Valerius held his horse in check as the trumpet blast faded. He could feel the frustration of Felix and Hilario at the delay. Not yet. Fifty paces away the jaws of the south-west corner of the square began to ease apart, first the rear rank, then the third. It was a dangerous movement that could invite disaster if he mistimed his charge. ‘Now!’
He dug in his heels and urged his mount forward as the legionaries in the second rank shuffled to left and right, slowly followed by those in the first. The final man on the left side must have felt the brush of the mare’s mane as they passed, so swiftly did the charging horses fill the gap, smashing aside the Ordovice warriors who rushed to exploit it. Not one enemy entered the square. Suddenly all Valerius could see was snarling, hate-crazed faces and glittering spear heads as quickly brushed aside by the charging horses as they appeared. A spear darted at his mount’s shoulder and Valerius flicked it away with the edge of his spatha, continuing the movement so his point carved a great rent across the bearer’s tattooed chest. Four abreast they ploughed through the sea of enemies as easily as a galley with a following wind, scattering bodies aside and leaving terror and dismay in their wake. Behind them the remaining horsemen fanned out to clear new channels, hacking right and left at the exposed heads and bodies of any foolish enough to stand in their way. Valerius heard an equine scream of agony to his right and he twisted to see Hilario catapulted from his saddle. The big man’s horse was down with a spear deep in its chest, already snorting blood from its nostrils. He half turned to go to the big trooper’s aid, but Hilario was already on his feet, sword in hand and his flanks protected by Shabolz and Didius Gallus. At the same time the head of the legionary column emerged from the gap at the trot, shields up, gladii at the ready and their exhaustion forgotten in the desire to reach the enemy who had tormented them. Valerius had intended that the column, a compact mass of men eight shields wide, retain its integrity and smash deep into the heart of the enemy. Most did push on, directly in the wake of the charging horses, but those on the flanks ignored their officers and fanned out to seek the enemy where they found them. The indiscipline was a symptom of their lack of training under Fronto and a deep anger that had been building up in them for many months. It might have caused disaster. Instead, it acted like the first spark of a wildfire.
Valerius had seen it before, that moment when discipline broke down and a collective madness fuelled by bloodlust and suffering took over. Now he was only aware of a great cheer as he fought his way through the mob of his enemies. Behind him, the men guarding the edges of the gap advanced to the aid of their comrades in the column. First four or five, then ten, then fifty, and suddenly the whole side of the square, a cohort strong, was pushing forward over the piles of Ordovice dead. It was the same on the west side, where the men could see the cavalry revelling in the slaughter to their front and left. When Canalius, the primus pilus, understood the square was about to disintegrate he did the only thing he could. He sent runners to order the centurions in command of the north and east sides to advance in their turn.
Oblivious of what was happening behind him, Valerius searched for a cavalry unit within reach. The bravest of the Ordovices were still packed in front of the Romans they’d been fighting. But others, more timid or more prudent, were making their way resolutely towards the rear, a scattered, indisciplined mass streaming across the ridge towards home or some hoped-for sanctuary. For a trained cavalryman they were inviting prey, but, as he scanned the area for a suitable target, Valerius’s eye chanced on an isolated group standing their ground by a fluttering banner on a small hummock in the centre of the ridge.
‘Wheel right.’ He emphasized the order by extending his arm in that direction. The survivors of his escort curved round in a perfect arc that brought them on a direct line to the banner. Half of the men surrounding it were spread out exhorting fleeing warriors to return to the attack. One or two others appeared to be remonstrating with each other. One man stood impassively beside the flag staring at the chaos before him.
Didius Gallus reappeared to take Hilario’s place at Valerius’s shoulder and the little column of Roman cavalrymen bludgeoned their way through the fleeing Ordovices. The big horses shouldered the unwary aside and the troopers cut down any who showed signs of resistance. Valerius became aware of another cavalry formation fighting their way towards him, but he only had eyes for the man beside the flag. At last the warriors beside him saw the danger to King Owain Lawhir. A shout of warning alerted the men of his bodyguard who had been attempting to turn the flood of demoralized Ordovice fighters and they ran to form a thin barrier between the attacking Romans and their king. Big, broad-chested spearmen, seasoned warriors all, arms and shoulders black with the tattoos that proclaimed their valour and their lineage.
‘Form line,’ Valerius called over his shoulder, slowing marginally to allow the following ranks to carry out his order. They outnumbered the defenders by two to one and they charged shoulder to shoulder, an unbroken line of thundering horses. A hundred paces passed in a dozen heartbeats. So close now Valerius could see the expressions on the enemy’s faces, resolution, uncertainty, confusion, but never fear.
‘Open order.’ The cavalrymen nudged their horses to allow a blank file between each. The spears in front wavered, seeking individual targets. Valerius chose a man in the centre of the line: a bearded warrior with his hair dressed in spikes that made him seem a foot taller. The leaf-shaped point of his long spear centred on the chest of Valerius’s mount. Valerius angled his charge to take him past the warrior’s right shoulder as the man would expect and he saw the spear point twitch to follow him. A good soldier and a brave warrior. No thought of his own safety, every fibre of his being focused on bringing down the horse. What happened after could be left to the fates.
Within four strides Valerius nudged his mount so it swerved right across the warrior’s front. Too late for the spearman to follow the horse, but there was always the man. Valerius had a glimpse of the spear point searching for his breast. Had the sword been in his right hand he would have been dead. But this was Gaius Valerius Verrens, who had held a sword in his left hand for the best part of two decades. He flicked the spear shaft aside with the edge of his spatha and in the same movement brought the blade round in an arc. The point of the heavy sword caught the warrior high in the stomach and the edge ripped upwards to shatter ribs and breastbone. A shriek of mortal agony, a face etched with horror, and scarlet misted the air.
Nothing stood between Valerius and the man on the hummock. Owain Lawhir, High King of the Ordovices, stood motionless by his dragon banner, his face set like stone and his eyes fixed on the fighting below. A golden circlet in his greying hair proclaimed his rank and he wore a mail vest selected from the booty of Canovium. His right hand rested on the hilt of his iron sword, but he made no attempt to draw it. As Valerius bore down on him he took a step away from the banner. Valerius raised the sword, still dripping gore from his last victim. In the final moment Owain looked up into his eyes, baring his throat. With a feeling almost of regret, Valerius swung the heavy blade. He felt the familiar hesitation as the edge cleaved living flesh and sinew, the momentary shock of solid bone, blood spurting high. So died Owain Lawhir, High King of the Ordovices.
‘Lord.’ A rasping voice broke the fleeting lethargy that had gripped Valerius. He looked round to find the diminutive figure of Gaius Rufus grinning from the saddle of a horse that looked three times too large for him. The scout held a long spear comfortably in his fist, with the butt settled in his right boot. Blood trickled down the shaft from the point on to his hand, and he flicked it away in an unconscious gesture. His eyes, red-rimmed and sunk deep, had the look of a man who hadn’t slept for a week.
‘I had expected you earlier, scout,’ Valerius said.
‘And so we would have been.’ Gaius’s grin didn’t falter. ‘But we picked up some slowbodies from Agricola’s column along the way and it seemed best to adjust to their pace.’
‘They made a dif
ference,’ Valerius conceded. He looked out across the field where the four cavalry wings continued to do terrible slaughter among the Celts who milled in confusion, trapped between the horsemen and three lines of legionaries, still unaware of their defeat. For every intuition told Valerius the battle was won. The fighting would go on for a while, but Naso’s cohorts and the men of the east flank formation were driving an indisciplined host towards the hills to the south, where they joined thousands more fleeing from that flank.
‘That they did,’ Rufus agreed, shaking his head in wonder at the sheer number of Celts. ‘It would have been like a flea attacking an elephant.’
Valerius wanted to ask him where he’d found the extra horsemen, but he had more important things to consider. ‘Well, despite your tardiness, I’m appointing you commander of my cavalry.’ Rufus’s head came up in astonishment. ‘Temporary and unpaid, naturally.’
‘Naturally.’ Rufus greeted his advancement with a wry smile.
‘When I judge the time is right we’ll withdraw the cavalry and leave the infantry to deal with what’s left. All but two cohorts. Your men will have an hour to water their horses and get what rest they can. The important thing now is not to let them settle.’ He nodded towards the fleeing Celts. ‘In a couple of hours, if we leave them alone, they’ll begin to wonder if they really were defeated. So pass on my orders to send two regiments to drive the main contingent west. Keep them moving, keep killing, push them into the sea.’
‘There are still a lot of them.’ Rufus frowned. ‘What if they decide a few cavalrymen aren’t frightening enough to be worth running from?’
‘That’s why I’m sending two legionary cohorts after you, with another cavalry wing for escort. Bypass any force that wants to make a fight of it. Keep the rest moving.’ He held the little man’s gaze. ‘We don’t have time for prisoners or slaves. Kill them all.’
A moment of doubt lingered on Rufus’s grizzled features, but he nodded. ‘And you, lord?’
‘Me?’ Valerius shook his head as if he hadn’t considered the question. He looked back towards the mound where the men of his escort were stripping the dead of the Ordovice royal court. ‘I’ll be taking King Owain’s head to Julius Agricola. We’ll meet again on the shores opposite Mona.’ He stifled a yawn that reminded him he hadn’t slept for two nights. ‘But first I will take what rest the shades of these brave soldiers will allow me.’
XLIV
The following day Valerius left Shabolz and his Pannonian comrades to tend Licco’s funeral pyre. The other Roman dead would lie together till the end of time in a great burial pit dug by their tentmates, while the mouldering bodies of the Celts would feed the buzzards, ravens and foxes attracted by the growing scent of death.
With the remainder of the escort he crossed the ridge where Owain’s banner still flew. On the far side lay a long slope down to the fertile plain that separated the mountains from the sea. He could see movement, but whether it was fleeing Ordovices or the Roman cavalrymen pursuing them it was impossible to tell. The only signs of the advance were the familiar pillars of smoke from burning houses and farms, and the pinpricks of flame that heralded another addition to their number. Beyond the plain, a thin strip of silver marked the strait that separated Mona from the mainland, which Agricola’s army must cross if it was to take the island.
Dead and dying warriors lay scattered along the route. Twice they came across little groups of Celts dragging one of their injured into hiding. Felix and the others would have ridden after them, but Valerius insisted they continue without pause and hurry to meet Agricola. In truth he was sick of killing. The order he’d given Gaius Rufus had been the right one, and in line with Agricola’s orders. The fewer Ordovices left to defend Mona or harass his rear the better, and word of the great slaughter would spread north, where minds would be focused on the consequences of resistance. But the very fact of the Ordovice rising was proof that such lessons never lasted long, and the hatred they provoked was like a seed planted in the spring that blossomed when least expected.
Their route took them diagonally across the plain towards the valley the Twentieth must negotiate to reach Mona. Here too bands of fleeing Celts streamed towards the sea and the possible sanctuary of the Druids’ Isle. Despite Felix’s protests it was too dangerous Valerius insisted on taking a closer look at what lay before them, and they turned west towards the shore. They reined in above a long, narrow beach and Valerius surveyed the placid waters that separated them from the tree-covered slopes a few hundred paces away. Valerius had seen wider rivers. The Tamesa, the Danuvius and the Rhenus all posed a greater obstacle than this.
‘This won’t stop Agricola for long,’ Felix murmured.
‘I doubt it will,’ Valerius agreed. ‘He’s been here before, when Paulinus made the crossing. His engineers were working on boats before he left Viroconium. They’ll carry them here in pieces and assemble them on the shore.’ His nose twitched as the breeze wafted a familiar scent from the far shore. He frowned. ‘I wonder …’
On the opposite bank a dozen Celts emerged from the trees and ran to the shoreline, shouting and cavorting. ‘Laugh all you like, little Celts,’ Hilario rumbled. ‘Agricola is coming to get you.’
Valerius had seen enough, but as he was turning away he noticed movement to the north. A makeshift raft with five or six men crouched on its boards emerged from a hidden cove, followed by a second and a third. The occupants paddled frantically with pieces of timber and whatever they had to hand.
‘We should have brought a few archers,’ Felix complained. ‘Then there’d have been twenty fewer to meet us on the other side.’
‘Nothing we can do about it now.’ The rafts had already reached the middle of the strait. On the far side the Celts continued to shout and gesticulate, but the tone had a new edge and the shouts were directed at the men in the rafts. As Valerius watched they became ever more voluble and animated. Valerius’s mount shifted beneath him and he looked down to see water beneath her hooves where there had been none. A few moments before the strait had been mirror calm in the stillness. There still wasn’t a breath of wind, but now the surface had turned choppy.
‘Mars save us,’ Felix whispered. He was staring to the left and Valerius followed his gaze to where a white-topped wave three feet high raced up the strait at the speed of a charging horse. They watched as it surged past, almost innocuous in appearance, but with a sense of immense power, followed by a whirling, surging mass of rough water. On the rafts the men paddled with a frantic intensity right up to the moment the wave struck. Valerius expected the surge to carry the rafts along, perhaps as far as the open sea, but the sheer power of it flipped the first over, sending men flying into the water. The wave struck the second and third rafts a heartbeat later and the fragile craft simply disintegrated. For a few moments they could see heads and waving hands in the rushing water, then they were gone, leaving a few bobbing timbers.
‘If Agricola is expecting us to cross that,’ Hilario growled, ‘I hope he’s going to make a very expensive sacrifice to Neptune.’
Valerius glanced to where the Celtic warriors had given up taunting the Romans and were now working to pile timber at the foot of a post set just above the tideline.
‘It may not only be the sea we have to worry about.’
They met more of Agricola’s cavalry when they turned east again over the plain. The decurion in command told Valerius the governor planned to set up camp with the Twentieth beside a river six or seven miles up the valley and make the final march the next day.
The camp was still under construction when they reached it, but they’d completed the governor’s pavilion. Valerius told Felix to have the men fed and horses watered and took the leather sack that had been tied to his saddle pommel. Hilario and Gallus escorted him to the doorway of the pavilion and a guard went to announce him. ‘The governor will see you now, legate,’ he said when he returned.
Dressed in a simple tunic, Agricola sat at his campaign desk dict
ating to a young tribune who recorded his words with a stylus on a stack of waxed tablets. The governor waved Valerius to a couch in the corner of the tent which Valerius was surprised to see already occupied by Terentius Strabo, legate of the Second Augusta. By rights Strabo should have been with his legion at Isca. He made no attempt to welcome Valerius, which reminded the one-handed Roman that the sullen legate was one of three men left in Britannia who might be Domitian’s creature and therefore Valerius’s enemy. Agricola ignored them and continued with his dictation. ‘And the Twentieth legion, which I had the privilege to command, overwhelmed the hill fort’s defenders and thus destroyed the power of the Ordovices …’ There were so many inaccuracies in the short statement that Valerius blinked. Agricola added a short list of awards he planned to confer. ‘That will be all.’
He turned to Valerius as the young man left the room. ‘My unit historian. One can’t be too careful about posterity,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘Strabo is here to receive his final instructions and chooses to stay for the final operation.’
‘It was my privilege to witness a great victory,’ Strabo agreed in a voice that didn’t sound in the least privileged or impressed.
Valerius had assumed word of the Ninth’s victory would have reached Agricola by now and the lack of warmth in the governor’s welcome surprised him. Perhaps the fragment of dictation heard went some way to explaining it. Or was there another possibility? Valerius studied Strabo for some indication that he might have poisoned Agricola’s mind against him, but he found none.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ Agricola’s voice matched his look. ‘I thought you’d be finishing the job.’
Valerius placed the leather bag on the desk. It had a damp brown stain on the bottom. Agricola studied it with distaste. ‘My Celtic scouts tell me this is the man who ordered the raid on Canovium.’
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 37