‘On whose authority?’ the German demanded.
Valerius shook off his cloak and heard the exclamations of dismay at the sight of his wounds. ‘I need no authority but my own. I am tribune Gaius Valerius Verrens, last commander of Colonia, only survivor of the Temple of Claudius, and you will take me or I will go alone. Who commands?’
The cavalryman hesitated. ‘Suetonius Paulinus, with the Fourteenth and the Twentieth.’
‘Then take me to the governor, but first give me a drink,’ Valerius said. ‘I have had nothing but some druid’s piss since dawn.’
By the time they reached the main column the legions had settled into their marching camp for the night and it took a few minutes before they tracked down Paulinus’s pavilion at the heart of the Fourteenth’s entrenchments. Valerius noticed a number of men with freshly bandaged wounds. So, they hadn’t had it all their own way on Mona; Lunaris had been right about that, at least. The camp of the Twentieth was considerably smaller than that of the Fourteenth, which told him Paulinus had left part of the legion in the west to consolidate whatever gains he’d achieved. Would he have made that decision if he’d been aware of the scale of the rebellion?
The German cavalryman handed him over to a senior tribune on Paulinus’s staff, an officer Valerius vaguely recognized. ‘Gnaeus Julius Agricola, at your service. The governor wishes to see you immediately, but…’
Valerius swayed on his feet and struggled to keep the resentment from his tone. ‘I’m sorry, I left my uniform at Colonia along with everything else.’
‘No, you mistake me. Please do not apologize,’ Agricola protested. ‘It’s just that I fear you might fall down and I would be in trouble if I lost you now. The governor has grave need of you.’
The tribune ushered him past the guards to Paulinus, who was staring as if hypnotized at a map of southern Britain pinned to a wooden frame. A second man in a legate’s sculpted bronze cuirass stood beside him. Eventually, the governor turned and even through his exhaustion Valerius registered the change in the man. The granite-chip eyes were sunk deep, the heavy brow was furrowed and his skin had taken on a sickly grey pallor emphasized by white stubble that made him look ten years older. Paulinus stared back at him, equally perplexed, his mind clearly attempting to put a name to the unkempt figure in the ragged Celtic clothing and bloody bandages. Valerius could hardly blame him; after all, he would remember a whole young man in the prime of youth, not a haggard spectre with only one hand.
It had been the price of his life.
‘You will never bear arms against my people again,’ Maeve had said before Cearan raised the sword and removed the right hand with a single clean stroke midway between elbow and wrist. They had used hot pitch to stem the bleeding, but Valerius remembered nothing bar the smell of roasting flesh and the vague knowledge he was no longer whole. During the ride north, the maggots breeding in his mind had been as corrosive as the wounds in his flesh. At first, he wished he’d died along with the rest. What use was a part-man? His soldiering was finished. He could no longer hold a sword or add his weight to a shield wall. Of course, his father would support him, but in his heart he would be little different from the cripples begging hopefully along the Clivus Argentarius. The last stand of the Ninth had rekindled his pride and restored his sanity. The standard-bearers could have run but they had fought, driven by duty and honour and courage, the code they shared with Falco’s veterans. If they had suffered death for those values, could he not suffer a life?
Paulinus’s reaction surprised him. ‘My boy. My poor, dear boy. It is you. I could scarce believe it. You have endured so much. Could any man have sacrificed more for Rome?’
Valerius thought of the six thousand and more who had sacrificed everything for Rome, but the time to remind the governor of that would come later. Paulinus was clearly a man living on the dagger’s edge and the slightest push could throw him off balance.
But some things could not be avoided. ‘Tribune Gaius Valerius Verrens begs to report the loss of Colonia and the failure of his mission,’ he said formally. ‘He would commend to you the conduct and leadership of the veteran militia, which was in the highest tradition of Roman arms. They fought to the last man and the last spear, and no blame should attach to them for the city’s fall. If blame there is, it is mine.’
‘Yet you delayed them for two days, and defended the Temple of Claudius to the end.’ The second man combined natural authority with a hangdog expression and he grasped at the positive like a drowning man clutching at the last branch before a waterfall.
‘I had the privilege to command the defence,’ Valerius admitted. ‘No men could have done more.’ Memories of Lunaris and Messor flooded back and he staggered slightly as a wave of nausea flooded through him.
‘A chair for the tribune, quickly, and water,’ Paulinus called to one of his aides. Valerius sat and the governor stared at him intently.
‘Cerialis is correct,’ he said. The name confirmed Valerius’s suspicion and explained the air of defeat which cloaked the other man. Quintus Petilius Cerialis commanded the Ninth legion and was ultimately responsible for the massacre Valerius had stumbled upon. It also answered his question about the eagle. If the Ninth had lost its eagle Cerialis would be dead; Paulinus would have insisted. The governor’s voice regained some of its old fire as he continued. ‘Since I took Mona we have experienced betrayal, disaster and defeat, thanks to that fool Catus Decianus whose greed and ambition placed this province in deadly peril and sent you, Valerius, into the very gates of Hades. Colonia, at least, was a defeat with honour, as has been confirmed by our spies and the Celts who are already deserting to us. The praises of its defenders are sung even by the followers of the rebel queen, and the defence of the temple, which they desired most eagerly to overthrow, sung loudest of all. And you, you alone, fought your way clear.’ Valerius opened his mouth to deny it but Paulinus raised a hand for silence. ‘You are a true Hero of Rome.’
It took time to penetrate, but when it did Valerius felt the room spinning around him. The way Paulinus said the words, with the emphasis on ‘Hero’, indicated this was more than praise, it was eternal fame. A Hero of Rome would receive the Corona Aurea, the Gold Crown of Valour, from the Emperor’s own hands. He would be fêted throughout the Empire, and have access to the centre of power. It was second only to the Corona Graminea, awarded for saving an entire legion … and he did not deserve it. He shook his head, but Paulinus was already continuing. ‘Now, I must know everything.’
For the next hour Valerius related the story of the veterans’ stand against Boudicca’s fifty thousand and the final, terrible hours of the Temple of Claudius. Paulinus grunted in approval at the use of the bridge to draw the British champions on to the killing ground and his eyes grew moist when he heard of Messor’s courage and sacrifice. But when Valerius tried to describe his own escape he was dismissive. ‘I do not need the details. It is enough that you have survived.’
When he reached the ambush of the Ninth, the two listeners looked away as he related the discovery of the mutilated bodies.
‘You were correct,’ Cerialis confirmed grimly. ‘Four cohorts – two thousand legionaries – and the same number of auxiliaries. Just before we entered the valley, our scouts sighted a sizeable force to the south and I rode to investigate with the cavalry. They struck while we chased shadows. By the time we returned the infantry had been overrun and we were fortunate to escape with our own lives.’
Paulinus looked at him in a certain way and Valerius realized Cerialis still had a reckoning to face, but for the moment the governor needed every man he could get to hold Britain for Rome – and to avenge the thousands of Roman citizens who had already died. Valerius had heard from Agricola how Paulinus had been forced to abandon Londinium to its fate. The governor’s features had turned white when Valerius described the horrors he had seen but now the veins in his temples stood out like octopus tentacles and his face glowed red. ‘We do not face warriors.’ He fought for bre
ath. ‘These people are animals and like animals we shall slaughter them. The Ninth and the veterans of Colonia will be avenged. Fifty thousand, you say, and growing every day?’ He shook his head and turned to the map, murmuring to himself. ‘Too many. I must fight them on ground of my choosing. But where? Where will she turn now that Londinium burns? Where will her thirst for blood take her? East, and back to the flatlands? No, because only victory keeps her army together. West? Possible. If she can bewitch the Silures she will control the gold and Postumus and the Second are already marching from Isca to join us. The south? Easy victories and control of our communications with Rome. Or north?’ Valerius felt his stare. ‘To destroy us.
‘She must fail,’ he said. ‘An army must eat; she has no supplies and such a swarm cannot live off the land for many weeks. They will be eating their sword belts long before harvest. But it is not enough for her to fail. She must be destroyed, and all who follow her must be destroyed along with her. I swear on the blood of Mithras that I will annihilate her. But where?’
‘North.’ The word echoed in the silence and Valerius felt the sour taste of betrayal on his tongue. ‘She will march north to destroy Verulamium.’ Maeve’s warning had been intended to save his life; now it would be Boudicca’s ruin.
Paulinus disposed his forces as Valerius rose to leave. Verulamium and its people would be sacrificed; he could not reach them in time or fight Boudicca while protecting a column of helpless refugees. In any case, Verulamium, for all its Roman pretensions, was the Catuvellauni capital: let them make terms with their Iceni cousin if they could. He would use his auxiliaries, the light, quick-marching infantry, to lure her on at a pace that would draw the fangs of her warriors. Then he would fight her and beat her, but where?
Agricola intercepted Valerius outside the tent. ‘I am to take you to the governor’s personal physician. Did he tell you?’
Valerius nodded, aware the tribune referred to the honour he’d been given. ‘I mean to refuse it, because I did not win it.’
‘It is what I told them you would say, but I fear you have no choice. It is your duty to accept and you do not strike me as a man who would shirk his duty.’
The room seemed to move beneath Valerius’s feet and Agricola stepped forward and put out a hand to steady him. ‘Come,’ he said gently. ‘We have delayed long enough.’
‘I don’t understand. There are a dozen men who deserve the Corona Aurea more, but they are all dead. I lived, but my mission failed and I am no hero.’
‘You were brave, you fought and you hurt them?’
Valerius shrugged and Agricola took it as acquiescence.
‘Then you are a hero, and my governor needs a hero. Tonight he will draft a report to Rome detailing the happenings of the past month. It will reflect well on no one, it will cost some their positions and it may cost others their lives. You may not have heard, but Postumus, who is camp prefect, refuses to leave Isca with the Second. He fears the Emperor more than he fears Paulinus, but he fears Boudicca more than both. So, defeat and disarray. Paulinus needs a victory, and if he cannot have a victory he will have a glorious defeat. You would not deny the veterans their glory?’
Valerius shook his head. ‘They fought like lions and they died like heroes. They deserve to be remembered.’
Agricola took him by the shoulders and stared into his eyes. ‘Then make sure they are remembered. Through you.’
By now they were on the threshold of the camp hospital. Valerius paused before walking through the flaps. ‘Your logic defeats my argument. Tell the governor I will accept.’
Inside the tent, a small man with sharp features and quick, restless hands rushed up to him like a mother hen. A dark beard and a mottled, balding head made him seem older than he probably was, but the eyes were lively and intelligent. ‘Tiberius Calpurnius,’ he introduced himself. ‘Late of Athens, now of this gods-forsaken mudpatch.’
He immediately began unwinding the bandage which covered the wound above Valerius’s right eye, explaining his reasoning as he did so. ‘You may feel your arm is more in need of my assistance, young man, but I can assure you it is not. I have seen men who appeared perfectly healthy drop dead at my feet hours after the merest bump with a sword, but a man with a severed arm may last a month without treatment if the blood flow is curtailed and the wound remains uninfected.’
Calpurnius deftly probed the sword cut with his fingers. ‘Fortunate indeed. A glancing blow, almost flat. Another inch to the left and you might have lost an eye; a little more of the edge and it would have been the top of your head. Contusions but no sign of fracture, and the wound is healing well, as I would expect in a man of your years. Fainting spells? Blurring of the vision? Yes? To be expected, but if they continue return to me and I will supply you with a draught. Now, the arm.’
Valerius winced as Calpurnius removed the thick cloth bandage to reveal a marbled, purple-yellow stump that reminded him of a piece of rotting meat. Vomit rose in his throat but the physician had anticipated his reaction and placed a bucket at his feet, into which he retched copiously.
Calpurnius whistled soundlessly to himself as he inspected the stump closely from every angle. When he reached out to touch it for the first time Valerius grunted in pain.
‘Yes, it would hurt.’ The little man gave a tight smile which quickly transformed to puzzlement. ‘Again you have been fortunate. I have never seen a battle injury like this. The cut is at the perfect angle, the weapon almost surgically sharp.’ Valerius gave a little cry as he probed the blackened, weeping face of the wound. ‘A few bone splinters, which I will deal with in a moment. The burned flesh must be removed, or it will mortify, but the unguent, though primitive, has kept infection at bay for the moment.’
He looked directly at Valerius and there was curiosity in his eyes, not quite suspicion, but certainly a question. ‘If a saw had been used I would have been quite proud of this myself.’
‘As you say, I was fortunate; more so than the man who treated me. He is dead.’ The lie came easily; there had been a militia physician but he had been among the first to fall on the field at Colonia.
Calpurnius shrugged. Plainly, the dead held little interest for him. ‘A pity. Now, as for treatment. In a moment I will administer a tincture of poppy seed which will render you unconscious and dull the pain. In other circumstances I would suggest that you rest for a few days before surgery, but I sense you are a man of strong heart and healthy lungs and will survive.’ He studied the stump again and sucked his teeth. ‘I plan to re-amputate two inches above the present level which will allow me to stitch a flap of skin across the wound, thereby protecting it from dirt and disease. It is by far the most effective procedure,’ he added, sensing resistance to his suggestion.
‘No. I’ll keep what I have. Stitch it up, or do what you have to do, but I need to be back on my feet tomorrow.’
‘Ha,’ Calpurnius grumbled. ‘Another young man in a hurry. It will be the death of you, but I will do what I can.’ He paused and his face brightened. ‘A leather cover, cowhide for thickness and wear. I have the very thing. And then, who knows?’
‘Will I be able to carry a shield?’
Calpurnius looked offended. ‘One hundred and fifty years ago, Marcus Sergius, grandfather of the odious Catilina, was fitted with an iron hand after his amputation, returned to battle within the week and captured twelve enemy camps. Medicine has progressed considerably since his day. Now, lie here while I prepare the tincture.’
XLI
Valerius rose early on the day of the last battle. Mist disguised the dawn the way a veil hides an ageing woman’s fading looks. It came as a pale suggestion of gold lost in a drifting curtain of smoky, ground-locked cloud and with it came Boudicca’s host. She had picked up the trail Paulinus had left for her while the ashes of Verulamium and the blackened bones of its inhabitants were still hot. For a week, the auxiliaries had led them on, first north, then west; day after day of forced marches and occasional, tantalizing glimpses of the
enemy, the red cloaks and polished armour always on the next hill or beyond the next river. They were like wolves now, the Britons, with the Roman scent as thick in their nostrils as the taint of blood from a mortally injured deer as it stumbles towards its final refuge. Thirty days of constant movement, fighting and killing had worn them thin, but the hunger still remained, and with it the hatred. The wrath of Andraste and Boudicca’s need for revenge never diminished. She had spilled enough blood to fill a lake and sent enough souls to the gods to satisfy even their legendary appetite, but still it wasn’t sufficient. Only by smashing the legions and killing the man who led them would she and her people find peace.
As the ghosts of trees appeared a few hundred paces to his left Valerius knew it would be soon. The rebel camp fires had been visible on the horizon when Paulinus’s legions bedded down in their positions for the night. They would have been on the move for more than an hour now, ready for another day chasing shadows. But the shadows were no longer going to run.
From the murk, the familiar, inhuman sound – the buzz of a million bees – filled the air, then the weak sun staggered above the eastern horizon and the mist shredded and burned away. The buzz faded to a confused, unnerving silence, and from his position at the governor’s side Valerius looked out over countless thousands stretching into the distance in a sinuous black column of humanity. Paulinus had spent days manoeuvring towards this position so that Boudicca would be drawn behind him, funnelling her army into the killing ground. The five thousand men of the Fourteenth legion formed a triple defensive line across the narrow valley at the head of a long, gentle slope. Five cohorts of the Twentieth who accompanied Paulinus anchored his flanks against the valley walls. Among them, he set up his ‘shield-splitters’, the ballistas which could fire heavy metal-tipped arrows a quarter of a mile. Beyond them, the cavalry ranged to discourage attempts to bypass or attack the vulnerable flanks. Behind the legions, the auxiliaries waited in reserve, ready to exploit any success or to die in their turn. For there would be no retreat.
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