!’
‘Then it is war,’ the king shouted. Brasus thought that he looked happier in that moment than he had seen his ruler for many months. The waiting was almost over, the pure would ascend, some to glorious blessedness and those left to freedom.
I
SNOW STARTED FALLING again as they reached the top of the tower, the big flakes tumbling slowly through the still air to settle on the timbers. Two sentries were on watch, their drab cloaks dotted with flecks of white, and the men stiffened to attention when their centurion appeared. Sabinus, round faced, looking far younger than his twenty-seven years, was a relative newcomer to the legion and indeed the army, commissioned after several years on the council in his home town in Baetica, but was well liked. He grinned at the two legionaries, and gestured for them to stand at ease.
‘All well, boys?’ Sabinus asked them, knowing the answer already.
‘All well, sir.’ The ‘boys’ were both veterans, only a couple of years away from the end of their twenty-five years with I Minervia, and glad not to stand on ceremony. They pulled their cloaks tight and assumed the well-practised stare of sentries doing their job, apparently oblivious to the centurion and the officers with him, while making sure that they heard anything that might be useful or worthy of gossip. Rumours that they were to be relieved and allowed back to civilization had been doing the rounds of the garrison for weeks, and the arrival of the four riders at noon today was taken as a good sign. It was happening. No matter that it seemed odd to change garrisons before the winter was out, and no matter that it seemed even odder to replace a predominantly legionary garrison with a band of irregulars from the wilds of Britannia. If it meant that the vexillatio of I Minervia could return to their base – or anywhere other than here – then what did it matter if the army was making even less sense than usual. They were going, and soon by the look of things, and that promise helped to keep a man warm as he paced up and down on top of this tower.
One of the Britons’ boots skidded where snow had been trodden into sludge. The man next to him steadied him and then nodded as if to reassure his comrade. They were clean shaven, smart and might easily have been decurions in a regular ala of cavalry, true auxiliaries rather than half-barbarian irregulars. Each had a fine iron helmet with the shallow neck guard safer for a horseman than the wide ones on an infantry helmet. Both were slim, rangy men, with a stiff yellow plume atop each helmet adding to their height. The third was built along the same lines, but taller, the skin on his face so taut that even with his drooping moustache it looked skull-like. He seemed to sneer at the man who had almost fallen, although that may simply have been his usual expression. Swathed in a thick tartan cloak, with an old-fashioned army issue helmet, but no mark of rank, he struck Sabinus as more bandit than soldier.
The fourth man was slow to follow, but as he was the most important of the party – indeed the only man of account among them – Sabinus waited for him to appear. At long last the high transverse crest of the centurion’s helmet came up through the open trap door. Flavius Ferox was another Briton, but he came from a legion, even if currently put in charge of a band of cut-throats. From the start of the tour of the garrison the younger officer had done his best to be amiable. Ferox was senior to him, and by all accounts had a long, even distinguished, record, and it never did any harm to be pleasant to someone who was – or one day might become – a useful acquaintance. Pity the fellow was so surly.
‘The scorpio below,’ Ferox said abruptly before he was even off the ladder, ‘how often is it checked?’ On the level below there was a light bolt-shooting engine, covered as usual against the weather.
Before Sabinus could answer, one of the sentries slammed his boots down on the planking as he came to attention. ‘Cleaned every third day, sir!’ the man shouted his report. ‘Springs checked daily, sir!’
Ferox grunted, and Sabinus hoped that his gratitude to the soldier was not too obvious. He would have remembered the answer eventually, but had gone blank.
‘Can you reach the bridge with it?’ The fort lay beside the main track where it crossed over the river.
‘No,’ Sabinus replied, confident of this at least. ‘With luck and the right wind, you might get close now and again, but not with any accuracy. It’s just over two hundred and fifty paces from the gate to the first plank of the bridge. Two hundred and fifty-three to be precise,’ he added, having supervised the survey himself.
Ferox nodded. ‘So even putting one up here wouldn’t make much difference.’
‘Not really.’
Another grunt, and the centurion climbed off the ladder and stretched. He was a big man, only slightly less tall than the bandit, but broader across the shoulders and giving a sense of brooding power. His eyes were grey and cold, although as he turned his head to look around, Sabinus thought he could see some pleasure. After the best part of two hours spent exploring the buildings and narrow streets of the fort, it was a relief to be up here. Even in the snow the view was magnificent, with the steep valley sides climbing to the north east towards the pass through the mountains and winding away in the opposite direction on the road to the great river.
Sabinus decided that this was a good opportunity to revive everyone’s spirit, so he strode towards the front parapet and waved his arms to gesture at the grandeur around them.
‘Well, there they are,’ he said, his round face more boyish than usual. His helmet, the crest running crosswise like Ferox’s, although in his case black rather than white, seemed too big for him and added to the impression. It was an annoyance wearing the thing on such a routine duty as giving a tour of the fort, but when the senior officer kept his helmet on Sabinus had no choice but to conform.
‘Yes, there they are,’ he continued. ‘Every last one, every tree of regulation height and shape and at its station!’ He chuckled theatrically. ‘Actually, I do believe that there are a dozen more of the buggers since yesterday. … That one for a start.’ He pointed. ‘And the oak tree beside it. I’m sure it’s twice as tall as when I last looked.’
‘That’s a beech, sir,’ one of the sentries corrected. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’
‘Dear me, is it, Maternus?’
The legionary nodded. ‘And it is the same height as yesterday.’ A veteran was granted more licence than an ordinary soldier, especially with a good-natured officer like Sabinus.
‘Really? … Well, you know best, I’m sure,’ the centurion resumed. ‘A beech, eh? Shows you can’t trust the devils to know their own mind from one day to the next.’
Disappointingly Ferox did not smile, and instead brushed aside the snow so that he could lean on the parapet at one of the low points and stare out. His instincts were telling him that the report was right, and that the attack could come at any moment. Yet it was all silent and peaceful out there, without the slightest sign of any danger lurking close by. Perhaps he was wrong or perhaps not. He had only lived as long as this by trusting his feelings and, through a good deal of luck, which made it all the more worrying that this place did not feel lucky.