A Year of Ravens: a novel of Boudica's Rebellion

by E. Knight

  “What is it, Flacca?” the primus asked. “Are you all right?”

  Agricola glanced at the centurion. The man’s face was pallid, and he was pouring with sweat, seeming to be in some pain. He rotated his shoulder a little.

  “A touch of indigestion, sir,” Flacca offered by way of explanation. It looked to Agricola to be far more than that, but if the bastard was in pain, that was only a good thing.

  “This officer prohibited me and my men from carrying out our duties.” Flacca mopped his face with a piece of cloth. “I want to raise it as a complaint—”

  “You and your men were raping women and torturing children, Centurion,” Agricola cut him off. “To your eternal shame.”

  The primus folded his arms. “I’ll take your report,” he said to Flacca, who—despite his evident discomfort—sneered at Agricola. “As for you, sir,” he said to Agricola. “If you’re a tribune from the Second Augusta, then you’re Gnaeus Julius Agricola, am I right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re to report to the governor. I’ll get your men sorted with beds and grub.”

  “There are wounded civilians with us,” Agricola said. “I want them seen to. And I want them treated well, Primus.”

  “That ain’t—”

  “Put your report in to the governor if you have an issue with my orders, Primus. You’ll obey me now, and we’ll see who has the rights of it later.”

  “If you say so, sir.”

  “I do. Consider it a direct order,” Agricola said.

  “Very good, sir. I’ll send word of your quarters.” The primus rocked back and forth on his heels, clearly eager to get going to hear what “gossip” Flacca had.

  “Carry on, Primus,” Agricola said. He wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction of asking where Paulinus was, which seemed to disappoint him somewhat. Without another word, he made off, heading towards the marching camp’s praetorium.

  If it was true that all Roman encampments had the same specifications, the men of the Twentieth had a different look to his own in the Second Augusta. They were leaner and more drawn, and their kits—whilst in good condition—were not pristine. And many sported wounds; the difference between a garrison legion and one on campaign was all too apparent to Agricola. He located the praetorium with no difficulty and was announced by the guards on duty.

  Governor Paulinus was sitting behind his desk but rose as Agricola entered. He was a tall man, and Agricola gauged him to be around sixty years old. Whip thin and hatchet-faced, he had straight, iron-gray hair and dark, perceptive eyes. Agricola snapped to attention and saluted, eyes front, looking through the older man, staring at a spot on the wall.

  “At ease, boy, at ease,” Paulinus said, offering his arm. They shook, and Agricola went to the seat offered to him, resisting the urge to groan like a forty-year-old as he sat down. He desperately wanted to be free of his armor and to wash the filth, blood, and stench of death from his body. “You look tired,” Paulinus noted.

  “It was a long march, sir,” Agricola said. “We saw some action on the way.”

  Paulinus sat and poured wine for them both. He watched Agricola as he drank, tapping his fingertips together, not touching his own drink. “I can see that you did,” he said at length. “You won, clearly.”

  The wine was excellent, the smooth Falernian taste warming Agricola. “We repelled an attack by a superior force. They attacked our marching camp,” he extrapolated. “At night. We killed forty but lost twenty-two men in the assault with seven wounded—those were taken by the enemy.” Agricola heard his own voice saying it in the correct military fashion. The entire, horrifying incident, the death of some sixty men, both Roman and barbarian, the pyres for his soldiers, the loss of his best friend—all summed up briefly enough to be noted on a wax tablet. The Roman way.

  “I see.” Paulinus finally took a drink. “You are aware of what they do to our prisoners, Agricola?”

  “I have been told, sir.”

  “They’re vermin,” Paulinus said, his voice colder than his eyes. “And like vermin, they must be exterminated.”

  “Yes, sir.” The images of the ruined villages flashed in his mind.

  Paulinus gazed at him, his eyes cold and serpent-like. “You find it distasteful,” he stated.

  “Arms observe no bounds, nor can the wrath of the sword, once drawn, be easily checked or stayed; war delights in blood,” Agricola offered.

  Paulinus laughed, the sound of it brittle as frost on a winter morning. “Seneca?”

  “A wise man, sir.”

  “A man whose wisdom is afforded by the sword. We fight out here so the likes of Seneca can sit on his corpulent backside in Rome and wax lyrical on such things. Besides which, I’ve met the man—for all his talk, he has no objection to spilling blood if it means more coin in his purse. He has investments over here that he’s called in, and he cares not how much unrest his debt collectors stir up. The blood of tribesmen and the hunger of their children, that's what feeds Seneca’s letters, Agricola. But he’s right on this: war is an unpleasant business at the best of times. This kind of war is the worst of all.”

  “So I have seen on my way here. Your men have been extremely efficient.” He took a breath. “Your man, Centurion Flacca . . .”

  “A first-rate officer,” Paulinus said.

  “I stopped him and his men in a craven assault on a village.”

  “He was following my orders.” Paulinus’ dark eyes flashed with cold anger. “Which you, in your wisdom, saw fit to countermand?”

  “Was raping the women also in his remit, sir?” Agricola shot back, the cords holding his temper in place fraying. “Raping them whilst their children were strung up on crosses?”

  Paulinus opened his mouth to speak and checked himself. Then: “As your Seneca says, soldiers, once let off the leash, can be brutes.”

  “I put a stop to it.”

  Paulinus regarded him. “Yes. Perhaps I would have done the same if I were in your position. As a younger man, at least,” he added. “That said—you’re aware that your captured men are now having their skins peeled off and the Gods know what else by these animals you’ve . . . protected.”

  “I have heard tell, sir. But should we condone a descent to their level?”

  Paulinus sighed. “Condone? No. Accept? Yes, I am afraid that we must, Agricola.”

  “But why? Rome has faced far greater threats than this.”

  “No, it hasn’t.”

  Agricola was taken aback by the assessment. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I expect that you don’t,” Paulinus murmured. “This is a rebellion, yes. We have faced those before—a punitive expedition, a few crucifixions to show the local populace that the risks far outweigh the gains of a precarious freedom. This, however, is a rebellion of a different sort. Do you know what a Druid is, Agricola?”

  “Yes, sir. I am familiar with Caesar’s work. But I’ve never seen one or heard of any in Isca.”

  “They’re probably all up here.” Paulinus was unable to keep the pique from his voice. “They’re religious fanatics.”

  “Like the Judeans?”

  “Exactly. And as with the Judeans, it’s not so much the rebellion that’s the problem, it’s the religion itself. These Druids have made this a bellum sacrum—a holy war. They hold sway over these people, boy. These acts of torture against our men are ordered by the Druids—sacrifices for whatever gods they’re bartering with to get shot of us. The harder the death, the greater the power of the sacrifice, I’m told. So one part of my mission here is to make sure that the population fears us more than they fear their holy men.”

  “Part of your mission, sir?”

  “Yes.” Paulinus rose to his feet and walked to a map of Britannia that was on a tripod at the far end of the praetorium. “Look here.” Agricola joined him, remembering to fetch the governor’s cup of wine with him, for which he received a nod of thank
s. “This island,” Paulinus tapped the map, “we call Mona. Gods know what they call it—you need a jug full of spit in your throat to speak their damned language—but Mona is their base. Their Holy Island. The place where these Druids are taught. I’ve driven every armed man—and woman because these native women can fight—to this place. Those that we’ve not killed already, anyway.

  “They’re concentrated there—all in one place. This is another reason why I’ve proscribed such a war—a terrified populace will look to its gods for succor. They’ll flee in the face of we ‘terrible Romans’ and head for Mona. And hopefully be eating these damned Druids out of house and home. For now, they think they’re safe—they’re on an island, after all, and everyone knows that a beachhead is a bad way to fight a battle.”

  “You have a plan, sir?” It was an odd sensation. Despite himself, despite all he had seen in the past days, the losses, the fighting, he could feel himself falling under the spell of Paulinus already. There was something about him, a charisma that enthralled.

  Paulinus looked at him. “What would you do?”

  “I . . .” Agricola floundered for a moment. “I’d have the navy patrol the strait—make sure they can’t go anywhere—and starve them out.”

  “Sensible enough,” Paulinus concurred. “Except that no one sane trusts the navy, and even if I did trust them, I need those ships protecting the trade vessels between here and Gaul. Hibernian pirates,” he extrapolated. “Worse than the Cambrians, even. And then, starving them out—that’ll take time. Time enough for the embers to catch again while I have my army here. Before you know it, those that haven’t fled to Mona will be cutting supply lines and causing all kinds of mischief. No, Agricola. I need to make a statement here. That there is no higher authority than that of Rome—and not even their gods or their damned Druids can protect them against it. So a beach assault it shall be.”

  That, Agricola realized, would be costly; but, charismatic as he was, Paulinus did not strike him as a man that would care much about the cost—only that the objective was achieved. He was a pillar of the Roman establishment in that regard. “Here,” he tapped a point on the map, “this looks to be the shortest route.”

  “It is,” Paulinus agreed. “But it’s deep water. Strong tides and quicksand. That,” he added, “is a good thing. It’ll make the Cambrians feel more secure.” Agricola was inclined to disagree but held his tongue. “Here it’s about a quarter of a mile of shallow water,” Paulinus explained.

  “How shallow?”

  “Not that shallow.” Paulinus’ smile was thin. “If you go into the drink in your armor, you won’t make it. But I suspect those type of casualties will be minor. As I have said, this part of the strait is not too choppy—in this weather, it should be straightforward enough. Now,” he turned back to Agricola, “consider this a formal welcome to my staff. Your men will remain as a detachment to the Twentieth.”

  “Yes, sir.” Agricola drew to attention and saluted. Assuming the audience was done with, he turned about and walked toward the door. Just as he was about to exit, Paulinus spoke again, making him turn.

  “Agricola.”

  “Sir?”

  “My mission is to wipe them out. To destroy this Druidic cult once and for all. It will not be pleasant, and when it is over, I will allow the men free rein. If you take my meaning.”

  Agricola looked into Paulinus’ eyes, seeing only cold dispassion therein. “Yes, sir,” he said. “And I feel that is regrettable.”

  Paulinus ignored the comment. “You were not aware of my orders before. Now that you are, I will take an extremely dim view if you countermand me again. I hope we understand each other.”

  Agricola met his gaze, even and unflinching, even though every part of him screamed to break the stare. “We do, sir,” he said after a moment.

  Paulinus’ lips turned up in a ghost of a smile. “Good,” he said. “You may go.”

  The next days were taken up in a frenzy of activity for Agricola. Being on Paulinus’ staff was not—by any stretch of the imagination—an easy duty. Though in his sixties, the governor seemed tireless, waking early, retiring late, and allowing no detail to slip his gaze. He pushed those under his command equally hard—the army marched, camped, marched, and camped again. The Cambrians fled in the face of the relentless Roman war machine—any unfortunate enough not to outpace them were slaughtered without mercy. It turned Agricola’s stomach, but Paulinus had been explicit—this was the strategy, and it would be carried out. Agricola wished it would be otherwise but knew it could not.

  He mentioned this to both Magnusanus and Naso over a cup of wine at a hastily erected—but always present—popina. The little stalls sprang up all over the marching camp, a haven where off-duty men could buy drink and food. The newly made centurion and Batavian cavalryman had struck up an unlikely friendship; Agricola assumed it was because the Tenth being, from the Second Augusta, and Magnusanus’ cavalry would be looked down upon by the men of the Twentieth.

  “Perhaps the revenge for your men is what you should think on,” Magnusanus offered. “The Cambrians, they are savages. I know this, as do you. Even him, as stupid as he looks.” He grinned at Naso.

  “That’s fucking rich coming from you, you Batavian cunt,” Naso replied; the fact that he could use such obscenity with no aggressive inflection was a true talent, Agricola reflected. “You can’t even speak Latin properly.”

  “I speak the Latin better than you speak the Batavian,” Magnusanus said, leaving Naso with no answer.

  “He’s right, though, Boss,” Naso said, and the epithet warmed Agricola because it was something akin to respect from the man. “There’s no sense dwelling on it. This is how we deal with the locals. What’s done is done—and that’s the way it’s going to stay.”

  The words of Agathon once again rang in Agricola’s mind. “Even a god cannot change the past,” he quoted.

  “That’s the truth there.” Magnusanus raised his cup. “Look, you Romans like your . . . how you say . . .” he looked skywards, trying to find the words, “men of rock.”

  “What?” Naso frowned.

  “The men and the women made of the white rock.”

  “Sculpture,” Agricola supplied.

  “Yes! Sculpture!” Magnusanus’ grin was wide, and Agricola could see he was consigning the piece of vocabulary to his memory. “Well, to make the sculpture, it starts out as nothing. In fact, it is ugly. A piece of lump. But when the right man comes along with the right tools, he makes the lump something beautiful and wonderful. So it is here in Cambria. Paulinus is the man, Cambria the rock. To make it a beautiful thing, as in the rest of Britannia, he must first break the rock. Much of the rock will be wasted. Much of the rock will be dust. But when the job is done . . . it will be good.”

  “Basically, you can’t make a sculpture without breaking a few rocks.” Naso nodded, impressed. “I like that.”

  “I liked his version better,” Agricola said.

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Granted.”

  “That’s because as long as I’ve known you, you like using three words where one will do.”

  Agricola was forced to take that one on the chin. “At least we are drawing toward the end game now. We’re getting close to the sea.”

  “Aye,” Naso agreed. “Not far to go.”

  Agricola placed his cup down on the popina’s bar. “I’m going to check on the lads, Naso. Make sure all is in order.”

  “Very good, sir,” Naso said, his face writ with the hope that he would not be called upon to accompany his commander.

  Agricola eyed him for a moment. “Enjoy your wine,” he said and turned away, heading toward the small part of the encampment that had been allocated to the Tenth. He was pleased to see that Naso had taken the initiative and organized a guard rota—something he had not thought of, but when he saw the duty men, he thought it was for the best. No doubt there had been some intern
ecine punch-ups between his men and those of the Twentieth already. The presence of armed guards would dissuade any belligerent drunks who wanted to pick a fight with the men of another—and therefore rival—legion.

  The men of the Augusta’s Tenth were sorted into their contubernia, tents arranged in neat rows, fires burning outside some of them as men cooked, cleaned their armor, and threw banter around. He made his way through them, asking a question here and there: if anything was needed, how some of the men had come by their black eyes. The story was always that they had fallen, tripped, or taken the butt-end of a foolish companion’s pilum in the face—never that they had received them in a brawl with the men of the Twentieth. That was an unwritten rule.

  “Felix.” He saw the boy polishing his segmentata. “How goes the war?”

  “Oh!” Felix looked up at his senior officer, taken by surprise. He put his armor to one side and rose to his feet, saluting as he did so. “Good, sir. I mean, you know. It ain’t nice, is it? What we’ve seen. But I can handle it,” he suffixed with haste.

  “I’m sure you can,” Agricola said. “Just remember, Felix. What they did isn’t soldiering. They went too far.”

  “Everyone says they were just following orders,” Felix said. “If that’s what you have to do when you’re told, then that’s what you have to do. A shame about those children, though—that was rough.”

  Agricola regarded him for a moment, wondering what kind of man he would become, what, if his birth had allowed, paths life would have offered outside of soldiering. The truth of it was that an army career was one of the few options for the poor to elevate their status. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you properly for saving my life,” he said.

  Felix grinned. “Ah, well, sir. That is soldiering, ain’t it? We’d be fuc . . . in trouble in enemy lands without a commanding officer, wouldn’t we?”

  “I’ll recommend you for a commendation,” Agricola promised. “Ought to make your mates jealous when you strut around with a decoration. And your people at home, no doubt.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Felix flushed. “My mum’d be made up.”