For Hadrian that did not matter. It was a good story to tell if he rode into the fort just in time to save the survivors. The presence of a senator’s daughter and an equestrian lady – both still young enough to be accounted beautiful, and one with four good Roman children beside her – would make the scene all the more uplifting. Yet if he was late, routing the enemy army only to discover the charred remains of the fort and the decaying corpses of its occupants, then it was time to speak of Mars Ultor and the need for Rome’s avenging god to lead the legions on to fitting revenge on the savages who had done this. Even dead, the presence of the ladies and children could make it all far more poignant, if told well. They might even serve a purpose if they were captured alive, for the fear of their debasement, rape and torture gave the emperor even more justification for the utter destruction of Decebalus and his kingdom. Whatever happened could be made to help the emperor, and better still give him fresh esteem for Hadrian, but only if he could win a victory in battle or make the enemy retreat from him, and he could do neither unless the column was ready to move.
Hadrian turned to the tribune following three paces behind.
‘How many carts are ready to move by dawn?’
‘Tomorrow, sir?’
‘Of course, tomorrow! What did you think, at the Saturnalia?’
The tribune balked at the anger. ‘I, um, I think…’ he stammered.
‘Twenty two-wheeled carts drawn each by a pair of mules or horses,’ the centurion snapped the report, trying to shield the senior officer. ‘Twelve four-wheeled waggons with teams of four. Then twenty-seven carts carrying scorpiones and their ammunition and other equipment.’
Hadrian made up his mind. ‘Men to carry four days rations in their packs. Then empty all the artillery carts and strip them clean of anything that weighs. I want them packed with sacks of biscuit, grain and dried bacon.’
‘Sir?’
‘Do it. We carry food, only food, and men will fight with the weapons they carry.’ The power of the bolt shooters was terrifying, but Dacians were less impressed than barbarians who did not understand such things, so this time they would do without artillery support. ‘Half galearii to remain behind and senior officers may take one boy to serve them, but no more. That includes the legatus, so no one can complain that I deny others while enjoying my own comforts. Anyone disobeying will be flogged out of the camp, whatever their rank.’
The centurion’s eyes widened a little, although he said nothing.
‘When do we move, sir?’ the tribune had managed to control his stammer.
‘Form up at the start of the last watch of the night and march an hour before dawn. You’d better send a note to your wife that you will be going away for some time. There’ll be no time to spare any of us from work tonight. You, man!’ He pointed at one of the mounted soldiers. ‘Give me your horse.’ The man dismounted and Hadrian sprang into the saddle with his accustomed grace. He wished that there was time to unbuckle the girth and take the saddle off, for he felt like galloping bareback, but there was no time.
‘Hurry everyone. We go before dawn.’
‘Sir, what garrison do we leave here?’
‘Five hundred men and no more. Drawn from all the infantry in proportion. Tell them to select the oldest and least fit for marching hard and fast until we have enough.’
‘Sir?’ The centurion dared to hint at his doubts, but the legatus was not listening for he was already clattering away.
Hadrian felt the thrill before a hunt and urged the horse into a gallop, hoofs pounding on the planks of the bridge. The cavalryman was already yards behind him, struggling to keep up. This was a moment to cherish, as doubts faded and he faced the challenge of a hard task, but one that he knew would succeed. This was the moment. All of his stars were aligned in a way he had seen only two or three times before and always at a time when his life changed drastically for the better. He did not need a professional astrologer to tell him that the next nine days were his moment and that after that the heavenly bodies would move and all become uncertain again. He must win and he must win now.
The horse raced along, and Hadrian laughed with sheer joy as the wind rushed through his hair.
XXVII
THEY HELD OFF one more big attack, and Ferox never understood how they had managed it, shooting away the last bolts and stones for the artillery, the last arrows for the handful of archers still on their feet, and all the stones and javelins. The Dacians gave way before the Romans, and just maybe they were almost as tired. Enica led a charge along the top of one of the ramparts, the vexillum of the goddess behind her, and the enemy gave way. Even Piso fought well, clumping along on his bandaged leg and bawling out encouragement. Yet by the end they were almost spent, with about a hundred more men dead or too injured to fight anymore. As Ferox chivvied the men to gather whatever weapons they could find and to tip the enemy corpses over the walls, the men moved like sleepwalkers, unseeing, emotionless, and if ever a man stopped for a moment his eyes shut and he passed out.
The next attack came at night, as Ferox had feared, and for the first time in many days the mist rose again in the early hours, so that the attackers were very close before they were seen and the alarm sounded. All that meant was that the enemy swarmed up and over the walls even faster than they might have done if there had been men waiting to do their feeble best in repelling them.
Ephippus was dead, but his acropolis was finished in spite of Piso’s scorn.
‘If we can’t stop them with high walls and ramparts,’ he had said many times, ‘how will low barricades help us? You cannot show fear to these people. If you do, they’ll walk all over you. That’s what Longinus let happen at Sarmizegethusa – only found his courage when it was too late, the silly old sod.’
The last stronghold was ready, even if it was no more than low barricades and the single tower joining up the praetorium, principia, hospital, a storeroom and barrack block. Ferox had wanted to move all the civilians and wounded inside days ago, along with as many of the men as could be bedded down within the compound. Piso refused, and as the days passed, he grew more and more assertive of his rights as senior officer. Fighting on the walls had invigorated him, so that he almost seemed to grow taller and bolder before their eyes.
‘If we pull back it will tell everyone – including our men – that the fight is hopeless and they will give in. For all we know a relief column is on its way. That is what we must give the men – hope! Hope that after all this we will prevail. For the few hours, or if the gods love someone here a few days, longer we might last, it is not worth snatching that hope from them.’
Vindex suggested hitting the tribune on the head again, but Ferox was too accustomed to obey and was not sure whether the tribune was right or wrong. He drove himself hard, but he was so weary that he no longer had the energy to think about such big questions. There was just the next step and the next moment, trying to do each little thing to keep them in the fight.