“Very well,” he said. “Have the storehouses opened. I want all the grain my men can carry on their horses, I need it. Then burn the rest. Boudicca must go hungry.”
The mayor whitened. “What are you saying?” he whispered. “Surely you cannot mean to…to leave!”
“That’s just what I mean. I’m sorry, but I cannot take the dubious chance of saving a town at the expense of losing the province. Any citizen who can keep up with the cavalry may ride with me, and I mean ride. On their own horses. No wains, no carts, no people on foot. I must move swiftly.”
“But you will be condemning us to certain death! Governor, there are more than twenty-five thousand people here, defenceless, decent people, women, children, looking to you for protection!” His voice rose uncontrolled, a burst of hysterical fear. “Do you have any idea what happened at Colchester? Blood lay in great pools, sir, it ran down the gutters like water after a flash flood! They burned soldiers alive, they skewered children on wooden stakes! I don’t want to die like that, I…”
Paulinus strode to him and gripped his shoulders. “Pull yourself together and listen to me! I must buy time. I have twelve hundred men with me, and the rebels number in the tens of thousands. I must leave. If I can meet the Fourteenth and the Twentieth there is a chance, a slim chance, that something can be salvaged, but nothing will be served if my men and I sit here and die!” He dropped his hands and the mayor slumped trembling, his face hidden in his palms.
“What shall I tell the people?”
“Nothing. There is no time to tell them anything, but if you must, tell them that two legions are on their way. Where is Decianus?”
“The procurator?” For a moment the mayor rallied. “He stripped the treasury and fled to Rutupiae when we heard that Boudicca was coming. I suppose he is safely in Gaul by now.”
Anger flared in Paulinus, and then sank beneath an icy determination. “The criminal fool. If I had minded his business as well as my own, none of this tragedy would have happened. See if you can have hot food prepared for my men, and lay hold on every horse available. Pay for them if you have to. I want to leave before sunset.”
The mayor nodded shakily. “Sir,” he said, “if you survive, will you make sure that the emperor knows of this…this supreme sacrifice his city is making?”
For a moment Paulinus was swept by regret, and a terrible, insupportable pity. His harsh face softened. “If I survive, the whole empire will honor you.”
“Nevertheless,” the man concluded, “I would rather have life.”
Paulinus had recovered his self-control and his face fell once more into its sharp, ruthless lines. “You have had more than many who will fall here,” he retorted, and he went swiftly out of the room.
Somehow the news of the governor’s intention to abandon them to their fate was spread among the people, and they reacted with an incredulous disbelief that preceded an insane burst of terror. Paulinus and the cavalry ate hot leek soup and wheaten bread in the safety of an empty warehouse, squatting silently and listening to the turbulent uproar of the townspeople, who milled about in the streets shouting and imploring, begging and promising, driven to a despairing fury as the black doorway that gave onto annihilation inched open behind them. When the men had finished the food they slipped from the building, walked quickly away from the river and the now-deserted wharves where cargo lay untended and the ships rocked at anchor on the rising tide, and mounted their horses under cover of a grove of trees. It was now late afternoon, the mellow summer light lay rich and golden, and the air was full of the hum of drowsy bees and the intoxicating odor of wild blossom. With a word of command Paulinus swung quickly onto the road over which they had ridden only hours before, and someone saw them go. A wail went up, a swiftly multiplying howl of betrayal and loss, and though Paulinus gritted his teeth and slashed at his horse, the desolation in that cry haunted him well into the twilight.
Feverishly, the people set about packing their goods, and many punched and kicked their way to the free, open peace of the meadows that lay, tree-lined and calm, around the town. But for most of them it was too late. Three hours after the governor took all hope away with him, just as the sun touched the horizon with fiery fingers, a woman dropped her bundle and pointed north, screaming. A dark, low mass that was not an evening mist filled all the fields, and the last of the light flickered on swords as they were drawn. Boudicca, and death, had come.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
SHE stood in the darkness of the oak grove, and this time the hands she held out to Andrasta, Queen of Victory, were not empty. Her chiefs stood with her, and all around them in the moon’s pale washing the wooden stakes were crowned—a hundred tattered, blood-spattered heads, mouths slack in the half-light, eyes dull under sunken sockets, a hundred souls imprisoned forever in this secret place between sleep and waking. “More blood,” Subidasto whispered to her as she gazed upon her triumphs. “More blood, blood, blood, blood,” and she saw him clearly in her imagination. His face had become thinner, darker. The color of his eyes had deepened to the black of Brigantian beads, and his hair clung closely to his scalp and glinted with a sheen, like oiled, dark feathers. “No,” she murmured, looking down on her own blood-soaked palms. “No more blood. Only the legions. I am avenged.”
“Blood!” he squawked angrily at her, his hooked beak creaking open, and she squeezed her eyes shut and turned on her heel while the night wind stirred in her hair and cooled the sweat from her neck.
“We must Council,” she said to Lovernius, as they left the soul-crowded, silent grove and swung down the path to the twinkle of cooking fires and the laughter and shouts of the tribesmen. “I have things to say.” He did not ask what things. He took out his dice and fingered them reflectively.
The chiefs were waiting for her, drinking beer and talking. The little meadow between river and forest was crammed with them, but they fell silent as they saw her step into the big fire’s glow and stand patiently for their attention. When she spoke she had to almost shout, for in the days since the burning of Colchester, new members of the tuaths had been trickling in steadily to swell the rebel host, bringing their chiefs. Some came from fear that if they did not join their farms would be fired and they themselves slain, but most saw an opportunity come to them from the gods, to regain at last their long-lost freedom, and they threw in their lot with the Iceni with a fierce willingness.
Boudicca flung her sword to Lovernius and spoke. “Freemen and freewomen! The time has come to strike a last blow against the domination of Rome! I know that you are tired and hungry, I know that food is scarce, but if you follow me for a little longer you will have food in abundance! Paulinus was not in Londinium, as I had hoped. Therefore we must pursue him immediately and destroy him before he can meet the legions that even now are marching from the ashes of Mona. Then we can slay the Fourteenth and the Twentieth as we slew the vaunted Ninth, and Rome’s oppression will be a matter for song, not everlasting mourning.”
She paused for breath, but a burly chief rose swiftly and forestalled her next words. “Why should we turn from such rich pickings just yet?” he yelled at her. “The booty from Colchester was good, and the silver and precious things from Londinium were very beautiful. Now Verulamium waits to be explored.” He grinned around at the company and sat down, but before Boudicca could reply another chief jumped up, stuck his fat thumbs in his belt, and boomed at her, “Let the legions wait. We have made carrion fodder of one and we can do the same to the others in our own good time. Meanwhile, let us sink our teeth into the delights of Verulamium. The summer is young, and much booty waits to be carried back to the villages. My wain, for one is not yet full.” He sat down amid a ground swell of approval, and Boudicca exchanged shocked and angered glances with her men and with Domnall.
“What stupid dreams do you wander in?” she shouted. “Have you forgotten so soon what we face? You have lived long enough under that crushing heel! You ought to know the strength and cunning of Paulinus and hi
s legates! If he joins with his reinforcements, the balance moves back into his hands. We shall not move against Verulamium! No more pillaging! No more killing of townspeople! The legions and Paulinus only.” She sat down panting, and an offended muttering broke out.
“You are not arviragus!” someone shouted at her. “Who elected you to lead us?”
“Andrasta,” she snarled, struggling to her feet once more, and above the rumble of disagreements she screamed at the top of her voice, “I lead you because you are all too witless to lead yourselves! Raven of Nightmares, without me you would have stood before the Ninth and let them cut you down! Fools and slaves! If I had not left Icenia you would still be digging roadbeds and sowing crops with chains around your necks! Verulamium is full of Catuvellaunian tribesmen, not Romans. You Catuvellauni, what do you say? Will you kill your own kin?” But the Catuvellauni sat sullenly, looking at the ground, and the tumult grew. Subidasto began to laugh, a gleeful, high-pitched giggle of smug mirth, and she put a shaking hand across her eyes.
“Let them glut themselves,” Domnall said beside her. “Then they will be ready to listen to you. They have been ground into the dirt for a long time, Lady. Give them more time.”
“There is no time!” she rasped at him. “Look at them! It is all falling apart, all useless.” She got to her feet and stumbled away, and Lovernius and Aillil ran after her but she snapped at them, “Leave me alone!” and they fell back while she went blindly on into the rustling trees. Brigid was laying outstretched on her blanket, her eyes closed, breathing deeply and peacefully in sleep, and Boudicca threw herself down and gathered the girl gently into her arms. Brigid sighed but did not wake, and Boudicca cuddled the thin, warm body of her daughter for a long time, the tears trickling slowly down her cheeks and falling like bitter acid onto the fresh, unlined young face.
Before it was full dark, Paulinus left the main road that ran from Londinium toward the west. He did not know exactly when Boudicca would attack Londinium or how long she would tarry there before casting about for news of his whereabouts, and he was taking no foolish chances. He and his stoical, unquestioning men swung in a wide arc, moving as quickly as they could through an uncharted and unpathed wilderness, slipping past Verulamium, once more unnoticed by any save the inquisitive animal inhabitants of the forests. Now and then they stumbled across villages but they were all empty of life, and the tiny fields hewed out of the encroaching trees were untended, the vivid green spears of the young crops a sudden, lush splash of color. He sent no warning to Verulamium. He believed without question that Boudicca would make him her next imperative target and he pushed forward, aware that if he slacked his pace she could overtake him. He wondered what the Fourteenth and Twentieth were doing, how far they had marched, whether the men of the west had recovered from the shock of Mona and belatedly attacked them, whether they were lost, whether, like Postumus, their legates had lost their nerve and would not come at all. He knew that stress and desperation were eating slowly at his rationality and he forced himself to remember Agricola and the legions.
Once past Verulamium and the next posting station he decided that it was safe to ride the road once more, and at the next garrison he rested, commandeered all the grain they had, and moved on. He debated now whether to send scouts to the countless little garrisons and posting stations dotted throughout the lowlands in order to draw more fighting men to him, then decided that there was no time. It was vitally important not to linger. At three more posting stations along the road he took grain and men, then he reached Venona, and there he stayed. He took command of the little fort that was planted like a stubbed, friendly fist set down in the middle of miles of rolling, densely wooded country. He sent men further north to scout for his legions and back south to locate the rebels, and hour after hour he stood with his legs apart and his hands behind his back, searching the two roads that crossed where the fort was built with eyes dazzled by the dance of hot sunlight, fuming inwardly at his inaction. He had done all he could, but he knew that without a stroke of the most incredible luck it would not be enough. Paulinus did not believe in luck. He believed in intelligence and ability, and he knew that Boudicca had both. But he also knew the simple-mindedness of the barbarian temperament. They could not sustain any prolonged campaign, no matter how persuasive or brilliant their leaders, and he hoped that the chiefs would quickly tire of blood and booty and go home. He did not count on it, however. It did not pay to count on anything, and he rocked back and forth on his heels, looked up and down the roads, and waited.
He had been in the fort at Venona for barely three days when one of the scouts came hurrying from the south with news that astounded and heartened him. The rebels had swamped Verulamium. Paulinus listened to the same dismal tale of an almost total slaughter of the peaceful native townspeople. Tribesmen had carried off more goods to pile on wains, which must already be loaded with the spoils of Colchester and Londinium, and now they were running amuck through the Catuvellaunian countryside, burning every farmstead they found and killing everyone they met. Paulinus felt his spirits rise. For a moment he thought of how the three most progressive experiments in Roman integration with the conquered had been wiped out in as many weeks, but he dismissed any regrets. Boudicca was losing the precarious hold she had on her vast, motley host, that was obvious, and now, with good planning, he could snatch back the reins of control. She would rally them, no doubt, once they had worn them selves out by dashing all over the countryside, but by then his legions would have arrived, and any battle would be fought on his terms, not hers. He even whistled through his teeth as he went past the gates with the scout, and he acknowledged the salutes of the guards with a jaunty smile. He was a long way from safety yet, but now he had a fighting chance.
Agricola and the legions arrived with the next dawn, and in the pale, misty morning the two men greeted one another while the soldiers began to make camp.
“I took it upon myself to leave three cohorts at Deva,” Agricola said. “I didn’t relish the idea of having rebels at our front and the western wildmen at our back. I also picked up all the soldiers from the stations along the way.”
Paulinus drew him within the high wooden walls to where the rich smell of stewing game coiled about him. “You’ve made good time. Are the men tired? How many do we have?”
“Ten thousand infantry, and of course the auxiliaries and cavalry. The men are a bit footsore, but a few hours of rest will cure that. Tell me, sir, what are we facing?”
Paulinus steered him toward the headquarters building, lowering his voice as he spoke. “The mayor at Londinium gave me the figure of one hundred thousand, but in his fear he may have exaggerated. In any case, that would include the families of the chiefs. I have some reports from scouts, though, that tend to support his estimate, and of course Boudicca is gaining recruits all the time. Say eighty thousand, Julius.”
They reached the commander’s quarters and went inside. Agricola took off his short cloak and stood bunching it in his hands for a long time, then he said, “And what are our chances, Paulinus?”
The governor pulled the shutters to, against the morning’s chill. “I think they are very good. Don’t let their numbers awe you, Agricola, for that is all they have. We have discipline and superior training. We have officers who know their job. And we have the advantage of time.”
“Sir?”
“I intend to move farther north, not far perhaps, and choose a sight where we can meet them in pitched battle. It’s no good chasing after them and ending up ambushed in some tree-choked spot. I intend to make very sure that Boudicca knows where I am. Then we shall sit and wait.”
Agricola sighed. “Morale is not good. The men are jumpy.”
“All they have to do is obey orders and fight. If they do that, and of course they will, the victory will be ours.”
With a rueful inward smile, Agricola envied his governor his supreme lack of imagination. “Of course, sir,” he said.
Boudicca stood with her ch
iefs, breathing the thick blue smoke that was spreading like a stinging miasma over the road and into the forest, and swore aloud. “I needed that grain!” she said angrily. “He has fired his own fort. Can’t you smell the grain burning, Domnall?”
“At least we know that we must keep following the road,” he answered. “Sooner or later we will catch him. He cannot march his troops into the sea.”
“If we had left Verulamium for later we would have caught him by now,” she retorted, a barb of contempt in her gruff voice, then she walked to her chariot and clattered back onto the road. Slowly, ponderously, the unwieldy horde straggled in behind her. The same whines, the same complaints and accusations rose to flog her with reproach. We have traipsed a hundred miles, and where is the governor? We are tired, we want to go home now, we have missed the legions, the men of the west got the legions, we want to go home, go home, go home.
Andrasta take you all, you idiots, she thought furiously. But you are not going home until I have Paulinus’s head on the tip of my spear, for if you do, you will not live to see another Samain. Angrily, silently, she cursed them, her mouth rammed shut and her hands tight on the reins, but her bluster could not cover the steady pulsing of uneasiness as yet another mile crawled by. The trail of the legions was easy to read. Almost too easy. Pots, dishes, broken harness, cast horseshoes—it was as if Paulinus had deliberately thrown down this litter to lead her on, like a calf to the slaughtering. He has, she thought in agony. Oh, he has! What is he planning? What will he do? I wish I knew him as Caradoc knew Ostorious Scapula. I wish there had been time to listen to the intuition of a dozen years of confrontation. If in another day I have not found him the tuaths will begin to desert me, but I am afraid to find him, afraid, for I know that though I seem to stalk him, yet he is hunting me. Now I understand the frustrations that nearly drove Caradoc mad. You stupid, stupid people! Behind her the rumble of her disgruntled army was like a continuous, low thunder, a swaggering, quarreling, beer-drinking, well-nigh uncontrollable storm that reached back thirty miles and more, and she listened to its menace with despair. There was no food. The posting stations they had searched on the way had been empty of men and grain, and the people had only what each family trundled with them in their wains. Most of it was already gone, and in order to get more they must do battle soon. Where are you, Suetonius Paulinus? she thought anxiously. In what secret place are you hiding?
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