The question was what to do about it? Agricola had placed him in overall command until the governor’s own arrival, so Valerius had gone off on his diplomatic mission while Aprilis still retained control of the entire army. He heard the sound of marching feet to his rear and turned to see the legionaries of the Ninth and the Twentieth moving into position. The governor’s dispositions puzzled him as much as they had Verrens, but that wasn’t his main concern. If the legions were up Agricola wouldn’t be far behind, so he had to act quickly.
He watched the enemy for any sign of threat, but apart from a cheer close to where Verrens and his escort had disappeared nothing untoward occurred. Of course, the cheer might mean his victim was already choking in his own blood, but Aprilis was nothing if not thorough.
He thought he’d run out of time when a trumpet blast announced the governor’s impending arrival. Then, entirely unexpectedly, came his opportunity. The mass of warriors on the left of Calgacus’s line had been shifting and twitching all morning. At the sound of the trumpet they surged forward, only to stop a moment later.
‘Look, on the left,’ he shouted. ‘They’re breaking the truce. Sound the attack.’
‘But …’ His signaller looked towards the now static enemy.
‘Do not question my orders. They’re going to attack us. We must move first.’
The signaller’s trumpet blared, to be echoed by his counterparts in the auxiliary cohorts. For a moment it seemed nothing would happen … then they hefted their shields and, as one, lurched into motion towards the hill.
LXIV
‘Get them out, Colm,’ Cathal told his sword brother. ‘And keep them safe.’
The order given, he forced Valerius and his delegation from his mind and concentrated on the coming battle. A cacophony of sound enveloped the hill, rising and falling like thunder as the Selgovae, Venicones, Caledonian and Brigante warriors invited the attackers to march to their deaths or roared their defiance against Rome.
A Roman auxiliary cohort consisted of close to five hundred men, and Cathal counted sixteen squares on the plain between the hill and the high ground, where the legions waited, still motionless. As the eight thousand auxiliaries advanced they performed an almost elegant manoeuvre that made the formations flow from square into line. Now the line was four ranks deep and the wall of oval shields spread across the dip so far it looked as if the flanks might overlap his own. Three regiments of cavalry walked their horses on each flank of the attack, but it seemed they were content for the infantry to take the initiative because for now they made no independent movement. Soon they were crossing the bog, and as Cathal had hoped the lines faltered and buckled as the auxiliaries were slowed by mud that varied from ankle to knee deep.
‘Now,’ he shouted above the noise, ‘signal the cavalry to attack.’
One of his warriors waved a green banner from the top of the knoll and Cathal’s horse and chariots burst into movement from the bottom of the slope. They had no discernible formation because they operated as individuals, or in small groups that mirrored their tribal loyalties. The horsemen rode to within spear range and launched their missiles at the struggling Roman infantry, causing more consternation than casualties. Cathal knew this was no ground for a two-horsed chariot, but the war chiefs who owned them insisted they be part of the attack. Now they lurched forward in the cavalry’s wake, leaping and bucking over the uneven ground until they too were within range, where the chariot stopped and the spearman leapt out to make his throw. By now Cathal’s cavalry had replenished their spears and returned for a second cast as the chariots retreated, with similar results to the first.
A horn blared on the Roman left and now the auxiliary cavalry showed their worth. Every man born to the saddle, they moved from a walk to a canter over a dozen paces and rode in a smooth arc to take Cathal’s now disorganized horse in the flank. Cathal winced as they struck. They carried ten-foot spears that swept the Celtic horse warriors away in a blizzard of iron points before they could even draw their swords from their scabbards. The slow-moving chariots were similarly overwhelmed, each surrounded by five or six auxiliary troopers who pinned driver and spearman while they stood helpless on the chariot bed. It was over in minutes. The Romans circled away and Cathal saw the grassy turf strewn with the bodies of his warriors, their mounts standing head down over their former masters, limping broken-legged from the fray, or lying shuddering on their sides. A single chariot had escaped the massacre and only a few dozen horsemen managed to return to the ranks on the hill.
And the infantry kept coming.
By now the long lines were past the bog and had regained their integrity while they tramped their way across the bloodstained grass. As he watched, the front ranks started climbing the slope, heads down behind their shields for protection, but trudging upwards with an unhurried calm that was chilling to witness. Again, the terrain affected their formation, but not to the extent he’d hoped. Still, Cathal had chosen this hill for a reason. The height advantage his warriors had over their attackers also gave them a much greater range for their throwing spears, and now the deadly missiles arced out to plunge down into the advancing auxiliaries. Slingers added their lead or stone shot to the hail and at every point along the line men heaved stockpiled boulders down the slope to cut the legs from the attackers and send them tumbling backwards. At last gaps appeared in the ranks, but they were instantly filled by those behind, who stepped over the writhing bodies of their comrades without a downward glance.
And still the legions remained in position.
Cathal felt his first flutter of real concern, but he thrust it aside. This was no time for panic. The slaughter of the cavalry apart, the battle was developing just as he planned it. The only thing to trouble him was the implacable advance of the Roman infantrymen. He looked out across the hill. He still had double their strength and the advantage of the slope. His warriors must prevail by sheer weight of numbers alone. But the doubt remained.
‘I have to know when the front rank reaches the mark,’ he snapped. He’d ordered marker stones placed across the hill at the point where he believed the Roman attackers would be most off balance, but he couldn’t see see them from where he stood.
‘You will know by the first trumpet of the carnyx, lord king,’ a bodyguard assured him.
Cathal waited for what seemed an eternity as the clamour grew in intensity and his warriors demanded to be allowed to charge the enemy. He ground his teeth as a thunderous roar from the far side of the line announced that some tribe or portion of a tribe had not waited for his order.
‘Wait,’ he cried, lest a general attack be triggered by the premature engagement. ‘Wait for the call.’ At last it came, a long blast of the carnyx that echoed across the hillside. ‘Now,’ he roared.
Like a wave tumbling on to a beach, the massed ranks of Celtic warriors fell on the vulnerable lines of attackers struggling up the slope. Cathal ran in their wake, desperate to witness the outcome of his strategy and heedless of the cries of the bodyguards who called him back. His heart sank as he saw the confusion on the left of the line where the slope was shallower and Vodenos and his Brigantes had triggered the premature attack in their enthusiasm. Here in the centre, the Selgovae smashed into the Romans in a single solid mass with a crash that sounded like thunder as individual warriors threw their bodies into the wall of hated wooden shields. Cathal held his breath as the auxiliary lines rippled and buckled as the soldiers dug their feet into the earth and dust, gritted their teeth and bunched their shoulders against the inside of their shields. And held.
They could never have done it without the help of those in the ranks behind, who threw their weight against their comrades’ backs. For a long moment it was as if the battle paused, an interval filled with grunting and cursing as the sides heaved against each other. Then the killing began.
The traditional role of an auxiliary unit was as light infantry who acted as vanguard and rearguard for the legion and carried out patrols. In batt
le they were normally used to follow up a victory and hunt down Rome’s defeated enemies. But Agricola had always insisted that his auxiliaries could substitute for his heavy infantry when required. Some of the attacking units, the Batavians and Tungrians, wore plate armour rather than chain, and every man was armed with a gladius rather than a spatha. And a gladius was an unrivalled weapon for close-quarter killing.
The men wielding the gladii wore armour, brass or iron helmets with cheek- and neck-guards, and fought from behind shields. Their enemies above them were armed mainly with spears, but the auxiliaries’ heads were protected by the shields of those in the ranks behind. Once the line stabilized they were able to force the shields forward and create the narrow gap required for a lunge with the gladius. Every man in the auxiliary line was trained to make the same sequence of movements. The warriors they faced wore tunics at best, or more often fought naked to the waist.
‘Now!’ A decurion shouted the order.
The lethal triangular point of the short sword pierced the flesh of the enemy warrior’s belly a hand’s breadth before being withdrawn with a vicious twist of the wrist that left a gaping wound and as often as not the victim’s entrails dangling. Soon the air was filled with the shrieks of men condemned to a lingering, agonizing death, shocked by the damage done to their bodies. They dropped to the ground, holding their guts in their hands, and tried to crawl back up the hill through a sea of legs as the men coming down behind them were forced against the shields by the weight of their following comrades.
‘Now!’
Cathal heard his warriors die. Watched the Roman ranks remain intact. His instinct was to rush to join them. To add his long sword and his hammer to the attack and break the line. But that was how he’d reacted during the attack on the Roman camp and all he’d done was add to the chaos and kill Emrys. Reluctantly he remained in position and tried to take a measure of the battle line. Away to his right the Venicones had attacked in their tribal groups, because Donacha had no authority over his war chiefs and little interest in the campaign since the death of his brother. The result was that the Romans were making ground there as they were on the left. A roar of a different tone drew his attention to a gully where the auxiliaries had actually made a breakthrough and a fierce struggle was taking place as his warriors fought to stem the Roman tide.
As he watched in horrified fascination, Gwlym walked past him in the direction of the fighting with his hands outstretched. ‘Where are you going?’ Cathal demanded.
‘My time is over,’ Gwlym said calmly, without breaking stride. ‘The time of the druids is past. In truth, it was past the moment the Romans took Mona.’ Cathal watched the blind priest go, making no attempt to stop him. The last he saw of Gwlym was a figure in white surrounded by Roman swords, a pair of scrawny, clutching hands, and a violent splash of scarlet as he disappeared from view.
‘Lord king?’
He looked round to find the men of his bodyguard staring at him.
‘What is it?’
‘You said we must make the decision.’ Cathal remembered his instructions and Gwlym’s insistence that he must never be found, dead or alive.
‘Colm. I meant Colm should make the decision. Where is Colm?’
LXV
‘Get off your horses and walk behind me,’ Colm ordered. ‘Stay between your animals. Cover up your armour as best you can. Keep your heads down and don’t make eye contact with anybody. Your lives depend on it.’
Valerius knew they had no choice but to trust the commander of Cathal’s bodyguard. He and the others complied as best they could, staying in pairs protected by the flanks of their mounts and as well hidden from the roaring bands of warriors as possible. Colm led them diagonally downhill by a worn path that took the easiest course. He carried a natural authority and even chieftains weighed down by torcs of gold made way at his barked orders in his own tongue.
Valerius was so absorbed by their predicament it was minutes before he realized the Selgovae had spoken decent Latin, though with an accent that reminded him of someone.
‘Just like old times, eh?’ Gaius Rufus flashed him a grin. ‘In the shit right up to our necks again.’
‘In those clothes you could pass as one of them.’ Valerius nodded at the homespun tunic and trews the scout wore. ‘At least as a Brigante. Maybe you’d be better off on your own.’
Rufus’s lip twisted scornfully and Valerius realized with a twinge of shame that he’d offended the little man. ‘Gaius Rufus doesn’t leave his friends just because things get a little rough. Besides, who’d look after Hilario?’
An unintelligible mutter from behind might have signalled agreement or protest and Felix hissed at Hilario to keep his mouth shut.
It was their good fortune that every eye on the hill was concentrated on the approaching auxiliaries and nobody thought to stop them or question Colm’s authority. But the men they passed recognized the Roman horses and the uniforms between them. Grunts of puzzlement became growls of anger and soon Valerius was aware of a crowd following them.
‘Don’t look back,’ Colm hissed. ‘Keep following. They won’t do anything while you’re with me.’
But Valerius’s covert glances had registered a change in the men around them, a different pattern of facial hair, tunics of an inferior quality and weapons fashioned in a different style. That and a brittle edge in Colm’s voice told him they’d moved from the Selgovae lines into those of another tribe, probably the Venicones. Above the roars he heard the unmistakable sound of a clash of arms and the noise rose in a new crescendo.
‘What’s happening?’ he called to Colm, certain no one else would hear him.
‘Shut up,’ the Selgovae said through clenched teeth. He relented a moment later. ‘Our cavalry and chariots attacked the Roman line. Now they’re getting a lesson from your cavalry.’
The news should have cheered Valerius, but all he could think of was staying alive. He had to fight the temptation to order his men to mount and try to cut their way through to safety. This slow procession allowed the mind to conjure up ever more painful and brutal ends. Certainly there would be no mercy from these men for the hated Romans. They’d been exiled and hunted for four years. All they wanted was a chance to fight for their revenge.
The growls had turned to jeers and what sounded like threats. Valerius heard a high-pitched voice muttering a prayer to Jupiter a few feet back. He recognized the voice of Capito, the youngest member of the escort. They’d moved off the path and here the ground was rougher and more uneven.
A scuffle and a yelp. Someone called out Capito’s name and Valerius half turned to see the boy sprawled on the rocky ground with a dozen snarling Celts standing over him. Capito tried to get to his feet, but someone kicked his legs from under him. Colm shouted a protest and the young trooper tried to rise again. Valerius saw a flash of bright metal and Capito screamed. It happened so quickly no one had time to react. Valerius had once seen a feeding frenzy as a pack of sharks turned on one of their injured. This was the same. The knives and swords rose and fell until Capito was nothing but a mess of blood, bone, rags and gore-stained metal.
‘Mount up,’ Colm screamed. ‘Mount up and ride. There’s nothing I can do for you now.’ Valerius hauled himself into the saddle. Rufus was already moving ahead. ‘Make for the river,’ the Selgovae shouted. Valerius could hear Felix and Hilario and the three surviving troopers urging their horses on. Soon Hilario was riding at his side, his face set in a scowl of concentration.
No question of stealth now and no thought for the uneven ground. They could hear the feral howl of the men chasing them as if they were a pack of hunting dogs. They barged through the warriors in front to barks of protest, and soon every eye was on them. Valerius tried to choose the least crowded path, but all he could see was a wall of spears. He was aware of a Roman pilum whirring past his head and a slingshot smacked into his back with enough force to have broken bone if the impact hadn’t been dulled by his cloak and leather breastplate.
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‘Wheel right,’ he cried, hoping the men behind could hear him. A gap, but it led into a short gully, and they emerged into an even more congested area. Valerius wheeled again and it was a moment before he realized he was riding uphill and veered immediately left. The movement brought him in behind Hilario and Rufus and the sound of clattering hooves at his back told him Felix and the rest had stayed with him. Rufus shouted something over his shoulder and urged his horse further ahead. Hilario matched his movement. Their course would take them into a packed bunch of warriors where the hill steepened. Valerius saw immediately what they intended. If they could smash through the Venicones they’d be in the clear, even if it would take Pegasus to keep them safe on the descent. Yet every stride took them deeper into danger. Men threw themselves bodily in front of the horses and spears and swords slashed at the Roman mounts’ flanks. As if time slowed Valerius saw Hilario reel in the saddle and a heartbeat later horse and rider were down, smashing the enemy aside as they tumbled down the slope. Yet his sacrifice had given them a chance. If they could only reach the gap …
But Gaius Rufus, brave, loyal Gaius Rufus, was a warrior of a different mettle. The little man hauled on the reins and before Valerius could draw breath he was out of the saddle and standing over Hilario’s prone body like a terrier defending its master. A knife appeared in his hand, but a knife was no match for the swords and spear points that sought him out. A pair of warriors laughed as they lunged at the midget and Valerius heard a terrible scream as they lifted the struggling body on their points like a trophy.
A scream of his own erupted from his throat and he turned his horse towards them, driven beyond sanity by despair and the need to avenge his friend. Men thrust and cut at him, but he ignored the blades and points. No Celt would kill Gaius Valerius Verrens until he was ready. Two strides later some unseen warrior thrust a spear shaft between Valerius’s mount’s legs and the horse stumbled and went over on its shoulder. For a moment Valerius had an image of them tumbling side by side, his mind whirling as his body went through a full circle which ended with a sickening crash that turned his world red and tore the helmet from his head. Blinded, but aware of what was going on around him, he heard scuffles and snarls as men fought over his body. Then a familiar voice. Colm had somehow tracked them across the hillside.
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