Hero of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  XXIX

  Crespo rolled the dice. ‘Seven,’ he announced. ‘All right, Vettius, the one with the big tits is yours. But take her into the other room. I’m sick of seeing that great arse of yours bulling up and down.’

  Vettius grinned and walked across to where a group of young Iceni women huddled fearfully against the back wall of the main hall of Prasutagus’s palace. A plump girl of about fourteen squealed as he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her roughly through a doorway. Her sobbing pleas not to be hurt could be heard clearly through the thin wall before a sharp slap silenced them, but such sounds had become so familiar that Crespo barely registered them.

  They had been here for almost two weeks now, supervising the collection of Iceni wealth and cataloguing the extent of Iceni lands by day, and drinking and playing dice for the use of the captured women each night. He reflected on a job well done. The procurator, now back in Londinium, had promised to commend him in his report to the Emperor. Crespo prided himself on being a man who took each day as it presented itself, but such recognition opened doors. He certainly didn’t intend to return to the legion. No need to as long as the pretty-boy tribune kept his promise to pay up. He didn’t have any doubt Valerius would pay. Why did the honest always have to be so pious? Fool. Then there was the bonus he’d managed to hide away – the golden torc the queen had worn at her neck. The sale of that would make his retirement much more pleasurable. Pity about the girl, though. He would have liked to tup her just to see the look on that bastard Valerius’s face.

  Yes, it was all very satisfactory. He lay back and closed his eyes, still remembering the way the whip had raised bright red welts against the paleness of Boudicca’s skin, and the taut, youthful flesh of her daughters. He felt himself stir. Perhaps he wasn’t too drunk after all.

  ‘Smoke!’

  He came instantly alert at the shout. Vettius emerged from the room at the rear and pointed at the roof. Crespo looked up to see the slim streamers of smoke replaced by a flare of light as a portion of thatch caught fire and the flames quickly spread to a nearby beam. Vettius and a few others reacted quickly, grabbing swords and armour and making for the doorway, but most of the men just stared at him in confusion.

  ‘Get out,’ he barked. ‘Gather your gear and leave the women.’ He knew how quickly a thatched house could turn into an inferno. He’d burned enough of them in the past. They might only have seconds.

  ‘Fuck.’ Vettius was the first man to the door and he screamed and staggered backwards, clutching in disbelief at the ragged gash in his belly. He extended one hand towards his leader in a despairing plea for help before collapsing on his face in the dirty straw.

  Crespo stared at the dying man for a split second, his mind racing. Given time they could cut through the walls, but they didn’t have time. The flames had already spread across the entire roof and the hall had begun to fill with choking white smoke. For the first time he felt panic. The gods only knew what awaited them outside, but better to go down fighting than to burn. He made his decision. ‘Out,’ he repeated. ‘If we stay here we’re all dead.’

  A collective wail from the British women was followed by a rush towards the door. A legionary took a cut at one of them as she ran by and she fell, howling, to the floor.

  ‘Leave them,’ Crespo ordered. ‘Swords and shields. We go as one man and when we’re clear of the door we form testudo. It’s our only chance.’ He picked up a shield and hefted his gladius in his right hand. He wasn’t sure where it had all gone wrong, but it had and now there was only one choice. ‘On my order. Now.’

  The little group burst from the doorway as the roof of the palace collapsed behind them, but when he saw what awaited him Crespo stumbled to a dazed halt. Behind a circle of spear points an unbroken ring of silent, vengeful faces glistened in the dancing light of the flames.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, as his nerve failed him and he fell to his knees. He tried to manoeuvre the gladius so he could drive the point below his ribs but his hands were suddenly clumsy. A spear shaft knocked the sword from his grasp and another smashed him into unconsciousness.

  ‘The ship should arrive tomorrow,’ Valerius told Lunaris. ‘So make sure everyone’s accounted for with their equipment all present and correct. We don’t want you making a poor impression on your new tribune.’

  Lunaris laughed. ‘Like as not he won’t know one end of a sword from the other. How long before it sails again?’

  ‘A couple of days, maybe three.’

  Lunaris nodded. ‘I’m sorry you won’t be coming with us to Mona.’

  Valerius stared out across the river to the settlement on the south bank. ‘One thing I’ve learned, Lunaris, is that you can’t fight the fates. When I came to Britain I barely knew one end of a sword from the other. But I think I became a good soldier, maybe even a good officer. Part of being a good soldier is obeying orders. They’ve ordered me back, so back I’ll go. Still, I’d like to have fought alongside you.’

  He turned to the big man and offered his hand. Before Lunaris had time to take it, they heard a shout from the quayside and a legionary ran up to them.

  ‘Sir, you’ve to report to the procurator,’ he said, belatedly remembering to salute.

  Valerius frowned. ‘What does he want with me?’

  ‘The Iceni have risen.’

  *

  Maeve witnessed Queen Boudicca’s terrible revenge.

  One by one, warriors nailed the men of Crespo’s command to the doorposts along Venta’s main street with their arms and legs broken, in a mockery of Roman crucifixion. Crespo himself was last to be fixed. They stripped him naked and carried him to the main gate as he struggled and protested, pleading for a mercy he would never have given. They stretched his arms brutally to left and right and when the carpenter hammered the first of the big iron nails through the palm of his right hand into the wooden boards of the gate he shrieked in agony and called out to Mithras for aid. By the time they had fixed his feet in similar fashion he was delirious with pain but still aware enough to understand what was happening.

  Boudicca stood before him as he hung from the gate with every sinew of his body reminding him of his torment. When they brought the cudgels to break his bones, she held up her hand to stop them. She had a more appropriate refinement in mind for the man who had led the rape of Banna and Rosmerta.

  ‘He was very proud when he removed my daughters’ innocence. Remove his pride,’ she ordered.

  Crespo was still conscious when the executioner approached with the gelding knife. His screams split the night.

  It was still not enough.

  ‘This place is a stain upon my honour and the honour of the Iceni. Burn it and let the flames which consume Venta be the start of a fire which cleanses all of Britain.’

  As the town blazed and his men with it, they pulled Crespo’s broken body down and staked it out on the roadway outside the gate. He still lived when the iron-rimmed wheels of Boudicca’s chariot crunched across his bones, but by the time the last warrior of her avenging army had passed over him the only evidence of his existence was a smear of blood and bone in the dirt.

  Catus Decianus did not inspire confidence. His long nose twitched as he studied the scroll pinned to the desk in front of him and a sheen of sweat glistened on a forehead creased by worry lines. Disdain for the world about him was carved into every line of his pasty, underfed face. He looked up as Valerius entered, but immediately resumed his reading of the document.

  After a few moments, he sighed. ‘Inconvenient,’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘I said this is terribly inconvenient. You are Verrens, am I correct? Tribune Gaius Valerius Verrens?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Late of the Twentieth legion and bound for Rome.’

  The procurator emitted an audible sniff and his pained expression grew more pained still. ‘Yes, on the ship which should also have carried my report of the successful annexation of the Iceni into the province of Britain. But
that report cannot be sent now.’ He paused. ‘Not until this regrettable misunderstanding can be resolved.’

  Valerius wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. ‘Misunderstanding?’

  Decianus peered at him with beady, sharp-set eyes. ‘Of course. I have here a request from Colonia to provide reinforcements for the local militia. It is the quaestor’s belief that a section of the Iceni have risen in armed insurrection against the Empire. This belief, I am certain, is based on rumour and speculation. You served a recent posting in Colonia, I understand?’

  ‘Six months over the winter,’ Valerius agreed. ‘I found the quaestor to be most capable and not a man to be diverted by … rumour and speculation.’ It wasn’t entirely true. He’d found Petronius to be arrogant, divisive and venal but he was also at the centre of a spy network which spread far up the east coast. If those spies reported trouble Valerius couldn’t allow Decianus to dismiss it, which seemed to be his inclination. ‘I also received information of agitators working among the Iceni, which I passed on to the quaestor,’ he added to reinforce his point.

  The procurator’s lips compressed in a tight smile. ‘Yet I myself spent time in the Iceni capital not more than two weeks ago and found it peaceful and the people quiescent. In any case, our standing treaty with the Iceni only allows them such weapons as are required to defend their borders. Only one in ten even owns a sword,’ he ended triumphantly.

  Valerius knew that was true, but treaties could be broken. He could tell where the interview was going now. He was to be part of an expedition against the Iceni. It was not a fight he would have chosen, but it was a fight he was going to have … if the rebellion existed.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Decianus continued, ‘I propose to send a force which I consider proportionate to the threat under the most senior commander available. These are your orders.’ He handed Valerius the scroll he had been reading. Valerius hesitated. His only independent command had been the First cohort on the winter road detail. Still, he could hardly refuse. He studied the orders, which commanded him to march to Colonia with all speed and deal with the situation as he saw fit, which, if he knew the army, was as good an invitation to put his neck in a noose as he’d ever seen. It meant any decision was his and his alone. Any mistake would be his responsibility.

  He pointed out the elementary error. ‘This doesn’t say how many cohorts I’ll have under me.’

  ‘Cohorts? I do not believe we need think in terms of cohorts,’ Decianus sniffed. ‘You will have one hundred and fifty men from the Londinium garrison and such other troops as are on leave or in transit. Enough to provide a stiffening for the militia and stay the panic in the quaestor’s heart until such time as the governor considers it necessary to move a vexillation of the Ninth legion to Colonia.’ He smiled disdainfully. ‘You see, Verrens, I take no chances. The governor is informed, a solution suggested and a reinforcement sent. What more should I do?’

  ‘Sir, with respect, two hundred men is—’

  ‘Appropriate to the threat, and as many as you will receive. Am I to understand that you are refusing this command?’

  Valerius shook his head. He could protest that a force of two hundred men was as much use for defending a place like Colonia as two hundred sheep, but the procurator’s mind was made up. If the Iceni came he would have to depend on Falco and his veterans.

  ‘No sir, I will accept the command. But I’d like to request that the men of the Twentieth who formed my escort accompany me.’ Decianus frowned and Valerius continued quickly: ‘They know the area around Colonia well and have worked with the militia there.’

  The procurator nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well. This interview is at an end.’

  ‘So we’re not going to Mona?’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘No, we’re going back to Colonia.’

  Lunaris sucked his teeth and looked longingly westwards over the rampart of the Londinium wall. ‘Mona could make a big difference. Those druids are trouble-making bastards.’

  ‘That’s true enough, but if the Iceni really have risen we’ll be needed in Colonia.’

  ‘Two hundred of us?’ Lunaris scoffed. ‘If nothing’s happened all we’ll have done is waste caliga leather. And if they’ve really decided to try to kick us out…’

  ‘Falco will be glad to see us.’

  The duplicarius shrugged. ‘I suppose orders are orders. The Mules will miss us in Mona, though.’

  ‘We’re marching at dawn. Have the men ready.’

  ‘With these buggers?’ Lunaris nodded gloomily at a pair of garrison rats leaning against the parapet of the nearest watchtower. ‘By the time we get there I’ll be carrying them.’

  XXX

  Three days later, after a forced march of sixty miles, Valerius recognized the familiar low outline of Camulodunum’s turf walls on the far horizon. They were as impressive as any fortifications he’d seen on the island, yet he knew they’d been given up without a fight when Claudius’s invasion force arrived. He believed he understood why. To properly defend walls of that scale would demand a garrison far beyond the capabilities of the Trinovantes, who had held Camulodunum then, even if they had possessed the will to fight for them. On the way from Londinium he’d given much thought to the problems of defence and he had come to one devastating conclusion. The town of Colonia could not be held against any reasonable-sized force by the veterans whose duty it was to protect it.

  That conclusion was reinforced when he rode up the hill towards the familiar arch of the town’s west gate with the two hundred weary men of his tiny command in tight formation behind him. He noted again the enormous gaps in the walls and the warren of streets behind where an enemy could turn a flank or launch an attack from the rear. He saw only one possibility to defend part of the town and it could only be considered as a last resort.

  He thought he could rely on Falco. Petronius and his council were likely to be a different matter.

  The quaestor stood in the shadow of the arch along with half the town and the cheering began while the legionaries were still a hundred paces away. Valerius bit his lip in frustration. A civic welcome was the last thing he needed. Horns blared and someone had brought out a drum that beat in time to the soldiers’ marching feet. When he reached Petronius and Falco, standing side by side a dozen yards in front of the crowd, Valerius could barely hear their greeting. Relief was written clearly on their faces.

  ‘You have come at last.’ Petronius’s narrow face wore a wide smile, but it was strained and he had aged since Valerius had last seen him. ‘The council has voted to select a fine bull to be sacrificed in your honour and to thank Divine Claudius for our salvation.’

  Valerius exchanged glances with Falco, who had been straining for a glimpse of something in the far distance. He shook his head imperceptibly, and the older man’s eyes widened.

  ‘I fear you may be premature, sir,’ he told the quaestor quietly. ‘We are all the procurator has seen fit to send you.’

  Petronius looked as if he might faint, and Falco took Valerius by the arm and whispered furiously. ‘This is all? But we asked for four cohorts at least, and cavalry. Fifteen hundred men. What good is two hundred against the entire might of the Iceni?’

  The cheers gradually subsided to a confused murmur as the crowd realized no legion followed Valerius’s pathetic little band. A male voice demanded to know what was happening and Petronius glanced over his shoulder. Valerius saw that the quaestor was frightened. In Petronius that didn’t surprise him, but it was a shock to see his expression mirrored by Falco, who had fought his way across the Tamesa and led the charge which had brought about Caratacus’s final defeat. ‘I need to know everything,’ he said.

  They met five minutes later in an anteroom of the basilica looking out over the Forum. From the open window Valerius could see groups of veterans practising their swordplay, while others watched, shouting advice and laughing at their efforts, and children waved short sticks to mimic their fathers and grandfathers.

 
Petronius stood talking animatedly to a short, sturdily built Celt whose bristling grey moustache gave him the look of a surly dog otter. ‘This is Celle,’ Petronius introduced the newcomer. ‘He makes what living he can hunting and fishing in the wetlands by the coast. He is one of my informants and was able to approach close to the Iceni camp, where their queen invokes the spirit of the wolf, the hare and the horse to preach painful death to all Romans. Not close enough, he admits, to gain full knowledge of this Boudicca’s thoughts and strategies – he aroused the suspicions of an Iceni scout and was forced to kill him – but close enough to gain worthwhile intelligence upon her strength.’

  Valerius studied the man, who looked out of place in a travel-stained cloak and ragged trews against the stark cleanliness of the white walls. ‘Can he be trusted?’

  Petronius scowled as if his own loyalty had been questioned. ‘Celle has no reason to love the Iceni,’ he said. ‘Five years ago his children were taken as slaves and his wife killed when they raided his camp in some dispute over fishing rights. He has never failed me.’ He made a sign to Celle, who spat out an unbroken stream of sentences in a dialect Valerius couldn’t understand.

  Falco translated, and his words fell into the silence like stones into a tomb. ‘He says you should know that the army of Boudicca is reckoned to be fifty thousand strong – fifty thousand warriors.’

  Valerius felt the blood drain from his face. It wasn’t possible. The entire Iceni tribe numbered fewer than forty thousand; even fielding every man and boy and arming them with scythes and hoes there could not be more than twenty-five thousand.

  Falco saw the disbelief on his face. ‘This is the message we sent to the procurator. The Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes have rallied to Boudicca’s cause. Kings and princes, chiefs, nobles and warriors, even the workmen from the fields. And more arriving every day, including from the Brigantes in the north. Friendship, apparently, is less binding than the scent of loot. Now do you understand why we are afraid? We asked Catus Decianus to send us enough soldiers to hold off the Iceni until the governor could return to meet the threat. Instead, he sent you.’ The grizzled veteran smiled bitterly. ‘I am happy to see you again, Valerius, but I would have preferred a more substantial gift.’