The Furies of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  As this unwelcome news sank in with the veterans, manning the defences in their centuries, there was a swirling within the Britannic ranks now less than a quarter of a mile from the gate. The warriors parted; through the gap came a two-horse chariot and mounted on it, behind the kneeling driver, was a woman, huge in build with her copper hair massed upon her head. In her right hand she held a spear that she raised to the sky, its tip reflecting the setting sun, as she shouted the war cry of her people.

  And her people answered.

  Tens of thousands of voices roared the response but it was not the ferocious cacophony of hatred that sent a chill through Vespasian’s heart; it was something completely different. Walking next to Boudicca’s chariot was a figure in a long, dirty white robe; a matted, grey beard tumbled down his chest and Vespasian did not have to see his eyes to know that they could pierce, such was their intensity and power.

  Boudicca had come south, intent on ripping out the heart and taking the head of every Roman in the province, and with her she had brought the one man whose hatred of Rome surpassed hers.

  She had brought the chief of the druids in Britannia.

  She had brought Myrddin.

  CHAPTER XIII

  ‘NOW THAT’S MADE it all worthwhile,’ Sabinus said, staring at the man he held responsible for the death of his wife, Clementina, and his own incarceration suspended in a cage for months on end. ‘The idea that Myrddin might be immortal by replacing him through the generations is down to their beliefs and perhaps the idea is true but that particular human version of him isn’t immortal. I hope he’s found his replacement because he’s going to need him.’

  ‘Who is Myrddin?’ Caenis asked.

  Vespasian felt the chill spread through him as the druid came closer; behind him were half a dozen other filthy members of his order. ‘He’s the latest in a succession of Myrddins. The druids believe that when they die, what they call their soul – their life-force, I suppose – is transferred into another body and therefore they have no fear of death. A Myrddin has always been the leader of the druids and they spend a lot of time looking for previous Myrddins who have been reincarnated to become their successor.’

  ‘I see, so that’s what Sabinus meant by the idea of Myrddin being immortal.’

  ‘It’s all bollocks obviously,’ opined Magnus as Castor and Pollux seemed to sniff the air in the druid’s direction and rumbled deep growls. ‘He’s as human as anyone.’

  Sabinus gripped the hilt of his sword. ‘And I intend to prove that by opening up his belly.’

  ‘Take his eyes whilst you’re about it, he owes me one plus interest.’

  ‘You’ll never get near to him,’ Vespasian said. ‘Do you remember that cold fear that they radiate? It clings to your limbs and makes it hard to move. What did Verica call it? A cold power that cannot be used for good; or something like that. Anyway, I’ve been close enough to it to know that I don’t want to get near to one of them again, even if it was for revenge.’

  ‘You might not have the choice,’ Magnus said, his voice full of gloom as Boudicca’s chariot stopped just out of bow-shot; in the distance, on the Lindum road, the turma had turned and was now making its way back north to report their sighting.

  ‘Romans!’ Boudicca shouted in a voice that would have done the most martial leaders of old proud; she raised her spear over her head. ‘I have come to take back Camulodunum and I will have it.’ She paused whilst dozens of men with sacks came forward. ‘For too long we have been slaves in our own land. Today that stops. You have a choice, Romans: die or submit to us as our slaves for we shall not let you go free.’ She brought her spear down and the men with the sacks spilled their contents upon the ground.

  There was a groan from the townsfolk lining the walls.

  ‘These are but a few of the hearts and the heads that we have taken,’ Boudicca carried on as the grisly objects continued to be poured from the sacks. ‘It is one to me whether I take your hearts and your heads from your bodies or whether you keep them and dedicate them to serving us as our slaves. But know this, Romans, one way or another I will possess them as I will possess this town. If you think that the Ninth Hispana will come to your aid you can forget them, they are too little too late. I shall crush them as they arrive and Rome will despair as one of her precious legions is wiped out for the first time since the great Arminius over fifty years ago in Germania.’

  ‘She knows her history,’ Magnus muttered.

  ‘So what’s it to be, Romans? Slavery or death? Either way, your world will end.’

  The veterans lining the walls had no doubt which was the preferable choice and they roared their defiance at the Iceni Queen.

  ‘I think that’s a fairly obvious reply,’ Vespasian said, looking left and right, his face grim as he registered just how incomplete the defences were; he offered up a prayer to Mars, god of war, that the centuries of veterans filling the gaps would hold off the Britons. ‘But given the situation I think that we should be ready to leave if she breaks in. I don’t think that she would spare us a second time.’ He looked back down at the Queen; her words were lost in the din but her gesture, pointing her spear at the town, was obvious: she had ordered her warriors to assault the walls.

  But her warriors were not just outside the town; as Boudicca ordered the attack, three or four sections of the palisade to both the east and west were pushed over and scores of men streamed through the gaps. The Trinovantes remaining in the town had now sided with the rebels and had left Camulodunum with even more gaps in its defences to the extent that it could still be said to be an open town.

  ‘Verrucosus!’ Vespasian called. ‘Send runners to the reserve centuries in the forum and have them fill the new gaps. You know what happens if they get in.’

  Verrucosus saluted and barked a series of orders that sent men sprinting back as the carnyxes, the tall, upright Celtic horns forged in the shapes of animals’ heads, blared out the discordant drone that accompanied Britannic armies into battle.

  Yet Verrucosus and his brother former centurions held their men steady as the Iceni tide rolled inexorably towards them, flowing out so that it lapped around the town, making Camulodunum a peninsula in a dark sea of hatred with just the river preventing its total isolation. On they came, their chieftains and champions mounted in two-horse chariots with their war bands around them, their shouted entreaties to their followers and their gods melding with the calls of the carnyxes, the war cries of the warriors and the cheering of another as yet unnoticed group: the women, the young and the old, for Boudicca had brought all her people to see her humiliation avenged and, as the attack advanced, they were left with the wagons cheering on their menfolk like spectators in a vast arena as the games begin.

  ‘Has anyone seen Paelignus?’ Sabinus asked, his eyes fixed on the oncoming mass, ‘I’d love to see his expression watching this.’

  ‘I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,’ Vespasian replied, picking up a couple of javelins from a pile of the improvised weapons. ‘I imagine that he sneaked out, somehow, during the night.’

  All along the defences the veterans prepared their javelins, bawled at by the former centurions to whom they still showed loyalty as the right arms of the closest Iceni warriors were raised above their heads and they began to flick their wrists. And then the air fizzed with flying stone and lead as thousands of slingshots were released, augmenting the tone of the cacophony with screams of the wounded as bones were cracked, faces pulped and skulls split open, sending defenders tumbling back off the walls to lie broken at their base. But those who survived remained standing, braving the hail, as they waited for their chance to begin the killing.

  ‘Release!’ Vespasian roared as the Iceni sea washed to within fifty paces of the walls.

  Centurions around the defences repeated the order, bellowing in their battlefield voices dredged up from the past; thousands of sleek missiles hurtled up through the air to reach their apex before plummeting down upon an unmissable t
arget of soft flesh. The screams of the pierced and skewered rose up to the sky as swathes of warriors were felled by this lethal rain.

  ‘Release!’ was shouted again and again and the defenders hurled and hurled for they knew that their only chance of stopping this was now, because once the walls were reached it would be but a matter of time before they were breached.

  And so javelins, some no more than sharpened, fire-hardened hafts, slammed into torsos, limbs and heads, reaping a ghastly toll in lives but doing very little to make any impression on the total number of warriors now surging towards the town, so great was it.

  Missile after missile Vespasian, Sabinus and Magnus threw, all grunting volubly with the exertion as Caenis, along with many others of the women, ran up and down the steps to the carts laden with javelins awaiting at their foot to resupply the men braving the slingshot that still fizzed around; but soon the carts were empty and there was nothing else to throw at the encircling host other than the stones and loose bricks. By now, though, the Britannic rebels had reached the defences; the defenders desperately hurled anything they could get their hands on upon the crush beneath them but the sheer weight of numbers tumbled down the embedded posts, surging over them like floodwater washing over a dam. Carried away were the grey-haired veterans who attempted to block the gaps, and in a few heartbeats all within Camulodunum knew that what had been a desperate situation was now hopeless and to stand was to die.

  So they ran.

  ‘The river is our only hope,’ Vespasian said as they clattered down the steps from the gatehouse roof. ‘Even if Cerialis and Paulinus arrive now they won’t prevent everyone remaining in the town from being massacred.’

  Sabinus ducked involuntarily as something unseen whizzed past them. ‘We’ll never get through now; the place will be crawling with the savages soon.’

  ‘Then we find a place to hide and wait until dark.’

  ‘What about the vaults in the Temple of Claudius?’ Caenis suggested, hitching up her stola so that she would not trip.

  Vespasian plunged into an alley heading in the direction of the river port. ‘No; I imagine all the survivors will head there as it’s the last place that could hold out for a while. We need something else.’

  ‘The sewers!’ Magnus shouted as they pounded down the alley, Castor and Pollux bounding behind them. ‘There must be sewers and the Governor’s residence is bound to be on the system at least.’

  ‘You’re right, there’s an outlet in the river port; it stank when we were there the other day.’

  They ran, now, with the speed of desperation, jigging left and right through the alleys, keeping away from the main thoroughfares as the Iceni poured in through the battered defences, intent on the death of every inhabitant in vengeance for their Queen and the affront to their honour. And the warriors set about their task with glee, breaking the last little pockets of resistance in a frenzy of slashing and stabbing that the innate discipline of the veterans could do nothing to counter.

  From all around now came the death-screams of the men and shrieks of cornered women as their children were torn from them and despatched, their hearts ripped out before their mothers’ eyes and their heads cloven from their shoulders; then, before the similar death was meted out to those same mothers, they suffered the combined fate of Boudicca and her daughters. They were scourged and raped repeatedly until they were things of blood; that death became a welcome friend, a light in this dark world, and they gave up their hearts and heads willingly for they had need of them no more.

  It was the time that it took to commit such outrages that saved many of the people of Camulodunum, at least for a few hours; the business of rape and slaughter, systematically and comprehensively conducted, was slow work and as Vespasian and his companions finally made it into the forum there was not, as yet, any sign of the attackers; just hundreds of terrified townsfolk trying to barricade themselves into the complex of the Temple of Divine Claudius as the sun began to set on the town now abandoned by its founding god.

  They raced past, on into the Governor’s residence; the guards had gone but a natural respect for the building had seemed to keep the common people out as if even in this time of crisis they still knew their place.

  Racing up the steps, Vespasian crashed through the doors and, once they were all in, slammed the bolts into place and was just about to wedge the bar across it when he realised the foolishness of his actions and slid the bolts back again.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sabinus asked.

  ‘If we barricade the door then they will know for sure that there is someone in here; leave it open and, well, maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘Good idea, my love,’ Caenis said, ‘but what if someone else comes in and then locks the doors?’

  ‘Then we’ll just have to pray that it’s them that get found and not us.’ Vespasian began to walk with purpose through the atrium. ‘The latrines are in the courtyard garden at the back; let’s hope that the sewer is big enough for people.’

  ‘And dogs,’ Magnus added looking down at Castor and Pollux who had no idea what was in store for them.

  The din of the sacked town, as they hurried across the courtyard in the half-light of dusk, was all pervading now and the screams and shrieks and sense of pure misery were such that Vespasian had come to the point where he no longer paid heed to it; Roman citizens were suffering and dying and that was that, there was nothing to be done about it – yet.

  The latrine block was in the far left-hand corner of the garden, nearest the river, which gave them hope because although they had all made use of the facility many times, none of them had contemplated how, and in what direction, the waste was flushed away. But flushed away it was because unlike so many other latrines this one did not have too fetid a reek to it. Indeed, as they walked in, the sound of running water could plainly be heard coming from below the two long benches, set at right angles to each other along the two exterior walls. In each bench were six round holes so that a dozen people at any one time could make contented use of, what was, a surprisingly airy room; now, however, as Vespasian and Magnus went to lift one of the benches, it was only four people and two dogs that needed to utilise it and not in the way that it was designed for.

  The yelp that greeted the removal of the bench almost made Vespasian lose his grip on it. ‘Paelignus!’ he exclaimed looking down into the trench to see the prefect squatting, ankle-deep in running water.

  ‘You!’ Paelignus sounded indignant. ‘What are you doing here? This is my hiding place.’

  ‘We thought that you would be long gone,’ Magnus said, putting the bench down.

  Vespasian reached in and dragged Paelignus upright by his ear. ‘How come you’re still here? I’m sure it’s not to witness the results of your cunning strategy of doing nothing.’

  Paelignus winced as Vespasian twisted his ear further, his eyes automatically searching for something on the ground next to him.

  Vespasian broke into a grin as he followed Paelignus’ look to a strongbox in the shadows. ‘So that’s it, is it? Couldn’t take the gold with you so you thought you’d hide and wait for them to move on; well, you’ll be waiting here a long time and you’ll be waiting without your gold because we’ll be taking it.’

  Paelignus hissed as his hand jerked up; a knife flashed in it.

  Caenis screamed as the blade tore towards Vespasian’s shoulder; Sabinus and Magnus both dived at Paelignus but they were too late: Castor and Pollux leapt upon the prefect as his stabbing arm thrust up and the instant after the blade pierced Vespasian’s flesh they took Paelignus down into the trench in a thrash of human and canine limbs to splash into the water that, a couple of growling rips and a curtailed scream later, ran red with blood.

  Vespasian clasped the dagger’s handle, inhaling sharply with pain; he looked at the blade and to his relief it was not deeply embedded, the dogs’ quick reaction had prevented Paelignus from thrusting it all the way home.

  ‘Are you all right, my love?’ Ca
enis asked, gently touching the area next to the wound.

  With a sudden jolt, Vespasian wrenched the blade free, dropped it and clutched the wound with his hand. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He looked down into the trench as the hounds continued to savage Paelignus’ body; his throat completely torn away. ‘Which is more than can be said for that murderous, treacherous little runt.’

  ‘That solved one problem,’ Magnus mused, climbing into the latrine.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sabinus asked. ‘Our travelling expenses?’

  ‘That as well, I suppose; but I was worried about how to persuade the dogs down into a latrine.’ He lowered himself in and hauled the beasts off the body by their collars. ‘Problem solved.’

  A crash and harsh voices from the main house across the courtyard made them all turn in that direction.

  ‘They’re here,’ Sabinus said. ‘Quick.’

  Vespasian, still clutching his shoulder, followed Magnus down into the reeking, brick-lined trench; Caenis picked up Paelignus’ discarded knife, so that it did not act as a signpost, and tucked it into her belt before swinging her legs over the rim and lowering herself in. Sabinus lifted the bench so that it rested against the side of the latrine and then climbed down. Using Paelignus’ body as a step, he reached his arms over the rim and grabbed the bench, pulling it up and sliding it over so that, after a few adjustments, it slotted back into place just as Britannic voices came from the garden along with the sound of doors being kicked open as the warriors searched for more victims.