Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘The warning signal has been seen from the Ninth’s camp. They may be under attack,’ Valerius said without preamble.

  ‘So I understand.’

  Valerius felt a surge of anger at the governor’s calm. ‘I’d like to volunteer to lead the relief column.’

  Agricola rose from his seat and walked to a painted marble bust of Titus that stood on a plinth in a corner of the room. He stared into the grey eyes for a long moment before turning back to Valerius.

  ‘There will be no relief column.’

  ‘What?’ Valerius didn’t hide his astonishment.

  ‘At least not until daylight.’

  ‘But my men, Roman soldiers, could be dying out there. You sited the camps for mutual support. Naso will be expecting reinforcements to come to his aid.’

  ‘We’ve had word of enemy movement further up the valley.’ Agricola was unmoved by Valerius’s outrage. ‘I will not send my soldiers on a night march that will lead them into almost certain ambush. No barbarian has broken the walls of a temporary camp since Caesar’s time. Naso is perfectly capable of holding his lines against a few thousand Celts with the men under his command.’

  ‘Calgacus is not just another barbarian.’ Valerius struggled to maintain his temper. ‘And Quintus has just six cohorts and a few unblooded auxiliaries. The Brigantes are worthless, you know that, and the Usipi not much better.’

  ‘They can help hold a wall if their lives depend upon it,’ the governor said dismissively.

  ‘We cannot just sit here and do nothing,’ Valerius persisted. ‘Give me two cohorts of the Twentieth and two of the Gauls. If we march right away we can be there within the hour.’

  ‘Cannot?’ Agricola’s head snapped up and his eyes glittered with fury in the lamplight. ‘Do you presume to issue orders to a proconsul of Rome?’

  ‘You gave me command of the Ninth legion. Those are my men—’

  ‘And I can take it away from you,’ the governor snapped. ‘Have you not been listening? I have responsibility for every man in this army. Naso has three thousand men to defend a perfectly sound fort. You are asking me to send another two thousand into deadly peril.’ His anger faded, and was replaced by weariness. ‘Have patience, Valerius. We will march at dawn.’

  He returned to his desk and waited for the other man to leave. Valerius bit back his fury and chanced one last throw of the dice.

  ‘You are right that Naso is perfectly capable of holding the camp,’ he said as calmly as he could. ‘But this is Calgacus, who has proved himself not just a warrior and a leader, but a cunning and resourceful enemy. Have you considered that his aim may not be to destroy the camp, but to achieve a success that, though much less costly, would have the same effect on the army’s morale?’ Valerius allowed Agricola to think about it for a moment. ‘An eagle stands proudly at the very heart of that camp, Julius. It is not just my eagle, or my legion’s or even your eagle. It is Rome’s. Calgacus knows that and he understands the damage he can do by taking it.’ He saw the shadow of doubt creep into the other man’s eyes. ‘If you do not care to risk your infantry, give me a cohort of auxiliary cavalry. We could reach the camp in half the time and be through an enemy ambush before they even knew we were there. At best, our arrival will help Naso break the siege. At worst, a squadron can carry the eagle to safety.’

  Agricola stared at the desk for a moment. He knew his reputation and all his great ambition rested on the success of the campaign in northern Britannia. But even if he triumphed, everything would be lost if it became known that he made no attempt to support one of his legions when their eagle was at risk. He made his decision.

  ‘Very well. A single cohort. But if you get into trouble you must turn back.’

  Valerius ignored the warning and ran from the tent. ‘Wait here,’ he called to his escort. ‘Rufus, with me. Where are the tent lines of Aulus Atticus and his Ala Petriana?’

  Cathal studied the eastern sky and knew he had one last opportunity to achieve victory. The Roman square was a square no longer, just a battered, bloody and all but exhausted mass that somehow still managed to retain its defensive integrity. After the failed attack that had left him with the ragged gash across his hip he’d launched his warriors again and again at the stolid lines of legionaries all through the long night. Their casualties must now be counted in their hundreds and the survivors could barely hold their shields or lift their swords. As much as their spirit, what kept them alive was the mound of Selgovae and Venicones dead that surrounded their position and hindered any Celts who still retained the energy to assault the ragged lines of painted shields. Many of them bled from open wounds inflicted by the vicious little swords that darted between the shields. They leaned on their spears or crouched down, finding what rest they could forty paces from the Romans they no longer had the strength to attack.

  Not so many now. There would be wailing and tearing of hair in many a house and farmstead in the months to come. And he knew the cost would not be counted only in numbers, but also in the weakening of his authority and prestige. Yet all that would count for naught if he could only encourage them to one final assault that would smash the Roman square.

  Cathal had long since abandoned the wider objectives of his strategy. The destruction of Agricola’s army would have to wait for another day. He felt a flicker of unease that he’d heard nothing of Rurid’s ambush. Would the Roman commander really abandon a third of his legionaries to face destruction? He moved among the tired spearmen calling encouragement, noting who would meet his eyes and who would not. King Donacha assured him that his Venicones were ready, but the men around him didn’t show the same enthusiasm.

  ‘One last effort and they will be ours for the slaughter,’ he told them. ‘Your names will be sung around the campfires of your people until the end of time. You are tired, but they are more tired. Everything they have will be yours for the taking. The man who brings me their eagle will have a sack of gold and a dozen cattle. Take away their eagle and you take away their pride and their honour. Take away their eagle and you spit in the face of Rome. This is your destiny. Just one last effort …’

  Others passed on his words through the ring of massed warriors who still outnumbered their enemies by at least six to one. Gradually the men straightened or rose to their feet. It began as a whisper and rose to a murmur that grew in volume as they called encouragement to each other. Sword and spear crashed against shield and they waited for the command that would throw them forward for one final time. A soft glow appeared above the eastern hills. Dawn could only be moments away.

  ‘Fresh spears.’ Cathal heard the surprise in Donacha’s voice. ‘Truly the gods favour us.’

  Fresh spears? The Selgovae chief looked to the east gate where warriors poured into the camp. Every man carried a sword and a shield and he recognized them with dismay as Rurid’s Caledonians. He rushed to the gateway as the war chief entered at the centre of a band of warriors.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  The bearded man frowned. ‘We waited where you said we should, but the Roman reinforcements never came. My men saw the glow in the sky and decided they had waited long enough. There is no plunder to be had crouched in the darkness under the trees.’

  ‘Aaargh!’ Cathal let out a roar of frustration that echoed across the fort. ‘You fools.’

  In the distance a trumpet blared out its strident call.

  ‘When you said you needed a cavalry wing to help reinforce the Ninth I thought we’d be escorting at least a couple of cohorts of infantry.’ Aulus Atticus nervously fingered the chin strap of his helmet.

  ‘You understand your orders?’

  ‘Of course, lord. We attack in squadrons and stay on the move. Any man of greater height and bulk than the normal to be singled out by every archer who sees him. I can assure you there won’t be any tall men left alive when we leave the field.’

  ‘Good enough. Nilus?’ Valerius called to his signaller as he drew his heavy cavalry spatha. ‘You ma
y order the advance.’

  LIV

  Nilus put his trumpet to his lips and the braying blare echoed through the dawn. Rufus had guided them through the darkness, hesitating occasionally to check his surroundings, but there had been no sign of the ambush Agricola predicted.

  When they’d reached the fort Valerius had been tempted to launch an immediate all-out charge to relieve the pressure on the defenders. Instead, he’d ordered Rufus to circle the walls out of earshot of the enemy.

  Now, in the roseate bloom of the summer pre-dawn, Valerius and Atticus’s thousand mounted archers and spearmen were ranged in two ranks along a shallow hillside to the west of the temporary fort. As one they moved forward at a walk which rapidly increased to a trot. ‘Hold the line,’ Atticus roared. ‘If any of you bastards get in front of me I’ll take a cane to your backs.’

  Valerius’s heart thundered so much with anticipation it felt as if it was coming out of his throat. He had no idea how this would end, only that it had to happen. Five hundred mounted archers was far too few to throw against this multitude of angry Celts, but he had no choice if the legion was to have the opportunity to recover. He could only pray Calgacus and his warriors were so occupied with Naso and the Ninth that they’d not thought to man the walls against the possibility of a new attack. He could see the west wall now and the gaps where Calgacus and his warriors had torn their way into the camp. He twitched the reins and lined up on one of them. Nilus rode at his right shoulder ready to take his orders, Felix on his left. Shabolz and the remainder of his bodyguard would not be far behind. ‘Sound the charge.’

  Another long blast increased the pace to a canter. He looked to his flanks and the long rippling lines of horsemen attempting to keep formation over the rough ground. The ditch and bank loomed before him. Now! The horse rose to fly the void, checked for an instant at the bank before lurching forward shoulder to shoulder with the mounts to right and left. Valerius shifted his weight to stay in the saddle and then they were through. Atticus must have issued a command, for the higher voice of a lituus cavalry trumpet shrieked out a message. A third of the Ala Petriana – ten squadrons – consisted of mounted archers. Like all cavalry their horses were trained to respond to pressure of the knees. Inside the camp the riders dropped their reins and unslung their curved bows, bringing them up and notching an arrow in a single movement. They crossed the outer road, swerving to avoid baggage carts, and were quickly among the wreckage of the tents. Valerius was fortunate that his route took him along one of the gaps between the lines, but others were forced to jump mounds of leather and equipment. The glowing embers of the burned-out praetorium appeared to his left. Until now he’d given little thought to what awaited them. If the Ninth had been overwhelmed the bones of every man in the charge would join them to be chewed on by the wolves and the foxes among the heather. But instinct told Valerius that Naso had managed to hold.

  Then he saw the enemy. At first, from his elevated position, they appeared as a single great mass, but quickly his mind told him he was actually looking at an oval with an oblong of glittering iron helmets at their centre. He could even see the eagle party in the middle of the trapped ranks of Roman troops. Another look to his flanks and a surge of relief. He and Atticus had discussed their plan of attack, but it depended on the Celts pressing the Ninth hard. By Fortuna’s favour the enemy had left a gap between their rear and the outer wall. A few baggage carts obstructed the passage, but he prayed that the skill of the Ala Petriana would allow the plan to work. Within a few strides the warrior mass became a sea of individual faces, mouths gaping and eyes wide in consternation. Forty paces and a new blare of the trumpet. Hundreds of arrows hissed from the bows of the front rank to be lost among the Celts. Their missiles in flight, the front rank split to left and right around the outer face of the barbarian rear. A heartbeat later the second line loosed an equally deadly shower of arrows and followed their comrades in an arcing turn. At first the volleys seemed to have no effect on the mass of tribesmen, but as Valerius followed Atticus he saw bodies crumple by the hundred. Almost every shaft had hit a mark.

  The archers notched new arrows and began a relentless flaying of the outer ranks of attackers as they swept around the flanks, accompanied by a growing howl of frustration and alarm.

  Valerius’s eyes scanned the Celts for the giant figure he sought, but his attention was drawn by a new and deeper blast of a trumpet.

  He knew what the familiar fanfare signified, but even so the effect came as a surprise. The remains of the Roman square seemed to pulse and throw back the attacking ranks of Celtic warriors, pressing them against those in their rear who were doing what they could to take cover from the arrow storm. Another pulse and the cries of consternation became shriller. Good Naso, to know just when to take advantage of the enemy’s surprise to launch an attack of his own.

  Valerius could visualize the exhausted Roman defenders’ advance, one excruciating pace at a time, each step protected by the big scuta shields and accompanied by a stab of the gladius that harvested the men in front of them. There were still countless thousands of the enemy, but they were confused and tormented to the point of madness, attacked relentlessly at their front by men who should have been long since dead and at their rear by a force that rode infuriatingly out of their reach, stinging like deadly hornets with every stride.

  Yet somewhere in that great crowd was a leader with the ability to change everything. Valerius searched the sea of heads, certain he would recognize his prey. Cathal, king of the Selgovae, the mortar that bound the northern alliance, would stand head and shoulders above any man in the thousands within view. The Cathal he remembered from the battle upon the ice would be in the place of the heaviest fighting, inspiring and encouraging, ready to take the battle against the enemy in a show of defiance that would draw his people along with him.

  ‘There!’ Shabolz’s falcon’s eye identified the giant figure among the crowd on the far side of the parade ground.

  Valerius glanced at Atticus and the young man frowned. ‘Too far,’ he said, but he directed the closest archers to the area the Pannonian had pinpointed. The Gauls were riding along the flank of the attack, zipping arrow after arrow into the packed Celtic warriors. ‘Save your shafts,’ Atticus shouted the order to anyone who could hear. ‘There. There is your man.’

  They turned the angle of the inner road at a canter, Valerius and his men keeping the closest barbarians at bay with the edge of their long swords. Finally, Atticus turned to the man nearest him. ‘Cuno, you have the longest range,’ he called. ‘The big man in the centre.’ In a single smooth movement Cuno brought his bowstring to his lip, aimed and loosed.

  Cathal felt the wind of the arrow passing his cheek and heard the smack as it pierced the skull of the man who had been protecting his left side. He looked round in surprise, only for Emrys to throw his shield in front of him. ‘How can I conduct a battle if I can’t see?’ he snarled. Two sharp thuds answered him and his sword brother bared his teeth.

  ‘You would do well to conduct it if you’re dead.’

  Suddenly the air was alive with arrows and Cathal’s men closed about him with their shields. He tried to push them away, cursing, but the shafts fell like hail upon the fragile wooden barrier his sword brothers had erected.

  ‘The attack,’ he roared. ‘We must keep up the attack.’ But the men in front of him were bewildered by the renewed Roman defiance, and those behind cowed by the arrows that spitted the men next to them. Oenghus the druid attempted to rally them, only to go down with an arrow through his gaping mouth. They wavered, and Cathal knew he wouldn’t get them to take a forward step again unless he led them himself.

  ‘Lord king,’ Emrys said urgently. ‘Without you we are nothing. Without you this army will drift away like smoke on the wind. You must live.’

  Cathal’s mind denied it. He ground his teeth and cursed the gods for forsaking him and the Romans for their very existence. He knew Emrys was right and for a moment he allow
ed himself to be marched back, protected by a carapace of joined shields that shook and rattled from the arrows that sought him out. He could hear the cries of men dying all around and his mind filled with a red uncontrollable rage. Surely it couldn’t end like this? He pushed the shields away and turned to rejoin the fight.

  ‘No!’ Emrys clutched at him, and Cathal actually felt the impact of the arrows that killed his sword brother even as the familiar, well-loved face twisted in its death agony. In the same heartbeat the shields were back around him and it was Colm’s savage voice in his ear.

  ‘Throw your life away and it is not just your family you are betraying, it is all of us. Emrys and every other man who fell here will die for nothing. Now, enough of this foolishness. Come, lord king.’

  This time Cathal didn’t resist the hands that pushed him down so his great height was lost among the throng of Selgovae and Venicones warriors. Seeing their leader being ushered to the rear they finally broke and rushed for safety through the ring of horsemen, who were powerless to stop them.

  Valerius saw the archers home in on the giant figure and watched the warriors around him fall until his bodyguard closed their shields around him. Now he’d lost Calgacus in the chaos of retreating Celts.

  Was he among the dead and injured being trampled into the dirt by his comrades? That no longer mattered. What did was that the Ninth had survived. The legionaries were too exhausted to push their attackers hard, and if they’d decided to fight it out Valerius doubted he had the strength to move them, but the Celts were demoralized and as tired as their enemies. They’d fought through the night and watched their bravest warriors die on Roman swords. That rock-like, unyielding wall of battered shields had sown doubt in their minds. They weren’t defeated, but they believed they couldn’t win, and the arrival of Atticus’s bowmen had confirmed it.

  ‘Let them go,’ Valerius told Atticus. ‘They still outnumber us and there’s no point in provoking them into an unnecessary fight we might not win.’