The Hadrian Legacy

by Gavin Chappell

  Flaminius rode away, dazed. How had a Roman officer, a Roman citizen, so successfully thrown his lot in with the rebels? It didn’t surprise him that Marcius Magnus had turned his coat—after all, the alternative would have been to be sacrificed to the gods alongside Tribune Priscus. But that Cucullata and the druids had accepted him so readily was what shocked Flaminius the most.

  They passed on south, meeting very little resistance. Most of the legionary cohorts and whatever loyal auxiliary troops remained were in the north, no doubt fighting off the Caledonian attack even as the bagaudae rode south. They passed town after town. Flaminius began to lose sense of direction.

  Early one morning he was sitting his horse, ready for the next leg of the journey, when Bellomarus approached him.

  ‘Decurion!’ the bagauda said. ‘Are you ready?’

  Flaminius looked up. ‘We’re going the wrong way.’

  Bellomarus shook his head. ‘We’re not. Get the men together. We ride in half an hour.’

  ‘We must be going the wrong way,’ Flaminius insisted. ‘We’re still going south.’ He indicated the first light of dawn, the sun rising over the edge of the world in the east—to the left of their line of march.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Bellomarus demanded. ‘Obey orders! We ride south!’

  ‘Eboracum—and the governor—is north,’ Flaminius insisted. ‘We took a wrong turn at Venonis. We should have followed the Lindum road. This is the road to Verulamium.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Bellomarus impatiently. ‘The road to Verulamium—and Londinium. We’re not going to Eboracum! The druids said that to fool the spies among us. We caught one.’ He hauled at his reins. ‘Maybe we’ll catch more before we reach journey’s end.’

  He trotted off into the morning light.

  Londinium! Then all their reports to the governor were worthless. Even if word reached him, Platorius Nepos would withdraw troops to Eboracum for an attack that never came, weakening the Wall without saving the province from the bagaudae.

  —31—

  Catavellauni country, 13 August

  Verulamium capitulated without a fight.

  Cucullata had the chief magistrates of the town beheaded in their own forum, and the severed heads were strung up from the sides of a racing chariot that was found on a nearby estate; the Caledonian leader claimed the vehicle as his own for the rest of the march. Later that day scouts rode in with the news that Roman legionaries were marching out from the fort at Londinium.

  ‘This was always the druids’ intention,’ Bellomarus told the troopers. ‘We will winkle them out from their fort and slaughter them on the road to Londinium. This will save the need for a lengthy siege of the fort when we seize the town. Once we gain control of Londinium, we also control the road network, and we will use it to fan out across the province and seize key positions. Meanwhile, the Caledonian tribes will attack the Wall from the north, keeping the governor occupied up there. By the time we have control the south, we will have a much weaker enemy.’

  Flaminius had done all he could here. Nothing would be achieved by staying with the bagaudae. He had made enough mistakes already. Now he could see only one way to redemption.

  From what he’d seen of the garrison, even if it was at full strength and had not sent vexillations up north to the aid of the governor, the legionaries would find it difficult to prevail against the bagaudae in the open field. If, however, they were to retreat within their fort and sit it out, the bagaudae would indeed have problems. They might even be seriously weakened, and when—if! —Platorius Nepos turned his attention to the situation in the south, they would pose less of a threat. That hinged on a successful campaign against the Caledonians now attacking the Wall.

  Flaminius rose. He was achieving nothing here; the sooner he got away the better. The situation in Verulamium was chaotic. He was confident that he could get out without any serious problem. But he reckoned without Bellomarus’ vigilance.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, decurion?’

  The Gaul’s voice came from the darkness just as Flaminius was tightening his saddle girths. The Roman spun round. Bellomarus stood at the other end of the line of horses picketed in the field outside the town.

  ‘Getting ready for a little journey?’ he added, drawing closer. ‘The fight’s not until tomorrow.’ He shook his head. ‘Another man might think you were riding out on us. That’s the trouble with you Britons, you’re cowards, not like the Gauls. You’re showing a bad example to the men.’

  ‘I’m going nowhere,’ Flaminius said. ‘I just…’

  Bellomarus drew his sword and brandished it. ‘That’s it. You’re going nowhere. Not until I say so. Then you ride and you fight and you win. Now get back to the men. We’ll say no more of this. Move!’

  The following morning, they took the Londinium road. Coming down out of the hills they found their path blocked by several cohorts whose burnished cuirasses winked in the noontime sun.

  A tribune came forward, accompanied by several other officers, but the bagaudae were not willing to parley. Frenzy rushed through their ranks like wildfire in a wheat field but the legionaries formed a shield wall to resist them. Javelins flew, troopers fell as their mounts were killed beneath them. More orders were shouted. Flaminius was surprised to see the troops in the centre turning tail and fleeing. Confidently, the legionaries pursued.

  ‘Now!’ shouted Bellomarus, and he led his troopers, followed by other troops on either side of the road, down onto the legionaries either flank. Flaminius remembered his tutor telling him about Hannibal and the battle of Cannae. A feigned retreat, drawing the enemy within the horns of a crescent—or the jaws of a trap. And now the trap was closing.

  Swords and spears flashed in the sun. Men shouted, horses screamed. The legionaries’ armour glittered, then ran red with blood. The fight went first one way then another. Divided into several units, the legionaries tried to fight their way out but more bagaudae rode up to surround them.

  Flaminius’s troop was somewhere in the midst of the chaos, Bellomarus dealing death on either side with his longsword. Flaminius galloped at his right hand. The rest of the troopers rode on either side.

  The legionaries put up a grim resistance, cutting down horses and men with their short swords, falling one by one but paying the ferryman a heavy toll. Javelins hurtled through the air. Bellomarus shouted encouragement. Flaminius’ sword rose and fell. He was, after all, fighting for his life. But his morale was low, his spirits lower. The only chance he had of redeeming himself had come and gone.

  Bellomarus rode at the forefront. His eyes were wild, his face war-painted with gore. He resembled nothing so much as one of the wild warriors of Vercingetorix, fighting Caesar’s legions. But now it seemed the roles had reversed as the blood-spattered Gaul slew on either hand.

  Then an arrow grew from his chest. He swung round in his saddle, and his accusing eyes locked onto Flaminius’. The Roman wanted to deny responsibility. It had been a legionary archer, not him.

  But before he could say this, Bellomarus fell from his horse’s back, to vanish out of sight among his fellow troopers’ steeds.

  Ignoring the looks of his comrades, Flaminius rode for the edge of the battle. The sun vanished behind clouds, which disgorged rain on the scene. The field of battle was churned up by struggling fighters and horses.

  Legionaries attacked Flaminius. He sustained a nasty gash to the thigh from one man’s sword, after he turned and aimed a savage cut at the horse. The blow missed its target but it shot across Flaminius’ upper thigh like a bolt of fire.

  Then he was out on the other side, riding down the road. The battle receded into the distance behind him. He was past it. Bellomarus was dead, with any luck, and while the fate of the battle was uncertain, at least Flaminius was out on the other side.

  The rain eased, and he saw he was crossing farmlands. He was glad to escape the bagaudae, but where he would go now he didn’t know. Now the bagaudae and the legionaries fro
m Londinium were fighting, there was no one he could warn. Except—he knew the druids’ plans! He knew they intended to seize the town and hold it against their enemies.

  He should ride to warn the procurator. Corvus could command the civilians of Londinium to take refuge behind the bastions of the fort. No walls surrounded Londinium, and the newly rebuilt town, dominated by that massive bronze statue of the emperor, would be an obvious target for looters. But there was room enough inside the fort for the citizens, and if they brought enough supplies they could sit out a siege. He galloped faster.

  He hadn’t been able to redeem himself by warning the legionaries, but he could wring some credit from the whole disaster by warning the citizens. The bagaudae were going to win, he saw that. Londinium would be seized. But the people needn’t suffer unduly.

  A day later, he had reached the woods at the edge of the Tamesis valley. A weak sun shone. The last time he had been here had been in driving rain. Farmers and labourers limped along the road, pushing handcarts full of their belongings; people from outlying settlements who had heard news of the attack. Seeing Flaminius riding towards them, a woman screamed out in panic. People turned, horror on their faces. Flaminius wanted to stop, to tell them he was a friend, he was in disguise. But the little crowd scattered, fleeing into the hedges and trees on either side.

  He rode through the litter of their abandoned belongings and vanished over the ridge.

  The smokes of Londinium appeared. The silvery line of the Tamesis wound through the wide valley. Now the town grew clearer. Everything seemed quiet and dreamlike in those streets. Had no word of the attackers reached them?

  He saw the fort on one side, the palace of the procurator on the banks of the stream. Flashes of silver showed that some of the legionaries remained in the fort, patrolling its walls.

  The road ahead was deserted. He rode towards the edge of town, flogging his horse onwards. Soon he was riding through deserted streets. The fort loomed on one side, the stream wound through the town ahead of him. Figures peered at him from alleyways. He heard shouts and cries, then running feet. More shouts came from the ramparts of the fort.

  The air hissed. Arrows studded the ground. He glanced back to see the archers on the walls reloading. His disguise was strong enough to fool anyone, but he didn’t have enough time to change. He had to get to Corvus.

  He spurred his horse into cover. A deserted street led to a bridge over the stream and on the far side the road to the forum. In the distance, the vast statue of Hadrian stared blindly northwards from atop his column. Unless Fate smiled today, the statue would witness the end of the province.

  Flaminius galloped down the bank of the stream. The blue waters of the Tamesis glimmered up ahead. From a cross hung a few arm- and leg-bones to which clung blackened fragments of flesh.

  Shouts came from behind. Legionaries from the fort raced after him. He saw the gates of the procurator’s palace ahead. More armoured men raced out to intercept him—men of the procurator’s personal guard, spears levelled.

  ‘I must speak with the procurator!’ he yelled. ‘I must speak with Lucius Julius Corvus!’ A guard flung a spear.

  Screaming, Flaminius’ faithful horse, which he had ridden down from the western hills, collapsed under him. Flaminius rolled free but the guards ran to surround him. Legionaries from the fort joined them. At bay, Flaminius snarled, and drew his sword.

  ‘I don’t want to fight you,’ he called, ‘but I will if I have to. I have to get to the procurator.’ He had no time to waste on explanations.

  ‘You won’t get near him, barbarian,’ said a guard in centurion’s uniform, shouldering his way forward. ‘Leave the fucking scum to me,’ he told the other guards.

  The centurion came at Flaminius, sword swinging. Flaminius recognised him. It was Centurion Aquila, who had been on duty when Pulcher was murdered! Flaminius met the attack, great swashing blows that resounded the length of his blade. ‘Let me pass, you fool. I’m no barbarian. I’m a Roman tribune.’

  Aquila didn’t reply. The other guards watched grim-faced as their leader dealt with the interloper, this tattooed Briton in auxiliary armour. The legionaries from the fort lounged against the wall or sat on kerbing stones, laying bets. The desperate clang of blade on blade, steel on steel, came back from the marble walls of the palace.

  Flaminius was panting. He had ridden a long way in a state of terror. The bagaudae were close behind him, this town was doomed to destruction, its people would be put to the sword if he didn’t get to someone in authority. But the disguise that had worked so well among bagaudae had become his downfall. Nothing he did or said could persuade these guards, already on tenterhooks from news of revolt, that he was on their side.

  Aquila feinted, then brought his short sword down on Flaminius’ guard hard enough to numb his fingers. Flaminius cursed and dropped the sword. The centurion lunged. Flaminius sprang forward, gripping the man in a wrestler’s hold. Aquila stamped down on Flaminius’ instep with a sandaled foot.

  Gritting his teeth against the pain, Flaminius wrapped his other leg around Aquila’s, then shoved his armoured chest forward. In a swirl of red cloak, the centurion fell back, dropping his short sword. But as he did he grabbed Flaminius’ scarf and hauled him off balance. They fell over the carcase of Flaminius’ horse and rolled across the ground, kicking and punching.

  Aquila was an older and heavier man than Flaminius, and he used his weight to good effect. Their fighting style would have won no credit at the Olympic Games. Flaminius was desperate. He got the man in a headlock and kept him there, despite several kicks to the shins.

  ‘Don’t you remember me? Flaminius. I’m an agent,’ he panted. ‘A Commissary agent. It was you who alerted us! I need to see your superior…!’

  He broke off in surprise at a kick from behind. It sent him sprawling, and Aquila rolled away to one side. Flaminius half rose to see one of the legionaries behind him. The man was red faced and angry.

  ‘Not very sporting,’ Flaminius said through gritted teeth, getting to his feet. Another kick caught him in the chest and he fell flat on his back. The legionary grabbed him by the links of his mail coat and hauled him to his feet.

  ‘We’ve heard enough about you rebels,’ he snarled in Flaminius’ face. ‘Beheading magistrates, raping children. Now we’ve got one of you in our power, we’ll have a bit of fun.’

  ‘Let me go!’ the tribune said, clutching his aching head. ‘I must get to the procurator!’

  He felt in his belt pouch for his lance-head brooch, but as he did, the legionary hit him in the face. Flaminius fell to his knees, hands raised to cover his face. The legionary doubled his fist to punch him again. Flaminius’ sword lay on the ground near Aquila, who was sitting up, clutching at his belly.

  The legionary swung another punch and Flaminius rolled to the side. The move brought him closer to his longsword.

  ‘He’s going for his weapon!’ someone shouted.

  The fingers of Flaminius’ right hand closed around the hilt and he pushed himself up from the ground. Then he circled, facing the surrounding guards, sword at the ready, a resolute expression on his face. He beckoned.

  ‘Come on,’ he panted. ‘You want to fight!’

  The legionary drew his short sword and ran at him. Flaminius watched the man’s approach contemptuously. The legionary threw himself at him and he brought the sword up to stab him clinically in the throat. The legionary fell backwards, blood spurting.

  Flaminius turned to face the others, but a growing din from the direction of the fort had distracted them; shouting voices, marching feet, whinnying horses, screams of the dying, and the crackle of flames. Smoke billowed above the red tiled rooftops, thick black oily smoke. The air was alive with tension. Forgotten, Flaminius watched with the others as Londinium began to burn.

  ‘Get him!’ shouted one of the legionaries. ‘We’ll get one of them at least!’

  They surrounded him. His longsword was knocked from his hands. He found
himself ringed by angry faces. The Londinium skyline blazed; the pillar of Hadrian shook, then fell to vanish from sight with a crash. A legionary placed the tip of his spear to Flaminius’ throat.

  Footsteps came from the colonnade. A voice barked, ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Sir,’ said a guard to someone Flaminius couldn’t see. ‘We’ve caught one of them. One of them rebels.’

  Flaminius heard the newcomer stepping around the group of guards. His voice seemed familiar. When he came into sight, Flaminius recognised him. It was Tribune Metellus, commander of Corvus’ guards.

  ‘Metellus!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t be a fool. Help me!’

  ‘Silence!’ a guard barked, and struck him across the face. Weeping blood, Flaminius subsided.

  Metellus peered at him. ‘Is he the only one? He seems to know me!’

  ‘Sir, there’s a fucking army out there!’ the centurion reported. ‘They’re burning the town.’

  ‘I thought the fort sent out a vexillation to deal with them,’ Metellus said.

  ‘The rebels must have defeated them, sir,’ said Aquila. ‘They’re almost here!’

  Grimacing, Metellus reached out and hauled Flaminius’ head back by its spiky hair. Flaminius stared into his eyes but saw no recognition then, only a growing puzzlement.

  ‘What brings him here?’ Metellus asked.

  ‘I...’ Flaminius got no further before a guard punched him in the belly.

  ‘Enough!’ Metellus shouted. ‘Answer my question!’ He seemed oddly nervous.

  ‘Sir,’ the centurion said, ‘he had some bullshit story about being here to see the procurator. Obviously a lie—or else he’s here to murder him.’

  Metellus swung to face Aquila. He let go of Flaminius’ hair and Flaminius did his best to keep his head up.