The Horse Coin

by David Wishart

  The bugler saluted smartly. Then, setting his bugle down carefully against the pillar, he drew his sword and went down the steps.

  There was not much time left, but it would be enough, barely. Aper walked over to where Ursina and Sulicena stood waiting by the temple doors and hugged them. The old woman was crying, but she held herself erect as his sword took her in the chest. Ursina did not flinch either; he had not expected her to. He made sure both women were dead and checked that the doors were securely barred from within. Those inside could hold out for another day, perhaps more, depending on how long the men on the roof could keep the Britons at bay. Even although their arrows and slingshot were exhausted, there would still be plenty of tiles to throw.

  After that...

  After that. Aye well; there was no point dwelling on it. As Radix had said, it comes to us all.

  He went down the steps to join the battle.

  Two hundred yards to the south, outside the still-intact barricade, Brocomaglos lay where he had fallen in the first attack, stretched across a hurdle with a javelin in his throat.

  37

  Severinus was in a vast dimly-lit room with stone walls and a high ceiling. In front of him a grandmother whose jaws were no more than gums was hugging a teenage girl. On one side of her a young mother was suckling a baby, and on the other a dark-skinned woman with a squint clutched a wide-eyed toddler. He could feel their fear, as close and stifling as the air in the room itself.

  He looked round. The room was filled with people. There were hundreds of them, packed together shoulder to shoulder, girls, mothers, elderly matrons...

  Jupiter, they're all women! he thought. Women and children!

  From the ceiling directly above him came a bumping, scraping noise as if workmen were busy on the roof. As he listened, the noise changed to the dull thud of axes on wood. The toddler whimpered, burying his face in his mother's shoulder, and the old woman broke into a keening moan, rocking back and forwards on her thin buttocks. All at once a hole opened in one of the ceiling panels. A shaft of sunlight lanced down, bringing with it a shower of debris. As Severinus watched, horrified, a massive roof tile fell lazily through the thirty feet that separated ceiling and floor and struck the middle-aged woman sitting directly beneath, smashing her skull.

  The hole widened, letting in more sunlight, and the debris increased in volume. Other gaps were opening. Severinus tried to get up but found he could only move his head. Turning round as far as he could, he found himself staring into the blank eyes of a massive bronze statue. A cold finger touched his spine. Mothers! he thought. This is the Colony! I'm in Claudius's temple in the Colony!

  What was happening? What the hell was happening?

  Light was pouring in now through the shattered roof and people were screaming in panic, clambering over each other to reach the comparative safety of the walls. The rain of single tiles and roof-boards had given way to huge wooden beams that crushed whole bodies beneath them.

  Why don't they get out? Severinus thought, close to panic himself. There must be a door, surely!

  Around the edges of the holes figures were moving, black against the light. He caught snatches of raised voices and laughter. The rain of debris became one of brushwood and dry branches, wattle screens, scaffolding poles, broken hurdles, cement hods and smashed boarding. Wood; always wood, falling in heaps and load upon load, until it reached a quarter of the way up the walls. The temple floor-space was a tangled chaos of timber among which women and children struggled and screamed.

  Then the torches came.

  Sweet immortal gods! They're burning us alive!

  The torches arced down like meteors. Their flames caught on the dry brushwood and the air was suddenly filled with choking, lung-hurting smoke and the sickening smell of charred flesh. The screams rose around him until they blanked out every other sound.

  Whatever it was that held him would not let him go. He struggled to break free, fighting the panic that welled up inside him. The flames were all around now, washing over him in an agonising wave. He felt his hair blaze and turn to ash. He screamed, and found himself awake.

  He was sitting bolt upright, his blanket wrapped tightly around his arms and the echo of his own shout echoing in his ears.

  'Mothers!' he whispered, appalled. 'Dear holy Mothers!'

  That had been a nightmare! Easily the worst he had ever had since he was a child.

  If it was a nightmare. Some of the people he had recognised: the toothless grandmother sold pots and pans in the market, and the woman who had been hit by the tile was Fidus the banker's wife. It had been so real. He could still smell the burning flesh and hair. Retching, he untangled himself from the blankets and stumbled towards the tent's entrance.

  He lifted the flap and stood for a long time in the cool of the pre-dawn breeze. The camp was beginning to stir. The cook-fires were already lit, and he could smell flat-cakes kneaded with bacon fat. The men of his cohort were taking turns to shave each other in front of their tents, polishing their armour ready for the morning parade or lounging by the fires tossing dice. All normal, all familiar. He stood until the last vestiges of the nightmare had drained away, then went back inside and washed the sweat from his face and neck with water from the basin his orderly had left the night before.

  The tent was suddenly stifling. For a moment the panic returned, and he knew he had to get out. From the folding table next to the bed he picked up a fresh tunic, a towel and his oil-flask and scraper. He left the tent, walking through the camp to the river at its western edge.

  The river was hardly more than a stream, but where it curved the engineers had dammed it to form a pool fifteen yards wide and five feet deep. The pool would be busy later in the day, in the afternoon when most of the officers and men were off duty, but now it was empty. Severinus stripped off his sweat-sodden tunic and dived in, keeping his head down and letting the force of the dive propel him the width of the pool. Then he turned onto his back and allowed himself to drift.

  To be caught like that, like rats in a trap, and burned to death...

  Jupiter, what was wrong with him? It was only a dream.

  From the direction of the camp's centre, a bugle sounded four notes, repeated. Severinus struggled to his feet. The signal meant Officers to General. Briefing meetings were held every day at mid-morning. A summons now made no sense. Unless...

  The hairs on his neck rose. Quickly, he waded ashore.

  He was almost the last to arrive, and the headquarters tent was already full. Paullinus and his staff, including the tribune Agricola, were grouped behind the folding map table at its centre. Around them, filling the tent to its walls, were the rest of the army's officers.

  Clemens was just inside the door. Severinus edged in beside him.

  'What's going on, Publius?' he said.

  Clemens shook his head and put a finger to his lips.

  Paullinus cleared his throat and looked round the room. 'Good morning,' he said. His voice was quiet and completely devoid of expression. 'My apologies for disturbing your breakfast, but I'm afraid this will not keep.' He waited until the last murmurs had died down and he had their full attention before continuing. 'Some time ago I received word of unrest among the Iceni. I instructed Legate Cerialis to monitor the situation and in the event of trouble to take whatever action he thought necessary. It now appears that following the tribe's rebellion and Cerialis's attempted intervention the Ninth has been ambushed and rendered militarily ineffective.' He paused. No one spoke. 'As a result, the kingdom of Icenia is no longer under our control.'

  The silence was total. Finally one of the auxiliary cohort commanders raised his hand.

  Paullinus turned. 'Yes, Quirinius.’

  'You've mentioned the Iceni only, sir.' The man's voice was as carefully neutral as the governor's had been. 'What about the other eastern tribes? The Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni?'

  Paullinus frowned. 'The Legate's messenger could give me no definite information on that
score,' he said. 'My own hope is that they have remained neutral, but naturally I cannot take that for granted. The ambush took place beyond the Icenian borders, some twenty or thirty miles from the Colony and within Trinovantian territory. We must therefore assume for practical purposes that the loyalty of that tribe, at least, is now in doubt.'

  'And the Colony itself, sir?' That was Quirinius again, although from the surrounding silence Severinus knew the question was in everyone's mind. 'If the Trinovantes are up and the Ninth's gone then –'

  'The Ninth is not "gone". At worst Cerialis has lost five cohorts out of the ten, and as I understand it his cavalry is intact. Furthermore, the Colony has considerable resources of its own. The situation may be serious, but we must not overdramatise.' Paullinus paused. 'Even so, I take your point. The Ninth can no longer be regarded as viable. Accordingly as of now we must make other arrangements. The purpose of this meeting is to acquaint you of what these are.'

  Severinus felt the tension around him sharpen. Obviously Paullinus felt it too. He straightened.

  'Your orders, gentlemen,' he said. 'The campaign is suspended forthwith. The Fourteenth will prepare for instant departure, minus its attached cavalry which will transship for Deva under my personal command, after which it will proceed in advance of the infantry. The relevant commanders are instructed to wait behind after this meeting. Is that clear?' There were nods. Severinus glanced at Clemens; his lips were pursed. 'We cannot go further than that at present until we have more information concerning the situation prevailing, at which time plans will be drawn up accordingly. Your questions, please.'

  A hand was raised; one of the senior centurions.

  'You're not bringing the Second over from Isca, then, General?' he said.

  'No, Longinus, I am not. You know the situation there yourself. With the former legate's death last month and in the absence of the senior tribune' – he glanced at Agricola – 'Dumnonia is unsettled enough at present. Camp Prefect Postumus is an experienced officer, but he's new in post and he has his hands full. The Dumnonii are well aware of these facts, and intelligent enough to take advantage of them. To move the Second from Isca at the moment would be counterproductive at best and at worst foolhardy. Next?'

  The centurion cleared his throat. 'But what about London, sir?' he said. 'If the rebels push south then –'

  'Centurion.' Paullinus's tone was sharp. 'I say again, we are in danger of overreacting here. Postumus has been instructed to hold himself and his legion in readiness, and he will naturally move if and when ordered. However until I have fuller information on which to base a decision I will not jeopardise the province's overall security for what may yet well prove to be a very localised disturbance. Is that understood?'

  'Yes, sir. Only...'

  'Gods, man!' Paullinus flushed. 'These are natives! A rabble, not an army! The Colony has troops already, as does London, and if need be King Cogidubnus can provide local auxiliary support from the Regni. One legion and an interrupted campaign is all I'll allow our friend Boudica for the moment.' He paused. 'Now, are there any more questions?' The room was silent. 'Very well. Gentlemen, you're dismissed. Relevant commanders, as I said, excepted.'

  As they filed out, Severinus thought of his dream. There was a knot of coldness in his stomach that would not shift.

  Whatever Paullinus said, he knew that the Colony was already dead.

  38

  Paullinus fastened the leather flap of his sleeping-tent behind him, walked over to the folding table beside the bed and poured a cup of wine, forcing his hands to hold both the cup and the flask steady. The wine was strong, and almost neat. He drank the cupful straight down.

  Jupiter on high, what a mess! What an unholy mess!

  Keeping the massive concern from his face during the officers' meeting had taken all his self-control. Ever since the messenger had arrived, he had been able to think of nothing but his own and Cerialis's monumental stupidity; Cerialis's for walking into an ambush that the greenest junior auxiliary commander would have foreseen, his own for undervaluing the strength of the native unrest.

  His bunched fist hit the table.

  They'll pay! By the gods they will!

  Catus would pay, too. If the procurator hadn't been so god-cursed greedy none of this would have happened...

  He stopped himself, frowning. It was useless to blame the emperor or his advisers, even privately. Useless, and very, very dangerous. As it was, his own career was finished, or at best in very serious jeopardy

  He reached for the wine flask, then willed his hand to stop. Instead, he sat down on the folding stool and considered the situation.

  The auxiliary commander had been right. If the Trinovantes and Catuvellauni had risen then the Colony was finished, probably already destroyed. It might hold out for a few days, but not long enough for reinforcements to arrive. And six days ago the Iceni had been only thirty miles away...

  He closed his eyes and tried desperately to put aside the thought of all the people who might already have died.

  Fool!

  From the parade ground beyond the tent door came the shouts of command as the guard was changed. The familiar sound steadied him. Fool or not, he was doing his best now. The Fourteenth would reach Verulamium in fourteen days; the cavalry, with the time saved by transshipping to Deva, in less than six. There were still some auxiliary garrisons en route which could be pressed into service. Perhaps, after all, it was as he had said at the meeting and the insurrection was only local.

  Perhaps. He rubbed his eyes, squeezing the tiredness from them. He had too few men, and there were too many factors, to insure against every possibility. A legion withdrawn from Mona would leave the remaining forces seriously weakened. If resistance had not been crushed as completely as he thought, if the Ordovices or the Deceangli managed to put together a second army, if the remaining Druids managed to stir up the western Brigantian tribes despite Queen Cartimandua...

  If. There were always ifs, and a governor had to balance so many. The Fourteenth should be enough...

  But if it wasn't?

  The fear flooded back, and Paullinus fought for control.

  Fear and indecision are the destroyers. A general must not give way to them, or even acknowledge them in his own mind...

  Should I have ordered the Second from Isca?

  No, he answered himself, calmer now. I was right there, hard though the decision was. The risk is too great. We already hold the south-west by the skin of our teeth, and to bring the Second east would be to court disaster. That is a fact, and you can only base your actions on facts. How you handle this thing depends on how serious you find the situation is, and whether it can be remedied...

  Whether it can be remedied...

  Paullinus forced the thought from his mind. What was done was done, there was no going back and the future would take care of itself.

  Meanwhile he had a debt to pay.

  Rinsing his face in the water basin, he undid the tent flap. The guard outside snapped to attention.

  'Find out where the Foxes are billeted,' he said. 'I want to see that young commander of theirs straight away. In my office, please.'

  The guard saluted and left.

  Severinus stared at the governor over the folding table.

  'I'm to go with the cavalry, sir?' he said.

  'If you wish.' Paullinus's face was expressionless, and his voice as measured and controlled as it always was. 'It's not an order. The choice is yours.'

  'Could I ask why?'

  'Consider it a staff appointment. And, if you will,’ – Paullinus’s lips tightened – ‘an apology. At our last interview I dismissed your opinions regarding the Iceni as ill-informed and callow. Events have proved that that was a mistake, and I believe in admitting my mistakes.’

  Severinus swallowed. Staff appointments went either to senators' sons or to potential high-flyers like Julius Agricola. He was neither.

  'Thank you, sir,' he said.

  'Oh, it's no rewar
d, young man.' Paullinus gave him a cold smile. 'You'd be safer and far more comfortable sticking with the Foxes. And beyond Pennocrucium I don't know what to expect.'

  Severinus remembered Pennocrucium from the outward journey: a quiet little auxiliary fort fifty miles south-east of Deva on the Corieltauvian border.

  'You think the Corieltauvi may be in revolt as well, sir?' he said.

  Paullinus's brows went down. 'Don't be a bigger fool than you can help, Commander. And don't jump to unwarranted conclusions. There's enough of that nonsense around at present without your adding to it. I mean exactly what I say: beyond Pennocrucium I have no information whatsoever concerning tribal movements or loyalties, either those relating to the Corieltauvi or anyone else barring the Iceni.' He sat back in his chair. 'My main hope, however, is that reports have been exaggerated, that our only business is with Boudica, and that a sudden swoop now with the cavalry will catch her unprepared, or at least hold her until the army arrives. Do I make myself clear?'

  'Yes, sir.' Severinus tried to keep his voice level. 'Forgive me, General, but does that also apply to the Colony?'

  Paullinus looked down at his hands, then up again. 'I gave my views on that subject at this morning's meeting,' he said. 'At which, I think, you were present. I can be no more informative now.'

  'Yes, sir.' Severinus stiffened. 'I'm sorry. We'll be leaving when, sir?'

  'First thing tomorrow morning.' Paullinus got up; Severinus, already standing, straightened to attention. 'You'll report at dawn to Tribune Agricola. Dismissed.'

  Severinus saluted, and left.

  39

  The barges, stripped for speed and only half-laden, made the journey to Deva in a day and a night. From there they rode hard and fast down the legionaries' road that drew a line from shoulder to hip south-eastward across the province.

  Beyond Manduessedum the countryside changed from pastureland to open fields already green with wheat and barley. Severinus remembered this stretch, the north-western corner of Catuvellaunia, from the outward journey. The natives’ solid-wheeled ox-carts had been a common enough sight on the trackways that spread on either side of the road, but now there were none; no people, no carts, no oxen. Nothing. The land lay empty and silent, a desert where nothing moved.