‘Didius,’ Tabitha whispered.
Valerius shook his head. ‘He’s gone.’
LII
Some of the women needed assistance over the rough ground between the woods and the ancient stone circle and it took longer than Valerius had bargained for to reach the meeting place. By the time they reached the stones, Rufus had been joined by Shabolz, Nilus and Crescens, but Valerius’s heart sank as he saw other faces were missing. Shabolz saw Valerius’s enquiring look. ‘Bato was taken,’ he said quietly. ‘They threw him into the fire pit with some auxiliary prisoners. We’ve seen no sign of Hilario and Candidus.’
‘We’ll give them until the women are rested,’ Valerius said. ‘Share out what food and drink we have.’
‘Perhaps it would be safer to find somewhere we can defend?’ Felix offered. ‘On the march we’re tied to the speed of the slowest and strung out in the open.’ He nodded to where Tabitha comforted Lucius. ‘If we’re discovered it would be a slaughter.’
Valerius looked from his wife to the huddled groups of women sheltering among the stones. ‘We don’t have enough swords. It would be a slaughter wherever they found us. Better to be on the move. If we can reach the coast the Ninth will be attacking in less than an hour. I won’t stand by and watch my men fight and die from the safety of some hill.’
‘The Ninth have already crossed, lord,’ Crescens said.
‘You’re sure? The camp prefect was meant to wait until dawn.’
‘We heard the sound of a battle to the south after we slipped away from the fire pit.’
Valerius exchanged a startled glance with Felix. ‘If it’s true we can reach them in less than an hour.’ At last the light from the fire pits was dying, but the jagged peaks of the mountain range on the eastern horizon were silhouetted against the fast approaching dawn.
‘Rufus?’
‘Yes, lord?’ The little man led his horse over.
‘Take Shabolz and see if you can scout us a safe route to the Ninth. With Fortuna’s favour the Ordovices will be too busy fighting them off to bother with us, but mark any defensible position along the way in case they aren’t.’
They walked their horses, with Lucius and the least able of the women perched in the saddles, and using the animals to form a protective barrier on the flanks of the rest. Tabitha walked among them, chivvying and encouraging the exhausted women.
Valerius reckoned the distance to the coast from the standing stones at just over a mile. They must have been close to halfway when Rufus returned at a canter.
‘We’re clear to the top of the rise,’ the scout announced. ‘Shabolz will signal if there are any surprises. The Ninth have landed in force a little to the south, lord. You can see them from the ridge. It looks as if the Celts are too weak to hold them and are retreating up the coast.’
Valerius plucked Lucius from the saddle and handed him to Nilus. ‘Look after him,’ he said, as Tabitha approached. ‘It seems your adventures may soon be over, lady.’
‘Be careful, Valerius.’
He waved a salute and followed Rufus towards the slope. They reined in and dismounted before the crest. When they slipped over the rise Valerius studied the broad swathe of open ground that fell away gently towards the strait. The land was dotted with the occasional patchwork of woods or a cluster of fields around a small farm. ‘Has anything changed?’ Rufus called to Shabolz, who stood beside a clump of scrubby trees close by.
‘The Ninth has them on the run,’ the Pannonian said cheerfully. ‘See.’ He directed Valerius’s attention to an untidy, straggling column of men streaming northwards in apparent disarray. Beyond them Valerius could make out the unmistakable sight of a legion in battle formation, cohorts marching in square with auxiliaries providing a protective screen and cavalry on the flanks. ‘There don’t seem to be many of them.’ Shabolz meant the Celts. ‘It looks as if they’ve kept their main strength in the north.’
‘All we have to do is stay out of trouble for an hour.’ Valerius felt a surge of relief. ‘The camp prefect is bound to send out patrols to check his flanks. I’m surprised we haven’t already seen them.’
But Rufus’s sharp eyes had noticed something neither of the others had seen. ‘On the right, below us,’ he said. ‘That stream bed.’
Valerius followed his pointing finger. At last he found a shallow gully screened by bushes and the hundred or so men crouching below the banks. Not hiding. Waiting. His eyes went back to the advancing Romans. In a pitched battle the Ninth’s eagle would be carried at the centre of one of the cohorts, protected by almost five hundred men, but Naso was apparently so confident of victory he’d kept Honoratus, the aquilifer, and his eight-man guard with the command group. They were marching in the midst of the advancing cohorts, but Valerius could see the legion would soon have to divide to pass the gully. The Ninth’s eagle would be at the mercy of the Ordovice ambushers.
‘Tell the decurion to leave two men to look after the lady Tabitha and the others and bring the rest here as quickly as he can,’ he said to Shabolz. The Pannonian mounted and galloped off down the slope. ‘Can we get there in time?’ The question was as much for himself as it was for Rufus.
‘You plan to attack a hundred men with thirteen?’ Rufus didn’t bother to hide his incredulity.
‘Thirteen cavalrymen against a hundred infantry.’ Valerius used the time to check the bindings on his saddle. ‘And if you can put us in the right place we’ll have the element of surprise.’
‘You never mentioned that campaigning with you was just one long invitation to commit suicide.’
‘Think of it as one long opportunity for glory.’ Valerius returned his grin. ‘The glory of Rome.’
‘The glory of Rome?’ Rufus laughed. ‘You mean I’ll end up in a marble tomb with my name on it?’
‘I guarantee it.’
Before Rufus could reply Felix galloped up with the others. The decurion halted by Valerius’s mount and handed his reins to Julius Crescens. Valerius waved him forward.
‘Thank all the gods for that,’ Felix breathed as he saw the advancing legion.
‘But we have a problem.’ Valerius pointed out the waiting ambush and Felix cursed. ‘The question is how we reach them without being seen.’
‘The bushes that screen them from the legion will also screen us from them,’ Rufus pointed out. ‘If we cross the crest a little to the north we should be able to surprise them. The Celts down on the plain might see us, but they’ll probably die laughing when they see how few we are.’
‘He has a point,’ Felix said.
‘I won’t let them take the eagle.’
‘Then how?’
‘We’ll flank them. We can get into the stream bed there.’ He pointed to a brown gash where the steep bank had collapsed a few hundred paces to the north of the waiting men. ‘They’re packed in like olives in a jar. When a dozen horses come galloping up that gully they won’t know what hit them. Think of it as your chance for immortality.’
Rufus gave him a sideways grin and Felix blew out a puff of breath. ‘A chance for an Ordovice spear up my arse more like,’ he said with more resignation than regret. ‘At your orders, legate.’
‘Now is as good a time as any.’ Valerius led them back to the horses.
They took it slowly, riding in a wide arc that took them in the opposite direction from the stream bed. They saw no one as they mounted the crest and cantered towards the plain, but once on the flat they encountered groups of Ordovice warriors who watched them warily but didn’t interfere with their passage. Valerius commented on their lack of belligerence and it was Rufus who came up with an answer.
‘If you ask me these are the same warriors we came up against three or four days ago. They know what Roman cavalry and infantry combined are capable of and the last thing they want is to be delayed here and chewed up when the legionary cohorts reach us. They’re still brave and they’ll stand well enough shoulder to shoulder with ten thousand of their painted brethren, but for
now they’re content to leave us alone.’
He led them south until they came to a stream. To Valerius it looked much like any other, but Rufus was certain they were in the right place. They dropped the few feet into the gully and turned left. The water was low, with only the occasional deeper pool, but the rocks proved round and slippery, jutting from the water like so many polished skulls. Valerius heard muttering as hooves skidded noisily on the slick granite and horses almost unseated their riders, but he concentrated on the ground ahead. Water from his mount’s hooves splashed in great droplets on his face and he dashed it from his eyes. He tried to gauge his position from the view they’d had from above. Four hundred paces? Three? What did it matter? He risked increasing his pace from a trot to a canter and the others stayed with him. The horses must have felt the excitement of their riders because they tossed their heads and would have bolted had the men not curbed them with sharp tugs on the reins. On and on along the gully, three abreast, with the tree branches brushing their heads. They must be close now. Valerius heard the skitter of hooves and a massive splash from behind, but his mind was focused entirely on the next corner. He drew his spatha.
His first impression was of a line of astonished, disbelieving faces when the big horses surged into view. They crouched in rows beneath the left bank waiting for the cry that would take them like a dagger into the heart of the Ninth. Every man was a seasoned Ordovice warrior armed with a spear or an axe and if they formed a defensive line Valerius and his little band of troopers were doomed. But the shattering sight of Roman cavalry on their flank froze the Celts in place. It was like a blacksmith’s hammer striking a row of children’s figures.
Valerius’s horse battered two men aside before they could bring their spears to bear and his sword chopped down to kill a third. Most sought sanctuary by scrambling up the bank; others fled in panic along the river bed where their exposed backs were an invitation to Valerius’s charging cavalry. The few who tried to make a stand were cut down where they stood, their blood mingling in the sluggish waters of the little stream.
Quintus Naso had been astonished at how easy it had been. Two full cohorts of the Ninth crossed unopposed before the Celts reacted. The enemy defences were concentrated behind the southern fire trench and their right flank was an open invitation of which Canalius, the primus pilus, had taken full advantage. They were also fewer in number than Naso expected, a mere blocking force who melted away as soon as they came under pressure. Some even surrendered, but when the first blackened corpses had been brought to him from the fire trench he ordered them executed and no further prisoners taken. The only thing troubling him was whether to continue his advance or consolidate his position. He had crossed earlier than Agricola anticipated and the Twentieth weren’t due to embark for another hour, which left the Ninth exposed …
The first he knew of the potential ambush was when a stream of warriors erupted like flushed partridges from the stunted trees ahead and raced across his front. A trumpet call rang out as his auxiliary cavalry sighted the fleeing men and gave chase, whooping as they rode. Within minutes not an Ordovice lived and crumpled bodies scattered the plain.
‘Enemy cavalry on the left flank, sir,’ an aide shouted in warning.
Naso turned to follow his pointing finger to where a dozen horsemen emerged from the same bushes that had hidden the running men. ‘The enemy has no cavalry we know of,’ the camp prefect said. There was something familiar about the bearing of the leading rider, who seemed to be accompanied by what looked like a small boy. The cavalryman raised his right hand and Naso felt a surge of relief. ‘Allow them through,’ he ordered with a broad grin. ‘I hope I see you well, legate.’
‘And you, Quintus.’ Naso noticed the blood spattered across his face and left arm. Valerius looked over the massed ranks of legionaries marching past them. ‘Things seem to be going well. I hadn’t thought to see you for another hour.’
‘When they fired the trench it looked like an opportunity.’ Naso waved at the bodies carpeting the plain ahead. ‘I have a feeling you saved us from a nasty surprise.’
‘I think they had designs on our eagle, and perhaps your life.’
Naso’s tanned face turned pale and he looked to where the aquilifer stood nearby, surrounded by his eight guards. ‘Honoratus,’ he called. ‘You will march with the Third cohort from now on.’ Honoratus saluted and trotted off. ‘And now I must return your command to you, legate. It has been an honour and a privilege …’
Valerius put his hand on the other man’s arm and shook his head. ‘This is your victory, Quintus. I relinquished command of the Ninth to you and you hold it until the governor returns it … or otherwise. I am happy to serve under you, but I would beg the loan of a century or two of auxiliaries to escort my wife and fifty other Roman captives to the mainland. They were destined to be sacrificed to the Celts’ gods and are understandably distraught and weary.’
‘Of course.’ Naso turned to an aide. ‘Make sure the legate is given every facility.’ They watched him ride off with Rufus at his side giving directions. ‘So, Valerius,’ the camp prefect continued, ‘if I cannot take your orders, may I seek your counsel?’
Valerius immediately recognized the dilemma facing Naso, and gave his opinion readily. ‘My advice would be to keep them on the run. Their commanders have concentrated the Ordovice defences on the landing beaches. If they have reserves, they’re far away in the west looking out for Agricola’s non-existent navy. At best, you’ll destroy their power entirely before the Twentieth even lands. At worst you will draw part of their strength against you, which is what Agricola planned in the first place. Use all your cavalry to deny them the high ground, there.’ He pointed inland. ‘And sweep them from the plain.’
‘Of course,’ Naso smiled. ‘I’m sure I would have thought of it in time. And now you will want to say farewell to your lady wife.’
Valerius saw the small column coming over the rise to meet the auxiliaries who would escort them to the landing beaches. Valerius nodded his thanks and turned his horse towards them.
He hugged Lucius as he explained the situation to Tabitha. ‘I will be sorry to leave you, Valerius,’ she whispered, ‘but not this dreadful place.’
‘Wait for me in Londinium.’ He took her in his arms, oblivious of Lucius’s snort of disgust. ‘I will come as soon as I am able.’
‘We will not be staying in Britannia?’
‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘It dep—’
‘Lord?’ Rufus indicated two riders approaching. Valerius saw with relief it was the missing Hilario and Candidus. He was about to call a greeting when he noticed the big cavalryman’s evident agitation.
‘The Twentieth are in trouble!’
LIII
Julius Agricola knew he’d made a mistake the moment he had his first proper view of the landing beach. By the time the initial waves of legionaries disembarked the sandy foreshore was filled to capacity. The beach was too narrow to hold more than three thousand men, and his soldiers couldn’t fight their way off the sands because of the fire trenches. Worse, they were helpless targets. Agricola knew from experience the Celts could always call on the occasional archer or slinger at need, but here they were present in their hundreds, perhaps thousands. The legionaries’ big wooden shields, plate armour and iron helmets saved them from the worst of the storm of missiles, but inevitably men would fall with an arrow through the throat or a lead slingshot in the brain. Blood soaked the sand and ran down the beach in little streams until it merged with the gently lapping waves. The governor stood with his senior officers on a floating platform just out of range of the slingers, with a boat to hand to carry them ashore in the event of a breakthrough. Naked, tattooed warriors capered among the trees in the infernal light of the flames, shouting insults. Agricola knew they were attempting to draw a volley of javelins, but he’d decreed the weapons should be hoarded until they were needed most, during the breakout. If they ever achieved a breakout. Every few mome
nts a Celt would run forward to hurl another bundle of pitch-soaked wood into the pit to stoke the fire, causing a great flare of flame that outshone the silvery pre-dawn light. The crackle of burning branches and the screams and jeers and roars of frustration that were the heartbeat of this battle were punctuated every few moments by the hiss of a ballista missile or ‘shield-splitter’ passing overhead, to be absorbed ineffectually by the trees. The boats of the third wave milled in confusion just off the shore, carrying another fifteen hundred men who might have made the difference if only he could get them on land. But the only reinforcements who reached the beach were men called forward by their centurions to replace the fallen, who were dumped unceremoniously in the shallows to make room.
‘Have four centuries attempt the flanks again using testudo,’ he ordered Julius Ursus, commander of the Twentieth. The legionaries could form testudo in their sleep, but Agricola registered a glance of disdain, or perhaps something worse, from the legate.
‘They’ve blocked the exits with some kind of abatis designed to break up the testudo as soon as it tries to cross it,’ he said. ‘All we’ll do is take more casualties. Even if they cross the obstruction they’ll still have to climb a sheer thirty-foot cliff under missile attack.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Agricola said through gritted teeth, ‘I insist we try. We did not come here to sit on the beach collecting seashells.’
Ursus shot him a glance of pure hatred, but he called for an aide and relayed the order.
Agricola ignored him, but inwardly he raged at the knowledge that he’d chosen this landing place for precisely the characteristics that were frustrating his plans. The terrain on the far side was such that the defenders could only oppose the attack with an equal number of warriors as the attackers. Man for man a Roman legionary was worth any three barbarians. If everything had gone as he’d hoped the Ordovices would be sucked into the battle by their own enthusiasm, to die in their thousands on the point of the deadly Roman short swords. The greatest barrier he’d believed he’d face was the piles of their dead.
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 43