Gaius Rufus led the visitor into the room and a flicker of the dark eyes told Valerius he’d been right to go to the trouble of impressing the man. A face made up of sharp angles, nose like an axe blade, chin jutting like a ship’s ram, a mane of walnut hair and moustaches that fell to his throat. He stood with his arms crossed, head held high on a long neck. A proud man, if Valerius was any judge, and not one to be taken lightly. He wore a heavy torc of twisted gold strands at his throat, and beneath his cloak of green plaid Valerius saw arm rings of the same precious metal. A long Celtic sword in an engraved scabbard hung on his right hip from a belt of golden links, and a short dagger on his left.
‘His name is Aneirin and he is a prince of the Votadini,’ Rufus explained. At the mention of his name the man nodded his head in what might be construed as a bow. ‘King Marro, who rules east of here from a place called Chalk Hill by the River Thuaidh to a fort at Dun Eidin far to the north, sent him to bring fraternal greetings and declarations of friendship to the commander of Rome’s armies. Aneirin,’ Rufus bowed in his turn, ‘tells me that the Votadini have long traded with Roman merchant ships – though I think they were more likely Gaulish. He warns us against a warlike tribe called the Selgovae who pollute the lands to the north and west and have been guilty of the worst kinds of depredations against the Votadini.’
‘If the Selgovae are his enemy,’ Valerius observed, ‘he is a brave man to journey through their territory with an escort of just four men’ – he waved a hand at the four stolid warriors who stood behind Aneirin, warily eyeing Hilario and the other guards – ‘however brave and skilled.’
Rufus translated the words, which clearly pleased the Votadini envoy. ‘I passed on your compliment to his bodyguard, but the original escort was actually about sixty men. When I met him with the patrol I suggested he left most of them behind. I didn’t think it wise to come in with sixty strange warriors and risk our guest getting a spear in his guts from an over-zealous sentry.’
‘You did right.’ Valerius offered his own bow and Aneirin reciprocated. ‘Please ask him to sit.’ He gestured to a couch, but the offer was answered by a staccato burst from the thin lips and a flash of the dark eyes.
‘Aneirin declines your invitation,’ Rufus said through pursed lips. ‘It seems to sit in your presence would in some way dishonour him. He does, however, present a gift from his king which he hopes will meet your approval and cement your friendship.’
Aneirin gestured to one of his bodyguards. The man stepped forward and handed him a leather sack that weighed heavily in his hands. Pulling a glinting object from its folds, the Votadini prince held out the gift and waited for Valerius to take it from him, his head bowed. Valerius looked to Rufus for guidance, but the little man just shrugged.
At last, Valerius approached the moustached Celt and accepted the offering, hearing the usual intake of breath as the man saw his wooden fist for the first time. A bull. A charging bull, worked in gold, so finely detailed you could see the flaring nostrils and feel the rage in the bulging eyes. It was heavy, but not heavy enough to indicate solid gold. Bronze, most likely, with a gilding of thinly beaten gold, but still a thing of astonishing beauty and workmanship. And a well-considered gift. For the bull was one of the symbols that marked the Ninth legion, a throwback to the days of its founding in Hispania and an initiation ritual that called for new recruits to vault the back of a charging beast. Yes, this Marro knew more of the Ninth than Valerius felt comfortable with.
‘Extend my thanks in the appropriate terms,’ Valerius told Rufus, with a smile to the Votadini. ‘But perhaps I should know what else he wants apart from my friendship, for a soldier on campaign has little to offer another man apart from wine.’ He signalled to a servant, who stepped forward and poured a cup which Valerius offered to the other man.
Rufus stifled a grin. He put the question to Aneirin, received a reply, and asked another question that elicited a longer and more animated answer.
‘King Marro wishes to forge an alliance with Rome.’ Valerius blinked at the outrageous proposition. Only Agricola carried the power of imperium to conclude a formal alliance, and even he would most likely consult Titus before coming to an agreement. ‘His warriors will march beside your legionaries to wipe the stain of the Selgovae from this land for ever. Together you will slaughter the Selgovae spearmen and the king’s sword brothers, enslave their women and children and burn their huts. All he asks in return is domain over all the lands east of the Thuaidh.’
‘Is that all he said?’
‘Oh, he listed the king’s lineage all the way back to some Celtic god I’ve never heard of and hailed the prowess in battle of about a hundred individually named warriors, but I doubted you wanted to hear that.’
‘Good.’ Valerius smiled. ‘You’re sure he doesn’t speak Latin?’
Rufus nodded. ‘I’m sure. The first thing I did was insult him and he never blinked.’
Valerius cast a glance at Aneirin, but the other man just stared back. ‘Then what do you think of this Marro’s offer?’
Rufus considered for a moment, pulling at his beard. ‘I think it secures your right flank, or at least well enough to mean you need assign only a light screen of cavalry to hold it. I doubt you want a rabble of Celts in your battle line. They have a tendency to pick out personal rivals and wander about the battlefield getting in the way.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’ Valerius nodded. ‘Can you word a polite reply in a way that won’t make him feel insulted?’
Rufus grinned. ‘I doubt that will be a problem. Marro probably only made the offer so that he gets a share of the booty you win and can blood his warriors with minimal risk. I’ll suggest he uses them to harry the Selgovae lands further north while we keep them occupied here. That should keep him happy.’
‘And all he wants is the lands east of the river?’
‘The only Selgovae farmland and pasture worth having, apparently. And he’d take it anyway when we’ve beaten them.’
Valerius ran his hands over the golden bull and exchanged a smile with Aneirin. ‘This Thuaidh must be the river that flows past Trimontium. Ask him if it is navigable as far as the three hills and if he can guarantee free passage for our ships.’
‘He says yes to both questions,’ the little man said after a short conversation.
‘Not an alliance, make sure he knows that. A temporary agreement between friends which may be formalized at some point in the future.’
The little man translated. ‘Prince Aneirin agrees.’
‘Then all that needs to be decided is a suitable gift to seal the contract.’
‘It doesn’t have to be much,’ Rufus countered. ‘The bull, pretty as it is, is a mere bauble and the agreement is more in the Votadini interest than Rome’s. What about that chest of silver coin we recovered from the Brigante treasury?’
Valerius remembered the worn silver denarii from Claudius’s reign given as tribute to Cartimandua in the time of Suetonius Paulinus. ‘Very well, make it so, and send for the remainder of Aneirin’s escort. We’ll give them a feast to remember and send them home with sore heads in the morning.’
And as soon as they were gone the Ninth would march, with its flank secure and nothing standing between it, the place of the three hills and the destruction of the Selgovae.
XVIII
Scouts and engineers led the way, marking a path as they went that would one day be a road broad enough to take two wagons or eight legionaries side by side. Easy going for the most part, if you discounted the numerous bogs; gently undulating hills that plateaued into heathery moorland before the descent into the next river valley. Few trees, apart from along the watercourses.
They passed farms and scattered settlements of neat, well-maintained roundhouses of a type different from those in Brigante country, but all proved empty. It was as if the entire population had been swallowed up by the earth. Legionaries took delight in burning anything combustible, but after passing two or three blazing farms, Val
erius insisted the rest be dismantled and added to the stock of timber for the new fort, and to see them through the winter. Well-used trackways proved that the valleys were the natural east–west highway for the native peoples, confirming what he’d learned from Aneirin the previous night. Such journeys would need to be monitored and controlled, and Valerius ordered the engineers to map out ground for fortlets that would be built and garrisoned once the Selgovae had been subdued. Life would go on for the natives; a different life, with Roman laws and Roman taxes, true, but one with its own benefits. But first they must experience the bitter taste of defeat.
At the height of every rise the three hills of Trimontium were clearly visible in the distance, like a giant altar, and with every rise they were clearer and closer. Near the end of the first day’s march Gaius Rufus, who’d been roving ahead with his scouts, announced that a band of native warriors was lying in ambush at a place where two rivers met.
Valerius followed him to a point amid the riverside trees where they dismounted and crawled on their bellies amongst the reeds and clumps of stinging nettles close to the water’s edge. When they reached their destination he sensed Rufus studying him and saw the little man grinning with delight at the sight of his legate swathed from helmet to sandal in clinging mud, his face blotched red where he’d come into contact with the nettle leaves.
‘I don’t see what’s so funny,’ he hissed. ‘Show me what you have to and let’s get back.’ Rufus eased aside a fistful of reeds so Valerius could see across the burbling waters. ‘What?’
‘Two hundred of them,’ Rufus whispered. Valerius looked again, but all he could see was sandy bank, reed beds and drooping willows, with a few ducks swimming contentedly in the centre of the river. ‘There are two groups, one on either side of the ford. Look, you can see where a track has been worn over that pebble beach and up the bank.’
‘I can see that, but I can’t see the enemy.’
‘A blind man … Don’t worry, just trust me that they’re there. A quick cavalry charge will sweep them aside, but I wanted you to see them.’
Valerius studied the position for a moment. ‘No charges, I think. That would scatter them and I want prisoners I can question.’ He began to squirm backwards towards the horses and Rufus followed.
When they returned to the legion’s resting place Valerius called his camp prefect and auxiliary infantry commanders together to explain the situation. ‘I’ll leave this to you, Quintus,’ he told Naso, ‘but I want them all. Not a man must escape.’
Naso’s eyes glittered and a grin split his face. He considered for a moment, then nodded. ‘Decurion Barbarus, take your Asturians in a wide flanking movement on the left. Atticus, your mounted archers will do the same on the right.’ He looked at the sky. ‘It will be dusk in two hours. Make sure you’re in position two hundred paces behind them in half that time. I’ll cross with the Second cohort. You’ll hear the signal just before we reach the far bank. That’s when you strike. Remember we need prisoners and you heard what the legate said. Not a man must escape.’
The two auxiliary officers acknowledged their orders and set off. Valerius smiled. ‘Very neat, Quintus. The rest of the legion will set up camp here and cross in the morning. If I’m correct we’re about another day’s march from the place of the three hills. Calgacus will be expecting a report from whoever he sent to ambush us. I plan to give him a surprise.’
Valerius watched from the south bank as the Second cohort crossed the ford as dusk began to fall. Six centuries. Four hundred and eighty men forcing their way in a column six broad through the fast-flowing, knee-deep waters, weighed down by their weapons and armour. They would outnumber their attackers, but they still made a tempting target for the Celtic ambush. Swoop, strike and fly would be their tactics. Swoop like a stooping falcon. Strike, every man making his mark in blood. Then fly before the defenders could recover and the Roman cavalry closed in.
The two flanking auxiliary cohorts should be in place by now. Another thousand seasoned veterans from Hispania and Gaul positioned like the jaws of a blacksmith’s tongs to close and block the Celts’ retreat. The head of the marching column reached the far bank and disappeared up the worn track into the undergrowth. A trumpet sounded, clear and long, followed by a roar and the staccato rattle of spear on shield. A second trumpet blast and a new cry, more visceral than the first. In his mind he could see the auxiliaries charging through the undergrowth to take the unsuspecting Celts in the rear. Victory. An annihilation. A small thing, barely worthy of the title skirmish. Yet two hundred of Calgacus’s warriors would not fight again and two hundred wives and mothers would never know the fate of husband or son.
He waited for the howls of panic, the shrill cries of men pleading for their lives as they surrendered. But they never came. Instead the fight seemed to ebb and flow up and down the bank. Now muted and distant, then fiercer and certainly closer. Wounded auxiliaries and legionaries staggered into view and the men of Valerius’s bodyguard ran to help them back across the river to the waiting medici. It must have been an hour and close to dusk before the tumult finally faded.
Quintus Naso appeared with the Second’s senior centurion and trudged wearily through the river to where Valerius stood. The centurion was cradling his right arm. Naso’s helmet was askew and blood flowed freely from a cut on his cheek.
‘Beg to report, legate,’ the camp prefect gasped. ‘The way is clear. But by all the gods, Valerius, they made us fight for it.’
‘Well done, Quintus. Casualties?’
‘We have five dead, around twenty wounded. The auxiliaries more. But not a man of the ambush escaped.’
‘Prisoners?’
‘I’m sorry, Valerius.’ Naso shook his head at the memory of it. ‘They made us kill them. These aren’t Brigantes or even Ordovices who know when they’re beaten. We had them surrounded and it was obvious there could be no escape, but not a man or boy threw down sword or spear. They fought in groups, back to back, frothing and snarling like rabid dogs. If it looked as if they were going to be overcome they cut their own throats or fell on their swords. The last of them, a group of about thirty, took refuge in that copse over there. That was where we suffered most of our casualties. Eventually, I decided to lead the assault myself. It was like hunting boar among the bushes, but a damned sight more dangerous. Come and take a look.’
Valerius followed him back across the ford and up the far bank. The track led through a mess of riverside scrub and bushes before running into scattered woodland. They met a pair of Gaulish auxiliaries, each carrying a severed head by the hair. Valerius frowned at the sight and Naso saw his look.
‘They said it was their custom and I agreed they could take a few to decorate their tents and baggage wagons. I apologize if I did wrong, legate.’
‘No, Quintus. If you hadn’t given them permission they’d have taken them anyway. Just make sure they get rid of them before they really start to stink.’
It wasn’t long before they found the first bodies. They’d died in groups, as Naso had described, their throats pierced by either Roman spear or sword or their own daggers, and each group was surrounded by blood spatters that appeared to give the lie to the camp prefect’s estimate of the Ninth’s casualties.
And that wasn’t the only discrepancy between Naso’s account and the picture it had created in Valerius’s mind. From his deputy’s description of their fighting prowess and selfless sacrifice he expected to see warriors in their prime, Calgacus’s champions sent to deal the Romans a blow that would stop them in their tracks. This was very different.
‘Greybeards,’ he said wonderingly. ‘And stripling boys.’
Naso nodded. ‘They fought like wolves. Not a man or boy offered to yield or asked for mercy. This is a different sort of enemy, Valerius.’
XIX
Cathal stood by the river and watched a straggle of families and livestock from his eastern lands struggle down the steep bank and cross the ford. Half a dozen men toiled in the w
aist-deep water, shoulders straining to heave a fully laden cart across the slippery submerged stones. The carter’s family were among the more fortunate. The majority, man, woman and child, carried what was left of their lives in sacks across their shoulders as they trudged sullenly through the river. They kept their eyes down as they passed him and he could feel their resentment. Their silence oppressed him, but he had more important things to consider.
‘Your ambush party should have returned by now.’ Cathal turned to glare at the speaker. It was as if Gwlym had entered his mind and read his thoughts.
‘There is still time,’ he lied. He’d set little store by the chances of the men he’d sent to bloody the Romans at the Tivyet ford, but it was still a pity.
‘Have it as you will, but do not mourn them.’
‘They were brave men.’ A mistake? Perhaps, but Gwlym had been right: he had to do something. He knew his people.
‘The sacrifice of a few elderly warriors and unblooded young men was worth it to show you still deserve to be your people’s king,’ the druid said airily. A pause. ‘But not everyone is so impressed by your ability to wield a sword with such deadly ability. I have heard whispers.’
‘Give me the names of the whisperers and none will live longer than tomorrow’s dawn.’
‘There, I have goaded you. Made you angry.’ A cold smile flickered on Gwlym’s thin lips. ‘It is so easy with you mere brutes. I do so only to remind you that you must not let the Romans do the same.’
‘There will be no repeat until I am certain I can truly hurt them.’
‘Not before the thaw, then?’
‘Not unless an opportunity presents itself,’ Cathal rasped. ‘But I will not rest while I seek out that opportunity. If it comes I will attack with every warrior I can spare.’
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