Cearan sat against a grass bank, taking the last of his dry bread from the leather pouch looped across his shoulder and chewing pensively. It was colder up here and he pulled his cloak tighter about him. Or perhaps not cold. Something about this hill made him think of blood and death. He wondered about the lack of defences. But the druids had their own ways of striking terror into attackers. He had heard tales of ghost warriors and fences of skulls. What had he been thinking of, striking away from the path? The wind whispered through the tree canopy, but another sound caught his ear and he recognized the drone of men chanting. What horrors were being perpetrated behind that wall of trees?
At last, movement. Cearan rose to his feet as a procession of men in homespun cloth robes emerged from the oaks. At their head, flanked by two acolytes, walked the man he had come to meet, a diminutive, almost feeble figure with a weary ancient’s stiff-legged gait. But Cearan knew how volatile Gwlym could be and the horrors he could bring down on any who failed or displeased him. He watched as the guard approached the column and relayed his message from a respectful distance. One of the acolytes raised his hand and the procession halted. After a moment the leaders stepped aside and the other druids continued towards the roundhouses. Three heads turned towards him and Cearan felt himself the focus of those pus-filled eye sockets.
‘Approach.’ The taller of the two acolytes waved him forward.
Cearan did as he was ordered, stopping three paces short of the little group of priests.
‘Closer,’ Gwlym rasped. Cearan advanced two steps until he was staring directly into the other man’s face and the twin white craters seemed to be looking inside his soul. Two skeletal arms extended towards him and he cringed as the bony fingers ran over his face, probing the wounds and caressing the scar tissue. No other human being had touched his face since this man had used the healing powers of his order to save Cearan’s life in a stinking fisherman’s hut east of Venta Icenorum. Cearan knew the action was designed to humiliate, to remind him of his disfigurement and the debt he owed the druid.
‘Yes, this is the Iceni prince,’ Gwlym confirmed. ‘Once so proud of his beauty and arrogant enough to believe he could ignore the power of the old gods and even bend the great beast of Rome to his will.’ Cearan froze. He’d thought the only man who knew of his negotiations to replace Boudicca as the ruler of the Iceni was Valerius. ‘Not so proud now, my handsome prince. Dead inside all these years.’ The thin lips curled in an amused sneer. ‘But your suffering will soon be over.’
Cearan stared at him with his single eye. ‘What have you seen?’
‘It is not what I have seen, but what I can smell. Something is growing inside you. Already you can feel its effects. A dull ache at the base of your spine. A change in the consistency of your night soil.’ Cearan’s knees buckled and one of the acolytes stepped forward to hold him upright. The harsh voice softened a little. ‘Soon you will no longer be able to be of service to me. But I have one last task for you, Cearan of the Iceni.’
The knowledge that he was dying – he had no doubt Gwlym was telling the truth, the signs were there – felt like a punch that knocked the breath from him. Odd that the reality of his mortality should have such an effect on him. He had thought he would welcome death, but the eternal darkness had no allure for him. It turned out he had many more things he wanted to do and to see. He drew himself up to his full height. ‘Name it, lord.’
‘First tell me what you have learned. Who will support us when the time comes?’
Cearan searched his memory and recited the long list of southern tribes, the Dobunni, the Corieltauvi, the Deceangli and the Cornovii, the Iceni, the Catuvellauni and the Atrebates, their sub-tribes and their clans. The chiefs who bent the knee to Rome, but secretly longed for the return of the old religion. Those who were fearful, but would be driven by the bloodlust of their young warriors. How many warriors each would field when the time came. ‘When the Ninth and Twentieth legions are trapped in the valleys, the Deceangli and the Cornovii will combine to attack Deva, while the Dobunni and the Durotriges burn Isca.’
‘So many?’ Gwlym’s bony fingers gripped his wrist. ‘You are certain of the numbers?’
Of course he was certain of the numbers. How could he not be? He had created each and every one from his own imagination. It was all a lie. The druid believed he was all-seeing, but Cearan had been telling him what he wanted to hear for years, and he suspected others had done the same. Many would have done so through fear of the consequences had they not, but Cearan’s reasons were different. Gwlym was the keeper of the flame of resistance, and without that flame Cearan’s visions of revenge would have died long ago. The flame had to be fanned by dreams and optimism, and Cearan had fed Gwlym enough dreams and optimism to conjure up the balefire of Roman Britannia, if only it was true. The butchery of the Roman cavalrymen at Canovium would have been enough for now, but Gwlym had much grander ideas. Cearan saw the druid’s ambitions as an opportunity to wreak the terrible revenge he sought on the man he hated more than any other.
‘I have other information, lord. I believe it will please you equally.’
‘What is it?’
‘Many years ago you convinced me that Queen Boudicca was not defeated, but betrayed. You urged me to listen for any word that might identify the betrayers so they could be hunted down and subjected to your vengeance. I believe I have found the source of her downfall.’
Gwlym spat like an angry cat. ‘Then they will suffer an eternity of agony before they are consumed by the slow fire of Beli Mawr.’
‘It will be difficult, lord.’ Cearan ignored the hiss of anger. ‘The man is now a high-ranking Roman officer. He served with the beast Paulinus and seduced a Trinovante maiden into revealing Boudicca’s line of march.’
‘Then she too must die.’
‘When she understood the scale of her betrayal she threw herself on the swords of the invaders.’
‘Justly so.’ Gwlym nodded gravely. ‘This officer, we must find a way to him.’
‘He is guarded night and day,’ Cearan said. ‘But there is another way.’ He revealed the information his investigation had uncovered in Colonia and how he believed it might be used.
‘Yes.’ A sightless smile flickered on Gwlym’s haggard features. ‘I see it now.’
Cearan felt a gripe in his guts that reminded him of something the druid had said earlier. ‘You mentioned a last service.’
Those empty eye sockets again, searching his soul.
‘I want you to kill Julius Agricola.’
XXXVI
Valerius saw Tabitha and Lucius to the carriage next day, cheeks pink from the cold and wrapped in thick cloaks against the biting wind. Ceris waited to help them inside as the Thracian cavalry escort gentled their eager mounts and wisps of steam smoked the chill air above the horses. Their goodbyes had already been said and he and Tabitha parted with a chaste kiss and a whispered assurance of mutual love.
As they settled into the coach, Valerius approached the Corieltauvi girl. ‘I ask you to take the greatest care of the lady Tabitha,’ he said. ‘And I grant you authority to take what decisions are in her best interests.’
Ceris speared him with a glance that suggested she needed no man to give her authority. ‘The lady Tabitha is perfectly capable of making her own decisions,’ she said. ‘But she knows I would never suggest anything that would harm her and the child.’ She took a last look around the temporary camp and its backdrop of grey, scree-scarred mountains. ‘I am glad we are leaving this place. There is something unwholesome about it.’ She turned to enter the carriage, but hesitated for a moment. ‘I wish you had inherited a better legion.’ Valerius stared at her until he remembered she’d been with the Ninth at Lindum and would have heard all the stories about Legate Fronto. ‘But you are a soldier and you will make the best of what you have.’ Her eyes took on a faraway look and her voice faltered. ‘You are not infallible, Gaius Valerius Verrens. You should have killed the one-eyed man.’
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Before Valerius could reply she was inside the wagon. He called Marius who would command the bodyguards, including Florus and Serenus. ‘Stay close, Marius. The Thracians are capable enough, but beware the man with the scarred face. I may have underestimated him.’
‘You may count on us, sir.’ Marius nodded. ‘And may Fortuna favour your honour. I wish …’
Valerius smiled. ‘I know, but I need someone I trust in charge of protecting my wife and son.’
He saw Aprilis staring at him and remembered he’d forgotten the report for Agricola. ‘My apologies, tribune.’ He handed over the leather scroll case. ‘All my findings so far in the matter concerning Fronto. If I discover anything else I’ll send word by courier.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll make certain he gets it the moment we return.’
Valerius smiled. ‘I think he may have other things on his mind.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. This will be my first campaign – I missed the Brigante business – and I’m not sure what to expect.’
Valerius patted his horse’s flank. ‘Just stay close to the governor,’ he advised. ‘You’re his aide; it’s not your job to get killed. But if you do get into a fight, keep moving, remember the edge always beats the point, and if you’re inside the point your opponent is a dead man.’
‘Thank you for your advice, sir. Be sure I’ll take it.’
Aprilis’s grin made him look almost boyish, and for a moment Valerius felt old. ‘And while I’m handing out advice, keep one eye out for our former primus pilus Tertius. He has a lot to answer for. It grieves me to let him go unpunished, but Agricola may have a different view. I wouldn’t want him slipping away.’
‘I’ll make sure he’s looked after,’ Aprilis assured him. He slapped his fist against his chest armour in salute. ‘By your leave, legate.’
Valerius nodded. A trumpet call rang out and the Thracians nudged their horses forward, but he only had eyes for the carriage. The curtain drew back and he saw Tabitha’s face, her expression solemn, with Lucius squeezed in close. He waved and they waved back, and then they were gone, leaving him with an immense sense of loss.
Next morning he formed the legion up on the grassy plain beside the lake. Not a full legion, of course. Six cohorts of legionaries with their supporting auxiliary light infantry and cavalry. Five thousand men, plus the fully loaded mules of the baggage train. No heavy weapons, because they would be moving fast through difficult terrain and against an enemy unlikely to mass against them. Still, Valerius felt a pang of doubt at the missing ballistae and onager. He’d seen the effect of the dreaded shield-splitters, five foot long bolts launched from massive wooden bows, and the damage they could do to an enemy’s morale. Impressive enough, though. This, Agricola would tell you, was the true glory of Rome, this massed array of disciplined legionaries standing in their packed squares, armour glittering in the low morning sun, the points of their heavy pila twinkling, and their brightly painted shields a wall of colour. Six cohort standards, plus thirty-six signa, the spears that carried the unit citations of each century.
But no eagle.
Agricola had assured Valerius that he would be no Varus. The Roman general Publius Quinctilius Varus had lost three legions and their eagles in the forests and swamps of northern Germania, ambushed by the forces of a man who had once fought for Rome. An eagle was more than a legion’s symbol, it was the unit’s soul, for which every man must be prepared to die. A legion that lost its eagle lost its honour and sometimes its name, the survivors being broken up among other formations. The fact that Agricola wanted to send the majority of the Ninth’s legionaries into battle without their eagle carried its own message.
Valerius stood on a hillside overlooking the still formations in the full panoply of a Roman commander. He wore a sculpted leather breastplate covered in gold leaf and his legate’s sash knotted at his waist. His helmet was as magnificent as his chest armour, with a gilded rim and a stylized griffon’s head below the scarlet horsehair crest. A scarlet cloak covered his shoulders held by a golden brooch on his left breast. He’d known generals to send their legionaries into battle without a word, depending on experience and discipline to carry them forward to overwhelm the enemy. Corbulo had been one. But Corbulo’s legions had loved him. The soldiers of the Ninth despised their senior officers, had no reason to love their centurions, and little faith in their comrades. Take them into battle like this and Valerius had no way of knowing how they would react when the Ordovices fell like eagles from the mountain heights or the very grass at their feet, the trees and the bushes erupted with flights of spears and slingstones. He had to do something, so he’d done the only thing he could think of.
‘Legionaries of the Ninth legion Hispana,’ he roared. ‘Men call you unlucky.’ He paused, and in the silence he could hear a wave of angry muttering as they reacted to the words, relayed to them by centurions stationed for that purpose in every cohort. ‘But I am your new legate and I say you have been unlucky only in the men who led you.’ A few shouts of ‘Aye’ swiftly silenced by the curses of the officers. Those who abused their authority have been dismissed or demoted. From this day forward the Ninth is a legion in which every man looks out for every other and fights for every other. As an example of this, there will be no retaliation against the centurions who have been reduced to the ranks or have lost seniority. All that is in the past. You have heard what happened at Canovium. Today the Ninth Hispana marches west to avenge their comrades who died. For that we will need every man. The Ordovice warriors we face are a hard and implacable enemy. They proved at Canovium that they will show you no mercy. You will show them none.’ A great rumble of approval. ‘We will march fast, maintaining the pressure on our foes and hoping to bring them to battle. That means every man must be vigilant for ambush. Every man must be instantly ready for battle. When the time comes and the enemy closes, your life will depend on the man next to you, and his on you. You are brothers in arms. Remember that when you argue over the last spoonful in the pot or whose turn it is to dig the shit pit.’ They liked that and showed it, so he gave them a few moments to think about it. ‘You, every last one of you, are the beating hearts of the Ninth Hispana, and between us we will make it a legion that will be remembered throughout history and strike fear in the Empire’s enemies.’ His words inspired a single cheer that swiftly multiplied to a roar from five thousand throats. Valerius raised his hand and the sound gradually faded. ‘You march behind an eagle …’
He greeted the consternation on their faces with a grim smile.
‘A legion without its eagle is not a legion. Hilario!’ he called. The big man stepped out from where he’d been concealed in the ranks of Valerius’s personal bodyguard. He was holding a lengthy object wrapped in a cloth bag. Valerius nodded and he pulled the cloth free. The idea had come to him three nights earlier and a relay of couriers had ridden for forty-eight hours to bring it here from Lindum. A legion without its eagle is not a legion. Hilario raised the object high and the roar that greeted it might have flattened the surrounding mountains. The eagle of the Ninth. Cast in brass and covered in gold leaf, wings flared and beak gaping in defiance. A legion’s spirit. A legion’s soul.
‘This is your eagle,’ Valerius continued as the roar subsided. ‘This is what you fight for. Your former legate didn’t bring it because he feared you wouldn’t be able to protect it.’ Cries of ‘No!’ and ‘Never’. ‘He didn’t think you were worthy of it.’ Valerius took the eagle from Hilario’s hands and raised it high. ‘Are you worthy of it?’
‘Yes!’ five thousand throats roared as one.
‘Then get down on your knees and let me hear you give your oath to protect it.’
They knelt and in the silence that followed Valerius led them through the words. ‘In the name of Jupiter Optimus Maximus we swear to protect this eagle, this symbol of our emperor’s faith, to defend it to our last spear and our last breath, or may the gods strike us down. For Rome.’
‘Rise.’ Va
lerius handed the eagle to Gaius Quintus Naso as the acknowledgement echoed in the still air. ‘Choose a man worthy of carrying it and a contubernium for close protection. We march in an hour.’
He turned away with a long sigh of relief. It had gone better than he expected. They still weren’t the legion he wanted them to be. The divisions caused by years of abuse and the slackness and resentment that resulted from it couldn’t be repaired by a few stirring words and the sight of an eagle. But it was a start.
The unit’s Celtic scouts had selected the first day’s camp site. They reached the place around mid-afternoon and as he waited for the legate’s pavilion to be erected Valerius inspected the defences. Soldiers toiled like worker ants all around the perimeter digging ditches and building earth banks that would be topped by the palisade stakes each man had carried on the march. Four men from one contubernium of eight worked on each six-foot section of ditch, while the others raised their tent, replenished their water, built a fire to cook the evening’s meal of sweetened porridge and helped dig a latrine. Valerius was pleased to see every legionary, whether working or not, wore his sword belt, even though the cavalry provided an outer defensive screen for the camp. The only sign they’d had of the enemy were a few scouts who’d disappeared at the first sign of pursuit, but Valerius was taking no chances. He watched for a few moments as the men worked, monitoring the depth of the ditch and the angle of the slope. Two laboured with mattock and pickaxe in the ditch, one shovelled the loose spoil into a basket and dragged it up the bank and the fourth spread the earth and tamped the spoil firm. It was all done with admirable efficiency and he praised the duplicarius in charge.
‘Your tent is ready, sir,’ Felix reported.
‘Thank you, decurion,’ Valerius acknowledged with a weary smile. ‘A good start, I think. Fifteen miles and not too many stragglers. Tell the acting primus pilus I want every man to check his sandals at first light. One loose nail can lose us a man, and we can’t afford to lose men. The quartermaster clerk can bring me the day’s ration returns once I’ve eaten.’
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 30
