The crash died away leaving only distant barking from the camp’s dogs, startled by the sudden disturbance to their peaceful night, and the flutter of thousands of cloaks moving in the breeze.
‘Men of the Ninth Hispana!’ Cerialis, flanked by the camp prefect and the thick-stripe tribune, declaimed from a dais. ‘We march south to Camulodunum; what we will find when we get there I cannot say but be prepared for war.’ He took a deep breath and then roared: ‘Are you ready for war?’
‘Yes!’ was the thundered reply that further disturbed the dogs.
‘Are you ready for war?’
‘Yesss!’
‘Are you ready for war?’
‘YESSSS!’
Cerialis raised his arms in the air to keep the response going so that the word transformed into a prolonged cheer. Bringing his hands back down again he quietened his men with, what Vespasian considered to be, impressive control.
‘We will march as if we are in hostile territory so there will be a stockaded camp built every night; this will slow our progress so to counter that we will march an hour before dawn every day and take fewer rests. We go to the aid of many of our brothers who served in this legion; we will not let them down! They will not stand alone. Legionaries of the Ninth, ARE – YOU – READY – FOR WAR?’
The resulting cheer to the affirmative beat any sound made that morning and sent the dogs into a renewed frenzy and caused Vespasian’s and his companions’ horses to skitter and snort nervously; behind them their escort of sixty of the legion’s cavalry troopers fought to control their mounts as their infantry comrades started to beat their pila on their shields, firstly at random, producing a constant rolling rumble that gradually morphed into a steady, pounding, slow beat. Cerialis indulged his men, punching his fist in the air in time to their rhythm; slow, deliberate and menacing.
‘That seems to have got the lads worked up,’ Magnus commented. ‘I wouldn’t worry about Curius’ assessment of their toughness, sir; I’m sure they’ll make up for any deficiency on that front with keenness.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘Yeah, well, so do I; we’ll find out soon enough, I suppose.’
‘Not for at least seven days, which will be the thirteenth day of the Iceni muster.’ Vespasian bit his bottom lip, his strained expression exaggerated as he contemplated the timing. ‘Paulinus won’t receive the message until tomorrow so he cannot be expected to march until the following dawn; he has at least an eight or nine day journey. And as for the Twentieth and the Second Augusta, the gods alone know when we can expect them back in the south.’
‘Then let’s hope the Iceni take their time with their muster.’
Vespasian thought that to be a false hope. ‘Would you?’
Magnus had to admit not. ‘No, I’d fall on the towns as quickly as possible.’
‘That’s what I would do too; I’ve a nasty feeling that the next time we see this legion they could well be the only legion in sight and we’ll have thousands of savages between them and us in Camulodunum.’
‘He’s done nothing, the little runt!’ Vespasian exclaimed, outraged, as he surveyed the defences upon approaching Camulodunum at the seventh hour, three days later after a long, fast and hard ride south. ‘Not one brick has been laid and he must have got our message at least three days ago.’
Sabinus cast a professional eye over the junction of the new brickwork and the old, unmaintained, wooden palisade that surrounded some of the rest of the town. ‘That wouldn’t hold a gaggle of squealing bum-boys for longer than it would take for them to do their make-up.’
‘Four or five hours, then?’ said Magnus, looking, without much hope, for any sign of workmen around the defences; there were none.
‘You know what I mean, Magnus; we’d be lucky to keep a concerted attack out for more than half an hour. Let’s go and find the little shit and kick him into action.’
‘That’s pointless, Sabinus,’ Caenis said, letting her horse have a few tugs at the lush grass before it. ‘Best we do it ourselves otherwise it will remain an open town.’
Vespasian urged his horse forward towards the north gate. ‘You’re right, my love; the sensible thing would be to ignore Paelignus and take command of the place. At least we’ll take the threat seriously even if he won’t.’ He turned in his saddle to the decurion commanding their cavalry escort. ‘Mutilus, leave me sixteen troopers to use as scouts and messengers, and get back to Cerialis. Tell him that there was no sign of the enemy and also there’s no sign of any help, either.’
With a perfunctory salute the officer detailed two tent parties to remain and by the time Vespasian was clattering through the north gate the troopers were heading back towards their legion somewhere along the road north.
Vespasian made straight for the forum, which was operating as if there was nothing amiss; traders shouted their wares and townsfolk made purchases, exchanged gossip and behaved as if there was no possibility that the Iceni nation might appear, intent on their demise, at any moment.
‘Get us some attention, Magnus,’ Vespasian requested, jumping down from his horse and then mounting the steps of the Temple of Divine Claudius; Sabinus followed him up.
As they reached the top, canine anger and avian terror erupted from a stall at the foot of the steps as Castor and Pollux took advantage of Magnus opening the gate to a pen filled with geese. Guttural growls and high-pitched honks cut over the human noise from the forum. Feathers and blood flew as did the few lucky geese that escaped the pen; the rest succumbed to the jaws of the hounds. Outraged, the stallholder screamed abuse at Magnus before attacking him with a club he produced from under the table. Magnus laid him out with a straight right fist to the jaw and then called Castor and Pollux off their lunch. By now half the forum was staring in their direction.
‘People of Camulodunum!’ Vespasian shouted, his voice carrying over the whole crowd. ‘The prefect of this town, your prefect, has put you in grave danger; in a couple of days you may well all be dead.’ This got their full attention and Vespasian found himself being stared at by hundreds of pairs of eyes. ‘Less than a market interval ago the Queen of the Iceni, Boudicca, threatened to rip the heart out of every Roman in the province.’ He raised his hand to show his senatorial ring. ‘I, Titus Flavius Vespasianus, of proconsular rank, and my brother, Titus Flavius Sabinus, also of proconsular rank, know this to be true because we were there when she made that threat. Some of you who served with the Second Augusta in the early years of the conquest will recognise me, as will those of you who served with the Fourteenth Gemina recognise my brother. We were your legates. We have your best interests at heart and we urge you to join with us and strengthen the defences of this town.’
‘What for?’ a voice from the crowd shouted. ‘We could just leave and seek shelter in Londinium.’
‘What’s your name, soldier?’ Sabinus asked.
‘Former centurion Verrucosus, sir.’
‘Well, Verrucosus, at least here you have some walls; Londinium has none at all. If the Iceni are not stopped by the time they come there they will sweep through the town like floodwater.’
There were discussions in the crowd that by their tone seemed to suggest that Vespasian’s point had been taken.
‘Nor will you stand a chance hiding from them in open country,’ Vespasian continued, noticing that some of the native members of his audience had started to slip away. ‘They will scour the whole land. Our only chance is to barricade ourselves in here. As I speak, the Ninth Hispana is coming south and should arrive in three or four days. Messages have gone to Governor Paulinus in the northwest with the Fourteenth. They could be here in six days as could the Twentieth and Second. If Paulinus can consolidate his forces in this area then he will crush this rebellion but he needs time; and you, former legionaries of Rome, you can give him that time. You can give your Governor what he needs to ensure victory if you can keep the Iceni out of this town and camped beyond the repaired walls whilst their destruction, in
the form of four legions, makes their way to this place.’ He emphasised the last three words, punching his fist into the palm of his hand as he did.
Silence greeted the end of the speech as all stared at him, open-mouthed.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ An all-too-familiar voice screeched. ‘How dare you sow panic amongst these people?’ Paelignus pushed his way to the front of the crowd and mounted the steps. ‘The Iceni would never dare attack us; they haven’t got any weapons since they were disarmed.’
‘Disarmed did you say, procurator?’ Sabinus sneered. ‘Any man who hunts with a spear or a bow can kill a Roman. Did you not get our warning?’
‘I had some rambling message from an imperial courier whom I assumed had been drinking so I had him thrown in a cell to sober up.’
Vespasian stared at Paelignus, unable to believe the man’s stupidity. It seemed pointless saying anything, so, with a casualness that belied the sense of urgency he felt at commencing the work, he kicked the procurator between the legs and then kneed him in the face as his hunched form doubled over, laying him out on his back, unconscious. Turning back to the crowd, he asked: ‘So what is it to be? Are you with me and my brother; will you help us strengthen the defences? Or are you as dismissive of the threat as this … this …’ He pointed down at Paelignus. ‘As this worthless piece of shit who is blinded by his own unwarranted arrogance?’
There was no immediate reaction either for or against but, rather, a mass outbreak of urgent chatter; groups formed and arguments broke out and it soon became obvious to Vespasian and Sabinus that a decision was not going to be reached by talking even though Verrucosus seemed to be arguing for them. In silent, mutual agreement they both descended the steps and, with Magnus, Caenis and their escort following, pushed their way through the crowd, heading back towards the north gate to the works on the wall so that they could lead by example.
Gradually the townsfolk, mainly veterans and colonists but also some Britons, joined them and by mid-afternoon there were over two thousand men and boys labouring to restore the original palisade in the many places that it was down as well as securing its segue with the new, and very incomplete, brick wall. Parties went out to cut down trees; others stripped them of branches; some dug holes and others raised the logs into position whilst their womenfolk gathered what food and drink could be found in the surrounding area and brought it back within the walls.
‘So, Verrucosus,’ Vespasian said as he and the former centurion packed the earth around the base of a newly raised section of the palisade, ‘can we leave you in charge of this work while my brother and I put our minds to other matters?’
Verrucosus, stocky and bow-legged in his late fifties, grinned, exposing broken teeth. ‘I’ll keep them at it, sir; along with my brother former officers in the town. The lads respect us so don’t you worry; we’ve already organised them into centuries.’
‘What about if it comes to defending the walls?’
‘We’ve all still got our swords and some still have shields and a few even have helmets. Some of us have slings and bows but it’s javelins we need and they’re scarce.’
‘In which case detail some of the older men and younger boys to start making as many as possible; we need thousands. They don’t have to be perfect, just as long as they have a sharp end and can be thrown.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘And have piles of stones and bricks placed every few paces.’
Verrucosus saluted, smartly for a man of his age, his enjoyment of a military situation, after so long a civilian, evident on his face.
Leaving Magnus with the workforce, Vespasian, Sabinus and Caenis went back to the Governor’s residence and there began to write a series of letters.
‘This is your last chance, my love,’ Vespasian said to Caenis as he handed two scroll-cases and a weighty purse to a fisherman, waiting in his boat, ready to set sail the following morning from Camulodunum’s river port; his teenage son busied himself with the sail. ‘You could be in Londinium by tomorrow morning then pick up Hormus and your two girls and either take a ship or be safe down on the south coast with Cogidubnus in three days or so.’
Caenis removed the scented handkerchief from her face that shielded her from the worst of the stench of raw sewage rising from the river. ‘I wish you would stop going on, Vespasian; I stay by your side, for better or worse, and let that be an end to it.’
Vespasian shrugged, knowing he was never going to win the argument, and turned his attention back to the fisherman. ‘Give both of these to my freedman, Hormus, at the house on the river that I described to you and then if you bring the answer back there’ll be another purse this size.’
The man felt the weight and nodded, satisfied. ‘Right you are, sir,’ he said and he and his son began to cast off.
Behind them, further down the river, could be seen another boat, destined for Rutupiae, the main port in Britannia; it sailed slowly away, its sail billowing in the uneven breeze. It was in this boat that Vespasian had placed some hope. It contained three letters: one for the prefect of the port begging him to ignore the sailing conditions and order two ships to cross to the mainland, each with one of the other letters. One was for the Governor of Gallia Belgica and the other for the Governor of Germania Inferior, pleading with them to send what troops they could, as soon as they could. If they were to arrive within four days then it might just be possible to hold out in Camulodunum – if the walls had been repaired in time. He did not expect much joy from the letter he had sent for Hormus to pass onto Decianus asking him for troops; that had been sent more to protect himself from accusations of not warning the procurator and asking for aid, something he was sure the oily Decianus would do if they both survived the rebellion, whatever the result. Decianus would be sure to try to make certain that nothing was his fault. The other letters, sent via cavalry couriers, had been to Cerialis and Paulinus urging, quite unnecessarily, even more haste. The remaining cavalry troopers had been sent out on reconnaissance the previous day.
And it was one of these men who, as Vespasian and Caenis turned to go back to the Governor’s residence, came striding towards them with Sabinus.
‘Tell my brother what you saw,’ Sabinus ordered the man as they drew close.
One glance at the fear in the scout’s eyes was enough to tell Vespasian that whatever he had seen had not been good.
‘Fifty miles or so to the northeast, sir. More than I’ve ever seen before.’
‘More what, man?’ Vespasian snapped.
‘People, sir, people. The whole tribe is on the move, not just the warriors. Tens of thousands of them spread out on a frontage so wide that I could not see the ends.’
Vespasian looked at Sabinus in alarm. ‘Mars’ arse! If they’re coming in those numbers it doesn’t matter whether the walls are repaired or not, they’ll just push them over and walk right in.’
‘Perhaps we should think about leaving?’
‘And go where? Londinium, with no walls whatsoever?’
‘No, Vespasian,’ Caenis said, ‘he means what you’ve been suggesting that I do. Get somewhere safe.’
‘If we’re seen to run away from Camulodunum after what we said in the forum yesterday, no one will stand; they’ll sweep through here and onto Londinium and the province will almost certainly be lost. Here is where we must stand; if we can get the walls repaired and the legions arrive then here is where we have a chance of defeating them.’
‘If the legions arrive,’ Sabinus said, ‘and if they arrive in time.’
They began to come in later in the day, refugees, many of them; first in small groups, then in their scores and soon, by the following day, in their hundreds. Driven from their farms and settlements by the mass advance of the Iceni nation, the veterans and colonists, with their families, arrived with little more than their clothes and a few small possessions. In they came, ragged and exhausted; all had tales of horror to tell of impaling, burning, disembowelment and crucifixion and all who hea
rd the stories repeated them, exaggerating the facts, until the town was swathed in dread. Of the new arrivals, those who could set to work helping on the defences, which, although they were progressing, were still not yet complete such had been the dilapidation that Paelignus had allowed them to fall into.
And still they came in, the refugees, in such numbers that by the time the first columns of smoke could be seen on the horizon, Caenis had worked out that there were over twenty thousand people crammed into the town – and each one was terrified. Of that number, only four thousand had served in the legions and could still bear arms. But that number, if combined with the VIIII Hispana and Paulinus’ troops, would, Vespasian hoped, be enough, provided they could link up.
By the following day, two days after Vespasian had sent the letters, the columns of smoke were closer and had begun to meld with one another until, in places, they became sheets, a mile or so wide. Then, as the day wore on and the sun westered, the sheets began to join together; and then, as the first warriors appeared out of the oak woods, four miles away, and trampled across the farmland towards the town, they were backed by a continuous wall of smoke to the northeast of them as if the whole country was burning. Which, indeed, it was, for Boudicca had ordered that all trace of the hated invaders be expunged from the land and her people had taken that order very seriously.
Vespasian stood, amongst Sabinus, Caenis and Magnus with his hounds, along with many of the veterans, under the command of Verrucosus and his brother former centurions, on the top of the north gate watching the endless surge of Iceni appear, their arms and chests smeared with blue-green swirling patterns, their hair spiked and their moustaches flowing, filling up the cultivated land around Camulodunum. As their hope plummeted with every new war band coming into sight, something caught their eye coming south down the Lindum road: an orange glint, a reflection of the falling sun. Vespasian squinted and felt the bile rise in his gorge as he made out a body of cavalry; it was not a full ala, the amount that a sensible general would use as a vanguard for the legion in hostile territory but, rather, a solitary turma, a scouting party implying that Cerialis’ legion was still on the road; the VIIII Hispana was close but would not arrive in time and nor would Paulinus. Vespasian now knew that they were on their own and massively outnumbered and could only hope to survive with a desperate defence of incomplete walls and palisade.
The Furies of Rome Page 25