‘You think a patrician shouldn’t get his hands dirty?’ Valerius tested the fit of his wrist stock until he was happy. It had taken the best part of the hour to prise the information he needed from Cearan. Whether it was accurate was another thing. The Iceni had breathed his last with a final curse for Valerius. How did he feel? He felt nothing. Later, perhaps, it would be different. The old Cearan had been a friend: a man to admire and respect. A man who could be forgiven, even, for the loss of a hand. But he had become corrupted by his disfigurement at the hands of the Romans and driven beyond sanity by the loss of his wife. The old Cearan no longer existed for Valerius. The man who had twisted and howled under his knife had placed Tabitha and Lucius in the hands of a monster. His conduct rendered him unfit for mercy or compassion. He was an instrument to a necessary end. All that mattered was that Valerius discover the precise whereabouts of Tabitha and Lucius. He felt certain Cearan had told the truth about their fate. The only question was the timing.
‘It is not fitting,’ Hilario complained. ‘Such butchery is journeyman’s work.’
‘The squadron is ready?’ Valerius dismissed the subject.
‘Yes, lord. Crescens and Nilus just rode in with the little scout.’
‘Good.’ Valerius breathed a sigh of relief that the scout had been found. Without Gaius Rufus he would be like a blind man groping his way along a cliff path.
Felix appeared in the doorway and blinked at the latrine stench that filled the tent. ‘The camp prefect to see you, sir.’ He swallowed.
‘Send him in,’ Valerius said. ‘And check that my instructions have been followed.’
‘Of course, legate.’ Felix gave him a look of puzzlement.
‘I know you’ve done it already, Cornelius, just humour me.’ Naso walked into the tent and Valerius waved him to a couch. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed your rest, Quintus, but I’ve little time and much to do. The Ordovices have taken Tabitha and Lucius and are holding them on the island. You will take command of the Ninth’s preparations for the assault on Mona and lead the attack.’
‘You’re abandoning your legion?’ Naso almost choked on the words. ‘Agricola will have your head, Valerius. I can’t—’
‘You’re the most experienced soldier in the Ninth Hispana, Quintus,’ Valerius persisted relentlessly. ‘You saved this unit when I got it trapped on the ridge and you kept the Ordovices off balance during the chase. But for your efforts Agricola might face another five or ten thousand defenders. I have no choice in the matter.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘If you don’t think you’re up to it you’ll just have to choose someone else.’ His voice softened. ‘They’re going to kill them, Quintus. Do you expect me to leave them to the Ordovices?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then this is how it will be.’ Valerius outlined Agricola’s plan of campaign. The Ninth launching a probing attack in the south, the cavalry demonstration in the centre and the Twentieth’s preparations concealed until the last minute at the northern narrows. ‘You see his plan?’
‘Yes.’ Naso sounded dubious. ‘He’s using us as bait again. The Ninth puts its head in the lion’s jaws and gets chewed on until the Twentieth sneaks up and kicks the beast on the arse. Not so bad for the Twentieth, but …’
‘By the time you cross we should have created a diversion that will pull them away from the coast.’ Naso produced a wry smile and Valerius shrugged. They both knew that even if the escort reached Mona unobserved their chances of surviving the night and rescuing Tabitha on an island swarming with Celtic warriors were minimal. In his heart Valerius had no greater hope than to reach his wife and son and give them a painless release from the world before dying at their side.
‘The Ninth will do their duty, sir.’
‘I never doubted it, Quintus.’ Valerius slapped him on the shoulder with his left hand. ‘My only regret is that I won’t be there to lead them.’
Naso accompanied Valerius to where the escort waited, formed up in the torchlight on the parade square in front of the command tent. Two lines of indistinct figures hunched in the saddle with their cloaks wrapped tight against the raw chill and provisions hanging in bags from their saddle horns. The horses shuffled restlessly, steam snorting in clouds from their nostrils and drifting from their heaving flanks. Didius Gallus stood expectantly in front of them holding Valerius’s mount, but the one-handed Roman ignored him for a moment, instead choosing to walk along the lines inspecting men and horses.
He stopped in front of Shabolz and patted his horse’s neck. ‘I cannot order you to accompany me on this mission.’ He spoke loudly enough for every man to hear. ‘What I am about to do is personal and unauthorized. Some of you will already know. Others will have heard rumours. The lady Tabitha and my son Lucius have been abducted by the Ordovices, along with our comrade Ceris, and are being held prisoner on Mona.’ An angry murmur went up from the waiting men. ‘I have information about their location and how they are guarded, but I don’t know how we will get there. The Celts on the island know Rome is coming, but not when. The likelihood is that any man who accompanies me will be dead by morning.’ He let them think about that, but he saw a shadow of a smile cross Shabolz’s lips. ‘When you came to me you were more eager to fight each other than any enemy, but our service together has changed that. A bond has grown between you and between us that can never be broken. I trusted you with my life and I never had reason to regret that trust. Any man who decides to stay behind has nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever happens, you depart here with honour and my respect, but decide quickly because we don’t have much time.’
‘Then why are we farting about here?’ Hilario was the end file and he turned his horse towards the gate. The others followed him in an unbroken double line.
Valerius felt his breath catch in his throat as Didius Gallus helped him into the saddle.
‘May Fortuna favour you in the morning, prefect,’ he called to Naso.
‘One way or the other we will meet on the other side, legate.’
‘Gaius Rufus.’ Valerius shouted to disguise the break in his voice. ‘I know you’re hiding out there somewhere. Come here and make yourself useful.’ A rider slid out of the shadows beyond the torchlight. ‘I need you to get us on to the island tonight.’
‘Yes, lord?’ They rode towards the gate while Rufus considered the implications of Valerius’s request.
‘And it would be preferable if we stayed alive until an hour before dawn.’
‘That might be more difficult, lord.’
‘But not impossible, Gaius. Not impossible.’
‘Who but the gods can decide that, lord?’
‘But you and I are the last survivors of the Temple of Claudius and I say the gods are on our side.’
They reached the gate, where Felix and the escort were formed up waiting for them. Rufus nodded to himself. ‘Then we should turn south.’
‘South?’ Valerius frowned as his men moved into position behind them. ‘Surely the straits widen to the south.’
‘They do, lord, but in certain places and at certain times the Shifting Sands reach out from east and west. They never meet, and the channel between is deep and treacherous, but …’
‘I take it they call them Shifting Sands for a reason?’
‘Indeed. A man never knows where they will be from one night to the next.’
‘And no doubt the far shore will be watched?’
‘Of course,’ Valerius heard the hint of a smile in the little man’s voice, ‘but only during the day. Only a fool or a man bent on suicide would attempt the Shifting Sands in the dark just when the tide is about to turn. Or a man certain he had the gods on his side.’
‘They are holding my wife and son in a place called Bryn Gafr, the Hill of Goats.’
‘Then if we live you are fortunate among men, lord, because Bryn Gafr is only a little way to the north-west. If Neptune does not claim us a blind man could find his way from the Bachyn Pysgod on the far side to Bryn Gafr.’
<
br /> ‘I am pleased to hear it,’ Valerius said. ‘Because as I understand it we will have to reach it in the dark.’
They rode south through the night, crossing the river at a ford east of where they’d tested the assault boats. Valerius felt a sharp pang of guilt at the responsibility he’d placed on Naso’s shoulders, but quickly thrust it aside. There was no turning back now. The route Rufus chose took them in a wide arc away from the strait so there was no chance of a sharp eye on the far shore picking up even the slightest glint of metal in the hazy light of the crescent moon. Behind him, his escort rode in silence, with Felix and Shabolz in the lead. He ran them through his mind, testing their strengths and weaknesses. None of these men had to be here. For a moment pride took the edge off the dull ache of despair that filled his chest like cold stone. He had worked out a plan of sorts, based on the information he’d squeezed in blood from Cearan, and he conjured up individual faces that would fit particular roles. The problem was they were so few. He sent up a brief prayer to Jupiter Optimus Maximus that she was still in the place Cearan had identified at the cost of so much pain. Would they move her closer to the place they intended to kill her? What would she be thinking now, trapped in the darkness like a caged falcon? Her first duty would be towards Lucius and he imagined her reassuring the boy to try to alleviate his fear. How much had they told her? The very thought of it had driven him to slaughter Cearan like a tethered beast. What would it do to her knowing what awaited her in the first light of dawn?
An involuntary groan escaped him and Gaius Rufus reached out to lay a hand on his arm in a motion that was almost fatherly. They were the last survivors of the Temple of Claudius. The gods would not forsake them. The little man picked up the pace and Valerius and the others automatically matched it.
‘How long?’ Valerius asked quietly.
‘Less than an hour,’ Rufus replied. ‘We will have only one opportunity. If I miss my way on the Shifting Sands, the tide will catch us, and …’
‘You will not miss your way,’ Valerius assured him.
Because if Gaius Rufus missed his way they would all die and Tabitha and Lucius would be led to the place of sacrifice in the morning to suffer all the druids’ malignant cruelty.
XLVIII
‘Shall I have the prisoners brought forward into their positions?’
‘The men you may have, but not the women.’ Gwlym’s reply held a note of rebuke that irritated Cadwal. ‘If we stake them out now they will be half dead of cold by morning and I want them fully alive to experience their passing. Their screams will be a knife in Roman hearts and a torment to drive Agricola’s legionaries beyond sense and on to our spears.’
‘It will take time,’ Cadwal persisted.
‘Silence,’ Aymer, the taller of Gwlym’s acolytes, hissed. ‘The arch-druid has spoken. Your only answer is to obey.’
‘Make sure everything is ready.’ Gwlym adopted a more conciliatory tone. Cadwal had done well at Viroconium and the druid sensed potential there. The Ordovices needed a new king and it might suit Gwlym to have someone of less intellect than Owain Lawhir wearing the crown, someone more amenable to suggestion.
The druids stood on a promontory that looked out over the strait to the mainland and the camp where the men of Ninth Hispana worked frantically to complete their preparations. Of course, Gwlym’s sightless eyes couldn’t see the light from the armourers’ forges and the torches of the quartermasters as they rushed about dealing with last minute crises. Yet they were clear in his head, as were the dispositions of all Agricola’s forces. Thanks to his spies he knew the Ninth’s undisguised preparations heralded a probing feint intended to draw some of his men to the south and keep them there. He knew five thousand dismounted cavalrymen waited in the darkness ready to appear on the beach further up the coast at first light in a demonstration designed to make him keep a substantial force here. That was why he’d positioned the bulk of his warriors in the north, just behind the only beach wide enough for a Roman landing.
Gwlym didn’t need to see. He sensed everything in the world around him. A soft breeze stirring the skeletal twigs of a tree already stripped naked by winter. The almost imperceptible hiss as frost settled on the close-cropped grass at his feet. Warmth from a nearby fire and the unlikely waft from the wings of a bat drawn from its long sleep by the heat and the light. The pulsating nervousness of the Roman troops on the far side of the strait stirred his senses like a panicked heartbeat. The keening war songs of his warriors as they waited in the darkness finding solace and courage in millennia-gone victories. His own mind was at peace. He had foreseen this moment ever since they’d carried him from the field of Boudicca’s last battle. Suetonius Paulinus had left unfinished business when Boudicca drew him away from his frenzy of slaughter and sacrilege. It was only a matter of time before the red scourge returned.
Gwlym understood the risks, but he’d fought this battle a hundred times in his head, refining his plan to meet every possible crisis. It was a pity Owain had failed to take advantage of his opportunity to annihilate the Ninth, but it made no difference to the overall concept. The Ordovices defending Mona were fighting not only for their lives and their religion, but for their families. Gwlym had insisted every warrior be accompanied by his wife and children and now they waited in a great camp in the centre of the island. Gwlym had never had a wife or a family, but he knew men fought all the better when they were at risk. He also had his secret weapon. Every expert bowman and slinger in the west had congregated on Mona weeks before and had spent their time fletching arrows and moulding lead slingshots by the thousands and the tens of thousands. Gwlym would pin the Romans on the narrow strip of sand and shingle between sea and forest and that sand would run slick with Roman blood. He imagined the hail of arrows and slingshots flaying the packed Roman ranks as they stood trapped on the beach. The first waves would be annihilated as their comrades floundered in the shallows. Then the might of the Ordovice’s would swarm over the twitching corpses to drive the survivors back to the depths where the riptide would wipe Mona clean of Roman filth. It came to him that if Cearan had succeeded, Agricola might already be dead and the Romans in turmoil and headless. Yet that was a small thing in this great scheme involving the coordinated movement of tens of thousands. Better, perhaps, if his soldiers watched the Roman commander burn in the inferno of Hades that awaited them.
They crossed a narrow stream. Valerius heard Gaius Rufus murmur ‘Carrog’, perhaps reminding himself of a landmark. The men rode in silence, apart from the muffled breathing of the horses and the soft chink of horse brass. Not even the bark of a fox or the shriek of an owl to disturb the almost unnatural quiet. His nose told him they were close to the sea again, the bitter scent of rotting seaweed and salt hanging in the still air. Directly after the crossing they turned west into a flat landscape that alternated between salt marsh and sand dune. A feeling of emptiness within and without, each man alone and vulnerable even though he knew another rode at his side and at his back. Valerius’s hand instinctively sought the security of his sword hilt. He stilled it with difficulty. ‘Child,’ he chided himself, ‘to be frightened of the dark with the enemy a long, hard swim away.’
The slap of wet sand beneath the horses’ hooves, then the splash of water, so not low tide, no, not by a long way. Rufus drew his mount to a halt and Valerius angled in behind him. He fumbled in his saddle bag and pulled out a white cloth and a long pin with which he attached it to the scout’s cloak. He felt Felix performing the same operation on his own cloak.
‘Not a foot from this beast’s arse,’ Rufus whispered. ‘Not if you value your life.’ Valerius passed the message to Felix and heard it fade down the line. The cloth was just a dull patch of contrast in the blackness, but enough to ensure no one would become detached if they kept their senses about them. They would ride single file because the Shifting Sands were fickle ribbons of more or less solid ground with hidden depths to either side. One step off the path and man and horse would be left fl
oundering in the darkness, eventually to be dragged to the depths by the weight of their equipment when the horse tired. Valerius had considered ordering his men to dump everything but their swords, but the likelihood – the certainty – of combat and the weight of opposition they would face on the far shore persuaded him the risk was worth taking. He concentrated on the dull patch that identified Rufus and cursed as the little scout wound first one way, then the other, making it near impossible to stay within a horse-length, never mind a foot. His eyes struggled for focus in the darkness and his mouth felt as if it were filled with ashes. He blinked. And froze. Nothing. Rufus was gone. He waited, surrounded by emptiness, panic welling up inside. He heard Felix curse.
‘This way, idiot.’ A harsh whisper from his right and his bowels turned liquid with relief. ‘But stay to the left of the path.’
Path? All Valerius could see beneath his horse was an expanse of glittering black. He followed the sound of the voice and a few strides brought him to the shadowy outline of horse and rider.
‘Thank you,’ he whispered.
‘Don’t thank me yet,’ Rufus hissed. ‘It’s taken longer than I bargained for.’ The little man studied the moon. ‘Maybe too long.’
‘We go on,’ Valerius insisted.
‘I know.’ Rufus sounded interminably weary. ‘This time stay close.’
They continued for what seemed like an age, but was probably less time than it took to saddle a horse, until Rufus said quietly, ‘Stop where you are. This is where we swim.’
Valerius passed the order back down the line. He tried to remember who was at the rear of the column. Yes, Didius Gallus had volunteered along with Crescens. If Rufus was right …
‘We go in twos,’ Valerius whispered.
‘It will waste time.’
‘That wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order.’
‘All right.’ Valerius could hear the urgency in Rufus’s voice. ‘When you’re in the water turn north-west. Follow the line of the moon. Swim as if Taranis is on your tail.’
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 40