A hostile desert, or one that had been hostile. At Tripontium, the three wooden bridges which gave the place its name were intact but the posting-station was a blackened ruin, its thatched roof collapsed and sagging and the paddock beside it empty.
There had been an altar, Severinus remembered, by the side of the road a few yards from the door. The retired soldier who had looked after the station had been a Gaul from Nemausus, and he had done the carving himself. The god was a small, square-shouldered, ugly figure who glared wide-eyed from the stone, both hands raised.
'There's no inscription,' Severinus had said. 'Who is he?'
The man had shrugged.
'You can call him what you like, sir,' he had said. 'Me, I call him Luos, but he's Lugh, Logi, Mercury, Hermes, any of a dozen others. I'd a Thracian come by once that called him Sabazius, and that was fine by me. Fine by the god, too, I'd reckon. The old boy doesn't mind, he knows himself who he is. So long as he gets his cup of wine he doesn't care who pours it to him. And he's honest; give him his wine and he'll keep you safe.'
Severinus had poured the wine. Now, as he passed, he looked for the altar. It had been pulled down into a patch of young nettles and the god's face had been hacked away, leaving only the rough torso and the arms. For some reason the sight sickened him. He turned Tanet's head back towards the road.
Eighty miles to the south-east lay Verulamium.
They reached it in the late morning of the fourth day, knowing by now what to expect. The town was a burned-out shell reeking of sour smoke and rotting flesh. As they passed through the gate, a flock of crows lifted and circled. The young tribune to Severinus's left reined in, staring at what had been a line of shops by the side of the road. They were timber-built, and they had been burned; all except for one wall which was intact to three quarters of its height. Hanging from this, fixed in position by the nails through his hands and feet and the spear through his chest, was what had once been a man. Both his eyes and half his face were gone.
The tribune leaned over in the saddle and vomited onto the gravel road.
Paullinus, riding a dozen paces in front, half-turned. 'Dammit, Titus!' he snapped. 'Keep position!'
The young man, grey-faced and tight-lipped, wiped his mouth with his kerchief. He dug his heels into his horse's flanks and moved forwards.
The crucified man was not the only body; they lay scattered on all sides like broken dolls, heaped together or lying where they had fallen. Most were headless; anonymous lumps of cloth from which the limbs stuck out grotesquely. The road was littered with them; Tanet, like the other horses, was picking her way carefully between the bundles, shivering, her ears flat against her poll.
They rode in silence towards the town centre. Ahead and above and all around them, flocks of well-fed crows rose heavily into the air, flapped a yard or two and then settled again. Over to Severinus's left, something moved: a fox or a dog, scavenging.
There were no other signs of life.
The market square was a butcher's yard, buzzing with flies and smelling of rotten meat. At its centre, stacked with hideous neatness, was a pile of human heads. Around the edges, among the half-burned chaos of gutted shops and public buildings, were more bodies, this time mostly women, perched incongruously on the stakes that impaled them. Severinus found himself counting, his eyes moving along the line that stretched around the square on all four sides.
The young tribune beside him was shaking his head slowly from side to side, his eyes blank.
‘Savages,’ he whispered. ‘They’re nothing but bloody savages. I hope we kill them all.'
Severinus said nothing.
40
London lay twenty-three miles beyond: an ordered sprawl of red-roofed houses reaching back from the river, guarded by its two forts on the higher ground. In the fifteen years since its founding it had spread along the line of the two parallel roads either side of the new bridge and northwards beyond the wharfs.
'We'll go there first, Gnaeus.' Paullinus nodded towards the nearer of the forts, where the command centre would be. 'Stable the horses, get the men settled. And after that –'
Agricola glanced at him. The tribune's face, he noticed, had new lines in it. He no longer looked young.
'After that, General?' he said.
'After that, I talk to the procurator.'
'He's gone, sir,' the auxiliary commander said.
Paullinus set his helmet down on the desk.
'He has what?' he said softly.
'Procurator Catus commandeered a galley four days ago.' Saturius Pudens was a tough, square-built Lusitanian. He was obviously furious and, equally obviously, trying hard not to show it. 'He'll be in Itius now, or further. He left an assistant in charge, Oppius Lupianus. You'll find him at the provincial offices.'
'And you didn't try to stop him?' Pudens stared back in silence, and Paullinus turned away. 'No, Commander, of course you didn't. My apologies; I'm tired and it was a stupid question. Did he give a reason?'
'None, sir.' Pudens's lips formed a thin line. The third finger of his right hand was missing; he had commanded a cohort, Paullinus remembered, under Plautus at the Conquest.
'I see.' There was no more to be said; Catus's reasons were clear enough, and both men knew it. Well, Paullinus thought, let the emperor deal with the bastard himself. He pulled up a stool and sat down, easing his stiffened leg muscles. 'You've had reports from the north?'
The other man relaxed. 'No, sir,' he said. 'Not officially, not since Legate Cerialis's message. We know from refugees that the situation's bad, but –'
'Verulamium's gone.' Paullinus was blunt. 'The Catuvellauni are in revolt. About the Trinovantes and the Colony I don't know. Or about the Iceni.'
Pudens nodded, his face impassive. 'Well, sir, I can tell you about them, at least, but it's stale news. Opimius – he's the one who brought the message, the Ninth's senior tribune – said they were moving this way. Slowly, but they'd've reached the Colony six days ago. And the Trinovantes are in revolt as well; Opimius was lucky to get through.'
‘Opimius is here?'
'Yes, sir. You want to talk to him?'
'Later. Did he give you an estimate of the Icenian numbers?'
'He wasn't sure, sir. Certainly in excess of eighty thousand. But that was –'
'Eighty thousand?'
'That was including non-combatants, sir. However, his guess was twenty thousand warriors at the very least.'
'Merciful Jupiter!' Paullinus leaned back and closed his eyes. Twenty thousand! And that was not counting the Trinovantes or the Catuvellauni, let alone the Corieltauvi. Even moving slowly, the rebels could not be far away. 'How many troops do you have here, Commander?'
'The town’s two cohorts, sir. Less two hundred Procurator Catus sent north.'
'You think they can hold the town?'
'No, Governor. Of course not.'
'"Of course not."' Paullinus grunted. 'I agree. Of course I agree. So. What do we do now?'
'With respect, sir,' Pudens said carefully, 'that isn't my decision.'
'Indeed.' Paullinus's lips twisted. 'And you can thank the gods it isn't. Breaking bad news is a governor's prerogative.' He was silent for a long time, weighing the course of action he had already decided on, knowing that, now, it was the only one possible. 'Your orders, Commander. First: the city is to be abandoned forthwith. You will instruct the council and the leading merchants to meet me at the procurator's offices an hour before sunset, when I will explain my reasons personally. Please note that I say “explain”, not “discuss”; there will be no discussion, be sure to make that very clear to them. Second: tomorrow by midday at the latest you and your men will escort the civilian population, or such as wish to go, to the crossing at Pontes where you will remain while they continue to Calleva and the protection of King Cogidubnus. The forts and the town are to be stripped as far as is possible of all supplies and equipment that may be of use to the enemy, but personal civilian baggage is to be kept to a minimum.
Use your own discretion, and employ reasonable force to ensure that your instructions are obeyed. Third: two separate couriers are to be sent immediately to intercept the Fourteenth Legion at present advancing towards London. I will word the order myself.' He paused. 'Fourth, you will send another courier to Isca ordering the acting commander Poenius Postumus in my name to proceed in full force to Calleva with all possible speed. Have the order prepared for my signature. Repeat, please.'
Pudens did so.
'Good. Last, I want some maps, and your best local scout.'
Oppius Lupianus stared at Paullinus with an expression as close to disbelief and disgust as a first-level administrative assistant could safely risk when interviewing a provincial governor.
'You're abandoning the city?' he said.
'That is correct.'
'Governor, I am not sure that you appreciate how much we have invested here. London is no backwoods settlement to be abandoned because it suits short-term military policy. It is the main port for the province, and as such it is unique. We have been careful to nurture that aspect of things over the past twelve or fifteen years, and the fact that we have managed to attract considerable private investment from as far afield as Rome itself shows how successful we've been. Now you're asking me to throw all that away because of a gang of poxy natives?'
Paullinus leaned forward, trying to control his personal dislike for the man, and his anger.
'I am not "asking" you to do anything, Lupianus,' he said quietly. 'As the province's governor, I am telling you that as from tomorrow I cannot guarantee the city's safety. If you or any other civilian choose to stay behind and wait for the Iceni to arrive then you are quite at liberty to do so. Inadvisable as that may be.'
'What about our own troops? And the force you brought yourself? Surely –?'
'Saturius Pudens has seven hundred men. I have a further six hundred. At current estimation the fighting force of the rebels is some twenty times our total. Those odds do not, either in my view or in Commander Pudens's, augur well for a successful defensive operation. In simple non-technical terms the result would be a massacre. Moreover, a massacre without point.'
'The emperor is not going to like it.'
'The emperor can bloody well –' Paullinus stopped himself as he saw the corner of Lupianus's mouth lift, and went on more carefully. 'The emperor, I am sure, will understand that I have no choice in the matter.'
'I see. I may, of course, lodge a formal objection?'
'You may. Consider it lodged.'
'Thank you. But I was thinking more on the lines of with my superiors in Rome.' Lupianus laid down the pen he was holding 'So, Governor. If you do not intend to protect us might I ask what your plans actually are?'
'As far as the citizen body is concerned, I've ordered Pudens to escort them the length of Pontes. From there they can go to Calleva where King Cogidubnus will, no doubt, be happy to take them under his care. I doubt if the rebels will risk invading Atrebatan territory. Not at present, anyway. I'm sure Queen Boudica will have enough to occupy her here for the time being.'
'So I would imagine.' Lupianus's voice was glacial. 'In effect, Governor, you are abandoning us in order to buy yourself time.'
'If by "us" you mean the city, not its population, who I hope will have more sense than to stay behind, then yes. And your military acumen, Lupianus, does you credit.' The agent flushed. ‘As to the army, I can tell you that the Second are ordered from Isca and will rendezvous with the Fourteenth at Calleva. Thereafter –'
'You're falling back on Calleva?' Lupianus stared at him, all pretense of politeness gone.
'No. Not quite. The final rendezvous point will be closer to Pontes, which Commander Pudens has been ordered to hold.'
'But that's –! Governor, you are still abandoning everything north of the Thames! Would you mind explaining why?'
'Jupiter, man, have some sense!' Paullinus finally let his own anger show. 'Because the rebels will take it anyway. Have taken most of it already. Because I need my forces concentrated on friendly ground with the river between them and the enemy and my supply lines assured. Because, as I said, the Iceni will at least think twice before they cross either at Pontes or here at London Bridge into territory held by a powerful and unfriendly tribe. Because, lastly, Oppius Lupianus, if I'm to save what I can of your unique bloody position from your gang of poxy natives it's my only option. Now do I make myself clear or would you like to suggest an alternative strategy of your own devising?'
Lupianus’s eyes shifted. 'My apologies, Governor,' he said. 'I didn't mean to –'
'Apology accepted. Now, I've arranged a meeting here in two hours' time with the city authorities and the principal merchants. I will naturally expect your full support and co-operation. Do I have them?'
There was a pause. Finally Lupianus said stiffly, 'You have them, Governor. Subject to my report, as I told you.'
Paullinus stood up. 'Fine,' he said. 'Then that's all I require.'
Severinus looked back towards the city. The road was a mass of people and loaded carts moving slowly westwards, flanked by marching infantry. Behind them spirals of cook-fire smoke still rose, and he could see several figures perched on the rooftops watching the column pass beyond the city bounds. Not everyone had chosen to go to Calleva. At least two thousand had stayed behind.
People had stayed behind at Verulamium, too. He tried not to think of that. Or of the Colony.
'They're fools.' Gnaeus Agricola, riding abreast of him, was looking back too. There was no anger in his voice: the words were simply an observation made after careful assessment. 'You always get them, especially among civilians. Ostriches. You know about ostriches, Severinus?'
'I’ve never seen one myself, but I've heard of them.' Severinus patted Tanet's neck and she tossed her head, eager to be away. 'They’re stubborn birds,with fixed ideas, aren’t they? And they can give a nasty kick.'
Agricola ignored the tone; or perhaps he did not notice it. 'Perhaps they can. But show an ostrich danger and his immediate reaction is to stick his head in the sand. No logic, no intelligence.' He shrugged and turned away. 'Well, there's no arguing with pig-headedness.'
He rode off to join the governor, who was waiting at the head of the cavalry column.
Paullinus gave the order, and the troop set out towards Calleva.
41
London died quickly and brutally. Scant hours after the first British warriors reached the north bank of the Thames it was no longer a city but a shambles, its streets littered with corpses. Along the line of the wharves on either side of the bridge, the huge granaries which had stored the grain of Catuvellaunia and Trinovantia for transshipment to Gaul and the Rhine legions were a mass of flame. The bridge, too, was alight, its timbers blazing to the level of the thick oak piles, the central stretch, wide enough for two carts to pass, already fallen. Along the length and breadth of the ground between river and road, the private warehouses sprawled gutted, roofs sagging above their gaping walls, contents scattered for the taking: jars of wine and oil, bales of cloth and carded wool, red-glazed pots wrapped carefully in straw and now a mass of broken shards trodden underfoot, olives and honey and pickled fish, shoes and sandals, hoes and mattocks, smoked bears'-paws, peacocks' brains and nightingales' tongues in aspic. All the empire's plenty. And all around in every direction, even on the Thames itself where the barges and galleys had lain moored to their anchor-stones in mid-stream or waited for cargoes at the quayside, the city burned and stank.
Ecenomolios leaned on his sword, scowling at the smoke that rose from what had been the procurator's offices to mingle with the dark cloud spreading slowly westwards. What should be inevitable, total victory was about to be thrown away.
The fools! The bloody, bloody fools!
He turned back to face the queen, sitting her pony proud as Cunobelinos himself, surrounded by the other chiefs and sub-chiefs. Round her throat glinted the massive gold torc of the Icenian royal line, and the sight of it swelled Ec
enomolios's fury. The torc had been King Subidastos's before the Romans had given it to their creature Prasutagos. Subidastos would have understood; he had been a warrior, a thinking warrior. Whereas the military sense of this stupid bitch and the men who passed for her advisors would have shamed a washerwoman.
'Ecenomolios, the decision is made,' Boudica repeated.
'Then unmake it,' he said. 'Prove yourself a warrior. Finish what we've started. London is nothing.'
'London is revenge.' Boudica's eyes flashed. 'You wanted revenge yourself. And now you call it nothing?'
Ecenomolios's head went up. 'Madam, listen to me,’ he said. ‘We must destroy Paullinus. If we move westwards and cross the Thames now we can take him before his armies gather and have both. Believe me, you must do this!'
Boudica had stiffened. 'You do not, Ecenomolios, say must to me. Your place is to advise. You are my war leader, not my husband. However much you might wish it otherwise.'
Ecenomolios flushed: stupid Boudica might be in some ways, but she was no fool. And he knew that unless he could persuade her they were lost.
'Very well, then,' he said. 'Let me speak as a war leader, and perhaps the queen of the Iceni will listen.' He pointed to the pile of severed heads that lay heaped at the market square's centre. 'How many of those wore helmets? Did they carry swords or tally-sticks?'
The chiefs around Boudica shifted angrily. One of them, a Catuvellaunian with a chief’s thick golden bracelet, laid his hand on his sword-hilt.
'A dead Wolf is a dead Wolf,' he said.
Ecenomolios turned on him. 'Where are your wits, Vosenos? Gone with stolen wine? If we are to beat the Romans we need the heads of their warriors, not their shopkeepers. Which is more important to the Catuvellauni, victory or plunder? Are you warriors or thieves?'
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