Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Then why doesn’t he just give up and come and join us where the Twentieth can do some good?’ Valerius didn’t hide his frustration.

  ‘You haven’t been listening, Valerius.’ Polio clapped him on the shoulder. ‘I told you he’s obsessed. He’s like a ram that sees its reflection in a polished bronze door. No amount of argument will convince him that he can’t win. So we go it alone, and, strictly between us, maybe it’s better that way.’

  They set off two days later with the Ninth in the lead on the high ground close to the coast and the Second a little further behind and covering the hill country to the west. They made good progress on the first day, but coastal marshes forced them to use the same path on the second. The two legions stretched out so far Valerius knew the last man wouldn’t have quit the marching camp before those in the van reached their destination. All that long day he had the feeling of being watched from the escarpment across the river. It made him nervous and though he hid it behind the mask of command, one man wasn’t convinced.

  ‘You don’t have to worry about this side, legate.’ Gaius Rufus sat his horse as if he was on a drawing room couch. ‘I checked all the way to the ford again yesterday and there’s not a Selgovae to be seen. A few renegades in those hills behind us, but not enough to do us any harm.’

  ‘It’s not those hills I’m worried about. It’s the ones across there.’ Valerius nodded to the north.

  ‘Aye.’ The little man grinned. ‘That’s where he’ll be. Eyeing us like a hawk about to make his stoop.’

  ‘The governor thinks Calgacus and his people starved over the winter and they won’t have the strength to face us.’

  Rufus shook his head. ‘Maybe if we’d pushed them hard last year and forced him across the river before he was ready, but I reckon they ate as well as we did and probably slept a bit sounder.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘They may have burned all their huts …’ Rufus gave a snort of laughter. ‘Calgacus really doesn’t want to give us anything. I think he may not like you, legate.’ He spat to one side. ‘But you can’t hide the sign of ten thousand men and you can’t hide fields. Those fields had been cleared, planted and harvested and they must have produced an abundance because one or two of the grain silos I found were still full. If you think you’re going to be hungry you don’t leave a single seed behind. I had a look through their rubbish pits and they weren’t wanting for meat or fish either. No, I reckon Calgacus ended the year as strong as he began it. Maybe stronger. One of those renegades I mentioned told a story about bands of warriors, Damnonii and Novantae, he thought, marching through the hills to join him. Hundreds of them.’

  In the afternoon of the second day Rufus persuaded Valerius to ride ahead with his escort and soon they could see the massive outcrops the scout told him marked the crossing place. Not long after, they came to the curving line of ditches between the riverside marsh and the high ground that marked the outer defences of the Selgovae encampment. ‘That’s what’s left of the palisade.’ Rufus pointed to regular piles of blackened ash in the ditch. They rode over the ditches and on to a broad plateau of flat ground that covered the area between the largest outcrop and the hills. Ash circles dotted the spring grass like some obscene murrain.

  ‘It’s not like the Celts to make such a thorough job of slighting their encampment,’ Naso said.

  ‘I think you’ll find this Celt is a bit cleverer than most,’ Rufus informed him.

  ‘Ten thousand warriors.’ Valerius looked towards the rocky outcrop. ‘I wonder why he didn’t fortify that hill. Let’s go and take a look.’

  ‘Maybe he thought he didn’t have to.’ They rode into the dip between the plateau and the rock. ‘Once he knew we weren’t coming before winter there’d be no need, unless …’

  ‘Unless he feared an attack from the tribes across the river,’ Valerius completed the sentence for him. ‘But he didn’t. And they left him unmolested for an entire year, clearing the hills of timber and deer, the river of fish and fowl. What does that tell us?’

  ‘He came to an agreement with whoever rules north of the river.’ Naso urged his mount up the slope.

  ‘Yes,’ Valerius acknowledged, following his prefect up the track. ‘But what kind of agreement? And what did Calgacus have to bargain with? Did the northern king agree to let the Selgovae travel through his territory?’

  ‘That would depend on whether he intended to fight us.’ Rufus joined them at the summit.

  Valerius contemplated the wooded slopes beyond the outcrop on the far side of the river. ‘If he does, why let ten thousand seasoned warriors slip through his fingers?’

  ‘We need to get heralds across there as soon as we can,’ Naso said grimly. ‘If they come back with their heads still attached we’ll know he intends to treat with us. If they don’t …’

  ‘We’ll know it’s not just Calgacus and his Selgovae who are waiting for us in those hills,’ Rufus grinned as if the prospect appealed to him, ‘but Mars only knows how many thousand more of the tattooed maniacs.’

  Valerius frowned. ‘Can we get someone across to carry a message to the king for me?’

  Rufus shook his head. ‘Not yet. Not unless they can fly.’ He pointed to the marshland directly in front of them. ‘See that brown scar that leads from the high ground there out into the marsh? I think it might have been a roadway, but it’s been torn up. It means there must have been some kind of crossing point, but they’ve probably destroyed that too, or left us something interesting to find. Either way, it might take days to pick your way through that marsh.’

  ‘But there’s a definite crossing further west.’

  Rufus nodded. ‘Shallows just above the tidal reach, where a tributary stream joins from the north.’

  ‘Then we’ll cross in the morning.’

  ‘But we can’t walk on water,’ Naso protested. ‘That marsh would swallow a full cohort and you’d never know they’d existed.’

  ‘That’s why we have engineers, Quintus.’ Valerius smiled. ‘So that we don’t have to. A log road. Two log roads. One for each legion. They’re common enough on the Rhenus frontier where the lowlands are much like this. A floating platform that will allow us to get the men and horses across. We can worry about the baggage later.’

  ‘I’m more worried about where we’ll find the trees.’ The lugubrious camp prefect studied the bare hillside to the south.

  ‘Plenty in the hills beyond,’ Rufus said cheerfully. ‘And I’d prefer getting my hands blistered gripping an axe than leading the first century off the end of your log road. They’re likely to get a warm reception.’

  ‘They are.’ Valerius fixed his gaze on the sloping hillside two miles distant. ‘But we’ll worry about that when the time comes.’

  XLII

  Cathal stood on a promontory of the great escarpment that gave him an uninterrupted view far to the west, but it was the land just across the river that interested him. On the rising ground just beyond the silver waters of the Abhainn dhub the glint of armour marked one long, snaking column, while another flanked it a little further west. They looked so insignificant from here, like so many ants. He almost felt as if he could reach out a hand and crush them between his fingers.

  Yet he knew them well enough now to know he was seeing two full Roman legions and all the foreign mercenaries who accompanied those dangerous animals. It would be another day and more before they reached the ford, and he had left a force there that he hoped would make them think before crossing immediately. If he guessed right they numbered at least twelve thousand infantry and close to four thousand cavalry. Every man a fully armoured, seasoned warrior skilled in the disciplined, highly organized warfare he still did not fully comprehend, and which, for all the confidence he showed to Emrys, Donacha and Oenghus accompanying him, he did not know how to defeat.

  Worse, the warriors from the Novantae and Damnonii who had joined him over the winter brought word of not two legions, but three. So where was th
e third? Below him a large galley powered its way upriver against wind and current and he felt a shiver of dread. Was it possible such vessels might carry that many men and horses? After all, these were Romans, who had come from nowhere to strike terror in the land. Who had driven all before them as they advanced northwards. If they had somehow crossed the river further east, they might even now be behind him, cutting off his retreat. The sight confirmed what he’d already known deep in his heart.

  ‘We are still not strong enough to oppose them.’

  ‘But …’

  Oenghus put a hand on his brother’s arm to silence him. Cathal understood Donacha’s reaction. No warrior wanted to admit defeat before a spear had been thrown or he’d heard the clash of swords.

  ‘Tell us what you wish us to do, lord king,’ the priest said.

  ‘We will go north and I will find more men to join us.’

  ‘Where?’ Donacha demanded. ‘The people of the coastal lands are simple farmers and fishermen. They care not who rules them as long as they are allowed to till and harvest and cast a net.’

  Cathal took no offence at the Venicones warrior’s question. If anyone had the right to ask it Donacha did. Not two days earlier Cathal had assembled the war chiefs of the Venicones and the tribes who paid tribute to them at the great gathering stone at Pendreich. All knew of the Argento’s passing. Some of them welcomed it, most understood it, and those who did not harboured more puzzlement than resentment. What they were prepared to resent was an outsider appearing in their midst and declaring himself their overlord, a giant with ten thousand warriors at his back or not. They were a proud people and they were prepared to fight to prove it.

  ‘You have all heard what happened,’ he had told them. ‘And you know the reason for it. If a man’s family is threatened by assassins who come like thieves in the night, is he not duty bound to take his revenge on those who ordered it?’ That brought a growl of agreement, if not approval. Every man there understood the blood feud. It was also Cathal’s good fortune that, in his quest for security, the Argento had purged the Venicones of those of his own blood who might have wished to avenge him. Even the possibility of future retribution no longer existed. The Argento’s wife had been found dead with her throat cut, apparently having smothered her sons before taking her own life. Cathal had his own suspicions about the tragedy, but he didn’t allow them to diminish his regard for Donacha and his brother.

  ‘I am not here to impose myself as your king,’ Cathal continued. ‘That is for you to decide, though I would commend to you Donacha ap Arrol, a man well known to you, and of great reputation.’ It was a risk, but one Donacha and Oenghus insisted was worth taking. They had been preparing for this day long before the Selgovae had been forced from their lands, and enough of their supporters, persuaded or bought, salted the crowd to raise a great roar. ‘If, as already seems clear, he is your choice, I offer myself as his war chief, to help him lead your warriors and mine against the Romans.’ He preempted the question he knew would be in their minds if not on their tongues. ‘Why should you fight the Romans? Do not listen to me, but to a man who has been fighting them for twenty years and more. A man of great power. A druid of Mona, no less, and steeped in the lore of the people of this island.’

  Oenghus and the young acolytes who revered him had already been at work among them. Now Gwlym stepped before the scarred warrior chiefs on the hillside to reinforce the arguments in his harsh voice. He told them how the Roman roads and Roman watchtowers would be the chains that bound them, and Roman soldiers would take away the swords that made them the warriors they were. Roman officials would extract four times in tribute what they voluntarily paid to their king. Every cow, sheep, egg and grain of corn would be recorded on a Roman list, and from each the Romans would wring a profit. Roman courts with Roman judges would arbitrate their disputes, and any man who objected – high or low – would feel the sting of a Roman whip. Even the greatest among them would no longer be his own man, and the rest would be little more than Roman dogs, curs to be fed scraps when they obeyed and kicked when they did not.

  Cries of ‘No’ went up with each new revelation, and Cathal knew he could depend on the majority of them, at least for now. They were like a pack of war dogs straining at the leash. The next challenge was to teach them patience. When Gwlym stopped speaking, he stepped forward once more.

  ‘We will fight the Romans,’ he promised, ‘and we will defeat them. But we will fight them when I say so, and we will fight them in the way I say. It may be that we will not fight them here.’ A confused silence followed, which he allowed to stretch out until one tribal elder could stand it no longer.

  ‘We must not let them take one pace on to our land. Throw them back into the river. Make it run red with their blood.’

  ‘A fine sentiment, lord. Where would you stop them?’

  ‘On the raised ground by the ford,’ another cried.

  ‘And how many of your warriors would you position there?’

  ‘A thousand,’ the first chief suggested. ‘It would hold no more. But others would wait on the causeway to reinforce them.’

  ‘And they would be your greatest champions? Men forged in war. Spearmen of valour and repute.’

  ‘Of course. Who else would deserve the honour?’

  ‘And the Romans would fight with each other for the honour of slaughtering them.’ Cathal’s voice rose to a harsh, sneering bray. ‘The sky would darken and the arrows of their archers would fall like hailstones on to that crowded mound. Their infantry would march through the waters of the Abhainn dhub invulnerable behind their shields and kill the survivors with their heavy spears. Yes,’ he forestalled the inevitable interruption, ‘you would throw more warriors forward to die an honourable and avoidable death. And the same would happen. Again. And again. And again. And while they are dying more Romans will be crossing upriver and devising some stratagem to cross the marshes unseen. It would be like trying to put out a fire with one drip of water at a time. Our bravest and our best would die for nothing.’

  ‘So we will not fight them? We will abandon our lands to them? What about our honour?’

  Cathal raged inwardly. He could have told them he cared nothing for their honour, only for victory. That their honour would win them nothing but death. But he curbed his temper.

  ‘There is a greater sacrifice and more honour than throwing the lives of your young men away in a battle that can’t be won,’ he told them. ‘And that is accepting that your duty to your people is better done by taking a backward step than a forward one. By curbing your instinct to throw yourselves into the fire for the sake of your individual reputation. You are all brave. I am sure you have proved that a hundred times. Now all I ask is that you have the courage to do what is right.’

  The mood had been solemn as he moved away from the stone, but Donacha and Oenghus had walked among the tribal leaders and gathered their warriors along the edge of the swamp, waiting for the Romans. Now Cathal reaffirmed his decision.

  ‘We go north and we seek out those in the high lands. We need warriors, and from what you tell me they are warriors, for all their primitive nature.’

  ‘Warriors they are, Cathal, king of the Selgovae.’ Donacha’s voice was filled with grim portent. ‘But do not think you can bend the shit-eaters to your will as you do the foolish Venicones. You will find not one twisted king, but a hundred, and you will need not one ambitious usurper like me, but a hundred more. They are not like us, or like you. In the high lands every man is king and every family his kingdom. You think to take an army in your grasp, but it will be like closing your hands on fog. Better to fight with what you have.’

  ‘We are not enough,’ Cathal repeated. ‘I hear your words, Donacha, but nothing will change that. We must find more men, with more swords, if we are to defeat the Romans.’

  ‘Then it is decided.’ Oenghus came between them. ‘We will move north and whatever will be, will be.’

  The younger men moved off and Cathal was
left looking out over the river to where the spear points twinkled. They would abandon the river and move north. Now was not the time.

  *

  How long did it take for a man to know he’d made a mistake? In Cathal’s case it took less than a week. They marched north in a loose column and each day the Selgovae king would either mark the possibilities for an attack in his mind or seek some way to find a new ally. Possibilities there were aplenty, but certainties – and he needed certainty – there were none. Donacha and Oenghus assured him the people of the high lands were there, watching their every move, but each time Cathal took his sword brothers into the hills all they found was empty huts and glowing embers.

  No huts now, for the Selgovae and the Venicones. In the fresh spring air they slept under blankets wherever it was most comfortable or, in the cases of the commanders, in tents. By night Olwyn lay by Cathal’s side and she could feel his growing frustration.

  ‘Donacha was right,’ he confided in her one morning. ‘It is like grasping early morning fog. I must have men, sword bearers, but how can I bring them to me when I cannot even find them?’

  She considered his dilemma, in the same sensible, intuitive way she considered everything. ‘Perhaps your reputation goes before you even here, Cathal, husband, king. Everywhere you go a hundred men accompany you. These are simple people. Let them see the true Cathal. Strong enough to make his own pacts without a hundred swords at his back.’

  Another valley, a deep score in the earth flanked by sheer walls of unyielding grey stone, with a lake running through the centre like a polished iron blade, and fields of sprouting kale and barley hacked from the hard earth along the shore. This time only Gwlym and eight men accompanied the king, the guards’ swords sheathed and hidden beneath cloaks. More empty huts and glowing embers, but for once they stayed long after the embers dimmed and went cold. The big Roman horses danced nervously beneath their riders as they waited for what seemed an eternity.