Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘The Thuaidh.’

  ‘The Thuaidh. Where did you say Marro had his capital?’

  Valerius stepped closer to the map frame. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Where the two rivers meet. Chalk Hill.’

  ‘A fort that will dominate Chalk Hill and keep Marro honest in the matter of our supply line from the sea. Then you will turn your attention north. Drive a road up the east of the mountains to the estuary and build a second fort on Votadini territory in a suitable position and close enough to the sea to become our northern supply base. Once that’s done all three legions will supply men to build a third road, across the isthmus, thus ensuring our ability to be supplied from east or west as the situation desires. You understand my stratagem?’

  Valerius nodded thoughtfully. ‘The roads contain the tribes within their own lands and at the same time give us the ability to strike at them swiftly from any position along these routes. We’re also in a position to reinforce or expand the occupying forts at need. Do you plan to disarm them?’

  ‘No,’ Agricola chewed his lip. ‘We will do it in time, but it might be overly provocative with all this building going on at or within their gates. Do you agree?’

  ‘I think the governor shows commendable wisdom and restraint.’

  ‘Good. Now, I will carry on immediately to inspect your fort at Trimontium and prepare dispatches for Rome. I’m sure you have much to do. By the way.’ Agricola’s face broke into a tired smile. ‘You may congratulate me, Valerius. I am to be a father again. I thought your wife might have told you. It seems I was the only person in Londinium unaware of the impending event.’

  ‘Then may the gods smile upon you,’ Valerius said, genuinely pleased for the other man.

  He followed Agricola out into the open and watched the governor leave the camp. A swift visit. He should be grateful. He walked towards the parapet and Naso took step beside him. Together they watched the cohort make its way down the slope to the river.

  ‘I think the governor shows commendable restraint,’ the camp prefect said quietly. ‘I almost choked.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think the same as you,’ Naso growled. ‘It’s madness. The logistics alone are impossible, never mind finding the manpower while we’re keeping a lid on the Votadini and the Selgovae. Where will we find enough gravel to bed forty miles of road? Or the timber to build another three forts. And who’s going to garrison them? It’ll take every auxiliary infantryman we have. And all the time Calgacus is left to strengthen his position.’ He grimaced. ‘I’ll draft a letter for Terentius Strabo and ask that the Second Augusta send every auxiliary they can spare us. And we’ll need to free those lunatic Usipi on licence.’ He hesitated. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think we should probably get started.’

  XXXV

  Sleep would not come, and before dawn some instinct took Cathal up a winding path through the bushes to the head of the sleeping bear. The summit was a rocky plateau cleared of the bushes and scrubby trees that clung to the lower slopes. In the torchlight a blackened circle showed where a large fire had burned at some time in the past. White flecks among the charcoal made Cathal suspect it might have been a funeral pyre. His hand flew to his hammer at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  ‘You shouldn’t wander off on your own,’ Olwyn chided him. ‘I was worried.’ Four of his sword brothers accompanied her and together they stood and waited for the dawn. As the sun rose they were greeted by a layer of mist that covered the entire valley, from which the northern outcrop protruded like an island in a silver lake.

  ‘Look,’ one of the guards called as the mist began to clear. From their vantage point high on the rock they could see across to the far side of the river. A man-made timber causeway ran arrow-straight through the marshes from the far-off outcrop to a broad swathe of raised ground directly opposite. As they watched, an enormous mass of warriors emerged from the dispersing tendrils of mist to take station along the bank. At first they were silent, the only movement the fluttering of cloaks in the light breeze, spear points packed together as closely and as numerous as ears of corn in a field. Then a shout went up as someone noticed the figures on the hilltop. The shout had barely faded away when it was replaced by a roar that swelled and grew and echoed from the rocks about them. Men battered their shields to add to the tumult and brandished their spears or made obscene gestures hinting at the fate of any man trying to cross the river.

  Cathal felt Olwyn’s fingers clutch his hand. ‘So much for our welcome,’ he said. ‘Take the lady back to the camp and keep her safe.’

  ‘Should I bring the men up?’ Emrys asked.

  Before he could answer Olwyn reached up and caressed Cathal’s cheek. ‘Take care, husband,’ she whispered.

  He held her for a moment. ‘If anything goes wrong,’ he replied just as quietly, take these men and make for the hills. Go south and seek out the Roman scout Arafa. He will ensure no harm comes to you.’

  He released her and she hurried off downhill. ‘No, Emrys,’ he finally said. ‘Form them up out of sight behind the hill. Send scouts upriver to see if there is an alternative crossing. If they want a fight it may be that we can surprise them from the flank. Tell Colm to bring my bodyguard and meet me at the bottom of the hill with my horse. And bring the druid,’ he said as an afterthought.

  Emrys moved off and Cathal turned his attention again to the men across the river. So many. Too many to fight. But such a host if the right man led them.

  Colm and his guard were waiting at the base of the hill, all mounted on the big Roman horses, with Gwlym on a small Celtic pony guided by a lead rope. Cathal turned to a nearby bush and snapped off a leafy branch before pulling himself up into the saddle.

  ‘What is happening?’ the druid demanded. ‘These fools refuse to tell me, but I can smell your confusion, Cathal of the Selgovae.’

  ‘For once you may come in useful, priest,’ Cathal growled. ‘You boasted that you are schooled in every dialect spoken by the tribes of this island. Does that include the Venicones?’

  ‘Of course,’ the blind druid replied with unconcealed disdain. ‘Though it is so close to that of the Selgovae a child could decipher it. They call themselves An Taghadh, the Chosen, conceited fools. Their ancestors came here from Armorica when they were attacked by—’

  ‘It is enough that you speak it, without providing a history lesson.’

  They rounded a shoulder of the hill and a new roar went up as they came into sight of the massed ranks of warriors on the other side of the river. ‘Now, I understand.’ Gwlym almost chortled. ‘Quickly. Tell me how we stand.’

  Cathal described the great force spread out before them. ‘A thousand or so hold the far bank, with many more in column behind them. They number about half as many again as we do,’ he said, explaining his own dispositions.

  ‘Oh, I doubt we will need the help of your brutes.’ Gwlym’s empty eye sockets scanned the far side of the Abhainn dhub. ‘Where is their king?’

  ‘We aren’t close enough to tell,’ Cathal said.

  ‘Then he is not much of a king, but then,’ the pus-filled orbs seemed to seek Cathal out, ‘neither are you. I’m sure you will do very well together. Still, we must find him, and when you do I need to know if there is a priest. No king should ever travel without a priest to save him from his follies.’

  They advanced along a rutted track that led to a ford. The river here was probably a hundred and fifty paces wide and even this far inland was affected by the tide. At high tide the ford would be impassable, but now Cathal could see what looked like cobbles through the clear water. An important crossing then, though little used these days, it appeared. They stopped just short of the fast-flowing stream.

  ‘The king?’ Gwlym persisted.

  ‘Have patience, priest,’ Cathal snarled.

  ‘Nervous, lord king?’ the druid suggested mildly. ‘And so you should be. From here they smell like twenty thousand hungry wolves.’

  �
�There.’ Colm swallowed. Across the river the armed multitude parted to allow a two-wheeled chariot to pass, accompanied by a guard of thirty or forty warriors, naked to the waist and carrying shields and spears. To Cathal’s astonishment the king’s face was hidden by a crude mask of beaten silver and the two ponies pulling the chariot wore horned metal caps, designed to make them look like monsters from another world. He described the scene to Gwlym.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ the druid said impatiently. ‘He is known as the Argento Rìgh, the Silver King, but what about the priest?’

  ‘The man driving the chariot may be a druid. He wears a white robe, but he is young for a priest.’

  ‘Good, that is all I wanted to know. Now go and say your piece.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with me?’

  ‘You will understand him as well as you understand anyone.’ Gwlym didn’t conceal his impatience. ‘I may consent to clean up your mess, but only for the sake of that clever wife of yours who has taken to treating me like an equal and not some aged relic.’

  ‘Colm?’ Cathal tried to hide his confusion. ‘Go ahead. And make sure they can see that branch.’ Colm urged his mount into the stream. Cathal unslung his sword and removed the belt that held the hammer and dropped them to the ground. ‘Ranal, you and Liam stay with the druid.’

  He followed Colm into the water, accompanied by the remainder of his guard. Despite the feeling of placing his head in a wolf’s slavering jaws, Cathal had no real fears for his safety. It would not, of course, be the first time the green branch of truce ended up with the bearer lying in the mud coughing up blood, but never when ten thousand warriors waited at the emissary’s call. The remaining Selgovae would view Cathal’s death as a declaration of war and bring fire and sword to the Venicones lands with a ferocity mere hunger and desperation could never duplicate. Cathal was also conceited enough to believe his reputation as a warrior would be known to the Venicones. The Silver King’s bodyguard spread out to create an open space where the two rulers could meet, but he didn’t step down from his chariot. Cathal had heard of these archaic machines which had gone out of use amongst the Selgovae a dozen generations ago, but he had never seen one. In truth, such a flimsy vehicle would be a liability in the type of rugged landscape that surrounded them. He could only think that, like the mask, it was a customary trapping for Venicones kings. A pair of glistening white skulls hung from one side of the chariot and two snarling, half decomposed heads from the other. The only frightening thing about them was their stink.

  The Argento’s priest, a long-haired young man of impressive stature, placed a half circle of finger bones around the king’s chariot, leaving a gateway wide enough for a single person to pass through. He hissed at Colm and the bodyguard and the Selgovae shifted uneasily under the muttered threats. ‘Stay here,’ Cathal told them. ‘Listen to every word and watch every gesture. Remember them. What occurs here could be the difference between life and death for all of us.’ Handing the branch of peace to Colm, he dismounted and stepped forward into the half ring of bones. The druid bowed his head in welcome. Two guards remained with the Argento. One of them, if not quite of Cathal’s height, was at least as broad. The warrior glared at the Selgovae king, his lips twisted in a sneer of contempt. Cathal ignored him and advanced until he was three paces short of the nervously skittering ponies. He could see the glitter of eyes behind the mask.

  ‘I see you, Cathal, lord of the Selgovae.’ The king of the Chosen had a high-pitched voice and Cathal realized he was much younger than he’d assumed. ‘I see you and I wonder what has brought you to my land with an army. Surely it cannot be a hunting trip with so many men? But perhaps I am wrong?’

  ‘I greet you, Argento Rìgh, High King of the Venicones and the Taexali.’ Cathal ignored the calculated lack of acknowledgement of his own kingship, and dignified the man in the silver mask with an inflated title he doubted he deserved. He noticed for the first time the pair of massive silver armlets that circled the king’s upper arms, each of which must weigh as much as the smith’s hammer. ‘I honour you and your ancestors. I come not as an enemy, but as a friend, though I fear I come with news of grave import for your tribe and mine …’

  ‘Wait.’ The king raised a hand. ‘Should not a petitioner and a friend come bearing gifts for him he petitions?’

  ‘I am no petitioner, lord king.’ Cathal smiled at this new provocation.’ But I do come bearing gifts. I bring an army – the very army you described – to fight at your side against the approaching threat.’

  ‘I see no threat.’ The Venicones turned his head ostentatiously from side to side. ‘Except the one before me. What is this threat to which you refer?’

  ‘Not long from now, lord king,’ Cathal gave his voice new volume and a harsher edge that made the other man stiffen, ‘a Roman army will march in my footsteps and they will not come as friends. They will come to establish dominion over the Venicones and the Taexali. Your sons and daughters will be their hostages and your people will be their slaves. If you are fortunate, lord king, they will allow you to keep your titles, but you will rule only through them, and to them you will pay a fifth of your wealth until they decide to take more …’

  ‘I have heard of these Romans,’ the Argento Rìgh interrupted. ‘And the exaggerated stories of their prowess. In fact did I not hear that the Selgovae people even now bend the knee to them while their king and their protectors,’ he gave the word a sneering quality that raised the hackles on Cathal’s neck, ‘flee north, so panicked by these legions that they even run from the feral dogs that call themselves the Votadini? I do not fear the Romans. I have warriors of my own, like Giulan Marbh here,’ he waved a languid hand in the direction of the massive guard, ‘who has killed bear with his own hands. Have you killed a bear, lord Cathal?’

  Cathal took a deep breath. ‘Say what you will of me, lord king, but do not defame my warriors or my people. And do not make light of the threat from the Romans. They will come, and the Venicones and the Taexali do not alone have the strength to defeat them.’ His gaze turned to Giulan Marbh and he didn’t hide his contempt. ‘Romans are not so easy to kill as bears. If you do not wish me as an ally, give me leave to pass through your lands with my warriors to make common cause with someone who does.’

  A high-pitched laugh gurgled from behind the mask. ‘Am I so naive that I will invite the sword threatening my belly to move behind my back? No, Cathal, lord of the Selgovae, I do not give you leave. As to your fate, and that of your warriors, I must think on it. You may go now.’

  The contemptuous dismissal lit a dangerous fire deep inside Cathal, but he knew anything he said would only make the impasse worse. Perhaps there was—

  ‘Lord?’ Colm called. ‘The druid.’

  Cathal looked to the far side of the river where Gwlym fidgeted on his horse, making barely decipherable gestures.

  ‘Lord king,’ Cathal turned. ‘I believe my druid wishes to consult with yours on matters of mutual interest to them.’

  ‘Then he may approach,’ the Venicones ruler said. ‘We are, after all, not uncivilized.’

  Cathal waved to Gwlym’s guard to bring him forward and remounted, leading Colm and the others back across the stream. They met the priest halfway and the druid called out as he passed, ‘I congratulate you on your diplomacy, Cathal, king of the Selgovae. How many enemies does one man need?’

  Cathal found Olwyn on the high ground beyond the rock outcrop supervising the completion of a temporary shelter. She hung a thick curtain across the entrance and turned with a smile, but her pleasure only lasted as long as it took to read the expression on his face.

  ‘It did not go well, husband?’

  Cathal took her hands in his. ‘He is not interested in making an alliance and I do not think he will allow us free passage through his lands.’

  Olwyn drew him inside the crude hut and they sat together on a cushion of ferns she’d arranged in the corner. ‘Then move west at nightfall and cross the river further upstream,’ sh
e said, ever practical.

  ‘I’ve just had a report from the scouts who’ve been patrolling in that direction. The lowlands beside the river are nothing but a trackless waste, miles wide and full of bogs, quicksand and bottomless ponds. If we tried to cross in the dark we would lose dozens, perhaps hundreds of men and we might never find a way to the other side in any case. It is finished. We can either stay here and starve or turn back and meet the Romans.’

  ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘Not while you have a single breath in your body, Cathal bhon chridhe mòr. You will go north. Gwlym has prophesied it. Where is the druid?’

  ‘You must not—’

  ‘He insisted on seeing you, lord.’ Ranal appeared in the doorway, Gwlym at his side. The scrawny figure sniffed the air and the head swivelled as if the empty eye sockets were taking in everything about them.

  ‘You make yourself comfortable.’ Gwlym’s lips wore a thin smile. ‘That is good. We may be here for some time.’