Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Rufus?’ Valerius called. ‘Get yourself up here.’

  They waited while the scout ran up the earthen bank from where he’d been waiting among the baggage carts and saluted breathlessly. ‘At your orders, legate.’

  ‘Tell these gentlemen what you told me.’

  Rufus stood before the three legates. ‘I’ve been talking to the farmers in the country we’ve passed through and watching Calgacus’s foraging patrols at work among those to the north.’ He paused, considering his next words. ‘It seems to me they’re asking for trouble. They work to a set pattern. They’ll choose a nice juicy area between the mountains and the coast, appear at dawn and work their way from farm to farm taking what they can find and leaving the farmers and their families very little. They always give themselves plenty of time to get back before dusk, because by now they’re heavily laden or slowed down by the farm carts they’ve looted.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Ursus said, ‘but of little use unless we know where they’re going to strike next.’

  ‘As I said,’ Rufus continued, undaunted, ‘they work to a pattern. By looking at where they’ve been and having an idea of how the land lies further north, I reckon I can pretty much tell where they’ll turn up next. All we have to do is get there first, lie up for the night and hit them before they reach the farms.’

  The plan clearly appealed to Polio, but he had a suggestion. ‘Why not wait?’ he argued. ‘Let them strip the farms and hit them on the way back to their camp. That way we get the grain and Calgacus gets nothing but the blame.’ He saw Valerius frown and shrugged. ‘If you’re feeling generous we can dole out grain to the farmers a few days later as an act of kindness – without telling them it’s their own food.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Even lugubrious Ursus couldn’t hide his enthusiasm. ‘We can hit Calgacus where it hurts most, but it’s just a patrol, not an offensive action by any one legion, so we’re obeying the governor’s orders.’

  ‘But if Agricola doesn’t return before the start of the next campaigning season,’ Polio persisted, ‘I want your pledge that you will either take command and lead us north or endorse my letter to the Emperor asking that we be pulled back. My centurions report that the men are at the end of their tether. After five years on campaign rations, without a roof over their heads or a warm bath, it won’t take much more to make them join the Usipi.’

  Valerius felt their eyes on him. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘If Agricola doesn’t return by the spring I will take command and lead us north. We will finish it next year or not at all.’

  LVIII

  ‘You have been busy, I hear?’ Julius Agricola didn’t invite his three commanders to sit. The governor had arrived at the legions’ winter camp five days before Polio’s deadline expired. Agricola looked pale and drawn and his whole manner was oddly lethargic, as if the very act of existence was a trial to him. Valerius had been surprised to see Metilius Aprilis among his retinue. The governor’s question and its implication that he’d been receiving regular reports of their activities drew a splutter of outrage from Julius Ursus.

  ‘You will find that your orders were obeyed to the last detail, proconsul,’ he snapped. ‘My legion has not advanced a single inch since you left with a month of the campaigning season still available to us.’ Now it was Agricola who reacted, the grey eyes narrowing dangerously. But Ursus wouldn’t be deflected. ‘Men in camp need to be worked if they are not to become stale, and that is what we did. Work them hard. Constant patrols, and if one of those patrols came across a barbarian foraging party what were they to do? Ignore them?’

  ‘Hundreds of enemy dead and more taken captive. Enough grain seized to feed an entire legion over the winter with some to spare to be returned to help sustain its original owners.’ Valerius suppressed a grim smile. With this level of detail the clerks of three legions would face some harsh questioning in the morning. ‘I do not remember any of that being included in my orders?’

  ‘A fortunate consequence of the expedition’s patrolling activities,’ Polio assured him. ‘Surely something to be applauded, not censured?’

  Agricola studied the three men, his gaze settling on Valerius, who had remained silent. Eventually he decided he had nothing more to gain. ‘Where is Calgacus now?’

  ‘He wintered three days’ march north of here,’ Valerius replied. ‘His scouts watch us from the mountains for any sign of a general movement.’

  ‘Will he stand and fight?’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘He never has in the past. It’s more likely he’ll try to get us to divide our forces again’ – he ignored Agricola’s glare – ‘then turn on the weakest element. His people are going hungry thanks to the success of our patrols. Our granaries will be very tempting.’

  The governor took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Then prepare your legions, gentlemen. There will be no division of forces. With all the rains we’ve had the grazing will be sufficient to support our cavalry in another week. We will march as a single unit with the Twentieth in the van and the Ninth bringing up the rear. Calgacus will retreat north again. Our cavalry will harry his forces every step of the way and we will hound him until he has nowhere else to run or no option but to turn against us. To the very end of the earth if that is what it takes. You will receive my orders through my aide, Aprilis. He will be joining the Ninth legion as a replacement for the late praefectus castrorum Quintus Naso.’

  Valerius had to bite his tongue to stifle a protest. The appointment should have been his to make and Metilius Aprilis was the last man he would have chosen. He was too aware of the fate of his predecessor as the Ninth’s legate to feel comfortable working in close proximity to the man who’d probably given him the fatal push.

  Agricola seemed oblivious of the anger he’d caused, because his thin lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. ‘He has shown a sudden enthusiasm for campaigning. It seems Londinium is stifling his military talents. Now, if you would leave me, I am weary after my journey.’

  Valerius bowed with the rest, and together they hurried from the headquarters tent. Ursus was wrapped up in his own thoughts, but Valerius exchanged a glance with Polio.

  ‘I wish you good fortune with your new camp prefect, legate,’ the other man said. ‘But I wouldn’t be turning my back on him too often.’

  ‘It seems our commander is even less trusting than I’d thought,’ Valerius agreed with a bitter smile. ‘He seems to know about every last spear and every grain of barley we captured.’

  ‘Yes, there will be a reckoning for that. One of my clerks is going to spend the rest of his enlistment digging latrines. Still,’ the Second’s commander half-turned to look northwards, ‘he has us on the move at last. This time we will finish it.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘We must finish it. Will we, do you think, or …’

  ‘Yes,’ Valerius said. ‘I think we’ll finish it.’

  When he returned to his tent he received an odd look from the guards. It was only when he entered that he discovered why. A hulking figure in a hooded cloak sat on a bench in the corner. Valerius recognized his visitor even before he stood up and threw back the hood.

  ‘Hilario? Shouldn’t you be with the mistress?’

  Hilario scowled at the implied rebuke. ‘The lady sent me,’ he said. ‘She said it was time I was back with the legion. I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he added, reaching beneath bis cloak.

  ‘You have a letter for me?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’ The big fist emerged with a battered scroll case.

  Valerius took it and placed it on his campaign desk. Tabitha had taken the trouble to double-seal it, which told him it was no normal missive. He held the leather cylinder down with his wooden fist and worked at the straps with the fingers of his left hand. When he broke the seals and pulled back the flap he discovered it was not one letter, but two. His heart quickened as he recognized the form of the larger, but he unwrapped the smaller, little more than a scrap of parchment, first.
He smiled as he saw the familiar flowing lines of writing.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ he said to Hilario. ‘You can go and join your tentmates. They’ll be pleased to see you again. But be ready to march at dawn tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Hilario replied with a salute that would have broken a lesser man’s ribs.

  Valerius read: Husband, I write this in haste because I suspect the enclosed is of some importance, so I will forgo the normal endearments. I fear Hilario may have misunderstood my urgings to be inconspicuous, but Rufius and Ceris are out and there is no other I can trust. If the gods are kind he will leave with the governor tomorrow. Agricola is … no, I must not digress. The enclosed letter was delivered by what I can only describe as a man of mystery. At first I feared he was an assassin when I found him in the gardens teaching Lucius the rudiments of some game soldiers play, having somehow evaded the guard. He would not tell me his name, but he showed me a piece of jewellery he said you would recognize, a gold ring with a large green stone set in a coiled snake. Valerius caught his breath at the description which confirmed his hopes and his fears. He could not carry the letter further because he had encountered some merchants of his acquaintance in Londinium and feared they might divine, and possibly reveal, his purpose. He begged me to forward the letter to you by the fastest possible means and to convey the kindest thoughts of the sender. His manner and deportment convinced me of his good faith. I make no judgement, Valerius, I only hope this finds you in good health and good spirits. Your loving wife, Tabitha. She had added a single line as an addendum. Aprilis is with Agricola. Do not trust him if you value your life.

  When he read the penultimate sentence Valerius felt a twinge of guilt that he immediately dismissed. Tabitha would hear the truth about Domitia Longina Corbulo when he returned to Londinium, but a shiver accompanied the thought. What did the Emperor’s wife have to tell him that was important enough to risk discovery and death even when carried by someone she trusted with her life?

  There was only one way to find out. He broke the seal on the second scroll and unrolled it. It came as no surprise to discover it was in a code he instantly recognized. At first glance it was an impenetrable block of numbers which could mean nothing. Look again and a structure could be discerned. His eye sought out the symbol that would allow him to unlock the code he and Domitia Longina Corbulo had contrived between them a decade and more earlier. It gave him the letter for which the number 1 had been substituted. Discard the first two long sentences, which were meaningless and designed to discourage and dismay. The rest was simply a matter of transcribing. He reached for his stylus.

  My dearest Valerius, I give thanks that you are reading this for it means you live and I have acted in time. It is no secret between us that the Emperor wishes you dead. Orders have already been issued to that end which require only official confirmation. The man I remember will have taken steps to combat this, but you should know that you still have friends in Rome, and those friends have been able to put in place certain safeguards that avoid the requirement for immediate action. These safeguards relate to the circumstances of the recent death of our mutual friend and certain information about the causes. Should this information come to light it would cause embarrassment and possibly more serious consequences even for the most powerful. Valerius reread the last two sentences with a frown of concentration. Our mutual friend undoubtedly referred to Titus; was Domitia hinting his death was suspicious? Yes, that must be it. Why else would it cause serious consequences even for the most powerful? Who was more powerful than the Emperor himself? He felt a pang of grief for his old friend and a fierce rage welled up inside him. The official statement suggested he’d died as a result of a long illness. Instead it appeared he’d been murdered in the most obscene fashion by his own brother. He picked up the stylus again and continued to decipher the code. Multiple copies of this information have been compiled and are held by people I trust. Those they concern have been made aware of this fact, and will undoubtedly be seeking the identity of the holders. Steps have been taken to ensure that in the event of any unfortunate accidents the documents be passed to senators of irreproachable character who will be outraged by their contents and take the appropriate action. Still, there can be no certainties with a man such as he. Should you hear of my demise, or that of those close to me, take your family and seek refuge where you can. D.

  Valerius read the letter through again, imprinting the words on his mind. When he was satisfied he could recite it at will he put the parchment to the flame of the oil lamp and watched it shrivel and blacken, dropping it before the flames reached his fingers. More reluctantly, he destroyed Tabitha’s letter in the same fashion.

  As the flames died he turned his thoughts back to the letter’s contents. Did Domitia really think her husband’s hand would be stayed by the threat of accusations based on something that might not even exist? That their ultimate survival – for that final line proved she too was under threat – would be somehow guaranteed? It seemed she did, and Valerius, dredging up his memories of a younger Domitian, could perhaps understand why. Who understood that complex, murderous and mercurial character better than she? Three different elements ruled his life and dictated his moods, like three horses straining in different directions: vanity, insecurity and the need to feel loved.

  To be accused in the Senate of the vile crime of fratricide would rock him to his very foundations. Titus had been loved by many, but respected by all. Even the suggestion he’d been murdered would inflame the mob. Worst of all for Domitian, the legions Titus commanded had worshipped him. An emperor might lose the mob and the Senate, as Nero had, and somehow limp on, but without the army he was doomed. Domitian would scour the Empire to hunt down the incriminating documents, but he would never know if he’d found them all. Still, there were no guarantees. He would continue to watch his back for the assassin’s knife, but Domitia’s letter at least raised the hope that he might live to see his family again.

  But first he had to overcome Calgacus.

  LIX

  The Romans were on the move and he did not know what to do. ‘It is finished.’ Cathal struggled to keep the emotion from his voice. ‘I have failed you.’

  ‘It is not finished as long as you are alive, husband.’ Olwyn’s ferocious assurance was an attempt to restore his courage and he knew it. But her pink cheeks were sunken, the bones of her face showing like knife edges and the blue eyes dull and tired. She knew the reality as well as he. ‘The sword brothers of the Selgovae will never desert you.’

  ‘Even if you are right, what use are my loyal Selgovae without the Venicones and the Caledonians? Donacha says the chiefs of his war bands will desert if we move another mile further north. They pine for their own lands and they are sick of running. They have had enough of watching their wives try to make a meal with half a cup of flour and a handful of grass and their children crying with the pain of their empty bellies.’

  They had wintered at a place the locals called Devana on the estuary of the river Dan, where the ground never froze and fish and wildfowl supplemented their meagre diet until they inevitably ran out. He’d sent out emissaries to the tribes in the north and the scattered communities of the western mountains urging them to unite with him against the invader. The only result was a trickle of untried young men determined to prove themselves, but a further drain on his supplies.

  The warrior kings of the north had heard of the Romans, but no Roman had set foot on their land or burned one of their homesteads. Their warriors owned swords and spears, but at heart they were farmers. What incentive did they have to leave their families and their fields to fight with a man who had no great victory to boast of? His foraging parties had been forced to search far afield for provisions as the farmers grew wise to their ravages and took greater care in hiding their stores. More and more of the foragers fell victim to Roman ambush, some disappearing as entirely as if they had been swallowed up by the earth itself. Warriors became reluctant to volunteer, even t
hough every raid gave a man a chance to put away something, however little, for his own family. That was when the complaints had grown into anger and then threat.

  ‘And what of Rurid and his Caledonians?’

  ‘All they want to do is fight. If they did not fear me they would fight each other.’

  ‘Then fight.’ The words were accompanied by a hacking cough. Gwlym had spent the winter in virtual hibernation, barely stirring from his blankets unless it was to take a bowl of broth, spooned into his mouth by Olwyn or Berta. At times it had been difficult to tell whether he was alive or dead. ‘Fight the Romans.’

  ‘Fight three legions with fifteen thousand men? Fifteen thousand men weakened by hunger and camp fever? The Romans have at least as many, fit and well fed. The one thing I learned in the attack on the Ninth’s camp is that we cannot defeat them man to man when they hide behind their wall of shields and iron and we have nothing but swords and spears and willing flesh.’

  ‘I didn’t say defeat them,’ the druid croaked. ‘I said fight them. Sometimes defeat is only a different kind of victory.’

  ‘You talk in riddles, old man,’ Olwyn snapped. ‘Do not listen to him, Cathal.’

  ‘See,’ Gwlym chortled. ‘For all her fine words she does not want you to fight. She wants you safe, with your great ugly head on your shoulders, so you can warm her bed, which is where you will die, Cathal, king of the Selgovae, forgotten and embittered – if you do not fight.’

  ‘What do you mean, priest?’

  ‘If you do not fight your army will melt away like the snow in springtime,’ Gwlym said with infinite patience. ‘You will have a choice of surrendering to the Romans and being carried away in chains, or returning to the hills of your homeland defeated and reviled as the man who created so many widows to no purpose. Perhaps, if you are fortunate, King Crinan will make you his court entertainer, or Bruda will let you clean out his cattle pens.’ He ignored Cathal’s growl of fury. ‘But if you choose to make a stand your warriors will follow, your warriors will fight, and, if necessary, your warriors will die for the privilege of saying they stood beside Cathal of the Selgovae and went sword to sword and spear to spear with the Romans. It does not matter, even, that you may be outnumbered. The more legionaries Agricola throws against you the greater the honour, the further the myth will travel. For that is your fate, lord king, win or lose, dead or alive: to be remembered. To become a beacon for your people. In generations to come the name Cathal will be a rallying cry for the inhabitants of this island. A legend.’