Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8)

by Douglas Jackson

  As long as a man’s arm from elbow to the tip of his middle finger and with a needle-sharp triangular point, the gladius had evolved to become the perfect close quarter killing weapon. Celtic swords were similar to the cavalry spatha, long, heavy and unwieldy. The Ordovices who could afford them used them like bludgeons, smashing at Roman shields and helmets. Their spearmen, driven on to the shield wall by those behind, were forced to seek out any unprotected flesh and the iron points jabbed at throats and eyes. As long as a legionary held his discipline and kept faith in the men to left and right and at his back he could hunch down behind his big, curved scutum and know he had a fair chance of surviving. But that was only the start. Valerius heard a centurion shout an order. With a mighty heave the Roman shields smashed forward as one, momentarily disconcerting the enemy and angling to leave a gap on the right. The legionary darted his gladius through the gap into the unprotected flesh of the warrior to his front right. Three inches of bright iron in the right place, a fearsome twist of the wrist to withdraw and the warrior slumped to the grass vainly trying to return his guts to their cavity. Steam from thousands of bodies misted the air. Minutes into the fight men could barely see for the sweat in their eyes and their hands struggled to grip their sword hilts. The air was filled with the sewer stink of torn bowels and the acrid scent of freshly spilled blood. They struggled to stay upright as their feet slipped on blood-slick grass, lengths of intestine or the squirming body of one of their earlier victims. It was happening all along the line and Valerius could hear the disbelieving shrieks of the eviscerated Ordovice warriors and the grunts as the legionaries heaved their shields and plunged their points into their next victims. With every heave the Roman lines advanced another few inches. In the second line men kept their swords sheathed and used the length of the pilum to keep enemy spearmen from killing their comrades in the front rank. If a Roman fell or spun away injured the man behind automatically stepped into his position. Soon a broad line of scarlet and the fallen bodies of bare-chested warriors marked their passage up the green sward of the pasture.

  Madog watched the battle from the crest like a hungry wolf seeking out the weakest goat in the flock. A worm of unease wriggled inside him that had its origin in Prince Tudfic’s continued absence, but he drove it from his mind and waited for his opportunity. It came when he saw four of his men drag a big Roman from the front rank and plunge their spears into the fallen body. The legionary lost his helmet as he fell and Madog saw the flash of scarlet of an officer’s horsehair crest. A roar of triumph went up from the Ordovices and he felt a bolt of exhilaration. Instinct more than conscious thought set him in motion as he heard the howl of dismay from the Roman line. He’d kept twenty of his personal guard in reserve and now he waved his axe and led them forward, bounding down the slope to where the Roman had fallen.

  ‘The primus pilus is down.’

  Valerius heard the panicked shouts at the same time as he noticed the compact group of warriors racing from the crest like a Roman ‘Boar’s Snout’ wedge. He knew how effective the wedge could be against a weakened line and that the loss of their centurion would have shocked even the most experienced legionaries. He looked desperately towards the reserves of the Seventh, but by the time he fetched them the Ordovices would have struck. He dropped from the saddle and dashed for the slope, picking up a scutum dropped by a wounded man on the way and locking it on to the wooden fist that had been designed to fit the grip. A pilum was stuck point first in the trampled grass behind the Roman line and he plucked it free as he ran. He fought his way through the rear rank, meaning to do what he could to bolster the second file before the Ordovice wedge struck. Too late. The line bulged back towards him under the fierceness of the assault by Madog’s champions and he heard the screams and curses of Roman soldiers dying. A flurry of movement to his front and jagged splinters of wood stung his face, disbelief as the front file’s shield disintegrated before his eyes and the man reeled away with his face a mask of blood. Valerius pushed him aside just in time to take Madog’s next attack on his shield boss and fill the gap in the line. The force of the blow would have broken a normal man’s wrist, but the thrice-tanned cowhide stock of his wooden fist absorbed some of its power. Madog howled and launched another frenzy of axe blows, maddened and filled with a visceral joy by the taste of Roman blood on his lips. Valerius instinctively met violence with violence, stepping forward into the axe and giving Madog less room to swing. Mars’ sacred arse, he hadn’t even had time to draw his sword. What was he thinking of? He was too old for this. When he heaved forward there was a loud clang and his head seemed to explode. He understood the axe had smashed into his helmet, but he knew that to ease the pressure was to die, so he closed his eyes and pushed. Another enormous blow split the shield in two, leaving Valerius with the boss and an eighteen inch strip of oak. He saw his death in Madog’s crazed eyes and heard someone telling him to get back. Instead, as the Ordovice war chief raised his axe for the killing blow, Valerius launched himself forward and smashed the strip of shield into Madog’s throat, knocking him backwards. Suddenly they were down among the blood and the shit clawing at each other amid a forest of feet. Valerius knew that the Celtic spears would be seeking him out, but all he felt was the fierce visceral joy of battle. It came to him that this was what Serpentius had always felt and he laughed. He saw puzzlement and something more in Madog’s eyes. This was the way to die. In single combat with a man worth killing. He was surprised when the sky went black. For a moment he wondered if he were already dead, but his dazed mind told him the line had moved forward with him and these were Roman shields. He was holding Madog by the throat with his left hand. The Celt lashed at his eyes and hammered at the fingers that were choking him, but Valerius seemed to have the strength of ten men. As the Ordovice squirmed beneath him the Roman pummelled his face with his wooden fist until the features were no longer recognizable and the only sign of life was the bloody bubbles bursting close to what had been his enemy’s nose. He struggled to his feet and somebody thrust a shield at him. He locked it in place and drew his sword before he noticed that men were looking at him with a kind of religious awe. ‘Kill them.’ His voice sounded odd. ‘Kill every last one of them.’

  The Ordovices who held the right flank had been fighting for fifteen minutes and were close to exhaustion, always conscious of the cavalry formations waiting patiently like so many hawks on the ridge to the west. Like Madog, they were uneasy at Tudfic’s absence. A few of them had already persuaded themselves that this was reason enough for them to withdraw from the fight and more were joining them with every passing second. When they heard the enormous shout from the east and saw warriors streaming up the slope the trickle became a flood and retreat became a rout. In the centre the Ordovices had been more than holding their own, but when their right and left flanks collapsed there was nothing to do but join the retreat. The Roman line advanced behind the defeated barbarians, determined not to allow them a breathing space.

  A trumpet sounded.

  This was what cavalry lived for. A broken battle line and an endless supply of victims. The auxiliaries swooped from their hill and drove the fleeing Ordovices like cattle, selecting their victims by status and competing to see who could do the most slaughter. Valerius’s escort were as active as any and they would kill until their arms could swing no more. Days like this made Gaius Rufus feel like a giant, but as always he felt a pang of guilt when he remembered his father, a fundamentally gentle man. He quickly tired of the butchery. His place was with Valerius Verrens. He found Valerius at the centre of the command group, but sensed that though he was with them he was not of them. Why became clear when he saw the gore-caked mail and the blood that coated his commander’s face and head. ‘You have a strange way of staying out of trouble, lord,’ the little scout said.

  Valerius tried to smile, genuinely pleased to see him, but something in the Roman’s eyes told Rufus this was not the man he’d left less than an hour earlier. ‘I am glad to see you well
, Gaius Rufus, and your timing could not be better. We have our victory, I think.’ Valerius looked to the eagle which Claudius Honoratus still held high at the centre of the reserve cohort and something welled up inside him. He’d felt melancholy after battles in the past once the euphoria of victory faded. Every soldier experienced it. But this was different. A combination of something beyond physical exhaustion and an emptiness that made him shudder. He remembered the Ordovice chieftain’s face disintegrating under his wooden fist and shook his head to clear it of whatever it had been.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Somewhere on this island is a priest called Gwlym. Lead on. Let us find this druid who has taken such an interest in my family.’

  The first Gwlym knew of his utter defeat was when Aymer reported first dozens, then hundreds of Ordovices retreating from the south in disarray, crying the gods had abandoned them.

  ‘Can no one rally them?’ the arch-druid whispered. ‘Where is Madog? Where is Tudfic?’

  ‘They say Madog is dead. Tudfic …’ He left Tudfic’s fate unsaid, but Gwlym could read his meaning clearly enough.

  ‘Prince Dafyd?’

  ‘Prince Dafyd does not know how long he can hold them without Tudfic’s men. The fires are burning low. He urges you to leave.’

  ‘Leave?’

  ‘Mona is lost,’ Aymer said brutally. ‘But it is not lost for ever as long as you live. You are the font of our knowledge, our wisdom and our rites. Without you there is no future.’ He laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder. ‘We have a ship.’ Gwlym’s mind seemed to have gone blank and he didn’t resist the hands that led him away.

  Rufus led Valerius to a height overlooking the beach where the legionaries of the Twentieth still streamed ashore and formed up to advance into the centre of the island. Someone had told the men of the Ninth to hold their positions and no one seemed to have the energy to argue. Valerius could see bodies rocking gently in the shallows below. A surprisingly large number of bodies. The smell of cooking meat filled the air, but no one had lit a fire.

  A corpse in a dirty white robe lay close by and Rufus dismounted and turned it over. ‘You were looking for a druid, lord?’

  ‘Not this one.’ They had torn Bedwr’s eyes from his head before they cut his throat. ‘It’s true Gwlym is blind, but this druid is too young.’ He looked down and saw Agricola sitting on the stump of a tree among a group of his officers. His freshly polished armour shone like gold in the sun. Valerius had experienced a moment of trepidation when he considered the inevitable meeting, but suddenly none of it mattered any more. The conference seemed to be breaking up. ‘If you are ever in need, Gaius Rufus, seek out Gaius Valerius Verrens.’

  ‘You won’t get rid of me that easily, lord,’ the little man grinned. ‘The last survivors of the Temple of Claudius should stick together.’

  Agricola was still seated on the stump looking thoughtfully over the beach and the bodies towards the mainland.

  ‘I doubt you would enjoy Rome, scout. Too many people.’ Valerius set his horse down the slope. ‘See if you can round up my escort. I may be needing them.’

  Four hard-eyed bodyguards stepped in front of Valerius as he rode into the hollow where Agricola sat. ‘Leave us,’ the governor ordered, waving the men away. He looked up and noticed for the first time the bloodstained features and gore-clogged mail. ‘But don’t go far.’ He waited until Valerius dismounted before he got to his feet. ‘I suppose you expect me to thank you?’

  ‘Actually, I was expecting you to arrest me.’

  ‘Arrest?’ Agricola produced a snort of bitter laughter. ‘I’d be within my rights to have you executed on the spot.’

  ‘But you won’t?’

  ‘Tabitha and Lucius?’

  ‘Safe.’ The words no thanks to you were left unsaid, but Agricola knew they were there.

  He nodded. It was all the acknowledgement or apology Valerius would ever get.

  ‘Not won’t.’ He started off towards the beach, saw something that changed his mind and spun to walk up the slope. ‘Can’t. It would make me look a fool.’

  Valerius followed him and Agricola handed him the scroll he’d been reading. Valerius unrolled it and read. Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus confirms the appointment of his beloved subject Gaius Valerius Verrens as legatus of the Ninth legion Hispana and directs him to give all support to his proconsul of Britannia, Gnaeus Julius Agricola, in his campaigns in the next marching season and beyond. There was more, about honour and duty and the peril of failing the Emperor, but the words all seemed to blur together.

  ‘The Ninth is yours, Valerius, for good or ill. I’m not sure I altogether trust you and I know you don’t trust me, but none of that matters. It will cost blood and sweat, but together we will give Rome what it craves, a Britannia subdued and at peace for generations to come. Go to Lindum and prepare your legion. In the spring we march north.’

  Your legion.

  For all the doubts he harboured about Agricola and his inner circle the words still lit a fire in Valerius’s heart. What more could a soldier want?

  Gaius Valerius Verrens. Legate of Rome.

  Gwlym felt old and faded, but it had nothing to do with the motion of the boat. Part of him wished he’d stayed to die on Mona with the Ordovices. ‘The boatman wishes to know where you would like to land on Hibernia, arch-druid?’ Aymer said respectfully.

  Hibernia? Gwlym hadn’t thought about their destination. In Hibernia the cult of the druids was still strong …

  ‘Not Hibernia,’ he said. ‘North. Eventually the Romans must go north. I have unfinished business with Rome.’

  Historical note

  Every writer who chooses to focus on the Roman presence in Britain at the end of the first century must acknowledge a debt to the historian Publius Cornelius Tacitus, son-in-law of Julius Agricola, governor of the province from AD 78 to AD 85. Tacitus’s Life of Julius Agricola, published in AD 98 after Agricola’s death, provides a unique and privileged window into the world of a Roman official of proconsular rank and the impact he had on the lives of those he ruled. Modern historians have questioned the true value of Agricola, on the grounds that it is a eulogy and Tacitus was unlikely to paint a less than flattering picture of his late father-in-law. His view may also have been influenced by the political climate in the wake of the death of the Emperor Domitian, whom he blames for throwing away Agricola’s legacy. What can’t be denied is that, as a chronicler of events, Tacitus can be frustratingly obscure when it comes to chronology and geography. Therefore we know that Agricola’s campaigns took place over several campaigning seasons, but not precisely which advances are linked to which year. We know that he contemplated an invasion of Ireland, but not his precise location when he envisaged it. We know he had to fight battles, but, apart from the original campaign against the tribes of north Wales which is a central feature of Glory of Rome, not where or when. However, what he does tell us gives a fascinating insight into the Roman world and the mindset of the bureaucrats who were the cement that bound it, even if it requires careful reading. Some time in the late summer of AD 78 word reached Londinium that a Roman cavalry fort in Ordovice country had been attacked and the garrison all but wiped out. Despite the lateness of the season and the difficulty of the terrain, Agricola put together a force capable of destroying the power of the Ordovices and the druidic cult on Mona he believed was the guiding hand behind the attack. The fort has never been identified, but I thought Canovium (Caerhun), in the Conwy valley, was as likely a candidate as any. Its later stone incarnations were manned by auxiliary infantry, but it’s perfectly possible Canovium originated as a cavalry post. My research also revealed that archaeologists have recently discovered evidence of extensive burning associated with the early fort. According to Tacitus, Agricola’s reaction was swift and merciless, but his suggestion that the Ordovices, probably a numerous, widespread tribal federation, allowed themselves to be penned together in a single hill fort and slaughtered seems unlikely. Agri
cola himself is portrayed as a rather two-dimensional character who treated his soldiers well, but punished infractions severely, and was promoted by Vespasian for his superior qualities and dismissed by Domitian, Tacitus would have us believe, because of jealousy. Three legions took part in Agricola’s campaigns, but we learn little of their individual feats and the names of their commanders are never mentioned. It seems no other major figure could be allowed to diminish Agricola’s lustre. The Ninth legion Hispana was one of the units, but the exploits and trials featured in this book are purely fictional. Whether it had a reputation for bad luck is conjecture on my part. What can’t be denied is that it was targeted by Julius Caesar for decimation – a brutal punishment where one man in ten was chosen by lot to be killed by his comrades – though the order was rescinded; it was one of the legions that mutinied before Claudius’s invasion of AD 43, and it lost a substantial part of its strength in an ambush by Boudicca’s warriors.

  Emperor Claudius’s last command to his governor, Aulus Plautius, in AD 43 was to ‘conquer the rest’; now, almost forty years later, that responsibility falls to Julius Agricola … and his faithful legate of the Ninth legion Hispana, Gaius Valerius Verrens.

  Soon, Valerius will march north to take on the might of the fearsome Caledonians, always mindful that the deadly enemies at his back are growing in strength and power.

  Glossary

  Ala milliaria – A reinforced auxiliary cavalry wing, normally between 700 and 1,000 strong. In Britain and the west the units would be a mix of cavalry and infantry, in the east a mix of spearmen and archers.

  Ala quingenaria – Auxiliary cavalry wing normally composed of 500 auxiliary horsemen.