A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion

by E. Knight

  “I don’t want this getting out of hand,” Agricola said. “I’ve told the Second and now I’m telling you. No talking about cursing or Druids. Our gods are stronger than theirs,” he hedged; soldiers were, by and large, uneducated and superstitious, believing in omens, good-luck charms and all kinds of nonsense. By invoking the gods of Rome, he hoped to curtail any fear of the Druids from getting out of hand. But he could see by the looks on the men’s faces that it was too late. Far too late.

  The gossip spread faster than a plague, as Agricola knew it must. News of Flacca’s untimely demise was all over the marching camp in a few hours, the men suddenly finding religion as small sacrifices to the gods were burning all over the camp.

  Paulinus was less than pleased by the turn of events, but there was little to nothing he could do about it. Soldiers talked and the rumor mill would not be stopped, and, as it was, the governor chose to ignore it. He did, however, get the legion on the move, striking camp the day after Agricola’s return, heading toward the coast. Patrols were flung out in wider and wider arcs, seeking any signs of Cambrian resistance to the flanks and rear of the army, but the men of the Twentieth had been efficient enough—the path they had trod was left a graveyard. Before them, what few villages and homesteads remained were abandoned, their livestock gone—taken to the island of Mona for supplies, Agricola guessed.

  They marched hard, Paulinus clearly eager to keep the men at it and their minds off Druid magic, and they ate up the ground between their temporary base and the coast in a scant three days.

  The narrow strait glittered in the sun, and there—seemingly close enough to touch—was their objective.

  Mona.

  The army advanced in good order, the golden sand of the beach disappearing under a sea of gray-armored bodies as the men filed onto it, each soldier knowing his place—a tool, as Magnusanus would have it, in the kit that Paulinus would use to sculpt this land in Rome’s image. Agricola nudged his horse to higher ground so he could see the deployment.

  From his vantage point, the entire legion was revealed to him. It looked like some mythical, iron-scaled beast that undulated over the enemy territory, impregnable and unstoppable. What a thing was the Roman army, he thought. When roused, it was a truly awesome sight—a machine designed with the express purpose of annihilating its enemies. Barbarian fury might be terrifying, their warriors may be huge and, in their own rights, expert fighters—and brave to a fault. But for all their pride and skill, they must know that they could not stand against this. Yes, Romans would die—he himself could be killed—but Rome was a Hydra.

  Across the water, he could see the enemy massing on the beach. Their roars of defiance drifted across the water to the invaders, but Agricola wondered how much of it was heartfelt now that the moment of battle was almost upon them. Now that they could see the fist of the emperor raised and ready to strike them down for their impudent recklessness.

  What had their Druid leaders told them? That they were safe because the sea and the gods protected them? That Rome would not dare to cross the strait to the Holy Island? That they would win? Of course that they would win. But now they would know the truth. Now they would know that to rise against Rome was death, and that it would not be an honorable one. They would be ground into the sanctified earth of their most holy place and left as food for the gulls. That was the reality.

  “You thinking the deep thoughts, my friend?” Magnusanus cantered up to him, patting the neck of his mount as he eased to a halt.

  Agricola smiled, but it was wan. “Yes,” he admitted. “I was wondering what they were thinking. The Cambrians.”

  Magnusanus laughed and took a green apple from his saddlebag. “That they’ve made a big fucking mistake,” he said. “I came to find you,” he added, taking a huge bite and wincing at the bitter taste. “The governor is looking for the commanders.”

  They were all there: centurions, tribunes, the primus, and of course, the governor himself. Paulinus wore armor—not the plain stuff of a soldier, but an ornate muscled cuirass that must have cost far more money than an enlisted man would make in his entire life.

  Benches had been laid out for them, and at a gesture from the great man, they sat.

  “Gentlemen,” Paulinus began, his voice resonant, calm and far reaching—the product of extensive oratory tutelage. “We are at the beginning of the end, as I am sure you are all pleased to hear. Across the strait is our objective. The island of Mona is the last and the greatest stronghold of the Druidic pestilence that has infected these lands for so long. Their last stand has begun. It will not, unfortunately, make the annals of history. This has been a dirty war and an inglorious one. All that remains is for us to carry out our duty in the name of Rome and the emperor. Once the Druids have fallen, all of Britannia will be at peace.

  “Tactics,” he said. “Tomorrow, when the light permits, onagers and ballistae will bombard the beach. The infantry will row across, seize, and hold the beach. The Batavians will ride west—to calmer waters—and swim their mounts across. Once on dry land, the onus on the cavalry is to get into good order with all expedience. They will execute a flanking attack while the legionaries fix the enemy in place.

  “As soon as the enemy breaks, infantry and cavalry both will pursue and terminate. There are to be no survivors. I’ll see to it that every man is paid a bonus for the action as there will be nothing in the way of slaves. And,” he added, “I’ll crucify any man caught stealing booty whilst a Cambrian still draws breath. I want them dead. All of them. I want their sacred places destroyed. Wiped out. Scrubbed from history. This is Roman land now.” At this, the men thumped their feet on the ground in approval, causing Paulinus to smile slightly. “Questions.”

  “There are women there,” a centurion raised his hand. “And children—”

  “I’m aware of that,” Paulinus cut him off. “But women will nest hate, and children will grow to men who will remember what the Druids taught. The women—and the children—must be put to the sword.”

  The pronouncement saddened Agricola. Too much blood had been spilled already, too many cruelties inflicted by both sides for anyone to be magnanimous in victory. It was real war—and real war was fueled by hatred and cruelty. The histories spoke of hard-fought victories, great battles, and valor. It was easy, he thought, to write “and there was great slaughter.” Not so easy to see it up close, to have a man begging for mercy as you put him to the sword. But then, that same man would have been desperately trying to kill you as well. That, Agricola thought, was the reality of it. For a while, it would be kill or be killed. Then the butchery would begin in earnest.

  There were more questions, but these faded to a buzz at the periphery of Agricola’s consciousness as he contemplated the coming fight. He realized, all of a sudden, that he was quite afraid.

  The boats were broad and flat bottomed, the carpenters assuring nervy men that they were sturdy enough to get everyone across. If Agricola had been afraid the night before, it was as nothing now. This was a different proposition to what he had faced before. Across the strait, the Cambrians had gathered, thousands upon thousands of them, clotting the beach with their blue-painted bodies. They screamed and taunted, loud enough for the insults to be heard across the water. In their ranks, hundreds of black-clad Druids exhorted their gods, and naked women danced amongst them, frenzied and wild-haired. They had Roman prisoners arrayed before them, thrust into the sand on their knees, and Agricola knew that these men would be slaughtered like animals to curry favor with the Druidic gods when the assault began. The first blood on the sands of Mona would be Roman.

  “I’ll row with you, sir,” Naso offered.

  Agricola smiled, all too aware that it must have looked rather sickly. “No,” he said. “Better that we split up, Centurion. If our boat goes over, we’ll both go down—and the lads will need leading when they get across.”

  Naso waved that away. “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll all get there in one piece.
This’ll be over before the sun is halfway across the sky.”

  “Of course.” Agricola swallowed his fear in what he hoped was a decent display of bravado. “I was talking about you.” Naso laughed and went away, looking for a boat to hoist himself into.

  As he did so, Paulinus cantered into view, resplendent on a white stallion, his red war cloak billowing behind him. The surf sprayed under his horse’s hooves, and he made him rear up, holding his sword aloft—clearly not above a bit of theater. Agricola recalled himself doing the same thing, the eyes of Lavinia Postumia on him, how impressed she’d been as he cantered around the paddock. Postumus’ paddock . . . Postumus' wife . . .

  The man he had once been sickened Agricola now.

  “Men of the Twentieth will advance!” Paulinus shouted, snapping him from his reverie. The lines of soldiers undulated forward and shuddered to a halt. “Advance!” Paulinus shouted again, this time a timbre of annoyance in his voice. Across the water, Agricola could hear laughter and hoots of derision from the Cambrians.

  No one moved. Then: “It’s cursed!” a man shouted from the ranks. “They cursed Flacca, and he died!” Then another: “They have the magic!”

  “What do you reckon, sir?” Felix whispered to Agricola. The boy was trying to control his shaking, but his segmentata was letting him down, clattering in accord with his fear.

  “Don’t be daft,” Agricola chided, grateful to have someone more afraid than himself to mentor. “We’ll get in that boat, row across, and—like Naso said—this’ll be over before long. Don’t worry, Felix. We’ll be fine.”

  “The Twentieth will advance!” Paulinus was genuinely riled now—but still the men refused. The governor shook his head. “By the gods, for shame! Men of Rome, frightened by a mob of blue-skinned barbarians. You men are the pride of the legions—or were. What now will you tell your women and your children? What advantages will you heap on your deeds this day? Lie that you were brave and carried the fight? Fail here, Twentieth, and we lose this war. Fail here, and we lose Britannia. And all men will know the shame of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix! Victrix,” he spat. “After this, you are not worthy of the name.”

  “We can’t fight magic!” someone shouted out and was greeted by a chorus of approval from the ranks. Centurions screamed for order, optios laid in with the stick, but the men began to back away from the water.

  Agricola tried to still his shaking hands, coming to a decision. The gods could not change the past—but he could make good on his promise to Roscius. He could be a better man. A braver one. He swallowed and looked over at Naso, who nodded. “Tenth Century!” Agricola shouted, struggling to make himself heard in the noise. “Pick ’em up! Let’s show them, lads! Come on now! Let’s go!” In a rush before he could change his mind, he grasped the side of his boat and was grateful that Felix and the rest of the tent party did the same, staggering under its weight and that of their shields. “Come on, boys, let’s go!”

  It was hardly a glorious charge—more a disorganized, lurching stagger, but the men of the Tenth hauled their boats into the sea and pushed them out, shields thunking on the wood as they hurled first weapons and then themselves into the vessels.

  Naso was the last, Agricola saw as he looked over his shoulder; the centurion was making obscene gestures at the men of the Twentieth and calling them all gutless whoresons before he too gave the order to wade out.

  “Will they take the beach alone?” Agricola heard Paulinus scream. “Will the Twentieth live with unpurgeable shame? By the gods, men! You can’t let them die alone!”

  The Twentieth at last responded, shamed by the actions of the Second Augusta, and they, too, ran forward, thousands of feet whitening the sea as they cast off. The artillery opened up, onagers hurling rocks at the massed ranks of the Cambrians on the shore, smashing their bodies to pulp as they tore through. Ballistae spat shanks as long as a man’s forearm, piecing bodies and stealing lives.

  Agricola looked to the shore in time to see the black-clad Druids butchering their captives. His heart lurched in his chest when he saw Roscius screaming defiance at the enemy—on his knees but fearless in the face of two Druid priests.

  The Druid’s sword fell and Roscius’ corpse slumped forward, head rolling free and gushing blood. Despair Agricola thought he had blunted welled up inside him—to be so close and not be able to save his friend reopened the wound of guilt within him. He tore his eyes away from his friend’s body, limp and discarded in the bloody sand like so much meat. “Row!” he shouted, his voice cracked and raw. “Row!”

  Around him, the sea was full of men and boats, screaming in fear and praying to the gods for deliverance. A vessel overbalanced and capsized, tipping its cargo of men into the blue water. They pleaded for succor, desperate to live, kicking and swimming for their lives before the weight of their armor and weapons dragged them down, silencing them forever. Some clutched at other boats, trying to hold on, and tipped those over in turn. Soon, their own comrades were battering their brothers away with their oars or cutting away clawing hands that clutched at the wooden sanctuaries.

  Something careened off the prow of Agricola's own boat, taking with it a chunk of wood. Then, the man to the fore screamed in agony and lurched to the side, causing the boat to tip precariously, and Felix reached out and hauled him to the middle, steadying them. The man’s head had been smashed to bloody ruin by slingshot. “Felix, get a shield up!” Agricola shrieked, terror lacing his voice.

  Black-shafted arrows arched from the shoreline, seeming to hang in the air for an impossibly long time before raining down on the helpless Romans as they rowed across the strait. Slingshot hammered on Felix’s shield as he struggled to hold it in place. A boat—too close to them—upended and sent its occupants screaming into the foaming water. More arrows fell, one embedding itself in the side of their boat. Then another. Agricola hunched down, eyes all but shut, teeth gritted as he tried not to wail with dread. The fear was all consuming, and he knew that if he could, he would have fled. But he could not: to live, he must fight. “Row!” he shouted needlessly. “Row!”

  Above them, their own artillery shot came so close they could hear it whistling and spitting in the air, and now the sound of Cambrian voices began to drown out the shouts of the Romans.

  Their boat tipped to one side, and Agricola fell into the water.

  For a moment, blind panic gripped him, and he thrashed about in terror before realizing he was sitting in the surf.

  “Come on, sir!” Felix staggered to his feet and hauled him up.

  Agricola reached into the boat and grabbed a shield as the Cambrians charged them, a screaming mass of iron and flesh, painted in woad, their eyes wide and full of hate and fury.

  “Form up!” he shouted. But it was too late—the barbarians were on them. Agricola punched out with the scutum, catching a warrior in the face and sending him into the shallows. All around him, men were pouring onto the beach, and the foam turned bloody-pink as hundreds died in the first contact.

  Agricola tore his sword from his belt and ran forward, attaching himself to a knot of soldiers, his own men lost to him in the chaos. The beach was now a seething mass of soldiers and warriors, hacking at each other with no semblance of discipline. This was battle the barbarian way, not the Roman. No order at all, just savagery.

  He rammed his blade into the side of a Cambrian who had just cut down a legionary, the iron merciless as it slid in. He pulled the weapon free, ignoring the hot, stinking lifeblood that sprayed all over him. Agricola pulled close to the man next to him, shouting incoherently in fear as they began to form some semblance of a shield wall. It was a fragile thing, and they pushed fruitlessly at the mass of Cambrians against them.

  Agricola stabbed out with his sword and felt the blade sink into flesh—the scream was that of a woman, and the stench of her shit sickened him as his iron opened her belly. He pushed forward, trampling on her body as men from behind gained the beach and forced him on. He
could hear her choking and dying as she was ground to so much meat by the iron-shod boots of the Twentieth legion.

  A war axe careened off the lip of his scutum, its wielder dark-haired, his beard matted with red ichor, his teeth stained pink with his—or someone else’s—blood. The blow forced the shield down, and the axe rose again, but Agricola lashed out, the tip of his spatha entering just under the warrior’s armpit. He fell, taking the weapon with him, and Agricola was forced to stoop and grab the fallen man’s axe. He gripped the unfamiliar haft and hacked down with it, feeling it impact another warrior as the Cambrians surged at them like the tide from which the Romans had just advanced.

  Slowly, inexorably, they pushed on, and Agricola felt his senses being overwhelmed with each step. The sound—an endless rolling cacophony that had no beginning and no end. The stench—of blood and feces mingled with that of the salt sea. The blood—so much blood. He was covered in it, drenched in it; it was in his eyes, in his ears, and he could taste it in his mouth. The sand at his feet was a sodden mass, thick with it. His arm was weary, but he was aware that killing was now easy. The axe rose and fell—it was impossible to miss, impossible not to inflict agony and death on the people before him.

  Then the Cambrians fell away, screaming in panic as the cavalry crashed into them, horses adding their own shrill whinnying to the chaos; riders, huge and terrifying with their armor and swords, adding their own unique style of killing to the carnage. The resistance in front of him gone, Agricola fell forward, and it was only the action of the man next to him, dropping his sword and grabbing his shoulder, that saved him from being trampled by the legionaries now rushing at the backs of the fleeing Cambrians.

  Gasping for breath, he staggered on, tearing the helmet from his head and casting it aside. The world tipped crazily as he walked on through the bloody mosaic of battle, the scene so horrific his mind could barely comprehend it. The beach was more than littered with dead and wounded; it was blanketed with them. Here a Cambrian tried to hold in the pink snakes of his guts as they kept pouring out through his fingers; there a Roman soldier crawled blindly, his face all but sheared away by some blow.