Gaius Quintus Naso had been staring at the black shadow marking the far shore of the strait for what seemed like hours when he saw the extraordinary spear point of light in the far distance, quickly followed by another that seemed so close he should feel the heat of it. It came as less of a surprise than it might, because Valerius had plotted the positions of the fire trenches from the detail he had tortured from the mutilated Celt. He and Naso had agreed the Ninth Hispana should attack half a mile south to sidestep the obstruction, even though the strait widened at that point. They’d also agreed Agricola should be informed that Naso had assumed command of the Ninth in Valerius’s absence. Naso had thought long and hard before sending the message – along with the position of the fire trench opposite the Twentieth – because it felt like a betrayal.
The cohorts of the Ninth waited just behind the shoreline where they’d sat in their formations for most of the night. Naso had walked among them while they’d broken fast and drunk from their water skins and they’d called out to him asking when they’d have the chance to get at the enemy. He’d smiled and assured them it would be soon enough and left well pleased with their morale and enthusiasm. A different legion entirely from the whipped ragtag of individuals Fronto had created. And all due to the leadership of Gaius Valerius Verrens, who’d given them an eagle to follow and personally led them into the jaws of the lion. Now Valerius had placed his faith in Quintus Naso and given him command of the most difficult mission the legion had faced since the crossing of the Tamesa in Claudius’s day. Oddly, Naso felt neither fear nor the weight of his responsibility. The plan was in place. Ulpius Canalius, the legion’s primus pilus, would lead the first wave, six centuries of the Second cohort who sat by their boats furthest forward. He would set up a defensive perimeter while the boats returned for the second wave. Naso would go with the third, along with Claudius Honoratus and the eagle.
Was there anything else he could do? He studied the flickering barrier to his right and the certainty flared inside him. Yes! Yes there was. ‘Go forward and tell the primus pilus to have his men loaded into the boats and the Batavian crews ready to embark.’ His voice quivered with elation. He’d intended to wait until dawn, but the tide was right and the enormous fire provided just enough light to allow the boat crews to make out the beach. ‘He may go when he is ready.’
Naso strapped his helmet a little tighter and went to warn the second wave to get ready. He felt perfectly calm. The die was thrown. The fire to the north seemed to gain new strength, sending up great flares all along the line. He wondered what had caused it, then his mind turned to Valerius, presumably somewhere in the darkness beyond. Where was he? Had he been discovered? He remembered Tabitha’s smile and the fact that she and young Lucius were in the hands of merciless barbarians. ‘Poor bastard,’ he whispered.
An awed legionary sentry called Julius Agricola from his tent with a garbled tale about the darkness on the far shore suddenly erupting into an unbroken barrier of flame. The governor was tempted to send an aide, certain the man must be exaggerating. Nothing could be as devastating as he described. Still, he set aside his fury at the dispatch from Naso. Gaius Valerius Verrens would be dealt with later, if he even lived.
The camp lay more than a mile from the strait, in keeping with Agricola’s strategy of ensuring the Twentieth legion’s preparations lay far beyond prying Celtic eyes. Yet from the moment he left his tent and saw the colour of the western sky the Roman commander was assailed by a superstitious dread. The further he rode west through the waiting ranks of legionary and auxiliary cohorts the brighter the sky and the deeper his concern. What force of nature could have created something like this? It was only when he reached the crest of the little rise overlooking the strait that he understood. Naso’s message had contained a warning of some sort of fire pit, but Agricola had been so consumed by anger at Valerius’s betrayal he’d taken little notice of it.
He urged his mount down the slope to the shingle beach and studied the long line of fire on the far shore. The light seemed to reach out to them across the glistening surface of the strait. They were close enough to hear the crackle of the burning wood and the roar of the flames that lit up the surrounding beach for a hundred paces. ‘Lord,’ the commander of his personal bodyguard cautioned. ‘We are within ballista range of the enemy.’
‘Then it’s fortunate the Celts don’t have any.’ That might not be true. There could well have been artillery among the weapons in the armoury at Canovium, but it was difficult enough for an experienced ballista crew to hit their chosen target. He doubted the Celts were capable. In any case he would not show fear. His own catapults were positioned among the boats hidden behind the hill. They could be dragged to the crest within moments to cover the crossing. But when would the crossing take place? The positioning of the fire trench proved that his carefully planned strategy of deception had failed. Yet he couldn’t simply move the crossing north or south, because the beach opposite was the only suitable landing place for a mile either side. But why had they fired the trench now? Was it some kind of trick to make him hesitate or change his plan? A precursor to some even more devastating ploy?
‘What’s that?’
Agricola followed the pointing finger. On the far side of the fire pit it was just possible to make out a pair of figures hustling a third man into the firelight. Soon they were joined by a second trio and a third, until finally twenty or more little groups were strung out along a line of about a hundred and fifty paces.
‘Jupiter save us,’ he heard an aide whisper. ‘They’re wearing auxiliary tunics.’
‘I’ve had no reports of missing auxiliaries.’ His aides stared at him, unaccustomed to hearing panic in the governor’s voice. ‘Could they be from the Ninth?’
‘No, we’ve had their casualty reports. Dead and injured, but no missing.’
‘Then what?’
‘We haven’t lost any auxiliaries since Canovium.’
A silence descended on the little group as they finally began to understand the implications of what was happening. A cry of stark terror reached them from the far shore and they watched as one of the captive men was dragged struggling towards the flaming pit.
‘No,’ Agricola heard someone whisper, unaware the word came from his own lips.
The Ordovices hurled their prisoner into the flames.
‘There were three hundred unaccounted for at Canovium.’
A moment of disbelieving silence interrupted by an unearthly, inhuman shriek that seemed to go on for ever, rising and falling in volume and pitch as the flames fed voraciously on flesh and bone and sinew and fat, taking new strength from the human fuel. A second figure was dragged forward, struggling for his life.
Agricola forced himself to watch ten men burn to death before he turned away. ‘My compliments to Legate Ursus. The crossing will begin as soon as he can get his men in position.’
‘But sir, the Ninth …’
‘I will not stand idly by and watch those animals burn three hundred of my men.’ The aides flinched at the savagery in Agricola’s voice. He reflected for a moment, struggling to control his emotions. ‘When we take Mona there will be no prisoners. I will hunt down every man, woman and child on that island if it takes until next winter. Men will talk of the Druids’ Isle as a desert populated by nothing but bleached bones.’
LI
Two guards shared a raised platform by the compound gate. Valerius could just make them out in the dim light of a fire where two others huddled outside a thatched hut. He guessed the rest must be asleep inside. The attentions of the men on the platform were concentrated inside the wooden palisade. Clearly they were more concerned about escape than rescue. The two by the fire were stout greybeards, but the silhouettes on the platform had the spareness of youth.
Valerius crouched among the trees thirty or forty paces from the gate and a little way to the south. Didius Gallus, Aurelius and the Pannonians formed a rough line along the edge of the wood. A well-trodden path
ran past the northern wall of the stockade and cut through the wood, providing ready access to the coast about a mile away. Felix and his men were stationed on the far side of the path in a similar formation.
Valerius’s hand went to his sword as he became aware of a presence at his side.
‘Nervous tonight, lord?’ Rufus whispered.
Valerius relaxed. He’d sent the little scout to check for any sign of Ordovice warriors nearby. Their camps were scattered over the island and their presence or otherwise was something he had to take into account. ‘Fifty rough shelters a little way north,’ Rufus reported. ‘But judging by their leavings they haven’t been there for days.’
The men on the platform were the problem. They could rush the pair by the hut and kill them and those inside before they could react, but, for all their attention was on the stockade, the two men at the gate remained alert. All it would take was one shout and they’d have a pitched battle on their hands, which was the last thing Valerius wanted. Quick and quiet with no survivors to rush off and raise the country against them.
‘We’ll use the hut as a shield and come at them from the flank,’ he said into Rufus’s ear. ‘Pass the word to Felix.’ Before the little man could move they heard a shout from one of the men on the platform. When Valerius looked he was pointing east and the two men beside the fire were on their feet staring at the sky behind Valerius.
‘What’s happening?’ Rufus whispered.
‘I don’t know, but tell the others to be ready.’
He glanced over his shoulder and saw that between the skeletal upper branches of the beech trees the sky had turned a flickering orange pink. The men outside the hut had been joined by six others. After a brief conversation they picked up spears from a stand by the doorway and moved in a bunch towards the path.
The glow provided just enough visibility to follow their progress. Valerius held his breath. Not yet. He reached out to touch Sido, on his right, on the shoulder. The Pannonian turned to him and Valerius showed two fingers of his left hand and pointed towards the platform. Sido grinned and repeated the signal to Runoz. Wait. The eight men were opposite him now. He could only pray that Felix hadn’t gone to sleep. Wait. He gave them another five or six paces so he was in the blind spot to their rear and on their right flank. His sword was in his hand, though he’d no memory of drawing it, and he moved silently out of the trees with Gallus and Aurelius at his side. The first Ordovice felt a hammer blow on his neck and he was still wondering what had happened as he hit the ground, dead. Valerius flicked the blood from his spatha and bore down on his next victim. Aurelius had already killed his man, but the Ordovice’s dying shriek alerted his companions. Gallus ran the first through as he tried to turn, but the three still faced five spearmen. If they’d attacked immediately the Celts would have overwhelmed their enemy by sheer weight of numbers. They were veterans of war, old, grey and scarred, but they’d been taken by surprise; three of their number were already dead, and judging by the screams from the direction of the compound more were dying now. So they hesitated, advancing tentatively with spears outstretched, the leaf-shaped iron points seeking out a weakness in the armoured trio who confronted them. At last. With a savage roar, Felix and his men charged from the forest at their back. Valerius took advantage of his opponent’s distraction to knock the spear aside and reverse his swing so the edge took the Ordovice across the side of the head, smashing bone and cartilage and leaving brain matter oozing from the wound. Aurelius and Didius Gallus doubled up on another man and he went down with his guts spilling in the dirt. A flurry of violence and two cries of agony as Felix, Aper, Paulus and Maternus combined to finish two others. The last spearman dropped his weapon and ran for the trees. Valerius cursed, but the Ordovice had only taken four steps before he went down like a poleaxed bull with one of the lethal Pannonian throwing darts in his spine.
Sido ran to recover his weapon. Runoz was gleefully cutting the throats of the two gate guards who’d fallen to another pair of darts. In the meantime, Rufus finished off the man whose skull Valerius had smashed.
Valerius was already on his way to the gate. Two men pulled back the oak bar and threw open the double doors and he marched inside. Four huts stood in a half-circle, but even in the dull orange gloom it was clear the rest of the compound was empty. He felt a momentary flare of panic that they were too late. But if the women were gone why would the stockade be guarded?
He opened his mouth, but before he could call Tabitha’s name a flood of shadowy figures raced from the huts screaming hatred to surround the little group of men. Valerius found himself at the centre of a ring of crude wooden spears aimed at his throat.
A momentary hesitation before a female voice demanded: ‘You’re Romans?’
‘Father!’ A high pitched squeal answered her question as Lucius burst through the crowd of women. ‘I knew you’d come.’
Valerius clasped his son to his body with so much force Lucius cried out. ‘Father, you’re hurting me.’
‘I’m sorry, Lucius.’ Valerius’s vision was blurred and he struggled to speak. ‘I was worried about you.’
Lucius grinned. ‘Mother would never have allowed them to hurt me.’
Valerius looked up and the women parted to reveal Tabitha, still armed with one of the warped hazel spears, and Ceris at her side.
‘This is a fine way to welcome your husband,’ he choked.
‘Did you think I would let them take me without a fight?’
‘Never.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘Now we get you and your friends off this gods-forsaken island.’
While the women gathered what few possessions they’d been allowed for their comfort, Valerius sent Rufus back to the ring of stones to check if Shabolz and the others had returned. The druids’ prisoners were at various stages of pregnancy and it took time to marshal them into a straggling column. When they were ready to set off Tabitha took her place at Valerius’s side. ‘You make it sound easy.’
‘The first rule of leadership.’ He smiled gravely as they entered the woods. ‘Never show weakness. But in truth we’re a long way from out of this yet.’
‘They will send for us,’ she pointed out. ‘Perhaps they already have.’
‘That’s why we’re avoiding the path.’
‘And they’ll search for us,’ she persisted.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘And if they find us we will fight them.’
She turned to face him. ‘Promise me you will not let them take us alive, Valerius.’ He avoided her eyes, but she persisted. ‘Promise me. I will not die for the entertainment of these savages.’
‘Very well,’ he said gruffly. ‘You have my word. But it will not come to that.’
The unearthly light from the fires provided just enough visibility for them to make reasonable progress. Didius Gallus marched at the head of the column with Lucius. He’d given the boy his helmet and the metal helm wobbled on his head as he tried to keep step with the young cavalryman. They were so happy to be reunited neither noticed the shadow move in the bushes.
Cadwal’s suspicions had been aroused by the premature lighting of the fire trenches and he’d raced to check that the Roman women had been prepared for sacrifice. He arrived as Valerius was emerging with the freed prisoners and was faced with the choice of staying with them or returning to the coast to raise the alarm. He’d chosen to stay. Now, as the young Roman and the boy became separated from the main body, he saw his chance.
Didius Gallus was grinning at something Lucius had said when the Ordovice champion rose silently from the undergrowth and thrust his spear into the cavalryman’s body. Such was the enormous force behind the blow that the point penetrated the metal rings of his chain armour and the leather jerkin beneath to bury itself deep in his vitals. Before Valerius could react to the cavalryman’s cry of mortal agony Cadwal dropped the spear and wrapped his massive left arm around Lucius’s chest. A dagger appeared in his right hand and he held the razor edge
against the boy’s throat.
‘Drop your swords.’ Surprisingly, the order was given in a guttural but comprehensible Latin.
Valerius exchanged a glance with Tabitha and placed his blade on the ground. Her face was grey with fear, but her fists were clenched and he willed her not to rush the hulking warrior.
‘If you harm the boy all you will achieve is your own death.’ He filled his voice with reason and calm, praying the tone would persuade the Ordovice giant to stay his hand. The man only stared at him. A moment later Valerius saw the focus of his eyes shift and sensed motion at the periphery of his vision. ‘No,’ he whispered.
Tabitha walked steadily towards the bear-like figure holding her son.
‘All you’ll do is get both of you killed,’ Valerius pleaded. But Tabitha’s stride never faltered.
Cadwal smiled.
Valerius barely registered the blur of motion behind the big Celt. How Ceris had managed to come within range without being noticed he would never understand, but now she launched herself from the bushes like a wildcat on to Cadwal’s back. Her left arm wrapped around the bull neck at the same time as her right fist pounded at the matted hair on the top of his head. It was an act of incredible courage, but Valerius raged inwardly at the ineffectual, futile assault that meant certain death for his son. It was only when he heard Cadwal’s agonized howl and the Celt dropped Lucius to the ground that he understood there was more to the attack than he’d realized. A glint of metal confirmed the small knife in Ceris’s fist as every frenetic blow added another bone-shattering puncture to the Ordovice champion’s skull. Cadwal clawed desperately at the arm around his throat, but he was already dying, his face a mask of blood and the eyes turning up in his head. With a final despairing cry he toppled on to his face like a falling tree, almost crushing Lucius beneath his body. Tabitha ran to her son and wrapped him in her arms.
Didius Gallus lay on his side, his body shuddering with the agony of the great metal spear point embedded deep in his belly. By the time Valerius reached him his face already wore the familiar parchment-grey pallor of death. He clutched the dying boy’s hand in his and Gallus gripped his fingers with a fierce strength. ‘Tell my father …’
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 42