"No Conall..." he muttered trying to reach out to the boy.
Bestia was at the man's side in a single bound and a fraction of a second later the warrior was dead. The boy's eyes opened wide. Then he rose and cried out a name. There was an unmistakable grief in his voice. The cry was cut short as Bestia slapped him hard across the face.
The boy sat down heavily on the ground. Tears started to stream down his red cheeks as he stared at the warrior whom Bestia had killed. "Promise to let me go," the young Caledonian cried as he recovered his voice, "Promise me that you will let me go."
Vellocatus smiled and shrugged and the mercenaries around him sniggered. "Why not," he said smoothly, "If that is what you want so badly."
The boy was still crying. Then as Vellocatus, Bestia and the others waited he managed to compose himself, wiped the tears from his face and quietly, with the dejection of someone who had lost all hope, he began to speak, his words, little mumbles in the gathering darkness.
Chapter Six - Beware of the Latrines
They stood in a semi circle around the wounded man. Pig face lay on the back of a cart wrapped in an old woollen army blanket. He looked glum and pale. Marcus stood by his side.
"We managed to collect this for you," Marcus said. He handed over a small leather pouch. "Maybe you can use it to learn a new trade?"
"Like what?" Pig face muttered, "Who will take a man with no legs?"
The troopers were silent, each man struggling to find something to say. It could have happened to anyone of them they knew but it had happened to Pig face. Marcus stared at the long line of wagons that were preparing to take the wounded south to the coast.
"Your most important piece of equipment is still working isn't?" he said turning to his friend with a faint smile.
"Girls on top from now on Pig face," one of the troopers added.
"Just like Batavian riders," another quipped.
Pig face managed a smile and his face brightened. "I am going to miss you bastards," he replied, "I am going to miss how much you stink."
They smiled at that. "Where are they taking you?" a trooper said at last.
"Eburacum," Pig face replied, "doctor says he will give me a final examination once we are there. After that they will discharge me and send me back to my village along the Rhine. I suppose I can help my sisters with the weaving and I can fish. Maybe they will let me ride a horse..?" his voice petered out.
"We will come looking for you whenever we can get the leave," a trooper said solemnly.
"I would like that," Pig face nodded his appreciation. Then he stared at where his legs had used to be. The group fell silent. When Pig face looked up there were tears in his eyes. He raised his hand and clenched it into a fist.
"It meant something didn't it, this battle? I didn't lose my legs for nothing?"
Marcus clasped his hand around his friend's fist and after a brief moment, one by one, the troopers stepped forwards and joined in. Marcus leaned forwards.
"We are veterans of Mons Graupius, my friend," he said quietly, "and we shall carry that honour wherever we go. Nothing can take that away from us. They will build monuments to us, you will see."
There were grunts of approval from the troopers around him.
Marcus did not stay to watch the column of wounded move out. Instead he made his way out of the marching camp. It was the day after the battle and the army had not moved on. There was too much to do. The wounded had to be found and treated, prisoners interrogated and sold into slavery, the dead had to be buried and the loot from the battle had to be gathered and handed out in equal measures to all the soldiers. Besides everyone was exhausted.
He made his way to the army latrines. It was an odd place to find some peace and privacy but that was just what he craved. He found them beside the large and deep V shaped ditch and the wooden palisade that protected the marching camp. The latrines were nothing more than a single shallow trench covered by wooden planks with round holes cut into them at intervals. When Marcus arrived there was just one other occupant. The man sat with his head in his hands, deep in thought, his garments at his ankles.
Marcus sat down a couple of holes away and nodded to the other occupant before he dropped his underclothes to his ankles. A moment later he too had his head in his hands, his thoughts faraway.
"The Batavian Cohorts won the battle yesterday, they are fine soldiers. The Legions are green with envy."
For a moment Marcus did not realise that his neighbour was talking to him. Casually he looked up at the man and his eyes widened in shock. The soldier on the toilet, a few holes away, had raised his head from his hands. It was Governor Agricola. For an insane moment Marcus fought the urge to stand to attention and salute.
"Yes sir, sorry Sir, I didn't recognise you," he blurted out.
Agricola smiled at the commotion he had caused. "Don't embarrass yourself soldier," he growled. "In my army every man has the right to a have a shit." Agricola grinned at Marcus. "You look like you are from one of the Batavian Cohorts, did you fight yesterday?"
"I did Sir, on the right wing, 2nd Batavian Cohort."
Agricola nodded and turned to look towards the battlefield. "You Batavians are some of the finest soldiers that I have ever encountered," he muttered. "I remember what it took to subdue your rebellion fourteen years ago. That was such a waste of good men. That rebellion should never have happened."
Marcus cleared his throat. "My name is Marcus, I am named after my grandfather. I am with the 2nd Sir but I am not a Batavian. My father was a legionary with the Twentieth and my mother was a local girl from the tribe of Trinovantes. I was born at Camulodnum."
Agricola turned to look at Marcus in surprise. "Your father served in the Legions, in the Twentieth. That is my old Legion. What was your father's name?"
Marcus was annoyed with himself. He had said too much but now he had to answer the governor.
"Corbulo Sir, first Cohort, he rose to the rank of Tesserarius, he was the watch commander of the second company,first Cohort. He was with the Legion for twenty five years."
Agricola seemed to be searching his memory. Then his eyes lit up and a huge grin appeared on his face. "So you are Corbulo's boy," he exclaimed. "Yes I remember your father now. We shared a boat during the assault on Mona. He called me an unwashed prick. Then later on," Agricola paused and nodded, "he was loyal even when some in the Twentieth were not. How is he doing these days? He must have retired by now?"
"I don't know Sir, I have not seen or heard from him in nearly three years."
There was a tightness in Marcus's voice that made Agricola hesitate. The governor glanced at him thoughtfully. "So your mother was a British girl, so you must speak the local language of these Britons?" he said.
"I do Sir," Marcus replied solemnly. "She taught me much about her people."
Agricola nodded and looked away. He was silent for a while. "I lost a good man yesterday," he said at last. "Atticus is dead, did you know that?"
"No, I didn't know that, I thought he was leading the pursuit Sir."
"Well he isn't. He was too eager and careless, "Agricola murmured. "They told me that his horse carried him too deep into the enemy ranks. Rome lost a good man yesterday, a man not easily replaced."
Marcus found himself thinking about Pig face and his amputated legs.
"He is not the only one Sir," he said quietly.
Agricola muttered something beneath his breath. Then he looked up. "You have British blood in you soldier," he said, "Tell me then, will this battle, my victory, break the will of these Caledonians. Will they now give up the struggle and subject themselves to the Roman peace or do I have to keep chasing them from hill to hill and forest to forest?"
Marcus blinked in surprise. Was Agricola really asking him this? He took a moment to consider the question.
"We defeated them yesterday Sir," he replied carefully, "and no doubt some will come seeking peace but others will refuse and keep on fighting. Why should they make peace when o
ur army is followed by a horde of tax collectors and slavers whose only interest is in the exploitation of the conquered. Would you Sir make peace when that meant accepting the enslavement of everything you value?" Marcus's voice petered out. He swallowed nervously. Fool, do you want a flogging? Once again he had said too much.
Agricola looked unimpressed. He muttered something under his breath and his eyes wandered back to the battlefield.
"A horde of tax collectors and slavers," he repeated louder this time. His face darkened. Then with a curt nod to Marcus he reached for his garments, pulled them up and strode away without another word.
Chapter Seven - The victor of Mons Graupius
Governor Agricola stood at the entrance to his tent looking out into the camp. It was getting dark and his men were busy preparing their evening meals. They huddled around their small fires laughing, joking and eating. They had done well he thought. Tomorrow he would issue the orders to break camp and march north. A few cheerful souls were singing but most of his men just looked tired. Agricola sighed. He was going to miss the army and camp life. It wasn't official yet but once news of his great victory at Mons Graupius reached Rome, Emperor Domitian would almost certainly order his recall. The order to return to Rome was bound to come like spring following winter. The Emperor could not afford to let him win more military glory than he already possessed. Agricola's popularity and fame could become a threat to the emperor if he did and the devious, cunning advisers that surrounded the Emperor would never tolerate that. He understood the reasoning although he hated the men who imposed it. That was the way it went for a man who had achieved what he had achieved. There was no higher position than that which he had now reached. Only the position of emperor was more prestigious. Agricola smiled. In Rome the emperor would start by thanking him and hailing his great victory. There would be sacrifices in his honour, speeches full of flattery, maybe the Senate would even vote him a Triumph. Then when the people and the soldiers had seen enough and had returned home satisfied that their hero had been properly treated, he would be quietly retired. He would be given a country estate in the provinces and slowly his family would be marginalised and allowed to be forgotten. Maybe, if the emperor felt especially threatened, he would make use of a slow working and untraceable poison to kill him off. The emperor cannot tolerate a man who is more successful than himself.
Agricola's smile broadened. How many of Rome's great generals had found themselves where he stood now? Some had chosen to take the final career step and make a bid for the purple. To raise the banner of revolt and march on Rome. Men like his kinsmen Gaius Julius Caesar. Men like his old friend and patron Vespasian. They had been unable to content themselves with obscurity, they had found it impossible to leave their troops and the power that an army gave to a leader. But a man's fate was not his alone, Agricola thought, the gods had a cruel way of playing their games on mortal men. He had seen what had happened to Galba, to Otho and to Vitellius and he had not envied their fate. What would the gods do if he chose to ignore the emperor and marched his army on Rome? Would they really allow him to seize ultimate power in the empire and start a dynasty like Vespasian had done? The thought of his old friend and patron brought about a sudden mellowness. No, he could not do that to his friends memory. He could not dispose of the youngest son of his friend however obnoxious and tyrannical Domitian was. However much some Senators were urging him to. No, when the recall came he would obey and lay down his power just like the Consuls of the Republic had once done. Rome would remember him as dutiful and successful. That way his family would have a chance to survive and prosper.
He closed the flap to his tent and returned to the chair at his desk. There was still important work to be done before the victory feast that he was hosting for his senior officers that night. He glanced at a copy of Pytheas's book, On the Ocean. He had purchased the copy in his home town of Forum Julii just before he had set out for his governorship of the province of Britannia. Some may deride the ancient Marsillian Greek explorer as a liar but he had found the man's four hundred year old writings and maps of these northern lands fairly accurate. Pytheas's book was the only written record on the far north that existed within the empire and Agricola had used it extensively on his march north.
He turned his attention to the letter he had been writing. It was to the Emperor. He stared at the wax tablet suddenly conscious of the power at the tip of his stylus.
“…and our fleet has established beyond doubt that we are occupying an island. In the last seven years of my governorship of Britannia I have conquered and pacified all the southern tribes. Now the northern Caledonian confederation has been destroyed and I am confident that Rome and you my father, to whom I offer this great victory, will by persistent and dedicated occupation of these northern lands bring these Caledonians into the fold of the empire and civilisation. The Caledonian spirit is strong and wild for these men live close to the edge of the world with its nameless demons and so do not fear like others do, but I am confident they can be civilised over time...
Agricola paused, frowned and then wrote down an extra sentence in the margin.
... midst we show a mind for fair, good and effective administration.
To complete the conquest of the island of Britannia, which your father Vespasian first instructed me to carry out, I have drawn up plans for a line of forts to be built at the valley entrances that lead up into the hills where the remainder of the enemy sulks. I have also designated a spot for a new Legionary fort and my men shall spend the winter building new roads between our camps. If these measures are allowed to continue then in a few years we shall have peace on the northern border. It may even be possible then to withdraw some of our men for duties elsewhere. But if you feel that the time has now come for me to return to Rome then I implore you my father, instruct my successor to follow these policies. I humbly beg you; do this in memory of the soldiers who died to win you this glorious victory…”
Agricola laid down his stylus. He had been hoping that yesterday's battle would conclude the conquest of the island. How could he let such vain hopes go to his head. That soldier, Marcus, whom he had met down at the latrines. He had been spot on with his analysis. What man would want to make peace when confronted by the rapacity of Rome's tax collectors and slave merchants. What did these Caledonians have to lose by continuing to fight? Nothing. Nothing at all. Agricola shook his head. He had been hoping to enter history as the man who had conquered all of Britannia. That was a worthy achievement. That was how he wanted to be remembered. But the gods were playing their games once more. They were meddling with his fate, denying him his place in history. The cruel, heartless gods were laughing at his vanity. The Caledonians would continue to fight and he had run out of time. Another Governor would now accomplish what he had wanted to achieve. Agricola pushed back his chair and suddenly roared with laughter.
"Sir, a visitor to see you," one of his bodyguards announced as he stepped into the tent.
"Who is it? I am busy," Agricola growled, annoyed at the intrusion.
"The slaver, Vellocatus," the bodyguard replied. "Shall I send him away Sir?"
Agricola's face darkened in disgust. He didn't like Vellocatus but his wife had nagged him to allow the man to have the first pick of any slaves that his army secured. She had been acting on behalf of her sister of course. Vellocatus had his eye on the girl and his charms must be working but Agricola had seen through the man. Vellocatus was the illegitimate son of queen Cartimandua, queen of the Brigantes and her armour bearer. Vellocatus had been born to illustrious Celtic nobles but the son had inherited nothing of value apart from his name. The bastard son was nothing more than a self serving, back stabbing rat of a man whom Agricola did not trust for an inch. His wife's sister was making a big mistake by flirting with him. He had told his wife his opinion but when it came to matters of the heart she had ignored him as usual.
But today Agricola thought with sudden grim satisfaction he would confront the bastard.
A moment later the tent flap was thrown back and Vellocatus entered. There was an urgent, excited expression on his face that took Agricola by surprise. He strode right up to the desk and Agricola raised his eyebrows as he saw that the man's whole body was shaking with excitement.
"Congratulations on your great victory," Vellocatus bowed. "The Caledonians have suffered a crushing blow. Not since the great revolt have we had such a battle. I salute you Governor.
"The victory belongs to my men, the living, the wounded and the dead," Agricola replied sharply as he rose to his feet. He was about to continue when Vellocatus interrupted him. There was a strange gleam in his eye.
"It's not about the slaves Governor," he said quickly, "There is something else that I would like to talk to you about." Vellocatus paused. "I found a prisoner on the battlefield. The boy has a rather strange and interesting story to tell. I think you would like to hear what he has to say, Governor."
Chapter Eight - Flight
Emogene stood on top of a large boulder as all around her the Caledonians fled. Her cheeks burned but she would not cry for her husband. She was not going to accept that he was dead. The warriors swarmed past her, heedless of any pride or dignity, obeying only the primitive urge for self preservation. Bones stood beside her on the boulder growling at the swarming masses. The Roman horsemen were surging after the running mob. They would reach her soon. She stared desperately at the spot where she had last seen her husband but down the hill all was chaos.
"Run girl, all is lost!" a warrior yelled at her as he stormed past.
She ignored him. Her eyes were on the horsemen and the Roman infantry who were charging up the hill towards her. Everything in their path was being slaughtered. She turned to look at where Calgacus stood. The Caledonian supreme commander, surrounded by his kinsmen and the finest warriors of the land had not moved from his position. Surely they would fight. Surely they would not run. She had heard the warriors boast a thousand times over that they would never run. If they ran now it would be all over. It would be the end. Calgacus, distinguishable by his great back beard and black cloak stood rooted to the ground as if in shock. He was staring down the hill at his fleeing army. Then she saw Baldurix tug at his arm. Emogene gasped in dismay as Calgacus and his kinsmen turned their chariots around and rode away joining the fleeing masses.
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