Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8)

by Douglas Jackson

  Yet he couldn’t reach them. That inferno of a trench, which stretched the entire length of the beach, might burn for hours, and was too wide for the most agile soldier to leap in full armour. Every time he saw a man fall he was reminded that Roman ingenuity could have overcome this barrier with ease if he hadn’t been stung into premature action by the screams of the burning auxiliaries. Back on the mainland his engineers were working frantically to create wood and wicker bridges that would allow the legionaries to pour across once the flames died down, but they wouldn’t be ready in sufficient numbers until the sixth hour at the earliest.

  A great roar went up from the shore and in the light of the flames he saw a pair of testudines jogging from the mass of milling men towards each flank. From here the interlocking shields appeared impregnable, but that failed to take into account the man who’d designed the formidable barriers of felled tree trunks, banks of thorns and sharpened stakes they’d have to cross. The defenders had arranged them in such a fashion that from the moment they tried to mount the barrier the men in the testudines were forced apart like the tiles of a marble mosaic in an earthquake. Cohesion was the key to the testudo and without that cohesion the men were vulnerable to the missiles that poured into them from the flank and the massive boulders showering them from the clifftop. Agricola saw first one testudo disintegrate, then a second, the men crumpling or falling back.

  He was so focused on the attack that he didn’t see the messenger who arrived by boat from the mainland. Ursus accepted the scroll and studied the text in the dull light through narrowed eyes. ‘Perhaps we should consider withdrawal,’ he said. Agricola’s hand shook as he accepted the parchment. ‘A lamp here for the governor,’ Ursus growled.

  Agricola felt an icy hand grip his stomach as he read: Gaius Quintus Naso, acting commander Ninth legion Hispana, greets Gnaeus Julius Agricola, proconsul, and begs to report that the Ninth legion crossed the strait in force an hour before dawn, my legion’s landing was unopposed and I am consolidating my position while I await orders.

  ‘If we withdraw now and leave a token force to hold the barbarians in place we can force march to the southern crossing in an hour or two and capitalize on Naso’s success,’ Ursus persisted.

  Agricola crumpled the parchment in his hand. ‘Do you really believe Julius Agricola will allow men to say an upstart temporary commander and the Ninth legion took Mona? No, the Ninth’s partial success will achieve what I always intended. They will draw defenders away from the Twentieth and you will take this beach. Do you understand, legate?’

  Ursus couldn’t bring himself to speak. He answered with a curt nod.

  ‘Have the engineers send forward what temporary bridges they’ve constructed. And buckets. If the men can’t fight they can form chains to damp the flames. Do I have to think of everything?’ Agricola snarled at his aides.

  ‘There’s no point in using the bridges in ones and twos.’ Ursus risked more criticism. ‘We need to attack them in a hundred places. Two hundred.’ He decided it wasn’t worth pointing out that a few buckets of water wouldn’t have the slightest impact on the inferno in the trench.

  An hour later he watched in silence as he was proved right. The engineers had managed to supply ten or fifteen wood and wattle platforms of sufficient scale to bridge the fire pit. Teams of twenty legionaries rushed forward, raised them upright and used ropes to lower them into position. The Ordovices defended the bridgeheads by the simple expedient of sending groups of warriors forward to hurl pitch-soaked bundles where the bridge would fall. One by one they were consumed in columns of flame. A few legionaries, as always the bravest and the best, managed to cross, only to be slaughtered on the far side, and a few more burned to death when the bridges inevitably collapsed. The Ordovices died in their scores, because Agricola had ordered the attacks to be covered by javelin throwers, but Ursus had the feeling they were content with their sacrifice.

  ‘We will try again.’ Ursus decided that Agricola sounded like a child whose puppy had pissed on his best sandals.

  Gwlym listened to Bedwr’s exaggerated description of the Twentieth legion’s agony and felt a flare of exultation. Despite the early ignition of the fire trenches everything was going to plan. The Romans had managed to land less than half their force and they were dying by the dozen with every passing moment. Soon he would send his warriors to push them back into the sea, there to be consumed by the next riptide. But first they must be driven to the very brink of madness and despair. It was time to appease the Mother Goddess.

  ‘Where are the Roman harlots?’

  ‘They have been sent for, arch-druid.’

  ‘Then send for them again. I want to hear them screaming.’

  He focused on the noise of the battle below, taking satisfaction from the shrieks of the dying and the increasingly audible frustration of the Roman soldiers. It was the sound of impending victory. The first rallying cry in the great rebellion that would drive the red filth from the shores of Elfydd. He found the thought mesmerizing and it took time to realize that a frantic whispered conversation was taking place nearby.

  ‘What is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘Bedwr is receiving news, arch-druid,’ Aymer told him. Gwlym sensed he was forcing himself to keep his voice steady, but to the druid’s sensitive ears it held a shrill edge of concern close to panic.

  ‘Bedwr,’ he snapped.

  ‘Yes, arch-druid?’

  Gwlym felt his heart thunder in his chest and it was a moment before he understood why. ‘The women. Where are the women?’

  ‘They …’ Bedwr sounded as if he was choking on the words. ‘They … are missing.’

  ‘Missing,’ Gwlym shrieked. ‘How can they be missing? They were guarded. I ordered that no man come near them. Cadwal …’

  ‘Cadwal is dead.’

  Gwlym flew at the source of the disastrous news, his long nails searching for Bedwr’s eyes as the druid mewled in terror. Strong arms pulled Gwlym away. ‘You will pay for this with your soul, Bedwr Ap Ban,’ Gwlym shrieked.

  ‘There is more, arch-druid,’ Aymer whispered. ‘The Romans bypassed the southern fire trench and Madog’s men were taken by surprise. He says he is withdrawing until he finds a place to defend. He is confident he can hold the enemy if you send him Tudfic’s warriors to fight at his side.’

  ‘The Romans came for their women? How? How could they have known?’

  ‘No one knows, arch-druid. It was as if they were ghosts.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Perhaps thirty.’

  ‘Not those who took the women,’ the arch-druid screamed. ‘The others.’

  ‘Madog says five thousand infantry and a few cavalry.’

  ‘I gave Madog eight thousand men.’

  ‘Madog was with Owain Lawhir on the ridge,’ Aymer said carefully. ‘He has seen the Romans fight.’

  ‘So have I,’ Gwlym spat. But he knew the only way to put some spirit back into Madog was to give him more men. ‘We have two thousand men in reserve at Pencerrig. Tudfic will lead them.’

  ‘But they are needed here. Our men are already tiring.’

  Gwlym ignored the desperation in Aymer’s voice. ‘Madog must do more than hold the Romans – he must defeat them. When he has done that they will return here and help Dafyd drive the Romans into the sea. Have Tudfic come to me for instructions.’

  The tall young warrior appeared a few minutes later. Tudfic snorted when he heard about Madog’s incompetence and his nervous retreat. He had been on Mona since the raid on Canovium and his head was still filled with the victory. Yet stories of the battle on the ridge had reached him and they made him uneasy. ‘When you have defeated the Romans you will find the women and bring them to me,’ Gwlym said.

  ‘You may count on me, arch-druid,’ Tudfic assured him. He took his bodyguard to where the Ordovice sub-tribe waited. ‘We are to join Madog and together we will destroy the Romans,’ he assured them.

  But as they marched south, he found his confid
ence wavering. He knew of the importance Gwlym placed on the deaths of the women and the means of it, and it made him uneasy. This was the kind of treatment the Romans would never forget or forgive. They would hunt down and slaughter every man they believed was involved. He called for the head of his personal bodyguard and issued a short instruction. A little later a messenger arrived urging him to return for fresh orders.

  Tudfic delegated responsibility to a tribal elder and told him to carry on until he met Madog’s warriors. ‘I will join you soon,’ he assured him. Then he took his bodyguard and marched west to the settlement where Gwlym had insisted the women of his tribe stay during the defence of Mona. From there it was just a short journey to the sheltered bay where his ships waited.

  LIV

  The further north the Ninth marched the more the opposition to their advance stiffened. Clearly someone had learned of the threat to the south and was calling up what reinforcements he could. Little bands of Ordovice warriors appeared from ditches and wooded valleys and launched themselves at Naso’s formations like vengeful wasps. Valerius watched with approval how the camp prefect allowed them to spend themselves against the shields of the legionary cohorts and used his auxiliaries to slaughter them as they retreated exhausted. He felt no need to interfere and would not have done so in any case. This was Naso’s battle and it would be his glory – or defeat. He kept his cohorts in square in broken country that would have destroyed the cohesion of a battle line, and, as Valerius suggested, he used the bulk of his cavalry to dominate the hills on his west flank. The strait would guard the east.

  Madog was no fool and no coward. He knew he was fighting for his survival and that of his tribe. He’d been lulled by Gwlym’s insistence that his eight thousand warriors only had to hold their line behind the fire pit, and it had unnerved him when that strategy proved so disastrous. After the battle on the ridge, the knowledge that the Romans were on their flank panicked his men. It was all he could do to hold them, but hold them he did and now they had recovered some of their confidence. When he heard he was to have another two thousand under Tudfic he decided he could do more than just hold the Romans. After all, he outnumbered them at least two to one. He knew where he would make his stand. It was closer to Gwlym’s position than the arch-druid would like, but the only place he was confident he wouldn’t be outflanked. A low ridge with a river to cover his right wing and a steep, tree-covered slope that fell to the sea on his left. If he calculated correctly his battle line would either outstretch the Romans’ or be two or three ranks heavier. Either case gave him the advantage. When the head of the first of the clans he had been promised appeared he had already begun placing his men. He told the chief his plan and ordered him to take his people and defend the place of honour on the right wing, with his flank against the riverbank. It surprised but didn’t concern him that there was no sign of Tudfic; he would appear soon enough.

  Word came back to Naso and Valerius that the enemy had stopped running and they rode forward to survey the position. ‘Sensible from his point of view,’ Naso said conversationally as they looked up at the endless ranks of warriors lined up at the top of a long, sloping piece of pastureland. He checked the flanks and nodded. ‘Quite clever for a barbarian.’

  ‘Perfect,’ Valerius agreed.

  Naso grinned. ‘We’ll keep it simple, I think.’ He raised his voice so his aides could hear his confidence. ‘Seventh cohort will act as reserve along with the First Tungri. First Pannonia will replace the Seventh in the line. Sound form three ranks and send word to the cavalry to maintain their station until they hear my signal.’

  Valerius called Felix across. ‘No point in having the horses just standing about when there’s work to be done. It’s time you and your lads had a bit of freedom, Cornelius. It can’t have been much fun being tied to me for the last three months. Take them across there,’ he pointed to where the auxiliary cavalry were lined up on the left flank, ‘and attach yourself to a squadron.’ He saw Felix was about to protest. ‘I’ll be safe enough at the centre of the legion. I promise to stay out of trouble.’

  Felix saluted with a grin and rode off shouting orders. Valerius received a couple of curious glances from his troopers. Gaius Rufus hesitated as the others rode off, but Valerius waved the scout away and he turned to join them.

  The cornicen waited long enough for the reserve cohort and its replacement to be given their orders before putting his curved trumpet to his lips and sounding the triple blast that signalled the camp prefect’s chosen formation. With swift choreographed movements, made routine by years of mind-numbing daily practice, the cohort squares flowed into their positions. Soon three unbroken lines filled the broad pastureland from river to sea with a solid wall of painted shields. A roar of defiance rose from the waiting Ordovices at the sight and Valerius heard the harsh, intimidating bray of the carnyx, the distinctive bronze Celtic war trumpet. Individual warriors dashed out from the straggling lines shouting ritual challenges that went unanswered.

  The long lines of waiting legionaries stood silent and motionless, displaying an air of almost unearthly calm. Valerius, in the centre of Naso’s command group, recognized the serenity for the illusion it was. There wasn’t a man in those three ranks whose heart didn’t thunder as if to escape his chest. Centurions would be snarling at men whose only ambition was to get at the enemy and avenge the auxiliaries whose charred bodies they’d watched being dragged from the fire pit. Men would be vomiting on the rough grass. Some would piss themselves, or worse. The moments before battle brought a variety of reactions that had nothing to do with bravery or cowardice. A coward didn’t last long in the legions. What mattered was that the man next to you knew he could depend on you to hold your shield high and locked tight with his. That you would stick your gladius into your enemy’s guts until he put a spear through your throat or cut your aching arm off at the elbow. That you would fight until your last breath and your final heartbeat. Valerius had given many a stirring speech urging men to fight for Rome and their emperor, but the truth was that they fought for each other, a more powerful bond by far. He had been in the enemy’s position and he could almost feel their unease at the stillness of the long, achingly slim Roman lines.

  A single blast rang out and the six cohorts brought their shields up to chest height, braced by the left arm. The pair of heavy pila they clutched in their right hands came to rest on the right shoulder where they couldn’t get tangled with any other piece of equipment. A second blast and they stepped out at a steady unhurried pace over the tussock grass. Centurions craned their necks and growled at their men to keep a straight, unbroken line, using their vine sticks where necessary to reinforce the orders. The lines wove and rippled for a few steps until men found their rhythm and their training overcame any other concerns.

  The two reserve cohorts marched in squares twenty wide and twenty deep, two hundred paces apart and fifty paces behind the fighting line. The spacing was designed to keep them close enough to react to any sudden crisis or supply replacements for casualties at need. Naso’s command group, along with Valerius, rode between them, their elevated position in the saddle providing an uninterrupted view of the field.

  Valerius studied the untidy mass on top of the low hill for signs of movement. The enemy’s best chance of breaking the Roman line was to launch an all-out charge when the first line reached the bottom of the slope. Momentum and the sheer weight of the attack would give them the advantage, but it would be lost if they allowed the legionaries to advance much further. Instead, they stayed in their positions screaming insults and taunts and hurling the occasional missile that usually dropped short of the marching legionaries. By now the centurions would be dispensing their familiar, homely advice. The old mantras rang unbidden in Valerius’s head. ‘Keep your discipline. Don’t rush. Your shield will protect you when you’re in line, but get isolated and you’ll have a spear up your arse before you can blink. Don’t waste your breath shouting insults. A legionary does his talking with a
gladius. Three inches of iron in the right place is worth a foot somewhere else.’

  They were halfway up the long slope and the pace never faltered, legs accustomed to marching fifteen miles a day barely noticing the incline. The Britons became more agitated, the screaming reached a new pitch and more and more men darted threateningly from the line, shaking their spears at the advancing legions.

  ‘Soon,’ Valerius heard Naso whisper. ‘It must be soon.’

  Valerius wanted to assure the camp prefect that everything was going to be all right – Julius Ulpius Canalius and his centurions knew their business and they had their orders – but he kept silent. No point repeating what Naso already knew.

  A new, more powerful rasping challenge from a carnyx, taken up by others all along the Ordovice line. The barbarian warriors charged. One moment they were a shadow stretching across the top of the slope, the next they were a wave pouring down it. Just fifty paces separated them from the advancing Romans. ‘Throw,’ Naso hissed through gritted teeth.

  At thirty paces the sky above the Roman lines darkened as the legionaries launched two thousand weighted javelins into the charging ranks. Valerius was close enough to hear the dull slap as the heavy spears landed and the screams of their victims. From behind it was as if the entire mass tripped. All along the mile-long line men fell with pila piercing chest and throat and skull, rib and thigh, and bringing down others in the ranks behind. Yet the trip was an illusion, because the charge absorbed the missiles without pause and enough Ordovices raced on to collide with the legionary line and throw the front rank back on its heels. A thunderous clash split the air as warriors hammered into the wall of shields. The entire line rippled and bowed, but the ranks behind pushed into those in front and helped soak up the impact. Gradually the line restored its integrity. Then the slaughter began.