The lands of the Iceni had always been his ultimate destination, if he lived long enough, but his relief at reaching his goal was tempered by new concerns. Firstly, Volisios’s apparent foreknowledge of his approach hinted, at best, of over-enthusiasm amongst those he had left tending the smouldering fires of freedom. In one of the villages behind him some Catuvellauni lord had asked the question Who will lead the rising in the east? and come up with the name Volisios. From there, it wasn’t difficult to imagine a messenger being sent to advise the Iceni to prepare a proper welcome for the wandering druid. A breach of security and a concern, but not the disaster it might have been.
No, what truly worried him was the assumption of ownership immediately apparent in Volisios’s every word and gesture. It seemed he was to be the Iceni’s druid and no one else’s and these guards were as much to ensure that as for his own security. He had encountered this situation before, of course; many a lord had looked upon him and seen his own advantage. Even after the years of the Great Silence a druid still had the power to awe. Some coveted him as an ornament to enhance their own standing, others as a weapon to strike fear. He had dealt with them all — but here and now the presumption had the potential to destroy everything he had worked for. As he rocked in the saddle he pondered the dilemma of how to trap the hare without losing the rabbit already in the net.
Dusk fell, and with it came a damp, lung-clogging sea fog. At the same time, the land narrowed to a promontory little wider than the path they travelled. Gwlym peered ahead towards a ghostly wasteland of dangerous, shale-dark waters, evil-smelling bogs and stunted, mossgrown trees. Just as the ground was about to vanish beneath his pony’s hooves, a silent figure rose from nowhere to take the reins. Heart thundering, he turned to his escort, but the men were already riding back the way they’d come, apart from one, who gestured for him to dismount and, once he’d done so, led the pony off into the murk.
A druid knows no fear, he had been taught; where a druid walks, the gods walk at his shoulder. Well, if this wasn’t fear it was something perilously close. The man who was now his only human contact in this dank wilderness was one of the ugliest he had ever set eyes on. Short, but very broad, he wore some kind of primitive garment made of half-cured animal skins. His flat, round face had a large upturned nose, with the nostrils facing forward in a way that reminded him of a pig’s, and slanted eyes with irises of an unnatural translucent blue. When he spoke, his words were mere grunts, but Gwlym realized the man wanted him to follow.
The bulky figure moved off quickly and silently, making no provision for any weakness or hesitation. When he reached the darker area that must be the beginning of the true wetlands, Gwlym expected him to halt, but he plunged on without stopping and, surprisingly, without making any kind of splash. Beneath his feet, hidden by the swamp grass but above the water level, Gwlym found himself traversing a narrow walkway made up of short sections of branch as thick as his upper arm. The branches were linked by lengths of plaited reeds which must have been stronger than they looked, because the path wore the marks of frequent use and had obviously been here for some time.
As far as he could tell, it led east towards the sea, but it turned sharply here and there to avoid deeper pools and the odd stand of skeletal trees, and occasionally a fork would veer off to right or left. They walked in silence, the short man through choice, Gwlym concentrating all his being on the next few paces of precariously narrow pathway to avoid falling into the ooze below. He was sweating heavily now, despite the chill of the night. The air was unnaturally still and the stink of the mud foul. A man careless enough to lose his footing here would drown in minutes. His body would never be found and his soul would wander this dank and desperate place for the rest of time.
They had been travelling for an hour, as near as Gwlym could guess, when the guide halted. He listened carefully, then cupped his hands to his mouth and gave what sounded like the call of a marsh harrier. After the count of five he repeated the call, a harsh screech, followed by a less shrill ‘yick, yick, yick’, which this time brought an immediate echo from the darkness.
As they continued, Gwlym noticed a mysterious muted glow in the mist ahead and the unmistakable sharp clang of metal upon metal. The glow appeared to hang in the air and he assumed it must be on some elevated platform. But, as he approached, he saw they were nearing a low island in the the centre of a sea of fog and that the light was emerging from behind a plaited reed screen erected around the perimeter. Volisios waited where the walkway met the island, a torch in his left hand and a broad smile on his face.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘And my apologies for your inconvenience. As you see, we have prepared for your arrival.’
‘Most ingenious,’ Gwlym acknowledged.
Volisios dismissed the guide and led Gwlym through a gap in the screens to where a dozen forges blazed, each with a smith hammering enthusiastically at a glowing piece of weaponry, either a long, crude sword or a socketed iron spear point. In another area a group of men gathered the completed blades and dipped them into cisterns, where they hissed and spluttered until they cooled; still more fixed the spearheads to shafts or bound leather strips round sword hilts to create crude handgrips.
‘We are safe here, but the Romans patrol the coast and we must be careful not to provoke their interest. In this,’ Volisios fluttered a hand at the fog, ‘you can see nothing beyond a hundred paces. But if we want to work in daylight we have to light the forges before dawn. When the fires reach their heat there’s no smoke, but until then it would betray our position from ten miles away. See here.’ He ushered Gwlym towards one of the huts. Hundreds of swords lay stacked against the walls in bundles of twenty or thirty. ‘I can arm five thousand men with swords and another ten thousand with spears. With you by my side and the validation of the gods I will lead the Iceni against Colonia, tear down the Temple of Claudius stone by stone and slaughter every Roman there.’
The florid red of Volisios’s face grew deeper with each word he spoke and in the orange light of the forges his skin looked almost black. Gwlym could see beads of sweat on his forehead. He understood that Volisios had been manoeuvring for months to replace Prasutagus and had seen a way to strengthen his cause by allying himself with the forces of rebellion. But was that enough?
‘You have done well, Volisios. Better than I could ever have hoped,’ he said artlessly. ‘And when you have burned Colonia, what then? Londinium?’
The Iceni hesitated. It was clear he had not planned beyond the destruction of the Roman colony. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Londinium.’
‘And you will take the city with fifteen thousand men? Londinium is no Colonia. The walls are high and unbroken. The main Roman strength is in the west, but the city’s garrison is still large. And what of the legion at Lindum? Will your men face a full legion?’
‘The tribes of the south will rally to my banner.’
Gwlym blinked. Could the man truly believe that the proud war chieftains of Britain would follow some lord of a trackless swamp? Still, for the moment Volisios was all he had. He allowed himself a show of enthusiasm. ‘You can lead them? The Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni, the Parisi and the Cornovii? I must be sure.’ He stretched out his hands and laid the palms against the sides of the Iceni’s head, at the same time closing his eyes and allowing a deep, bass murmur to resonate from his chest. ‘Yes, I see it. You have the ambition, Lord Volisios, but do you have the fire? Only one with the fire can unleash the wrath of Andraste.’
He removed his hands and stared into the nobleman’s eyes, which were wide with fright. But Volisios had not held the northern Marches of the Iceni for twenty years without a wellspring of courage and resolve.
‘Yes, I have the fire,’ he declared, recovering some of his earlier bluster. ‘I have the fire to ignite the wrath of Andraste.’
Gwlym nodded sternly as if he had no doubt Volisios spoke the truth. ‘When the time comes,’ he said, ‘you and only you will know. Until then, Gwlym druid of Mon
a will be at your side to advise you.’
Volisios’s eyes shone. Gwlym knew the Iceni was seeing not just Colonia and Londinium, but all of south Britain under his thrall. The new Caratacus.
He had sown the seeds of doubt as he intended and he would nurture those seeds as the opportunity arose. But how to bring the hare to the trap?
XXVI
April AD 60
The march west seemed much shorter than seven months before, when the First cohort had made its way towards Colonia under the dank grey clouds of autumn. The very obvious manifestation of spring put a little more bounce in every man’s step. Not even the sixty-pound loads they carried could dent their spirits. Wherever they looked leaves fresh from the bud turned the hedgerows emerald green and buttercups, dandelions and primroses studded the meadows with gold. Each farmer’s field had its flock of newborn lambs jostling playfully for position on the nearest hummock of grass and watched over by a shepherd boy ready to fend off any enterprising fox or buzzard, or passing hungry-eyed legionary.
As they marched through the hills towards Glevum, Valerius heard a familiar bass voice take up the simple cadence of the first verse of the ‘March of Marius’.
There was a Mule, he was no fool,
He had a girl in every fort
Another one in every port In
Allifae she was not shy…’
By the time they reached the Twentieth’s base above the Severn, the Mule had shown much imagination and inventiveness and he’d left a trail of worn-out working girls from one side of the Empire to the other. Lunaris’s voice never let up and he was still going strong. Valerius sang along with the rest.
He barely recognized the fortress as the place he’d left the previous year. Supply trains carried a constant stream of equipment and provisions from the river to a separate temporary encampment protecting the mountain of stores gathered for the campaign ahead. Engineers had constructed a series of double-ditched annexes to house the various auxiliary units who would accompany the Twentieth and the Fourteenth to attack Mona: veteran infantry from Frisia, Batavia and Tungria, a five-hundred-strong wing of Sarmatian light cavalry scouts and another of Raetian bowmen.
Travel-stained and leg-weary, the men of the First cohort gathered on the parade ground to say farewell to their tribune. Valerius had never seen a unit more battle-ready or eager. Brick red, dust-coated faces grinned at him from below their polished helmets, and dark patches of sweat stained their tunics, but every man was honed whip thin and tough as seasoned saddle leather. War held no illusions for them but they had had enough of mending roads and mock fights. He felt a wasp sting of guilt at the knowledge he wouldn’t be going to Mona and worse when they cheered him to a man as he dismissed them.
‘Good luck, Julius. Look after them,’ he said to the centurion. ‘I’ll announce our arrival at the principia, and after that, who knows?’
‘There’s a pretty whore called Thalia in the brothel up by the gate on the Prata Flaminia. Say hello to her for me and give her a big kiss, or something else.’ Julius laughed and took him by the arm, looking up into the young-old face with the wary fighter’s eyes. ‘I can’t imagine you in a law court, Valerius, but you’ll scare the life out of the opposition.’
Afterwards Valerius reported to the legate on the status and condition of his men. He was pleased by the general’s reaction.
‘I know, I watched them march in. They are a credit to you and their officers. They’ll have plenty of time to rest. The Fourteenth sets off in a week from their base at Viroconium. It will take a month to force a way through the mountains. We go in after that. That’s when the First cohort will be needed. When we reach Mona.’
Valerius nodded his thanks and turned to the request that had been dominating his thoughts for the final five miles of the march. ‘I would like to ask for a meeting with the governor, sir.’
Livius pursed his lips and tutted. ‘You won’t change his mind, Valerius. He won’t keep you in Britain.’
‘I don’t expect him to, sir. It’s another matter.’ He knew he could ask the legate to pass on the information supplied by Cearan, but there was no guarantee it would reach the governor. He owed it to the Iceni to argue the case himself.
‘Very well, I’ll arrange it, but I warn you he’s in a dangerous mood. He heard this morning that Corbulo heaps success upon success in Armenia. The governor’s future rests on this campaign and the Emperor is impatient for victory. It will mean a triumph and a consulship if he wins, but… I hope it’s good news you are bringing him.’
Staff officers and messengers bustled to and from the governor’s headquarters with the regularity of bees supplying a hive. A harassed aide ushered Valerius inside, where he found Paulinus at a plain wooden desk writing unhurriedly in confident strokes across a piece of parchment. It was undoubtedly an important report; normal orders would be issued on the wax writing block at his right hand and transcribed by clerks. Valerius felt the first flutter of nerves. This man had the power of life and death over every soldier and civilian in the province, and he was a man to be feared.
In the silence he considered what he knew of the governor. Paulinus had spent his first campaigning season in Britain in the south-west, annihilating the last remnants of resistance from the Dumnonii and their Durotrige allies in the rugged peninsula where they had fled the swords of the Second legion. The governor counted it a great success, reaping the double benefit of guaranteeing Rome the tin it needed and spreading word of the new total war he had brought to these shores. Every king, prince or warrior who resisted was butchered. Only widows and orphans survived to wail their funeral songs and spread the tale of his coming.
Paulinus had plotted and conspired to win his position as governor, but he hated this island and he despised its people. He combined a hard, unbending and utterly ruthless character with a forensic intelligence. He was also a brilliant soldier who had been the first Roman general to fight his way across the Atlas mountains.
A sharp scrape announced he had completed his correspondence. Valerius drew himself up to his full height. The shaven head lifted and he found himself being studied by two flat, basilisk eyes squinting from beneath a heavy brow. Paulinus maintained his gaze for a full minute, as if he was trying to define what species of life form had dared interrupt him. Valerius felt the first prickle of sweat in his scalp.
‘I am told you have important news for me?’ The voice was as rough-edged as the face it emerged from, the accent from somewhere to the south of Rome.
Valerius repeated what Cearan had told him about the likelihood of political upheaval among the Iceni when King Prasutagus died, the clandestine meetings in the woods and his certainty that druids were spreading poison among his people.
When he had finished the governor snorted impatiently. ‘So, in short, I am expected to endorse the claim of this woman, this Boudicca, over other worthy candidates on the word of some barbarian opportunist.’
Valerius took a deep breath. ‘Sir, it is my opinion that Lord Cearan is a man to be trusted. If he has concerns, then I think we should also have concerns.’
The pebble eyes glowered in surprise.
‘You would give me advice? Young man, I have so much advice that I am forced to sit at this table twelve hours a day considering it. The Emperor advises me how to squeeze more profit out of this benighted province. My officers advise me their forces are not strong enough yet to take the Druids’ Isle. My priests advise me that it is a fine day — as if I cannot see that for myself. And my doctor advises me that if I don’t calm down my piles will burst.’
Paulinus slapped his palm on the table hard enough to make stylus and scroll airborne.
‘Everything you say assumes that these Iceni seek a war. They would not be so foolish. I would wipe this country so clean of any rebellious vermin that neither their children nor their children’s children would pose a threat to any Roman again.’
Valerius suppressed a soldier’s instinct to keep his mouth shut
and used his lawyer’s experience to place a doubt where it would do most good. ‘Perhaps we underestimate them, sir,’ he said, thinking of the hate-filled eyes of the mourners at Lucullus’s funeral.
Paulinus stared at him. Lowly tribunes did not answer back to their commander in chief, but then perhaps this tribune was not so lowly. He cast his mind back in an attempt to fathom what political leverage Valerius might have that made him so brave. It did not occur to him that someone might be brave for its own sake. The family Valerii had once wielded influence on the Palatine; perhaps they would wield it again, and one day that influence might be useful to him. Very well, he would humour the boy.
‘I underestimate nothing. The eastern tribes are a toothless, leaderless rabble. Their kings have taken our gold and eat off our plates. The warriors sit in the shade and watch their women plant seeds all day, and they drink beer all night. Their swords are rusted to an edge that would not cut grass, oxen pull their chariots and they use their shields to water their cattle. Am I to fear them? Does Colonia fear them?’ He thought for a moment. ‘King Prasutagus still lives. I will consider his queen’s case if and when he dies, but it must wait until my return.’
‘And the druids?’
‘If what this Cearan claims is true there would already have been attacks. It is always the way. We old men counsel patience, but the young hotheads cannot keep their swords sheathed. No. Even if a few druids are spreading poison, their work is at an early stage. They are no danger yet.’
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