As the men in the square shuffled closer for protection, the battle seemed to pause for breath. Then Owain opened his mouth to call for an all-out attack, but Cadwal, his face turned into a nightmarish mask by the streaked blood of the men he’d killed, advised: ‘Why risk more casualties, lord? They’re not going anywhere.’
Owain saw the sense in his champion’s words. They would sing about this victory for a dozen lifetimes and sing all the louder the fewer men he lost. ‘Bran?’ he called. The little slinger appeared at his side. ‘Get as many of your folk together as you can and make them suffer.’ Bran grinned and ran off, shouting for slingers.
‘Why don’t they attack?’ the Tungrian prince whispered.
‘Why would they need to?’
It was like tormenting a felled aurochs, the great bull they hunted in the remote river valleys. In the light of the burning buildings Bran and his men flayed the Tungrian formation from all sides. Men flopped out of position, their brains leaking from circular holes in their skulls. The Ordovice warriors added to the bloodletting by occasionally darting forward and hurling a spear to take an auxiliary in the chest or the belly.
‘Why won’t you fight, you cowardly bastards?’ a man in the front rank roared in frustration. A slingshot rattled off his helmet and he rose with a scream to charge at Owain, identified as a leader by the great gold torc at his neck. When he was within three paces Cadwal stepped forward, knocked the sword from his hand and spun him to cut his throat, all in a single fluid movement.
‘Attack or surrender,’ Priscinus muttered to his commander through clenched teeth. ‘They’re slaughtering us like sheep.’
‘We’re finished either way,’ the prince raged. ‘At best we’d be slaves.’
‘Better a slave than dead,’ his second in command insisted. ‘They’ll keep you as a hostage and the legate will eventually strike a bargain to free the rest of us. He doesn’t like to leave a man behind. It’s our only chance.’
The prince had his doubts about that, but he knew Priscinus was right, even if his outraged sense of honour quailed from the decision. The choice was between certain death and slavery. At least a slave had a chance. He stifled a groan of anguish and pushed past Priscinus to lead the way through to the front rank closest to where Owain stood. The prince knelt and laid his sword on the bloodied earth of the parade ground and Priscinus followed suit. Owain motioned for his slingers to stay their weapons and a hush fell over the burning fort.
‘I ask for mercy for my men,’ the Tungrian commander called. ‘Keep me as a hostage and allow them to return to Deva.’
‘And who are you?’ Owain’s Latin was so poor it took a moment for the prince to answer.
‘Claudius Vindex, prefect commanding First Ala Tungriana.’
‘Have your men lay down their arms,’ Owain said evenly, ‘and you will be my guest while we negotiate terms.’ He turned to his bodyguard. ‘Bring food and drink.’
He led the way to one of the surviving barrack blocks. The ease with which the Ordovice king acquiesced to his terms of surrender surprised Vindex.
It was only when Gwlym walked into the room that he realized the truth.
Five hours later, in the first light of dawn, Claudius Vindex, prince of the Tungri, prefect commanding First Ala Tungriana, pleaded for his own death as they impaled his naked body on a four-foot spike set in the gateway of the fort he had commanded.
He was the last of his men to die. Gwlym’s executioners had disembowelled Priscinus and his fellow officers and strangled them with their own entrails. Their bodies now hung like obscene trophies from the palisade on either side of the gate. Cadwal had often heard it threatened, but he’d never believed it possible. The expertise of the druids impressed him, but their endeavours left the whole fort smelling of shit.
Gore spattered his leather jerkin to the shoulders and he looked a fearsome sight as he set off along the causeway away from the horror. In the settlement, dozens of Ordovice warriors herded Canovium’s civilians into three of the largest houses. Brana, the pretty whore, looked at him, her terrified, imploring eyes pleading with him to save her, but Cadwal kept walking. By the time he reached the outskirts he could smell the fresh smoke and hear the screaming.
It took two days for the patrol Claudius Vindex had depended on to return. They never did see the glow in the sky or send to Deva for help. Their commander’s hands shook uncontrollably as he sat his horse in front of the shrivelled blackened things decorating the fort’s gateway. In three houses flanking the roadway the domes of dozens of charred skulls poked through the blackened ruins. After two days of summer heat the stench of death was so thick it stuck in the throat. He called to one of his senior troopers.
‘Take two men and ride with all speed to Deva. The legate must see this with his own eyes. No matter what he is doing you must make him come. I will touch nothing until you return.’
He forced himself to walk his horse past Claudius Vindex and into the fort. It was only then he saw the pyramid of a hundred heads stacked in the centre of the parade ground.
They never found the others.
IX
‘This is my personal bodyguard?’
‘Yes, lord.’ The young decurion sat straight in the saddle, but he spoke with weary resignation and Valerius guessed he’d already had this conversation with Titus. Behind him thirty-two mounted troopers stood in two untidy lines across the courtyard of Valerius’s villa. They wore cavalry uniforms: chain link armour, iron helmets with cheekpieces and narrow neck guards. The familiar spatha swords, longer and heavier than the infantry version, hung at their waists. But something wasn’t right.
‘They informed me crack legionary cavalry would escort my family to Britannia, but that’s not what I see, is it?’
‘No, lord.’
‘What do I see?’
‘Governor Agricola ordered his legates to provide eight cavalrymen from each legion’s mounted contingent for your permanent escort.’
‘But …’
‘But no legate would willingly give up his best soldiers to …’
‘Act as nursemaids to a jumped-up lawyer with a fancy title?’
‘No, lord. Well, yes … so he chooses men he can spare.’
Valerius closed his eyes. He knew exactly what that meant. The dregs. Misfits, troublemakers, criminals and cowards, men who wouldn’t take orders, or who could barely hold a weapon.
‘You.’ He marched up to a trooper in the centre of the first line, one of two with bandaged heads. ‘Name, rank and unit.’
The man’s chin snapped up. ‘Rufius Florus, trooper, third squadron, legionary cavalry Ninth Hispana, sir.’
‘Length of service?’
Florus gave him a puzzled look. ‘In the cavalry, sir?’
‘That’s right, trooper.’
‘One month and two weeks, sir.’
One and a half months. The time it had taken these men to get to Rome from Britannia.
‘And before that?’
‘Legionary, second rank, third century of the Third cohort.’
‘Reason for transfer?’
Florus hesitated, but decided it wasn’t worth lying. ‘My centurion said I stole a pugio, sir.’
‘And did you?’
‘No, sir.’ The cavalryman’s lips twitched. ‘I stole it back.’
Valerius walked along the line. The cavalrymen stared straight ahead, but he knew they were studying him as he was them. He doubted the senator’s toga with the purple stripe he’d worn for the occasion would impress them. Nor the grey hairs or the scars. He kept the wooden fist hidden in the folds of the toga. Let that wait. What did he see? Weariness. Resentment. Resignation. A big man who sat in the saddle like a sack of grain, all jutting, unshaven chin and burning eyes. A hater, this one. One face that stirred something in him. Had they met? It seemed unlikely. Someone in the rear row hawked and spat. He ignored it, but made a mental note of the likely culprit.
‘You.’ He chose the unlikeliest
cavalryman in the front rank, a flabby, hulking giant who barely fit in the saddle.
‘G-g-gellius P-p-pudens, trooper, second squadron legionary cavalry Second Adiutrix, sir.’
‘Length of service?’ Valerius sighed.
‘One month and two weeks, sir.’
‘And what did you do in your legion?’
‘I was a cook, sir.’ Pudens straightened as much as he was able. ‘I cooked for the legate.’
‘So you were either selling the rations or you tried to poison him?’
Pudens’s various chins quivered with indignation. ‘I didn’t try to poison him, sir.’
Valerius turned and walked back to the escort commander. ‘And you, decurion?’
‘Cornelius Felix, first squadron, Twentieth Valeria Victrix, lord.’
‘And what crime brings you here?’
‘I was accused of fornication, lord.’
Valerius laughed. ‘Fornication doesn’t seem a sufficiently serious offence to sentence you to command this shambles.’
Felix failed to suppress a smile. ‘It is if it was with the legate’s daughter, lord.’
Valerius shook his head. ‘Have your men dismount and water their horses in the stream. I’ll have food and drink sent out to them. In the meantime, I’m sure you’d welcome a cup of wine.’
‘I’d appreciate it, sir.’ The decurion slid from the saddle. He passed on the order to a trooper who’d been hovering close by and handed over his mount’s reins. Valerius patted the horse’s neck.
‘Your horses seem worn out?’
‘I thought it best not to change them at the way stations,’ Felix admitted. ‘Some of these men could barely ride. Better to keep a horse they know and that knows them.’
‘How many of them are true cavalry?’
‘About half, and they’re good. But they’re all men their commanders didn’t want for one reason or another.’ The decurion raised a cultured eyebrow. ‘One of them is probably a murderer. You’ve seen the five men in the second rank who look like brothers?’ Valerius nodded. A row of remote, emotionless faces that might have been carved from granite. He doubted the plaited sidelocks hanging below their cheekpieces fitted part of any legion’s dress regulations. ‘I think they’re auxiliaries from a Pannonian unit, but they don’t give much away so I can’t be certain. They were among the quota from Second Augusta.’
‘You said some of them couldn’t ride. But they can now?’
‘Oh, yes. They’ve had six weeks in the saddle and I had the dullards riding with our best horsemen. Pudens still struggles to keep his seat at anything faster than a trot, but they’ll do.’
‘So they can ride.’ Valerius handed Felix a cup of wine. ‘But can they fight?’
‘They can certainly fight each other,’ Felix said. ‘They’ve been at each other’s throats since we left Londinium.’ Valerius laughed, but Felix shook his head. ‘I think the governor calculated that providing an escort from all four legions would mean there’d always be at least one man familiar with the country. He didn’t take into account the rivalry between the units. The two Second legions are always trying to prove they’re superior to each other, but pick on one and you pick on all sixteen of them. Our contingent from the Ninth don’t like it when someone mentions their reputation for bad luck and will generally fight anyone, but they hate the Twentieth’s guts because of some horror that happened when they took different sides in the civil war. The Twentieth has never forgiven the Second Augusta for refusing to leave camp when Boudicca was on the rampage.’ He hesitated. ‘You would have every right to send us away.’
Valerius smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘A soldier must always make do with what he is given. It will take me two weeks to wind up my affairs here. In the meantime, you can use the meadow by the river to set up camp. Give men and horses a day to rest then continue their training. I want them able to manoeuvre as a unit. And fight.’
Felix downed his wine, snapped an arm across his chest in salute and turned to join his men.
‘And Felix?’
‘Yes, lord?’
‘Keep them out of trouble.’
Tabitha was waiting for him in the shade of the portico. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never seen an uglier or less soldierly company of men in my life.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. The young decurion is very handsome.’
‘Is he?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled at his confusion. ‘Those deep blue eyes and a certain air of innocence some women would find a challenge. Tall too, and athletic.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’ Valerius bit his lip to stop himself laughing.
‘You must invite him to dinner.’
‘A challenge, eh?’
Her lips twitched into a smile and she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Invite him to dinner.’
X
Tabitha accepted the change in their circumstances with her usual equanimity. ‘At least this time I can come with you,’ was all she’d said. Now her mind focused on the more practical issues. ‘Would it be possible to find someone recently returned from Britannia, and preferably Londinium? Someone who has run a household there.’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes, Valerius, a woman. You tell me I am to be the wife of the second most important official in the province. That means entertaining and being entertained. What dresses should I take? A hostess cannot be too drab, but neither can she consciously outshine the wives of her husband’s guests. I need to be aware of the kind of society we will mix with.’
The Palatium tracked down a quaestor and his wife who’d returned to Rome from Britannia three months earlier. Tabitha invited them to dinner at the house Valerius owned in the city and the two women spent the evening talking fashion, food and the names of people who might be helpful. Valerius remembered Londinium as a sea of blackened timber and grey ash, with the charred bones of its inhabitants still lying where they’d been butchered by Boudicca’s horde. Their guests assured Tabitha it was now a cosmopolitan city, provincial, but perfectly civilized. The quaestor’s wife, an older woman, had one important piece of advice. ‘It will still be summer when you arrive, but do not let that deceive you. You will require at least four sets of woollen underwear to survive your first winter in Britannia.’
Valerius’s preparations kept him away from the estate and it was a week before he inspected Felix and his troopers again. He noted that, whatever the limitations of his motley unit, the decurion knew his business. His men had erected their tents close to the river, but on high ground clear of the marshy banks. The latrine pit was the recommended distance away and the horse lines were downstream where they wouldn’t foul the drinking water. Common sense, and second nature to any veteran, but Valerius had come across plenty of aristocratic junior officers who refused to listen to advice.
They’d set up a pair of wooden posts in the centre of the meadow. When Valerius arrived Felix had just divided his cavalrymen into two squads and placed them in single line formation opposite each post. They wore their chain armour and iron helmets and each man carried a flat oval shield on his left forearm.
‘Legate.’ The young man welcomed him with a smart salute and Valerius smiled at the first use of his new rank. ‘You’ve arrived just in time for sword exercise. Marius?’ he called to the duplicarius checking the lines.
Marius raised a hand. ‘Ready, decurion.’
Valerius noticed that the man at the front of each line had the look of a veteran, relaxed in the saddle and sword held upright at the ready. Their narrowed eyes never left Marius.
‘We’ve made it a competition today,’ Felix murmured. ‘But if you were a gambling man, I’d advise you to put your money on the far team.’
Valerius studied the closer line of horsemen and smiled. ‘I see why. Carry on.’
Marius’s hand dropped and the two horsemen dug their heels in, urging their mounts to a fast trot. ‘We’re practising the backhand cut,’ Felix said.
‘That should separate the old soldiers from the recruits.’ Valerius had enough cavalry experience to know that a backhand cut from horseback required a particular technique that ensured you didn’t tangle with your shield or chop off your horse’s ears.
The two troopers reached the posts in the same stride, simultaneously chopping downwards with a diagonal cut from above the left shoulder and drawing the edge across the front of the post as they rode past. Once clear they spun their horses and galloped to where the next man in line waited. Only when each mount’s nose passed an invisible line did Marius release the second rider. The first five pairs included the Pannonians, who impressed Valerius with their horsemanship and weapons skill, and the exercise went smoothly.
The far team were slightly ahead. Florus was the next man. His awkward strike left his sword embedded deep in the wood and his momentum almost plucked him from the saddle before he released his grip. The delay while he recovered the sword allowed the hooting nearside team to make up ground and overtake him. Three more pairs, the tentative approach and awkward swordplay marking them as novices, apart from one.
‘Who’s the trooper on the black gelding?’
‘His name is Julius Crescens.’ Felix’s lips twitched with distaste. ‘Another from the Ninth. Knows his job, but you get one in every unit. A troublemaker. If he’s not causing it, he’s encouraging someone else to do it. Clever, too. Always has an answer or an excuse, or someone else to blame.’
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 7