Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Not every Venicones is as well disposed to Cathal king of the Selgovae as I.’ The man smiled. ‘There are some who would prefer you did not meet our king.’

  Cathal noted the warning, but knew better than to acknowledge it. ‘You have the better of me?’

  ‘My name is Donacha ap Arrol, and my father holds lands yonder at Goirtaincabar.’ He waved a hand towards the north-west. ‘We have responsibility for defending five miles of the north bank, though the marshes do most of the defending for us.’

  ‘Was it your man …?’

  ‘No, those were poachers. You did me a favour by ridding me of a nuisance.’

  ‘I doubt others feel so relaxed about his loss.’

  The young man didn’t answer but led the way to the raised causeway that ran between river and marsh towards the high ground to the north. ‘This is our food store.’ Donacha nodded towards the marsh. ‘The king created much resentment when he placed you in a position where your men were bound to make use of it.’

  ‘A man cannot live on fresh air,’ Cathal growled.

  ‘No, lord king, you mistake me. I did not think to apportion blame. What I mean is that I believe the king erred when he kept you south of the river.’

  ‘You would have done differently?’

  ‘We have ample lands to the north that have never felt the coulter.’ The young man shrugged. ‘True, they border the shit-eaters of the high lands, but who better to keep them busy than the celebrated King Cathal of the Selgovae? There,’ he pointed to a spur that jutted from the highest peak of the escarpment, ‘is the fortress of the Venicones.’

  ‘It looks formidable.’ Cathal sounded suitably admiring.

  Donacha caught the irony and smiled. ‘The Argento Rìgh believes our warriors will be able to line the mountain and throw the Romans back into the Abhainn dhub.’

  ‘After they have waded through Selgovae blood,’ Cathal pointed out.

  ‘Naturally,’ Donacha agreed. ‘But I am not so certain. I have heard of these Romans, but I do not know what to believe and what not. Perhaps you could enlighten me. For instance, I am told they do not fight honourably, warrior against warrior. Is that true?’

  ‘That is true,’ Cathal acknowledged. ‘They fight in what they call centuries.’ He recalled the words of the midget scout Arafa. ‘Eighty men acting as one.’ He saw the look of puzzlement on Donacha’s handsome features. ‘Think of eighty of your warriors facing eighty men with shields that protect them from shin to throat, wearing chest armour and iron helmets. The shields are locked together to make a continuous wall.’

  ‘Then we would break the wall with our strength and our courage.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Or our bravest would leap over the wall and cause panic and death, allowing their comrades to slaughter the cowards.’

  ‘Not cowards,’ Cathal assured him. ‘And in any case, behind the wall of shields is a second line of men ready with iron-tipped spears waiting for just such an attempt.’

  ‘I see,’ Donacha said, and Cathal saw he was familiar enough with battle to be able to imagine the carnage as the Roman spears bit into the exposed throats and groins of his champions.

  ‘As I understand it,’ the Selgovae king said, ‘even our bravest can only break a shield wall perhaps once out of a hundred times. For the most part they will hammer at the shields with their swords, or use spears to try to blind the defenders. The warriors following the initial attackers are equally brave and in their desperation force those in front against the shields.’

  ‘Then their weight must break the line,’ Donacha suggested.

  ‘They would eventually,’ Cathal agreed, ‘but for the little Roman swords, no longer than a man’s forearm.’

  ‘A pitiful weapon,’ the younger man said.

  ‘In the open, yes,’ though Cathal remembered the gleaming point of Valerius’s gladius probing and seeking and wondered if that was true. ‘But imagine if each Roman simultaneously heaves his shield forward at an angle,’ he made the motion with his arm, ‘thus creating a gap to his right front, and stabs forward into the exposed flank of his enemy – because most of our warriors wear no armour, of course.’

  ‘A coward’s way of fighting.’ Donacha sounded perplexed.

  ‘True, but a very effective way. The warrior falls and is replaced by the next.’

  ‘They use our own courage against us?’

  Cathal nodded.

  ‘But there must be a way to defeat them.’

  ‘Let us hope so.’

  The Venicones king’s palace stood behind a wooden palisade on a shelf of land four times as long as it was broad, set a third of the way up the hillside overlooking the river valley. From the walkway of his walls he had a clear view south to the reclining bear outcrop and its smaller sibling behind the river. To his left Cathal could see the third of the hills and the long causeway leading down to the ford. He could imagine the Argento looking out from his eyrie and obsessing all the long hot summer over the enormous cuckoo, in the shape of Cathal’s followers, he had invited to share his nest. By now, with trees shedding their golden coverlet, he would have expected the Romans to have either destroyed them or been repulsed, but neither of those things had happened. Instead, the Selgovae grew stronger with every passing day, untouched even by the hut sickness Cathal had seen decimate large gatherings who stayed in a single place for too long. Not only stronger, but more numerous. Over the past month contingents of ragged, exhausted warriors had approached the gate in the palisade or appeared from over the hills asking to join King Cathal’s force. They were disaffected men of the Damnonii and the Novantae who had tasted Roman rule and wanted nothing to do with it. Even amongst the Votadini, men of honour sickened by Marro’s collaboration with the invaders rode north to join their old enemy. Cathal made each and every one of them welcome. The Argento knew all this, but seemed powerless to stop it, and at one time Cathal had even wondered if the king himself was responsible for the provocations in the marshes. However, he had concluded they were too minor to constitute any kind of strategy.

  The Argento lay back on a wooden throne on a platform in his palace, an enormous two-storey roundhouse hung with pelts and furs. The exotic mask was gone, revealing a thin, worried face, protruding ears and beady black eyes that reminded Cathal of a puzzled weasel. He guessed the king would be close to his thirtieth year. A young woman sat by him suckling twin babes, but for all the attention she gave him Cathal might not have existed. Six of the Argento’s bodyguard, the same big, bare-chested men with thick moustaches who’d accompanied him to the ford, stood at his back. They included the glaring Giulan Marbh and each held a spear in his right hand. Oenghus, the druid, sat on a stool at the king’s right hand. Cathal noted some form of almost invisible greeting between the priest and Donacha, and guessed the two men were brothers.

  He bowed his head in the direction of the throne. ‘I have come, lord king, to seek ways to end the constant and dangerous dispute between our warriors on the hunting grounds.’

  ‘There is a simple way to end it,’ the king said peevishly. ‘Tell your men they may hunt in the hills, but stay away from the marshes and the river.’

  ‘Perhaps that would end it, or it may be that hungry bellies make the situation worse,’ Cathal said.

  ‘Then what do you propose? Are we to take their knives? Insist they bow to each other as they steal each other’s catch?’

  ‘First I would offer the lord king a gift.’ He held out a hand and Colm placed a bag of soft leather in his palm. Cathal pulled at the draw strings and withdrew an exquisitely worked torc that shone buttery gold in the lamplight and drew a gasp from at least one person in the room. The Argento’s wife’s eyes, if she was indeed his wife, looked as if they were on sticks. ‘This was made for my father’s father and has a place of honour not just in my tribe, but in my heart.’ It was a lie, but the necessary kind of lie that went by the name of diplomacy. ‘I hope you will accept it in honour of our ongoing frie
ndship.’

  He walked forward and placed the torc in the Argento’s hand. The king weighed the piece and held it out to his wife, who abandoned the children and took it, cooing over the weight and the fine workmanship. The Argento feigned uninterest, but Cathal knew he had impressed the younger man. Oenghus met his eyes and he thought he caught a hint of approval.

  ‘Go on.’ The king nodded.

  ‘I suggest nothing as complex as disarming our men, or teaching them manners.’ Cathal allowed himself a smile. ‘A simple dividing line, the course of which would be agreed between our two most experienced hunters. If any man crosses it without reasonable cause he will be brought before a court which will meet to dispense justice the day after the first full moon of each month.’

  ‘Yes, I could see how that would work.’ The King’s eyes glittered. ‘Nothing like removing a man’s hand to teach him not to stray. Or even more salutary, Giulan can crush his skull slowly with his bare hands.’

  ‘I would suggest the arbitrators of justice should be our druids. They are oathsworn to be impartial.’ Another lie, but Oenghus, who Cathal guessed had his own reasons for seeking contact with Gwlym, murmured his approval. ‘I stress it would be a purely temporary arrangement. I have no wish to be your guest for any longer than is necessary.’

  ‘Very well.’ The Argento smiled for the first time. ‘And to cement our agreement I suggest a further exchange of gifts.’

  Cathal sensed a trap. ‘I wish nothing more from the king than his continued hospitality and friendship.’

  ‘But I seek something from you, Cathal of the Selgovae.’ The Venicones couldn’t keep the sly glint from his eyes. ‘A pair of your fine horses hitched to the yoke would add to the magnificence of my chariot, don’t you think?’

  Did he notice the faintest nod of the head from Oenghus? And if he did what did it signify? ‘Very well.’ Cathal produced a defeated sigh and the Argento’s triumphant grin almost split his face. ‘But,’ the Selgovae continued, ‘they are in poor condition at this time of the year. You may visit my stables at Beltane and take your choice. My grooms will ensure they are at their finest. I can do nothing less.’

  The Argento scowled, but he knew he’d been outmanoeuvred. He rose to his feet and waved a dismissive hand that froze in mid-air at a sharp, rhythmic shriek from outside, quickly echoed by a dozen others. The Venicones king rushed past Cathal to the door, his eyes eagerly scanning the sky above.

  Cathal ignored a grimace of warning from Donacha and joined the king in the doorway. He looked up to see a skein of about a hundred geese flow smoothly from their V formation and swoop down in a curving dive to land with a series of splashes on a pool in the marshes below. They preened their feathers and settled with a curious contented honking call.

  ‘Royal birds.’ The intensity in the Argento’s voice matched the fire in his eyes and Cathal had to disguise his astonishment. ‘Any man who takes the king’s bounty must deliver his catch to me on pain of death – any man on either side of the river. Do you understand, Cathal of the Selgovae?’

  ‘I understand.’ Cathal saw no point in arguing with so consuming a passion.

  Donacha explained it on the ride back to the river. ‘The annual migration is what keeps him on the throne,’ the young warrior said. ‘The geese come in their countless thousands to overwinter here. He only allows a certain proportion to be hunted and the smoked birds are held in the royal treasury to be dispensed through the winter. In hard times the king’s favour can be the difference between life and death.’ He gave a sad smile that made him look much younger. ‘So make sure your men are warned, lord king. The Argento is not as harmless as he sometimes appears.’

  ‘I will,’ Cathal assured him, but as Donacha turned away he had a feeling the final sentence was as much a warning for himself as for his hunters.

  XXXVIII

  Londinium, October AD 80

  Valerius flinched at another long, drawn-out cry from inside the building and tried to concentrate on the workers extending the port above the bridge. Only smaller craft could negotiate the relatively low space between the piers, but it would ease congestion at the main wharf downstream. The river traffic seemed to multiply daily, with ships arriving from Gaul, Hispania, and every major city with a port on the Mare Internum. Twenty years earlier there had been three or four warehouses huddled behind the original dock; now there were scores, and every street with a warehouse had its bars and brothels, food shops and cheap apartment blocks to house the workers who laboured in them.

  These men filed in a constant stream to and from the merchant ships that lined the wooden quays, shouldering enormous amphorae of wine, garum and olive oil. At a pinch, a Roman legion would march with a few thousand quarts of native beer in its collective belly, but it would march further on sour wine. And no rations were so welcome that they could not be improved by a generous helping of fish sauce or a dash of olive oil to soften the jaw-breaking buccelatum biscuits. Crates of fine red pottery from the factories in Gaul; sacks of spices that filled the air with their pungent aroma; baskets of one-size-fits-all leather sandals from Hispania that would fall apart on the first wet day; swords and armour forged in a dozen provinces to equip Britannia’s legions and auxiliary cohorts. Wooden cranes hoisted great slabs of the finest Asian marble from deep in the holds to clad the ever-growing number of public buildings and floor the homes of the richest merchants.

  Traders flocked to Londinium from all over the Empire to tout their wares, bringing slaves from even further afield: men so black they could almost be called blue, from the heart of trackless Africa; Scythians, short, stocky and narrow-eyed; blond giants from the freezing north of Germania; hawk-nosed, beetle-browed Parthians, and sultry, perfumed hetaerae from the fabled Indus. A man’s ears could be assailed by a dozen different languages as he walked along a single street. But – Valerius gritted his teeth at another demonic howl – may the gods save him from being assailed by this.

  ‘Mars’ wrinkled scrotum,’ he muttered: Serpentius’s favoured epithet. ‘How long has it been? Three hours?’

  ‘Nearer four,’ suggested his companion seated on the stone terrace overlooking the foam-flecked muddy waters of the Tamesa. ‘Is it always like this?’ Rufius Florus asked.

  ‘How would I know?’ Valerius laughed. ‘Tabitha wouldn’t let me within a mile of the house when Lucius was born, and I was in Lindum for Olivia’s arrival. Didn’t Ceris give you some idea?’ They were wrapped in heavy cloaks against the bitter east wind, but anything was better than the claustrophobic, over-heated rooms of the palace with that din echoing from the walls.

  ‘She calls them the mysteries and won’t tell me anything,’ Rufius confessed. The young cavalryman was a reformed thief who’d chosen service in Valerius’s bodyguard in preference to violent retribution from his former comrades. ‘All she says is that nature must take its course, but sometimes it needs a little help.’

  If it was like this for two men with so little stake in what was happening, what was Domitia Decidiana Agricola suffering? She’d gone into labour just before dawn and Valerius had accompanied Tabitha and Ceris as they rushed to Tabitha’s friend’s side. They’d met the white-faced governor at the door and Valerius had suggested they spend the day riding and hunting in the open country outside the city walls. Instead, Agricola insisted on staying close to his wife. Valerius knew they’d lost one son and he prayed to every god he could think of that there would be no repeat of that tragedy. He’d left Agricola at his desk staring at a piece of parchment, but he was fairly certain the governor would not have read a single word in the endless hours that had passed since.

  Another long bout of screaming felt like an iron nail running down the inside of the skull.

  ‘I have a request to make, legate.’

  ‘Yes?’ Valerius was grateful for the distraction.

  ‘I’d like to rejoin the escort squadron when you go back north.’

  Valerius looked at him in surprise. ‘What will Ce
ris say?’

  ‘It’s her idea.’

  ‘Ah.’ Valerius nodded his understanding. The unfathomable mysteries of the human relationship conveyed perfectly in so few little words. ‘In that case I’ll consider it.’

  ‘It’s awfully quiet all of a sudden.’

  ‘So it is.’

  A new wail, high-pitched and angry. A baby’s howl of outrage at being dragged from the sanctuary of the womb.

  The two men spontaneously stood and Florus grasped Valerius by the shoulders and hugged him tight, disengaging himself after a moment with a sheepish grin. Valerius grinned back, filled with some transcendental, primordial joy by the arrival of a new life into the world, whatever its worth. He reached into his purse and drew out a large coin. ‘Here.’ He handed the gold aureus to his companion. ‘Go to the Street of the Silversmiths and buy Ceris a present. A special present, mind, one that shows how much you appreciate her. You make a good team. Tell her I need you here. For the lady’s protection.’

  ‘I will, lord.’ Florus laughed out loud as he bounded toward the east gate. ‘Surely I will.’

  Valerius heard footsteps and turned. Tabitha stood in the doorway with a look of utter weariness on her face, aged a dozen years in a single morning. Her honey-brown skin had taken on an unnatural shade of grey, and drying blood coated her halfway to the elbows. Gore spattered her linen dress and at some point she’d wiped her hand across her forehead leaving a scarlet smear.

  He stepped towards her and took her into his arms before she fell, half carrying her to the terraced embankment where he’d sat with Florus. When he’d got her seated he sat beside her with his arm around her shoulders. She closed her eyes and sat with her chin on her breastbone, utterly spent. Her whole body shook and he could feel the tension in her like a ballista racked and ready to fire. In the next second a great convulsion racked her and she vomited among the plants at her feet.