Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Please …’

  She brought her face close to his. ‘I do not need my husband’s protection, Metilius, or that of my bodyguard. I am perfectly capable of eradicating vermin who threaten my family or myself. You will call off your watchdogs. You will never in future defile my house with your presence on any pretext. If you ever threaten my children again I will personally remove what are laughingly known as your manly parts and feed them to Lysander while you watch. Do you believe me, Metilius? You may nod.’

  Aprilis moved his head slightly and winced at the sting of the point.

  ‘Yes,’ Tabitha said almost dreamily. ‘You were that close.’ She removed the knife point from his flesh. ‘Now you may go.’

  Without a word the young tribune stumbled towards the doorway to the courtyard, his hand clapped to his neck and his terrified eyes on the big mastiff. When he was gone, Tabitha sighed. ‘Rufius,’ she called. ‘I know you’ve been listening. Tell Quintus to bring me parchment and stylus. I would write to my husband.’

  Ceris ruffled Lysander’s head and led him off to the kitchens. ‘Come on, you useless old brute. Time for your dinner.’

  LVI

  ‘We will go north. Where else can we go?’

  The answering murmur acknowledged the right of it, but contained no hint of enthusiasm. Ragged and filthy from days spent trying to stay ahead of the hunting Roman cohorts, the five men crouched around the glowing embers of a small fire set in a forest dell.

  It had taken all of Cathal’s energy to gather the remnants of his routed forces in the remote valley. He tried to ignore the accusing eyes and downcast faces in the firelight. Rurid the Caledonian, smug in the knowledge he’d suffered the fewest casualties of any of the tribes. If he’d been able to control his men they would have stayed in place to ambush the cavalry wing that had destroyed Cathal’s hopes. King Donacha, a sword slash scarring his right cheek and eyes still dark with grief for the brother he’d lost to a Roman arrow. Torn by the knowledge that it might have all been so different if he hadn’t hesitated while the legion was forming its defensive square. No reproach from Colm, Cathal’s Selgovae sword brother, who would follow him to the last. It took him a moment to remember Emrys was dead, and he winced at the knowledge he, Cathal, had killed the man who among all the others could be called his friend. Vodenos and his contingent of Brigantes were still missing, separated from the main force by the Romans who scoured the mountains and glens.

  ‘You have nothing to say, priest?’

  ‘What is there to say?’ Gwlym shivered and pulled filthy blankets closer to his spare body. This had been the first time he’d felt cold in summer. Was it a sign of growing age or a symptom of defeat? ‘The south has been grazed to the roots by your warriors,’ he gave the word a mocking ring that had Colm’s hand twitching over his sword hilt, ‘and what little they didn’t gorge themselves upon has been taken by the Romans. West? The hills might sustain a few dozen of Rurid’s stinking mountain goats, but not an army. The sea lies to the east and I am not overly fond of fish. If we stay here we will end up eating each other. So where else but north, as our great leader points out.’

  The words great leader held a bitter edge that wounded Cathal more than the reproachful looks of the others, yet the druid’s contempt had a basis in fact. A true leader would have stayed aloof from the fighting and concentrated on what should have been his greatest priority: the Roman supplies that would feed his army through the winter. Cathal had trusted his subordinates to strip the Roman baggage carts of the staples that would fill their bellies when the snows came: sacks of grain and flour, dried and salted meats and fish, and the hard biscuits the legions carried in such abundance. Instead they’d become bewitched by the glitter of gold and silver ornaments and befuddled by wine. They’d carried off barely a tenth of what Cathal had expected. With enough supplies he would have been able to withdraw back into the mountains and lure the Romans to him. Now he had only one course of action.

  ‘Prepare your warriors to march in two days. We will distribute what supplies we have among them. Any man who wastes a single grain of barley will have me to reckon with – make sure they know that.’ He raised his hammer, still spattered with the blood and brains of the men he’d killed days earlier. ‘Have the first warrior of any tribe who disregards my order brought to me and I will provide an example of what true discipline means.’ His companions quailed before the intensity of the narrow eyes, and murmured their agreement. ‘The Romans have built a fort to the north of the valley mouth. We must bypass it without being detected, but as far as possible we will stay close to the line of the mountains, sending foraging parties out among the farms towards the coast.’

  ‘The Taexali will not like us taking their food,’ Rurid warned.

  ‘Then they should have supported us,’ Colm spat. ‘With another two thousand warriors we would have taken the camp and driven the Red Scourge out of their lands. Instead they were content to stay on their farms, sit on their hands and let us bleed in their stead. If they go hungry this winter it is their own doing.’

  ‘We are an army,’ Cathal agreed. ‘We cannot fight on empty bellies. In time they will have reason to thank us.’

  He knew that not a man there believed him, not even Colm, but that didn’t matter because he didn’t believe himself. How times had changed since he’d fought the Roman on the ice all those seasons ago. Cathal, king of the Selgovae, reduced to mealy-mouthed lies to hold together his fragile coalition of followers. The question was how long they would continue to follow him without a victory.

  ‘What is our strategy?’ Donacha might have read his mind. ‘What is your plan now for defeating the Romans?’

  It was a sensible enough question. Donacha and Rurid would have to try to convince the leaders of their war bands, just as Cathal had tried to convince them. Cathal would have preferred the question remained unasked. The truth was he had no answer. ‘For the moment it is enough that we stay ahead of them and conserve our strength. The land between the mountains and the coast is fruitful, but it will not feed more than one army. While we eat, they will go hungry. When the time is right we will turn on them and destroy the weakest of the legions, the Ninth.’

  ‘It was the Ninth who killed my brother,’ Donacha pointed out. ‘They may not be so easy to defeat.’

  ‘Do you have a better plan, lord king?’

  Donacha only stared at the flames, and Cathal wondered how long the courage and will of his closest and most valuable ally could be sustained. Eventually the younger man looked up and met his gaze. ‘You are our leader, Cathal of the Selgovae. I only hope that when the time comes we will be worthy of that leadership.’

  Cathal nodded. He rose and turned away lest they see the strength of his relief. Without Donacha and his Venicones it was over. Colm followed him, leading Gwlym by the arm. They wound their way through the trees to the rough shelter Cathal’s men had built for him, where Olwyn waited with Dugald and Berta. He had sent for his family as soon as it became clear he had no option but retreat. It was they who had identified the small fort the Romans had built thinking to pen Cathal into the mountains. At first he’d been tempted to attack the auxiliary garrison, but his scouts had identified a second, much larger camp, less than three miles north. After the shambles of the night attack on the Ninth’s camp it wasn’t worth risking another blow to the morale of his shaken warriors. Better to slip by, using the river to protect his flank, and put a safe distance between himself and the Romans in the gently undulating countryside to the north.

  He had reason for haste. Rurid, who knew his country well, warned of what he called a choke point a few days’ march away where the western hills descended to within a few miles of the sea. If the Romans reached it first they would effectively trap Cathal’s army in a small triangle, or force him back into the unforgiving mountains from which he doubted he would emerge with his forces intact.

  Olwyn looked up in the lamplight as the three men entered, and the sight of
her simultaneously raised his spirits and filled his heart with fear. The children were curled up in furs on the far side of the shelter. Colm led Gwlym to a makeshift bench and helped him sit before returning to the curtained doorway.

  ‘I’ll talk to Donacha and Rurid about the distribution of the provisions,’ he whispered with a glance at the boy and girl. ‘Like as not that Caledonian bast—’ he saw Olwyn’s look and grinned, ‘he’ll try to cheat us.’

  ‘Make sure you keep some back in case Vodenos and his Brigantes find their way through the enemy patrols to us.’

  Colm gave Cathal a look that told him what he thought the chances were and disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘So it is decided, husband?’ Olwyn said quietly.

  He nodded. ‘We go north in two days. We’ll need to move fast once we get past the Roman camp, so be prepared to travel light.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m ready.’

  He took a seat beside her on the scattered furs. ‘Of course.’ He returned the smile. ‘I never doubted you.’ He picked up the clay oil lamp from its shelf and studied the flame. ‘Sometimes …’

  She placed a finger on his lips. ‘No regrets, Cathal of the Selgovae. You did what was right and no man could have done better. One day, when the Romans are defeated, we will return to our home beside the river and this will be nothing but a bad dream. Berta will marry a fine young warrior and we will find Dugald a princess, and we can grow old and fat together by the fire.’

  He took her in his arms and held her to him, marvelling as always at the lightness of her frame. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That will be the way of it.’ He bent his head to breathe in the sweet, smoky scent of her hair. ‘Donacha as much as said he doesn’t believe we can win.’

  ‘You must win.’ Her voice took on the determination of a wildcat defending its kits. ‘We cannot let these people turn us into slaves.’

  A grunt of bitter laughter interrupted the conversation. Gwlym, all but forgotten in the shadows. ‘Your Brigantes welcomed slavery. If Cartimandua had brought her warriors south to stand side by side with Caratacus the Romans would never have passed the Tamesa. If they had joined Boudicca the only Romans left on this island would be our slaves.’

  ‘Cartimandua had her reasons,’ Olwyn said defensively. ‘As did my uncle. You must win.’ She gripped Cathal’s flesh so hard that he winced. ‘You must win for Dugald and Berta and the future of every other child in this land. For every warrior who followed you and every widow the Romans have made. You must make sure that the name of Cathal rings out across all of Britannia as a beacon of freedom. Promise me.’

  ‘I promise,’ he said, not knowing how the vow would ever be fulfilled. How could he fail them?

  LVII

  The three men stood on the rampart of the temporary fort, cloaked against the rain, their gaze on the murky landscape to the north. To their left the mountains were a shadowy streak more sensed than seen. On their right hand, beyond a narrow river, lay a gently rolling landscape of farm, field and woodland that eventually ended three or four miles away where the waves lapped the beach. The commanders of three legions had gathered to vent their frustrations at yet another delay.

  ‘We can’t just sit here and do nothing.’ Herenius Polio, legate of the Second Adiutrix, repeated the mantra they’d heard for the last hour and more. ‘Move now and we have Calgacus like a mouse in the claws of a stooping hawk.’

  ‘We have our orders.’ Julius Ursus muttered the words as if they were a curse. ‘We are not to attempt any further offensive operations until he returns. You do not know him as I do. Agricola will not countenance any disobedience.’

  ‘Valerius, you are the senior among us.’ Polio felt Ursus bridle at his side. ‘I know you are the elder, Julius, but we all heard the governor: If I fall the province shall be his. His very words, Julius. Could it not be suggested that the governor has indeed fallen, that the impact of his son’s death has rendered him incapable of carrying out his duties?’

  ‘You are talking mutiny,’ Ursus spluttered. ‘If you were one of my centurions it would be my duty to strike you down.’

  Polio’s hand went to his sword hilt, but Valerius stilled it with a touch of his own. Time and circumstance had healed the division that had arisen between them at the time of Agricola’s announcement of Titus’s death. ‘Enough, Julius,’ he said to Ursus. Mutiny and its consequences were always a thorny subject, but never more than now. In the aftermath of the attack on the Ninth the entire Usipi auxiliary cohort had marched for the coast and commandeered three Liburnian transports to take them back to their native Germania. ‘We are discussing strategy, not mutiny. Every man here must be free to express his thoughts. Are we agreed?’

  ‘Very well.’ Ursus bowed his head to his fellow legates. ‘You have my apologies, legate. I spoke in the heat of the moment.’

  ‘Then I will express mine,’ Polio said. ‘I believe that in the governor’s absence due to his ill health, the man he designated as his successor should assume command. Agricola was distraught when he issued his edict against offensive action. You must do what you believe is right, Valerius. I for one will endorse in writing any orders you give. Julius?’

  ‘I’m not certain.’ The older officer shook his head. ‘Agricola …’

  In the long silence that followed, Valerius fought the conflicting emotions that tore him. He knew Polio was right: someone should take command. They’d been chasing shadows ever since they’d left Brigante country. Calgacus’s forces were ripe for the plucking after their failure to destroy the Ninth. In the aftermath, Agricola had been so affected by his son’s death it had blinded him to his duty. But did that give them leave to countermand the orders of a proconsul of Rome with the power of imperium? Any emperor might see it as an act of mutiny. Mutiny meant death. If Valerius, in particular, accepted the command he might as well send Domitian his head on a silver plate. He still couldn’t understand why the Emperor who hated him so deeply allowed him to live. Sometimes he woke in the night feeling like a mouse being watched by a cat. Perhaps that was the reason? Domitian intended to prolong his suffering. No matter. He had made his decision.

  ‘You need not concern yourself, legate.’ Valerius brushed droplets of water from the lanolin-coated surface of his cloak. ‘I have no wish to take over the command of the expedition.’ He ignored Polio’s astonished stare. ‘In my opinion the governor’s indisposition is temporary. He has every right to order a halt until we can advance again under his guidance. Whether I think those orders are correct or not, we have a duty to follow them.’

  ‘So the legions should hold their positions?’ Polio didn’t hide his disgust.

  Valerius nodded. ‘That’s my assessment of the situation.’ Ursus murmured agreement. ‘But to return to your original point,’ he continued, addressing Polio, ‘I don’t believe we should simply sit here and do nothing.’

  ‘What?’ both men said simultaneously.

  Valerius smiled. ‘Agricola’s orders are that the legions shouldn’t conduct offensive operations during his absence. That means maintaining this camp. Are we agreed?’ Ursus and Polio nodded. ‘But they don’t preclude us from carrying out patrols, and the size and composition of those patrols is entirely up to the judgement of the individual commander.’

  Ursus saw it first. ‘So if I sent out, for instance, my First cohort and a cavalry wing to carry out a sweep of the farmland five or six miles north in search of enemy activity …’

  ‘And I did the same,’ Polio chimed in, with a look of enquiry at Valerius.

  ‘Precisely,’ he said.

  ‘If the patrols of all three legions happened to meet up,’ Polio said admiringly, ‘that’s a force of four thousand fighting men, foot and horse. More than enough to give Calgacus pause.’

  ‘True.’ Ursus’s acknowledgement was tentative. ‘Enough to give him pause, but not enough for an outright confrontation. At least not without an unacceptable risk?’ He looked to Valerius.

  ‘You’re
correct, legate. But I wasn’t thinking of an outright confrontation.’ He swept his wooden fist over the vista to the north. ‘What lies out there?’

  ‘Calgacus?’ Ursus suggested.

  ‘The people who sustain Calgacus,’ Valerius corrected him. ‘We know from the prisoners and deserters we’ve captured that some of his men are already going hungry. Our foraging patrols report the farmers and tribal chieftains complaining that Calgacus’s army have already stripped them clean. If we can stop his war bands supplying themselves …’

  ‘Search and destroy,’ Polio suggested. ‘One big sweep through the country he hasn’t touched yet. Everything we don’t take we burn. He can’t operate in a desert.’

  ‘Every farm we burn adds another few spears to Calgacus’s army,’ Valerius said. ‘And drives those currently beyond our reach into his arms. We want him weakened, not strengthened.’