The last bit struck Simon as slightly odd, and whatever either God or Bos felt, the prospect didn’t cheer him particularly. He confined himself to smiling.
Bos took another deep swallow of wine and bellowed for more. A servant girl came quickly, and took the empty jug. She was no longer a slave because the Bishop had declared all slaves free, but she cringed as the big man patted her.
“Good wine, this. Chian, they say.” Bos stretched luxuriously. “Drinking Chian wine, in the governor’s palace. Nothing wrong with that, eh, Simonus?”
It was a sentiment Simon felt he could more easily assent to. They were in the residential area of the palace, at the rear of the administrative section, looking out onto gardens which included a menagerie and a lake with a pleasure island in the middle. The lake reminded him of the one he had known in St James’s Park, and he wondered if it could possibly be the same geographical location—if at this spot in that other universe Horse Guards might right now be clopping their way to the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. But no, they were quite close to the forum, and the ruins of the forum surely had been in the City. Not Horse Guards, then, but stockbrokers in bowler hats. The thought was even weirder.
The girl came back with the wine, receiving another pat from Bos. He offered wine to Simon, who shook his head; one glass was more than enough. Bos drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and his hand on an embroidered silk cushion. Outside, a pair of young fawns cropped the winter grass. Bos was getting drunk. He talked happily about the fight and how the guards had run like sheep.
He broke off as Brad arrived. He was a bit in awe of Brad. Simon he remembered as a fellow slave and pupil, but he associated Brad with people like the Bishop and the lofty Cornelian family.
Brad said to Simon: “I might have known I’d find you taking things easy.”
“Any reason why not?”
Brad settled on a couch. “Better make the most of it. News has just come in. The Twenty-third is on the move.”
Of the three legions in Britain, one was stationed in the far north, guarding the wall, and another at Deva (Chester). The Twenty-third at Venta Belgarum (Winchester) was responsible for the internal peace of the province, up to now a pretty soft option.
“How do they know?” Simon asked.
He had been on the point of adding “without telephones” when he realized that not only would it baffle Bos but also that he didn’t have a Latin word to say it. Telephone came from Greek, so it wouldn’t be telephonus. Proculsonor? Not that it mattered.
“Pigeon,” Brad said. “From the local priest. His Holiness has quite an information network working for him.”
“Will it tell him how to fight a legion?”
He was trying to work out a probable time. Winchester to London was—what? Sixty or seventy miles? On a good road a legion could probably make twenty-five miles a day. So in three days . . .
“Recruits are flooding in,” Brad said.
“Not soldiers. Not gladiators either.”
“Keen, though. And not only Christians. Original Christians, that is. Converts are coming hot and heavy to the god who won Londinium. And every woodyard in the city is busy turning out longbows.”
“It was easy here. A small garrison, caught on the hop and soft from easy living. But a legion . . .”
“What’s a legion,” Bos demanded, “compared with the power of the Lord? The others were sheep. These’ll be lambs for the slaughter. Bring them on!”
He brought his glass down heavily on the marble table, and it smashed into smithereens, except for the silver rim. Bos stared at the spilt wine and broken glass and burst into bellowing laughter.
• • •
The road ran arrow-straight beneath them, a long ribbon of black cutting through green, south to Venta Belgarum, north only a few miles to Londinium. They were somewhere in the inner suburbs of his London, in fact, Simon thought. They were on a hillside, under cover of trees, with another hill opposite, and a small river running at this point close by the Roman road. Clapham? Brixton? He had no idea. There had been no rivers in the London suburbs he had known, but that only meant they had gone underground, part of the drainage system of the megalopolis.
The road had been empty except for an occasional cisium or lumbering wagon, but was empty no longer. It moved steadily towards them from the south: a single dark shadow at first, then a series of strips moving in unison. The stamp of feet provided a rhythmic base to the distant chorus of a marching song. The column stretched at least half a mile. Simon looked round at their tiny troop of horsemen. There was another newly recruited troop on the far side of the grove. There were the archers and foot soldiers concealed along the hillside. But altogether they numbered less than half of those approaching along the road. And that was a Roman legion.
At least he was mounted, providing him with a better chance of escape. Make for the villa, he thought . . . find Lavinia, and get her away. . . . He remembered what had happened after Boadicea’s revolt was put down. Roman vengeance could be grim.
The head of the lead column was directly beneath their position. Simon could make out the words of the song they were singing; it was one he had heard the gladiators sing, each verse about a different girl. He wondered when the order to attack would be given, or if it would be. Marcus Cornelius, in command now of the whole Christian army, was on the hill opposite with the archers. The song ended, but the legion came on; the silence was broken only by the steady thump of feet and an occasional barked command. On and on it came, unflagging, relentless.
Simon did not hear the order. He saw the sky darken, turned from the winter afternoon’s drab grey to a sudden blackness by the cloud springing out of the hill, soaring and falling. It fell on the marching column, shattering its solidity on the instant. They were individual figures that cried out in alarm and pain and fright, that fell or broke ranks. A second cloud struck, followed by a third. They did not know what was happening—how death could fall on them from out of the sky. And packed as they were, they provided an easy target even to unskilled archers.
While they were reeling, the foot soldiers rose from cover and attacked, shrieking battle cries. Galbus, a flaxen-haired man who had succeeded Marcus Cornelius in command of the cavalry troop, gave the order to mount. He set them at the charge against a group of Romans who had managed to form a defensive square. The others were shouting, and Simon found himself shouting along with them in battle lust. They drove into the square and through it. He slashed unthinkingly at the helmeted figures, heard men scream, and felt his horse stagger, with bodies beneath its hooves. They reined in beside the river, and he saw his sword dripping red. But the river itself was red, and thick with bodies like boulders. Behind them the foot soldiers were slaughtering the remnants of the square.
• • •
The news, and the revolution, spread like fire through a forest dry as tinder. At Deva, the commander of the legion tried to put down the people’s rising. But the legion had been stationed there a long time; the faces in the crowd in front of them were faces they knew, often faces of kinsmen. And the crowd called the name of the god who brought victory—greater than the great Julian, because he was his overthrower. The soldiers turned their swords instead on their commander.
Then they marched north, as the legion from the wall marched south. For three days they stood in lines, opposing one another, but day by day men slipped away from the legion of north to join the comrades who stood opposite them, and on the fourth day the legions came together, not in battle, but celebration.
All Britain paid allegiance to Christus, and to his servant, the Bishop.
10
THE BISHOP WAS NOT CONTENT with Britain. He at once gave orders for ships to be gathered from every port and assembled at Portus Dubris, where the sea crossing to the Continent was shortest. As soon as the fleet was assembled, the army, still growing, would march there and embark, to cross the straits.
Simon managed two vis
its to the villa before the marching orders came. On the first, Lavinia was away; on the second, although she was present, so was her aunt. Fabiana Cornelia proved to be a tall, matronly woman, her steel grey hair piled high in an elaborate coiffure, wearing a blue dress of stiff silk that looked more like steel. Lavinia was subdued in her presence, and Simon felt bothered under her cold scrutiny.
He was surprised when she said, just before he was due to leave: “I like your young barbarian, Quintus Ericius.”
Ericius was Quintus’s cognomen, a kind of nickname; it meant hedgehog, but no one seemed to know how it had originated. Quintus Cornelius put an arm on Simon’s shoulder.
“Yes, he is coming on well. We shall make a Roman of him, I fancy.”
Simon had a feeling Fabiana’s opinion carried weight in family councils, and her unexpected words of approval made up to some extent for the fact that he did not succeed in getting a single moment alone with Lavinia.
He reflected, riding back to the city, that but for Lavinia, this might have been a good moment to go missing. Tomorrow the army moved south. This was not his war, and the prospect of helping carry it into Europe, against the full might of the imperial army, appealed to him even less. In the confusion that had followed the breakdown of central government and amid the subsequent sweeping changes, it ought not to be too difficult to find a new and safer identity. But of course, there was Lavinia, and deserting would knock out any hope of seeing her again.
The road passed between the hills from which they had ambushed the Twenty-third. The river ran clear over its stones, and the green slopes were empty and calm under a mild west wind and patchwork sky. The only sign of the happenings of a few weeks ago was the mass grave under the hill, surmounted by a wooden cross. The Bishop had ordered Christian burial for the enemy, even though they were pagans.
What mattered, Simon decided, was to make sure of coming back. The furious passion he had felt riding against the men of the legion seemed even more remote than the battle. Survival was the name of the only game that counted.
The mild spell continued as the fleet of ships set out from Dover harbour into a calm sea, with a small wind from the west. Bishop’s weather, the men said. The air of general enthusiasm was infectious, but Simon avoided being infected by it. He said to Brad: “He’s been lucky so far. That’s the point.”
“And he’s taken advantage of the luck—which is what counts.”
The horses, tethered in the well amidships, were being fed and watered by the grooms. Simon thought of the chaos a rough sea would have produced. He said: “The luck will turn eventually. It must.”
Their ship was near the head of the formation; they could look out into empty waters. Simon said: “No sign of the imperial fleet yet.”
“No sign of the Luftwaffe either. This isn’t D day, with radio and radar and the whole bag of tricks. The emperor’s not even had time to get spies into the province, let alone have them report back. I guess that’s why His Holiness has moved so fast. He’s got a general’s instinct.”
“Marcus Cornelius is supposed to be in command.”
“That’s right. And in another sense we’re under the command of the Holy Ghost. But it’s His Holiness who does the heavy thinking and the planning. Very well so far.”
“Do you really think he can beat the emperor?”
Simon was aware of the change in his own attitude, in that he could even ask it as a serious question.
Brad shrugged. “Put it this way—I’d want good odds to bet against.”
“And then?”
“Then?”
“What do you think is likely to happen if he does win?”
“Do you mean as far as we’re concerned?” Simon nodded. Brad looked out to sea for some moments without answering. He said at last: “I’ve got one idea.”
“What?”
“It’ll wait.”
He spoke with a finality which Simon knew would not easily be overcome. In any case, he was not particularly interested in Brad’s idea, whatever it was. He had ideas of his own. He thought about them as the ship drove onwards.
• • •
The Christian army landed and pushed on south. There was no sign of an enemy. Instead, day by day there was an increasing buildup of recruits, and towns and villages opened gates and food stores to them. The triumphal receptions they were given meant that news of their approach had travelled ahead, which in turn meant that the imperial forces in Gaul must have been alerted to their progress. As the days passed, Simon began to find this ominous. The most probable explanation was that the opposing general was biding his time, luring them into the heart of Gaul so that he could not only destroy them but cut off their retreat. When they at last had sight of the enemy, he was sure that was it.
He did not know where they were, except that they were a long way south of the territory of the Parisi. Fairly flat country was starting to give way to land that rose in ridges towards high hills in the southeast. The imperial army was drawn up on high ground east of the road, with woods behind them.
It occupied several acres of ground. The front stretched for over a quarter of a mile, and it was nearly that in depth. The cohorts formed squares around a central tented area from which rose the smoke of campfires. A larger tent, presumably the general’s, was decorated in purple and gold. The whole thing had a look of organization and efficiency, in marked contrast with the straggling Christian disorder. It was plainly far superior in numbers, too. Eagles that had been set up identified three legions: close to twenty thousand disciplined Roman soldiers.
This was towards the end of the afternoon, too late for there to be any fighting that day. The Christians camped on the other side of the road, about three-quarters of a mile from the enemy. It did not look like a particularly good position to Simon: on marshy ground under a hill to the south. But neither the conditions nor the awesome array of the legions seemed to dampen the spirits of the Christians; they sang hymns lustily as the moon rose in a clearing sky to the east. A chill white orb, almost at the full. A goddess Diana, in this world—not a dead cinder of a planet, littered with discarded space hardware.
They were still singing when the cavalry moved off; a local guide who volunteered to lead them round to a position in the rear of the legions had been found. Simon’s irritation at having to start another trek when he had been hoping to bed down was balanced by satisfaction that they were moving out of the area that lay in what was likely to be the direct path of the legions’ charge. He looked back as they led their horses, hooves muffled, round the side of the hill. Moonlight gleamed on quite large patches of water. They would be sliding in mud as well as blood tomorrow.
They travelled so far that he began to wonder if the guide had lost his way or was leading them astray. But apart from being dog-tired, he did not care much. Wherever they were heading, it was away from the killing ground.
A halt was called at last. They were among trees, but that was all he knew. He tethered his horse, wrapped himself in his cloak, and settled on the ground. There was moss underneath him. He tried to persuade himself that made it softer, without much effect. But tiredness provided its own featherbed; he fell asleep almost at once.
• • •
In the light of morning, they could see that they were behind and to the south of the legions, on higher ground and screened by trees. They could hear the sounds from the imperial army, but could not see them. But they had a clear view of the slope lower down, of the road, and of the Christian army beyond. They fed their horses on hay, themselves on hardtack of biscuit and dried beef, and waited.
It was a long wait. The sun stood high in the sky before they heard the trumpets blare their bristling defiance, and the familiar rhythmic stamp of feet began. It had the steady pulsating thrust of a steam hammer, making the earth vibrate under their feet. The legions which had conquered the world were on the move.
Further down the hill they came in sight: a long line of cohorts, followed by another, and a
nother and another. The sky was a clear blue. Bishop’s weather? But Sol Invictus was a Roman god, and his rays shone now on the massed brightness of shields and upraised swords. The front ranks came to the road, marched up the embankment, across, and down the other side without breaking step. It had more the look of a machine in motion than a body of marching men.
They moved in silence except for the stamp of feet. The Christians, who had earlier been singing hymns, had fallen silent, too. What did it feel like, Simon wondered, watching those lines of shields draw nearer? He was glad again he was not down there. The distance between the two sides steadily narrowed. Soon there would be the second trumpet blast that heralded the charge. But before that happened, unexpectedly there was movement on the Christian side. The narrowing gap widened again. The Bishop’s army was retreating.
The trumpets sounded then, and the rhythm of the advancing feet changed, from march to jogging trot. They were going forward at the run, with water splashing up and catching the sunlight as they came to the marshy area. It was an impressive sight.
But as water splashed up, the dark hail came down: volley on volley of arrows from the bowmen on the ridge. The front ranks crumpled and broke, but the ranks behind pressed on blindly, with a terrible momentum. The cohorts crushed in on one another, blocking free movement. Men stumbled and fell, struggled to climb over bodies heaped beneath their feet, and still the arrows came. They stopped only when the Christian horde came howling back to throw themselves mercilessly on a demoralized rabble.
The rear guard, which had not yet reached the road, tried to organize itself to make a stand. That was when Galbus gave his order, and the cavalry swept along the hillside. The Romans stared in disbelief at the horses thundering towards them down the sunlit slope, then, before the cavalry even reached them, they broke and ran.
The Christians reached the sea at Massilia, which Simon worked out was Marseilles. The weather broke simultaneously into storms of torrential rain, with occasional sleet or snow, and the army took up quarters in the port. The time was not wasted—there were new recruits to train and foraging parties to be sent out, not only for food, but for horses and wood that could be made into longbows. Where they could not find yew they brought in ash. The city’s woodworkers toiled at their cumbersome pole lathes, and the harness makers made saddles and stirrups.
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