Hero of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Now,’ Valerius yelled. ‘North gate at the trot. We stop for nothing.’

  As one, a hundred and thirty pairs of legs began pumping with all their remaining strength, and the armoured carapace smashed through the screen of warriors towards Colonia. To be inside the testudo after the ceaseless clamour of the battle was to enter a shadow-world where the carnage beyond the shields was of only mild interest to those within. The noise of the fighting and dying was reduced to a muffled roar and the atmosphere was like a crowded sauna shared with wild-eyed, bloodied madmen, stinking of fear and the contents of their fouled underwear, coughing and retching and cursing the gods and themselves. Here, even as your feet tripped over the faces of dead friends, it was possible to believe in a survival that a few minutes before had seemed preposterous.

  ‘Will they get out?’

  Valerius looked over his shoulder and saw that the man behind him in the tortoise was Gracilis, the tough Campanian. A sword blow had badly dented his helmet and a ragged wound scored one cheek, probably the edge of a spear that had been aimed at his eyes. It was still bleeding copiously, but Gracilis ignored it.

  ‘No,’ he grunted, as something crashed against the outside of his shield. He heard Gracilis whisper what might have been a prayer, but he had no time for prayers. The grass beneath his feet turned to metalled road surface and he made a quick calculation. ‘Half left,’ he called and the formation altered direction by forty-five degrees. ‘Keep your shields up and your legs moving.’ Momentum was everything. They were on the shallow slope up through the gate into Colonia. If he was right and the fighting had kept the Britons clear of the gate they should be able to reach the top of the hill, where they’d be only two hundred paces from the temple complex. But every step was agony now. A fire burned in his calves and thighs and his lower back felt as if it were broken. The shield, never light, seemed to have a dozen men sitting on it and he had lost all feeling in his left arm and shoulder. Around him men groaned and cried out as they called on their bodies for an effort that should have been beyond human capability. Flat. He almost shouted out in relief. The road was flat. ‘Twenty paces and half left.’ His voice was a rasping, wasted thing. ‘Not far now, my Mules. Just one last effort.’

  He risked a glance between the shields to his front and the horror of what he saw almost stole the last strength from his legs. Hundreds of rebel fighters streamed from the direction of the west gate towards the temple complex. They were trapped. He fought back panic as his mind raced for another way out, but there was none. They couldn’t turn back. If they stood and fought they would be annihilated. There was only one answer. It was impossible, but it was try or die.

  ‘They’re in front of us, and if they stop us we’re dead,’ he shouted. ‘Step up the pace and slaughter any bastard who gets in the way. Now.’

  The Britons on the decumanus maximus were not the elite warriors the veterans had faced at the bridge; they were the farmers and wheelwrights, carpenters, potters and smiths who made up the heart of Boudicca’s army. Ordinary men, not fighters but willing to fight, and not the shirkers and backstabbers who would come after, when the dying was done. Thousands of them had crossed the river and bypassed the battle in the meadow and now they sought revenge on Colonia for the years of humiliation they had suffered at the hands of the Romans. They destroyed everything that was capable of destruction, regardless of its use or value. In their rage they would batter something innocuous, an old couch or an abandoned bed, as if by destroying the inanimate object they were killing the brain that created it, the hands that made it and the body that had lain upon it. Strangely, although many carried torches and there was a strong acrid smell of smoke in the air, not many of the city’s buildings were burning yet. The tiled roofs and lime-plastered walls of the barracks and the houses defied any casual attempt to ignite them. It would take more than a carelessly thrown brand to turn Colonia into an inferno.

  But nothing drew them more strongly than the Temple of Claudius, symbol of Roman power and Roman domination, defiler of sacred ground and usurper of true gods, ruiner of kings and destroyer of hopes.

  The testudo hammered into the rear of the first scattered group and the swords of the front rank hacked down any man who stood before them or simply battered them to the ground where iron-shod sandals smashed into disbelieving, upturned faces. It was called the tortoise but to those watching, astonished, from the doors and windows along the street it appeared more like an armoured galley cutting its way through a human sea, leaving in its wake a flotsam of dead and dying bodies and accompanied by an unearthly clattering, as if a hundred shields were being battered simultaneously against a hundred trees. Closer to the hated temple, the street became more crowded and logic dictated that the sheer mass of British tribesmen must slow the testudo, but the power of legs hardened by thousands of miles of marching and driven by an insatiable urge to survive somehow maintained its momentum. Behind his shield in the oven of the interior Valerius felt his mind empty and his exhausted body accept the tempo of the battle line. A screaming, unshaven face appeared and disappeared in a welter of blood. A spear thrust was met by an unbroken wall of shields. A dying man squirming beneath his feet was dispatched with a swift thrust to the throat. The world slowed but his own reactions quickened and it seemed that the gods marched at his side because he was beyond suffering now, in a place where no man could harm him. His body was a weapon of war yet at its centre was only peace. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world and it seemed to last a lifetime, but only moments later a voice he didn’t want to hear shouted in his ear.

  ‘Sir, the temple.’

  Unwillingly, his mind returned to the real world, the world of pain, and he realized that there was nothing in front of them. To his left, the wonderful, tortured creak of a gate opening sounded like the gift of life. Still in formation with their shields raised, he led the survivors of the battle of the bridge through the walls of the Temple of Claudius.

  XXXV

  Inside the gate the testudo disintegrated into a slumped huddle of exhausted men. Valerius lay back against a wall with his eyes closed. He could hear the shouts of acclaim, but he really didn’t care. He was alive. For the moment that was enough.

  He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through the damp thickness of his hair, relishing the feel of the cool air on his head and neck. Sweat ran in a stream down his back and his tunic felt as if he’d been swimming in it. Someone thrust a water skin into his hand and he suddenly realized how thirsty he was. When was the last time he’d drunk or eaten? His brain didn’t want him to know, but when he placed the skin to his lips the tepid, musty liquid seemed to be instantly absorbed by his brain and the skin was empty before his dust-dry mouth could benefit. He opened one eye. Lunaris stood over him silhouetted by the sun, which was still low and in the east. It didn’t seem possible it was less than two hours since dawn.

  ‘Bread?’ A hand like an engineer’s shovel emerged from the glare to offer a big quadrant of panis castrensis, the rough peasant bread of the lower ranks. He took it and bit into it, ignoring the wheat grains, hard as road grit, which threatened to break his teeth.

  ‘More water,’ he mumbled, and tossed the skin at the dark mass looming over him.

  He knew they were only delaying the inevitable, but all he wanted to do was rest here against this wall with the sun on his face. Let someone else do the leading. Lunaris handed him another skin and he drank eagerly, this time savouring the feel of the water in his mouth and allowing it to run slowly down his throat.

  He looked around at the men he’d brought back from the bridge in the testudo. Falco had saved them all with his suicidal charge. A fat merchant who could barely fit into his armour had never stopped being a soldier. None of them had. What was it Falco had said – you will go on your knees and seek my forgiveness before the end – well, not now and more’s the pity. He would have done it gladly just to share one more cup of wine with the old man. He closed his eyes again, and his
head was filled with flashes of incidents he barely remembered witnessing. The Briton with a gladius buried in his guts growling like a dog and trying to tear with his teeth at the man who’d stabbed him. The unarmed veteran whose name he’d never know who had thrust himself into a gap in the line and held it with his dying body until he’d been chopped into ruin. Matykas, the Thracian, riding off to die when he could have run, because that’s what Rome paid him to do. Dead, all dead, yet he lived. Why? His plan had never been to hold the rebels, only to hurt them, yet he felt a terrible sense of failure. And guilt. There was no blame, he understood that. Paulinus and the legate would have applauded his actions. He was a commander who had used the forces at his disposal to do the most possible damage to the enemy. When the time came he had been strong enough to throw them into the abyss. He felt like weeping.

  But he had no time for self-pity. ‘Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to give me your report?’ He used the wall to push himself to his feet. It was an effort. The armour on his back seemed to weigh three times as much as normal and his body felt as if every inch of flesh was bruised.

  ‘Thought you were asleep, sir.’ The duplicarius grinned, but his relief was clear. He’d had more than enough of the burden of command. ‘Three hundred and fifty effectives, if you count civilians, disabled veterans and the ration thieves from the armoury, but not including the women and children in the temple.’ That surprised Valerius. He’d thought everyone had gone with the convoy. Another problem he didn’t need. Lunaris continued: ‘Enough food and water for a week if we go easy. Defences built and manned as ordered, but we’re down to the last two hundred javelins.’ The statistic made Valerius flinch, though he kept his face immobile. He had seen how effective the spears had been at the bridge. They could be the difference between holding out for hours or days. Lunaris continued. ‘I tried to get rid of the chicken murderer who runs the temple, but he didn’t want to go. You could have heard him whine in Glevum when the lads started dumping supplies all over his pretty sanctuary and tearing up curtains for bandages. You’d think he’d be grateful we were here to save him from the barbarian hordes, but he as good as accused me of treason. God-botherers are worse than politicians.’

  Valerius managed a tired smile. ‘You’ve done well, Lunaris.’ He considered the meagre forces at his disposal. In his heart he’d always known it would be like this. He had no choice but to defend what he could and be wary of what he could not. ‘We’ll put two hundred and fifty men across here in two ranks.’ He pointed to an area a dozen paces inside the gate. ‘Organize four squads of ten and position them to deal with any breakthroughs. They will be my strategic reserve. I know it’s not much, but it will have to do.’ He looked over to where the young priest, Fabius, stood uneasily with the other civilians alongside a few resting legionaries, like sheep amongst a pack of wolves. ‘The rest we’ll leave in the pronaos redoubt and when we are finally forced back they will cover us until we can join them in the temple.’ He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing the price of grain in the Forum, but the words sent a chill through Lunaris. It did not matter how long the defenders held them, he was saying, or how many they killed; defeat was as inevitable as the next dawn.

  Valerius replaced his helmet and the two men walked towards the south wall of the complex and the gate which bisected it. They kept their pace unhurried, aware the eye of every defender was upon them.

  Two legionaries were placing the last of the timber baulks to block the arched gateway. The wall on either side of the gate was only shoulder height. Valerius looked beyond it to where the Celts waited in a sullen compact mass, half filling the area of gardens and vegetable plots. There were no taunts or challenges now, only a brooding hate-filled silence that seemed to make the air around him hum with energy. From beyond them came the howls and cries of those looting the city and the thousands more trying to reach the temple through the choked streets.

  ‘When they first appeared we were certain that you had been wiped out,’ Lunaris said quietly, and Valerius realized how difficult it must have been for the temple’s defenders listening to the sound of battle but able to do nothing. ‘There were only a few hundred but they tried to attack the gate and we had to use half of our reserve of spears to see them off. They’ve been warier since then. Maybe we killed their leader. Now they seem content to wait.’

  ‘They won’t attack until Boudicca is here to witness it,’ Valerius said with certainty. ‘She will not only want to see her revenge, she’ll want to feel it and taste it. We still have time.’

  Time to wait. And while they waited, the legionaries talking quietly among themselves and dictating last messages to the more literate, Valerius watched Colonia die. It was no haphazard destruction. It was organized, directed and designed to wipe the city from the face of the earth. The rebels had already discovered a stoutly built Roman home was not easy to burn. A torch thrown on to a tiled roof only burned itself out, leaving a blackened scorch mark on the ochre. But they learned quickly. First they cleared the far slopes of the hillside across the river of the tinder-dry, oil-heavy gorse bushes that filled the spaces between the farms and dragged great bundles into the city. While this was done, others were busy on the roofs stripping tiles from the insulae, the former barrack blocks, the basilica and the villas in their fine gardens, and baring the pitch-covered wood. Now the torches could do their work, while inside the walls the gorse burned with all the intensity of Greek fire. From within the temple precinct it appeared innocuous at first, just a few tendrils of smoke rising above the roofline. But, in minutes, the tendrils turned into great writhing columns, with the bright red and gold of the fires at their heart reaching high into the sky, speckled with millions of infinitesimal dancing sparklets that lived and died in a second. House by house and street by street the city was consumed by the flames of Boudicca’s vengeance. The wrath of Andraste had come to Colonia.

  But Valerius knew it would not be enough for her.

  She came as the sun reached its peak, carrying a long spear but this time without fanfare because no chariot could make its way along the choked main street, which was one of the few not yet burning. Valerius watched the crowd of warriors part to allow the flame-haired figure to emerge from their midst. For the first time she was close enough for him to study properly. She looked older than he’d imagined, perhaps in her late thirties, and her features were striking rather than beautiful, which he found oddly disappointing: a wide forehead and a nose any Roman would be proud of. A plaid cloak covered her shoulders, held at the breast by a large golden brooch which was outdone by the thick neck-ring of the same metal that graced her throat. But it was her eyes that made her who she was, glittering like translucent emeralds with the raging fires of her desire for vengeance burning in their depths. He remembered his earlier feeling of being stripped bare and experienced it again, her hatred projecting itself to shrivel and unman the defenders. Boudicca stood, stern and erect, surrounded by her advisers and the British nobles who had risked everything to join her. Valerius found himself drawn to one, a warrior with his head swathed in bandages, possibly a survivor of the action at the bridge, supported by a thin man in a grey cloak which shimmered in the sunlight.

  He saw the spear rise.

  ‘Make ready,’ he shouted, and ran back to the double line of legionaries.

  They came in waves twenty deep and if Valerius had more spears they would have died in waves. Instead, only the first two hundred champions were thrown back as they clambered to the top of the wall and the needle points punched through bare flesh, muscle and bone and then flesh once more. But for all the impact the slaughter made on the attackers the legionaries might have been throwing rose petals.

  ‘Forward.’ Valerius accepted a shield and placed himself in the centre of the Roman front rank. There would be no directing this battle from behind.

  The sweat-stained legionaries marched ten paces in tight ranks behind the protection of their shoulder-high shie
lds, and rammed the iron bosses in the faces of the first men to cross the wall. Valerius felt the impact on his left forearm and punched his gladius through a gap at a fleeting seam of bronzed skin. All along the line he could hear the familiar, almost animal grunts as his legionaries forced the short swords into pliant flesh and the shrieks as the points bit home. At first, not enough warriors could breach the precinct to force the defenders back, and the soldiers pinned them against the wall while at the same time ensuring those who attempted to cross behind them had nowhere to land but on top of their fellows. The men on the wall pranced and raged, attempting to find a way to reach the enemy and howling their hate, but their antics exposed them to the few archers Lunaris had managed to place on the temple roof and one after another the well-aimed arrows plucked them from their perches. For the moment, Valerius’s legionaries more than held their own, but a hail of spears from beyond the wall landed without distinguishing friend or foe and took their toll on the defenders. A legionary in the second rank screamed and staggered from the line as one of the broad-bladed points pierced him through the thigh. In almost the same instant, the man beside Valerius was blinded by a spear thrust from one of the trapped warriors and reeled back with his hands to his face and blood spurting through his fingers. Valerius found himself facing three of the heavily tattooed rebels.