Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8)

by Douglas Jackson

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  AD 77. Gaius Valerius Verrens is honoured to be part of Emperor Vespasian’s inner circle, yet the enmity between him and the Emperor’s son, Domitian, is such that to remain in Rome risks death.

  At the outer reaches of the Empire, in Britannia, rebellion stirs. The province’s governor Agricola is preparing to march his legions north and, as his deputy governor, Valerius seizes the opportunity to move his family out of harm’s way. But it was in Britannia that Valerius cut his military teeth and first bloodied his sword – and it becomes clear that the vengeful ghosts from this past are never far away.

  Then a Roman garrison is massacred and the legate of the Ninth Legion dies under suspicious circumstances, throwing Agricola’s preparations into disarray. In the west, from their heartland on the isle of Mona, the Celtic priesthood still harbours hopes of ridding Britannia of Roman rule. To deal with the druids and the warriors who protect them, Agricola needs a soldier he can trust at the head of this ‘unlucky’ legion. Only one man has the experience and the ability.

  And so a reluctant Valerius must put aside his scrolls and pick up his sword once more – and march beside the eagle of the Ninth …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Maps

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter I

  Chapter II

  Chapter III

  Chapter IV

  Chapter V

  Chapter VI

  Chapter VII

  Chapter VIII

  Chapter IX

  Chapter X

  Chapter XI

  Chapter XII

  Chapter XIII

  Chapter XIV

  Chapter XV

  Chapter XVI

  Chapter XVII

  Chapter XVIII

  Chapter XIX

  Chapter XX

  Chapter XXI

  Chapter XXII

  Chapter XXIII

  Chapter XXIV

  Chapter XXV

  Chapter XXVI

  Chapter XXVII

  Chapter XXVIII

  Chapter XXIX

  Chapter XXX

  Chapter XXXI

  Chapter XXXII

  Chapter XXXIII

  Chapter XXXIV

  Chapter XXXV

  Chapter XXXVI

  Chapter XXXVII

  Chapter XXXVIII

  Chapter XXXIX

  Chapter XL

  Chapter XLI

  Chapter XLII

  Chapter XLIII

  Chapter XLIV

  Chapter XLV

  Chapter XLVI

  Chapter XLVII

  Chapter XLVIII

  Chapter XLIX

  Chapter L

  Chapter LI

  Chapter LII

  Chapter LIII

  Chapter LIV

  Historical note

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Douglas Jackson

  Copyright

  GLORY OF ROME

  Douglas Jackson

  For my granddaughter Lily,

  who has brought a new kind of joy into our lives

  He launched them upon the enemy so suddenly that the astonished islanders, who looked for fleets of ships at sea, came to the conclusion that, to such men, nothing was too difficult or invincible.

  Publius Cornelius Tacitus, Agricola

  Prologue

  Mona, AD 78

  Owain Lawhir, High King of the Ordovices, suppressed a shudder as he watched the scene unfold. A warrior chief in all his splendour, standing a head taller than most men, with a heavy gold torc at his neck and an iron sword in its gilded scabbard at his waist, even he never felt at ease in this place. The great stones of the circle stood out like rotting teeth against the dying roseate light of the early summer sun. At the precise centre a similar stone, a sword-length deep and four long, lay horizontal, its upper face worn to a uniform surface by countless struggling bodies. Specks of light glittered where tiny chips of a different rock caught the last of the sunlight, but mostly the stone – the altar – was matt black where the blood of the two bulls slaughtered at Beltane had congealed to a stinking, hardened crust. In ages past some long-dead craftsman had embedded a pair of iron rings at each end.

  Five druids in white robes stood facing the twin pillars of the circle’s entrance. Three were men in their prime, tall and forbidding, expressions impassive and emotionless, their stillness a hint of the iron discipline that ruled them. Another was a mere youth, and despite his attempts to emulate his elders he emanated an air of agitation that told the king the part he was to play in this ceremony. These four flanked the fifth priest, a shrunken, stunted figure by comparison. For the moment he kept his face hidden, but a shock of snow-white hair framed the back of his skull like a sunburst and he stood with his back hunched as if a great burden weighed down on his narrow shoulders.

  A hundred other men waited impatiently outside the stone circle, forbidden to enter on pain of death. Their fine cloaks, iron swords and golden neck rings proclaimed them for what they were, an elite, the lesser kings of the Ordovices and the chiefs of their tribes and sub-tribes. On another day any one of them would have shed blood to stand in Owain’s place. But not this day.

  A blackbird’s shrill evening song broke the silence, only to turn into the distinctive chirr, chirr, chirr of an alarm call as a murmur ran through the chiefs at the faint sound of clinking metal. The crowd parted to reveal five naked prisoners, four men and a young woman, each fettered hand and foot and held upright by two guards. The prisoners’ mouths had been crudely gagged with leather thongs, but their bulging eyes spoke eloquently of their terror. The white-haired priest raised a hand and the little column stumbled to a halt. He inclined his head towards the tall druid on his left. After a whispered conversation the tall man called out, ‘She is not required. Bring the others forward.’

  The woman’s eyes rolled up in her head and she would have fallen but for the grip of her guards as they dragged her away. Her fellow prisoners struggled vainly against their bonds as they were hustled towards the altar. One of them soiled himself at the horror of what was to come with a great spluttering fart, and his captors cursed him as their legs were spattered with ordure.

  Owain’s gut tightened like a coiled snake. He felt no sympathy for the doomed men. They were Roman-lovers, traitors to their people, and deserved to die. His concern was for the undoubted outcome of this ceremony and the consequences for himself and his tribe.

  One of the druids must have given a hidden signal, because the guards were dragging the first prisoner to the altar, a short, fat man with matted hair and blood trickling down his cheek from a scalp wound. Fear had shrivelled his lower parts and withdrawn them into the folds of his stomach.

  The five druids broke into a low-pitched droning chant that seemed to resonate in the very air around them. As the guards approached the stone the volume grew and the prisoner’s struggles intensified. Arms and legs flailed in their fetters so wildly Owain wondered they didn’t snap, but the two guards held their captive with practised ease. The larger of the two stunned him with a short-arm punch to the head and he ceased struggling long enough to allow them to link his chains to the iron rings.

  Oddly, the fat man’s struggles ceased the moment his back touched the altar. Perhaps his horror-addled brain understood he was already dead, or fear had drained the strength from him. The chanting faded and the five druids turned to their victim. For the first time Owain looked into the face of the frail figure in the cent
re. The sight sent a shiver through him even though he’d prepared himself for it. At first it was as if Gwlym, arch-druid of Elfydd, stared into his soul. Only gradually did the mind register that the gleaming eyes were, in reality, two pus-filled red pits. Worse, if a man knew and believed the story behind Gwlym’s mutilation: that he had plucked out his own eyes lest he be distracted by earthly sights and pleasures. The arch-druid believed his blindness brought him closer to the gods and freed his mind to divine their intentions. He lifted his hand to touch the youngest priest on the shoulder.

  ‘Begin, Bedwr.’

  Bedwr took a deep breath before stepping forward to stand over the sacrifice. The chained man had his eyes closed tight and his fists clenched so his nails must have been digging deep into his flesh. Every muscle tensed for what was to come. From the sleeve of his robe Bedwr drew a short, sickle-shaped knife and waited with the glittering blade poised above the shivering folds of flesh beneath the fat man’s breastbone.

  Gwlym and his acolytes resumed their rhythmic chant, pledging the soul of their victim to Taranis. Tension filled the air like a living thing and Owain found he was holding his breath. Without warning the chant ended. The knife blade swooped in a single sweeping cut that opened the fat man from breastbone to groin. A stifled cry of agony escaped the gag and the torn body shuddered and bucked against his chains.

  ‘Aymer.’

  Bedwr stepped away to be replaced by a second druid, who pulled back the torn flaps of flesh to expose the glistening coils within. A third plunged his hand into the dying victim’s entrails, causing a fresh convulsion of shuddering, his fingers expertly seeking out the prize he sought. Within moments he raised a dark, gleaming mass that Owain guessed must be the dying man’s liver. Gwlym accepted the dripping lump of offal and the final druid stepped forward to bring an identical sickle blade across the throat of the sacrifice. A spurt of dark blood sprayed the air and with a final heave the body went still.

  They were already bringing the second sacrifice forward as the guards removed the fat man’s ruined corpse.

  The sky darkened with each soul’s passing and the air hung heavy with the stench of blood and excrement. Gwlym and his druids studied their gory harvest beneath the light of a dozen flickering torches. Eventually they straightened.

  ‘The gods have spoken.’ Gwlym’s harsh voice cut the night like a rusty saw ripping through a knotted oak. ‘It is their will that the invaders be driven from this land of Elfydd.’

  The druid spoke loudly enough for the men waiting in the darkness outside the stones to hear, but Owain knew the words were directed at him. He also knew that whatever the desire of the gods and the messages passed by the sacrifices it was also the will of the arch-druid that the invaders be driven from the island. No man hated the Romans more than Gwlym. It was Gwlym who had carried assurances of the gods’ support across the country and urged the warriors of the Dobunni, the Cornovii and the Corieltauvi to follow Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, when she rose against the despised invaders. Gwlym who stood at the queen’s side as the hated Temple of Claudius burned. Gwlym who exulted at the slaughter of the citizens of Londinium and watched their blood stain the mighty Tamesa. And Gwlym who had seen the souls of Boudicca’s champions harvested by Roman swords like ripe corn in her last battle and himself taken the stomach wound that had turned him into an old man overnight.

  ‘If it is the gods’ will,’ Owain said carefully, ‘then so it will be.’

  ‘The omens are good,’ Gwlym continued as if Owain hadn’t spoken. ‘But the gods require further sacrifice. Our people’s freedom will come at a blood price.’ His words provoked a murmur of unease among the watching aristocrats. ‘Do you deny the gods?’

  ‘We do not deny the gods,’ Owain replied. ‘But we are old enough to remember the blood sacrifices of the past. My father listened to the honeyed words of Caratacus, who claimed the Silurian kingship, begged us for aid and promised to rid the island of the Romans. His reward was to have his head placed on a stake at Viroconium. Boudicca had the support of Andraste’ – the king winced as Gwlym’s head snapped up and he was looking directly into the weeping pits of the druid’s eye sockets – ‘and her warriors were as numerous as grains of sand on a beach, yet they died in their thousands, and the queen with them. Suetonius Paulinus turned the lands of the Iceni, the Dobunni, the Corieltauvi and the Cornovii into a wasteland.’

  ‘Boudicca was betrayed!’ Gwlym hissed. ‘How else would Paulinus have known precisely where her army would march and arrayed his forces in the only formation capable of defeating her?’

  ‘The gods—’

  ‘She believed the gods wanted her to attack, but her final decision was swayed by the only one she failed to appease. A goddess more powerful even than their Jupiter or Mars. The Mother Goddess. We will not make the same mistake.’ Gwlym’s voice took on a new intensity and Owain felt as if someone had run a spear point down his spine. ‘The message the gods send is that all it takes is a single spark to light a fire that may be fanned into an inferno. The peoples of Elfydd understand that the Romans will never stop coming. Every man among you knows he can be dispossessed as easily as Boudicca, or the Trinovantes whose land is now farmed by Roman settlers. All our people need is a sign that the gods are with them and they will join together and drown the Romans in their own blood. You, Owain Lawhir, have been chosen by the gods to provide that sign.’

  ‘My people …’ The words seemed to freeze in Owain’s mouth. Something was happening in his head. He could hear a voice, but it was his own voice. Owain Lawhir, they call you. Owain Longhand, whose reach and power inspire fear and respect. But lately men have taken to calling you another name, though you choose not to hear it. Owain Cadomedd, Owain who avoids battle. It was true. He had heard the whispers. He had ordered his warriors not to attack the Roman cavalry patrols that made regular forays into the Ordovice lands. They might win a small victory, take a few heads, but he would lose men, and, worse, provoke a reaction that would cost him more. But young men’s fingers itch for the sword hilt and he knew he could not control them for much longer. They would not challenge him. Not yet. But there were murmurings, and plenty of people willing to fan the flames of dissent.

  ‘You will take your warriors and destroy the fort at Tal-y-Cafn.’ Owain blinked as he realized Gwlym had resumed speaking. ‘The place the Romans call Canovium. Kill every man, woman and child and wipe all trace of it from the face of the land.’

  ‘They will retaliate. The new governor—’

  ‘You are not listening to me, king,’ the druid snapped. ‘The gods have spoken. If we do not destroy the Romans, they will destroy us. When they came twenty years ago, Suetonius Paulinus was interrupted in his work by Boudicca. Our survival justifies her sacrifice, but they will return. The gods have provided us with an opportunity. You will be their instrument. The slaughter of their comrades will draw the legions into our valleys and there will they find their graves. They will be the lamb to our wolf when we fall on them from the heights.’

  Owain wondered if the druid’s hatred had driven him mad. The simple truth was that Paulinus had simply brushed the Ordovices aside to reach Mona, ignoring their attacks as if they were nettle stings. What had changed? Yet he also read the unspoken threat in the words. King or not, if he refused to do Gwlym’s bidding there would be another sacrifice, or more likely the sting of a knife edge across his throat while he slept.

  ‘When do the gods wish me to attack?’ He struggled to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  ‘At the dark of the moon.’ Gwlym’s voice held a tone of dismissal. ‘You have three weeks.’

  Owain Lawhir, High King of the Ordovices, stooped to pick up the iron helmet at his feet and marched from the circle past the mutilated bodies of the sacrifices. The gods had spoken. At the dark of the moon he would bring blood and fire and death to the Romans at Canovium.

  I

  Fidenae, near Rome

  Three small boys crouched by the river
, brows furrowed in concentration as they stared intently into the clear water. They wore only brief loincloths and their bronze flesh glowed with health as a result of long hours spent in the open air under the summer sun. Each held a sharpened length of stick the length of a cavalry spatha.

  Gaius Valerius Verrens watched from a hillock overlooking the pool. He knew diminutive, wily trout lurked in the shadows of the bank, but also from experience how difficult they were to catch. It took a long time to learn that, by some strange natural phenomenon that only his friend Pliny might understand, the actual fish were inches ahead of where they looked to be. The stream was deep at this spot, a remote part of Valerius’s estate at Fidenae, a few miles north of Rome, and the boys had been specifically ordered to stay away from it. But the fact that he would undoubtedly have to take the sticks to their backs in the near future did not stop him from smiling at the tranquil scene.

  A shrill squeak from the smallest of the three, a tousle-haired youngster of about four, as skinny and agile as a sighthound. They’d seen something of greater interest, perhaps a rare specimen of the larger trout that haunted the deepest hollows, visible only as a dark silhouette in the depths. To a small boy such a fish would appear the size of the crocodile Emperor Nero had kept in his zoo. Catching it might save them a beating if they presented it to the villa’s cook.

  They jostled for position, but some hidden measure of authority gave the small boy priority. Valerius held his breath as the stick was drawn back, clutched like a warrior’s spear in the lad’s fist, the white of the whittled point gleaming in the sunlight. The boy waited, with a hunter’s instinctive stillness, his eyes never leaving his prey. And struck.

  Perhaps the fish was deeper than he’d calculated, or in his excitement he put too much power into the thrust. The result was a loss of balance that left him teetering over the river. His companions reached out desperately to arrest his fall, but they were too late. With a sharp cry the boy plunged into the pool with an almighty splash.