‘I fear that there has been some oversight. Our own troops have joined the main army and are some way north, setting up camp. I suspect the order to recall you has been lost or forgotten.’
It was obvious that Annius’ instincts told him the same thing. He had one century of his own men, for the other had been sent to help guide the baggage train over the pass and had left with them. There were also thirty legionaries with a couple of pack mules, who had come up to set fire to the houses in the fort. There were only half a dozen still with thatch on them, and the straw was damp, so that it had taken them a while to set the first one alight. After that it was easier, lighting torches from the blaze and holding them against the lowest parts of the roofs. As they spoke the last of the round houses caught fire, the strengthening wind blowing dense clouds of black smoke towards them.
Ferox blinked and coughed; the heat was strong even at this distance. Little pieces of smouldering straw floated through the air. ‘How long ago did you get your last order, sir?’
‘Must be three or four hours ago by now. The Tribune Flaccus came up in person with orders from the legate.’ The long habit of obedience fought against Titus Annius’ instincts until his mind found a happy compromise. ‘Would you be kind enough to ride down into the valley and remind them of our presence?’
‘If you wish, but I do think it would be wise for you to pull out now, before it gets dark.’
Titus Annius undid the tie on his helmet’s cheek pieces and rubbed his chin. There was a young centurion with the legionaries and he now wandered over to report.
‘Buildings destroyed, sir,’ he said, and then broke into a fit of coughing as he swallowed a bit of ash. The man noticed the plumed helmet slung behind his saddle, so gave an affable nod to Ferox, probably trying to work out his seniority and unit. Many officers from the legions disdained centurions from the auxilia. Titus Annius was very senior, but if he had not been a former centurion in a legion then he doubted that the man would have paid him so much respect. ‘Do we have fresh orders, sir?’
Titus Annius shook his head. ‘Not yet.’
Ferox swung down to the ground, boots sinking into the deep mud. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘this is certainly a mistake and you have not been left behind for a reason. There will be no blame.’ The words were out before he had thought properly and he knew that they were a mistake.
Titus Annius’ eyes widened and he clenched his teeth for a moment. ‘Blame?’ he muttered. ‘I have orders, regionarius, and until I have new ones I shall obey them. No one will ever question the discipline of the First Cohort while I am in charge.’ A few of the auxiliaries nearby nodded with approval.
‘They’re coming!’ Vindex had galloped over and yelled out the warning.
XII
THERE WERE EIGHTY-NINE men in the century from cohors Tungrorum, along with an optio as acting commander, supported by a signifer and tesserarius. That was little more than half of the full complement for in theory the cohort had an unusual organisation, with six centuries of one hundred and forty men apiece. A decade ago they had often mustered something close to that total, before the army’s priorities changed and few recruits were sent to Britannia. The young legionary centurion had thirty men from Legio II Augusta, with carefully painted Capricorns on either side of the bosses on their rectangular red shields. Stretched all along the rampart, without keeping any reserve, that would still have meant no more than a man every three or four paces.
Ferox grabbed Titus Annius by the arm. ‘We should go, sir!’
The commander of the cohort shook him off. ‘I cannot,’ he said. He looked tired, the lines on his face harsh in the light from the burning houses. ‘If you can get new orders for me, then that would be different.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Ferox walked a few paces away and then stopped as he made up his mind. ‘Go down to the main force,’ he shouted to Vindex. ‘Tell them what is happening and that we shall need help!’ The Brigantian waved and rode away to rejoin the other scouts.
Ferox watched, wishing that he had gone with him and not quite sure why he had chosen to stay. ‘Hold this, lad,’ he told one of the auxiliaries, passing over the reins. Ferox stuffed his hat into a pouch on his belt and put on his helmet. At least the silhouette would mark him out as a Roman and a centurion. He checked that his gladius and his dagger slid easily from their scabbards and ran to follow Titus Annius, wondering whether he was staying simply because he liked the Tungrians’ commander.
There were tumbled circles of stone clustered inside the ramparts, the remains of old houses, making it hard to move quickly, while the dark smoke drifted slowly across the fort and it was impossible to see very much. Two of the burning huts were at the far end, upwind in a fitful breeze that fanned the flames without being strong enough to blow the clouds away quickly. Ferox gave up trying to thread his way through the ruined huts and instead bounded on to the rampart. There were fifty or sixty warriors in a mass down the slope from him. Far more were on the top of the next peak on this long ridge. Closer still, men with slings and javelins were edging nearer to the fort.
Ferox ran along the grassy top of the rampart. Here and there were the stumps of posts showing that there had once been a palisade to protect men on the walls. A pebble from a sling flicked through the grass just ahead of him as he ran. Another whipped past inches from his face. There was no protection for a man on the rampart any more, and the Tungrians were wisely waiting behind the wall rather than be targets on top of it. For the moment the Selgovae were only probing, unsure how many Romans were in the smoke-filled ruin, but soon they would see the defenders’ weakness.
He ran on. There were two old gateways in the rampart. The one he had come through faced the approach to the pass, while the second was at the far end, looking towards the rest of the ridge. The wind veered and gusted, letting him glimpse the high plumes of Annius and the legionary centurion near the far gateway. Ferox hurried towards them, running down the inside slope of the rampart and scrambling over the dry stone walls of a cattle pen.
Titus Annius saw him and looked angry. ‘Thought you had gone for orders.’
‘I have sent my men, but reckoned that you might need an additional officer.’
The cohort commander shrugged, and went back to telling the legionary centurion to form his men to block the open gateway. Earlier in the day the Selgovae had pulled a cart across the gap, but when they abandoned the fort they had dragged it away and pushed it down one of the slopes. It lay there now, both wheels shattered so that they could not recover it.
‘You hold here, Rufus,’ Titus Annius told the centurion from II Augusta. ‘I’ll put a detachment on the other gate, and keep the rest formed up in groups of twenty ready to take anyone who comes over the walls.’
Rufus nodded. His face was dark with patches of soot. ‘What about the other gap in the wall?’
Titus Annius slapped his hand against his leg in annoyance. ‘I’d forgotten. I’ll put men there.’
‘I did not know that there was another way in,’ Ferox said.
‘It’s not a real gate,’ Rufus told him. ‘Just a bit of a gap on the far side where they bring sheep in and out. We came through with the mules.’
The smoke was getting denser and Ferox realised that sparks from burning thatch must have set the bracken and heather alight. It was mainly on the slope of the big valley, but the wind had veered more westerly and was driving the banks of smoke back over the fort.