“Then why have you not discussed this plan of yours with Madoc and me? Why must we sit here open-mouthed and shamed like the others?”
Venutius gripped him firmly by the arm, his eyes blazing with excitement from within his sharp animal face. “Because I did not want it revealed until the tribes had had their say, all of them, and were satisfied with the quarreling and the beer. Their talk is all of small things, a garrison here, a detachment there, more defence than attack. But this is the time for attack, Emrys, along the whole of the border! Let us take the initiative, while Albion has no governor!”
Emrys did not withdraw his arm though Venutius’s fingers bruised it in his agitation. ‘’If you council pitched battle I will forbid the Ordovicians to have anything to do with you,” he said. “What other way is there to defeat a whole legion?”
Venutius shook his head impatiently. “No, no. I am not such a fool. There is another way, Emrys, but it depends upon the willingness of the tribes to take their orders from one man, just for a little while. They must thoroughly understand what I am trying to do and they must not feel threatened by me. I want power over them, but only for a little while.”
“Very well.” Emrys sought his wife’s face and found it, far back. The eyes shone with a shrewd knowing delight from behind the wolf’s grimace. She has listened to Venutius and she already understands, he thought. She is happy. “I suppose I can wait for sundown to hear your idea, Venutius.” Venutius released his arm, not realizing he had been clutching it.
“I would have told you, Emrys,” he said more gently, “but I wanted to be sure the Demetae would come to Council, and the Deceangli. Without them it cannot work, and I would have raised your hopes only to have them dashed in the end.”
Emrys laughed. “Truly you have not been in the west for long,” he chuckled. “Else you would know that for us there is no such thing as hope or despair. We walk the middle way, Venutius, and so keep our sanity. And our lives.”
That evening twenty chiefs came to sit before Venutius, ten from the Demetae, ten from the Deceangli. Their bards and shield-bearers hovered in the background. “We will hear your words,” they said sullenly, doubtfully, driven more by their curiosity than by the belief that the Brigantian had anything new to offer them, but Venutius smiled at them, unoffended. He took the knife from his belt and swiftly sketched a map of the west on the ground—no coastline, no rivers, no roads—only Deva, and Glevum, the string of garrisons in between, and the west’s own lines of communication.
“Good,” he said, as they craned to see. “Now listen. You Demetae will leave your territory, every one of you, and move east, to here.” His knife scratched with sureness. “You will find Madoc and the Silures waiting for you. You will divide your forces into as many units as there are garrisons, from Viroconium to Glevum, but you will leave the fort alone. No whisper of what is taking place must come to the ears of the legate there.” Something clicked in Emrys’s mind and he glanced into Venutius’s face with a dawning wonder, but Venutius was speaking again. “To the north, the Ordovices will divide in two, one-half of the tribe under Emrys’s command, the other under Sine. And you Deceangli,” he said, pausing to smile at them, “you will mass together here, on your border, and march on the fort at Deva.” Loud cries of denial broke from them, but Emrys was silent, marveling at this man who had silently paced beside him from camp to camp, absorbed all the spread of the mountains and the units hidden within them, and then made this ambitious, this impossible, yet not so impossible, plan. Venutius held up a hand. “Let me finish. The legion will be waiting for you. Rumors will have gone out a little time before and the gates of the fort will open long before you reach it, but you must give battle here, well away from the forest. For in the forest, half of the Ordovician force will be waiting. Now. The fort will empty. You will engage the enemy. You will, of course, stand no chance against them. You will begin to retreat toward the forest. Then, when the soldiers are well away from the safety of the fort, pursuing you with great joy,” here his mouth quirked, “either Emrys or Sine, preferably Emrys, will leave the forest and fall upon the legion’s right flank. If the surprise is complete enough the legate should be well confused. When his confusion begins to turn to a hastily laid plan of retaliation, then the rest of the Ordovices will come upon his rear. Having occupied the empty fort and set fire to it, they will have cut off all chance of a Roman retreat. The legion will be surrounded, but not all at once. Shock must follow shock, so that the legate can put no firm battle plan into operation.
“He will send south along the frontier for reinforcements,” one of the chiefs said hesitantly.
Venutius shook his head slowly. “He will send, but in vain. The Silures and the Demetae will have destroyed every garrison along the frontier. They will attack while the Deceangli are approaching the fort. Then, when victory is ours, the Deceangli can go home to rest and the Ordovices will march south to join with the Demetae and the Silurians and attack the Second at Glevum. When the Second falls the Demetae can likewise go home, and the rest of us can choose any point in the south as our next target.”
“The Second will not fall as easily as that,” Madoc remarked.
Venutius nodded again, scuffing out his map with his hand and sitting back on his heels. “I know. But we can try it, Madoc. If we have no luck we can leave it alone. What can it do but follow us south, and once we have gained the lowlands other tribes will join us. We will march the Second all over the south.”
“The Fourteenth?” Emrys could not still the incredulous excitement rising in him. It shone from his eyes.
“We cannot look that far ahead. If we kill off the Twentieth and the garrisons we will have done enough. Then we can plan again. Well?” he urged the Demetae and the Deceangli. “What do you say?”
They rose. “We will talk together,” one of them said. “And we will give you our answer with the first light of tomorrow.”
After they had gone Madoc grumbled, “I do not want to fight with the Demetae. They are an uncouth tribe.”
“But mighty warriors,” Emrys pointed out, and Venutius, watching him, knew that he had won.
“You must go south and meet them, Madoc. That country is yours. Besides, it would be good to mingle Silurians with the Demetae when you divide into groups and face each garrison. Then the Demetae cannot change their minds at the last moment and go home,” Venutius continued.
“Caradoc could control them,” Madoc still protested. “I am no Caradoc.”
But perhaps you are, Brigantian lord, Emrys thought, looking at Venutius’s withdrawn face with new respect. Perhaps it is not such a foolish idea, that the west may yet win this vicious, eternal war. What would you say, Caradoc, my old friend, if you could hear this wild, wounded sheepherder? Is there a flaw in his reasoning? What will the Druids say? “Venutius,” he sighed. “It is a good plan. Reckless perhaps, but when have we been less than gamblers here? I am with you.”
“And I,” Madoc wheezed. “I will do my best to be polite to the Demetae chiefs.”
“Then we must wait for the dawn,” Venutius said, and his eyes were dark with his seething thoughts. “I am hungry now. Shall we go to the fire, and eat?” He rose confidently, a new consciousness of dignity on him. Emrys and Madoc saw it and followed without another word.
Venutius’s strategy worked with almost ludicrous ease. The Demetae chiefs went back to their territory and returned, bringing their warriors with them. They and the Silures quietly strung themselves out at the edge of the forest, two miles from Scapula’s frontier garrisons, but their scouts lay hidden in the brush where they could watch the Romans. Any bold patrol foraying in the woods could have found them, but the garrison commanders were waiting for word from Camulodunon and did nothing. This was Venutius’s gamble. If Rome was better organized than he had counted on, he would fail. The Ordovices flowed into the north, divided, and Sine led her host south again and east, single file into Cornovii country, working her way back north to come
up behind the fort at Deva. Hers was the greater gamble. The northern Cornovii were sympathetic to the rebel cause but belonged to the province, and spring had arrived.
The snow had gone and the trees had budded and opened, their shiny, crumpled, pale green leaves like wet, new butterfly’s wings. The Cornovii peasants and freemen were sowing their little fields, and though Sine did her best to avoid detection by Cornovii tribesmen, there were peasants who saw the silent Ordovicians gliding past and did not live to tell what they had seen. Venutius watched the Deceangli assemble on their border. He knew they were unhappy that they had to trust him and the Ordovicians in order to save themselves from being cut to pieces. But the years with Caradoc had taught them that, at the last, no one tribe could exist alone. They were dependent upon one another and, even more, they could not have continued their fight for one day if they had not been buttressed by Emrys and his people. Venutius went among them, explaining over and over again what they must do, and they understood. In the evenings he briefed his scouts, men and women he had chosen carefully to run between himself, Sine, and the Deceangli. When they had gone he lay in his tent, on his back, his hands behind his head, and thought of Aricia and the cage she had made for him, and the west and its own cage. Somehow the two were tangled in his mind, as though if he could break out of the west he would also break free from his wife’s invisible prison, in which, he knew despairingly, he was still trapped.
When the time came, and he was sure that he had overlooked no contingency, he gave his final orders. “Hold them for three hours,” he told the Deceangli. “Then begin your retreat to the forest. Do not allow them to push you to either side. You must have your backs to Emrys.”
Word came from Sine, lying behind the huge, unfinished fort that was rising beside the Twentieth’s temporary quarters, and finally Venutius divided Emrys’s force in two and set them beside each other. He himself commanded one half. “You bolster the Deceangli directly from the rear,” he said. “I will bring the others onto the Roman flank. Sine will send men into the empty fort and then fall on their other flank. Thus they will be completely surrounded.”
At dawn the Deceangli emerged from the forest, feeling naked and pitifully alone, and Manlius Valens, legate of the Twentieth, ran to his wall and stood in the cover of his lookout tower, watching them approach. Swiftly gauging their number he ordered out his auxiliaries and the gates of the fort swung open. They remained so. After an hour of battle he saw that auxiliaries were not enough. He sent an other one thousand infantry. Then, resignedly, he ordered out the rest of the infantry, cohorts, and his cavalry. He climbed down from his vantage place and rode onto the field himself, the aquila glittering beside him in the strong spring sun. Another hour of furious engagement took place, but the Deceangli were no match for the legionaries. Valens had the battle well in hand by the time the natives broke and began to speed for the forest, leaving the grass piled with their dead, and Valens calmly ordered pursuit. The cavalry leaped to obey. The infantry opened ranks and ran, and the comforting bulk of the fort dwindled to a small gray box behind them.
Then a carnyx sounded. Valens heard it, faint but clear, a mocking, defiant note, and he knew. Screaming for a speculator he reined in, gave a hurried message to the man who answered his summons, and watched him gallop safely away south to where there were garrisons and men and salvation. He shouted to the trumpeter. “Get the first cohort back here. The aquila must stay with me, we must on no account see it fall.” The call rang out, and now Valens could see them, rushing out from the trees, wave upon wave of grim tribesmen in brown and gray and dark green tunics, their shields outflung, their great swords held high. Orders fell from Valens’s mouth, a tumble of concern, but as yet he was not afraid. He sat with his tribunes and his staff mounted beside him, answering each challenge as his unit commanders sent for orders, seeing the Deceangli turn back on the tide of his fresh onslaught, seeing his soldiers quell the impulse to turn and flee. Then someone close to him cried out. Heads turned. With a thud Valens’s heart sank cold and painful, for off on his right flank another dull-colored cloud was rolling from the forest, and even as he watched, it formed a crescent. He opened his mouth to shout warnings, useless words, for orders would not come. Fear choked him, but it was not yet terror. He kicked his horse and sped away with his staff bunched tight around him and the aquila shining in the hands of the aquilifer. As he flew the orders at last took shape in his mind and he gave them voice. His wavering flank rallied at his coming but he heard, he sensed, the break-up of his legion’s confident unity. He could not fight here. Nothing at his back, and the tribesmen on three sides. “Close them up!” he shouted. “Retreat to the fort!” The trumpet broadcast the order, but when Valens glanced behind him the fort was not there. It was hidden by another cloud, low and menacing, advancing upon him. Terror wrapped its hot arms around him and his thoughts ceased to make sense. They have learned, he thought over and over again. They have learned, Jupiter save us, they have learned. He did not realize he had been screaming the words until his senatorial tribune gripped him by the arm.
“What orders, sir, what orders?” the man begged, his voice high with panic, but no orders could save his men, who were falling like wheat before a reaper’s scythe. Valens did not answer but wrenched on the reins and pounded to where his cavalry escort milled in confusion. He tugged the aquila from the fingers of the aquilifer. “Save yourselves!” he shouted. “The legion is finished!” Then he was gone, and after one horrified glance at the wet, stinking carnage around them his escort surged after him. They did not notice the horizon, where the clear, fresh morning had been without mist. Now the far distance was fogged with a haze of gray. Scapula’s frontier had collapsed.
LATE SPRING, A.D. 52
Chapter Twenty-Eight
FAVONIUS absent-mindedly acknowledged the salute of his sentry, and he and Priscilla walked out the gate of the little wooden garrison and down the path toward the copse. It was a sweet, scent-heavy, late spring day in Icenia, full of mild sunlight and fitful, gentle wind, but Favonius had no eyes for the weather. He moved slowly, with his head down and a frown on his face, and his wife’s gay stream of chatter was no more to him than the equally strident musical piping of the birds that nested in the thick, cool trees he now plunged under, still in a mood of brooding detachment. Priscilla chirped on, her pretty face raised to his, sun and shade dappling both of them, but as Favonius graced her with no more than a grunt or two she took his arm and tugged him to a halt.
“Honorious, what’s the matter? I asked you whether I could take Marcus to Colchester for a few days. Is your response meant to signify yes or no?”
“Yes!” he snapped, the frown still set like a sour, irregular furrow on his forehead. “I mean, no! Oh Priscilla, your requests grow more ridiculous as time goes by. First it was a hypocaust, as though we were building a house in Rome instead of inhabiting a rough wooden house on the edge of the empire. Then it was silverware for the officers’ table, as though we entertained the governor. No, Marcus does not need a few days at Colchester. Perhaps next year.”
He moved on and she slid her arm through his once again. “What a nasty mood you are in today! Leave the garrison to run itself for once, my dear. The dispatches never reveal anything exciting anyway. How safe and peaceful it is here! As you have forced me to attend this display of barbaric prowess and coarse merrymaking you might at least do your best to help me pretend to enjoy it.”
Testily, impatiently, he quickened his stride then sighed and turned to her, smiling in apology. They were nearing the edge of the little stand of oaks and could hear the roar of the crowd that was gathered outside Prasutugas’s town. It was the day for the annual horse and chariot races that had gradually replaced the rites of Beltine, and a hubbub of shouts, whistles and laughter wove into the tuneless clatter of harness bronzes and the intermittent neighs and whickers of the ponies.
“You might consider the dispatch I received this morning to be exciting,” he r
eplied. “There has been a battle, Priscilla, and the Twentieth has been defeated.”
Her mouth fell open. “Honorious, but how sudden. Is it just a rumor? It must be. No legion in Albion would allow itself to be defeated!”
Favonius wearily looked down at the girlish, pert red mouth and the blinking, vacuous eyes, and considered for the thousandth time whether he had been wrong to petition for her presence here with him. It was not usual for garrison commanders to enjoy the company of their families while on active service. Fort commanders, legates, and their officers, often did, but then a fort was not usually erected until an area was relatively safe. He had arrived in Icenia eight years ago with his men, built the garrison, and by the time Ostorious Scapula had landed in Albion he already was the envy of every other garrison commander on the island. Icenia was one of the safest places to be and, after Camulodunon, the most congenial. Its tribesmen were rich and relatively friendly. Its ruling house was not only willing but eager to foster the Roman cause. Favonius had requested the presence of his wife and infant son and the request had been granted without any deliberation on Scapula’s part. Indeed, a cozy Roman family in the garrison was thought by the governor to help lessen the impression of military occupation presented by the soldiers in Icenia. But Priscilla was no hardy plebeian pioneer and had no intention of becoming one. She lived for the day when her husband would be transferred. She could not imagine any posting as arduous as Icenia and said so, often and volubly. Favonius answered her brusquely.
“Don’t be a fool, Priscilla. You ought to think before you speak. If it’s only a rumor the dispatch would have said so. Manlius Valens escaped with his cavalry escort. The rebels tried to fire the fort but apparently they were not successful.”
“What does all this mean for us?” As always, her first fears were for herself and her son and she had lightly brushed off her husband’s reproof.
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