‘But they could be in future?’ Valerius suggested.
Paulinus suppressed his annoyance. ‘It is possible, but I will not jeopardize this mission on a possibility. If the tribes were to combine to threaten Colonia, I would know of it. No force of any size could gather without my knowledge in this province. The Ninth are only a few days’ march away; they would be there before the rebels reached the gates.’
‘And if they were not?’
‘Then Colonia must be held by its people.’
‘And if they cannot hold it?’
‘Then they do not deserve to keep it.’
Paulinus picked up his stylus. Valerius was dismissed. He had failed.
He expected to be ordered to Londinium immediately, but the Twentieth’s preparations were behind schedule and an extra pair of hands was not to be lightly discarded. That day and each day thereafter the legate found some new logistical crisis for him to solve, a supply line to unclog or a dispute to smooth over. The armourer went sick and his deputy turned out to be incompetent, and a new armourer must be found. Valerius thought of Corvinus back in Colonia, but the distance was too far and the time too short. Eventually he bribed the prefect commanding the Frisian auxiliaries to give him the use of a blond giant with a manic grin and Latin that sounded like a bathhouse draining. And so it went on.
On the ides of Aprilis he watched with Lunaris as governor Paulinus and his personal bodyguard marched out with the auxiliaries to join the Fourteenth legion, the massed cornicens blowing a strident fanfare and the eagle standard glittering in the fresh morning sunlight. His heart swelled as they passed, rank after rank, with their shields on their backs and their spears and equipment and a week’s rations already grating on their shoulders. The letters to their loved ones had been sent, their bellies were full and they were eager: he could see it in the way they stepped out and in the determination on their faces.
Behind them by the thousand came the mules of the supply train; no ox carts on this campaign because no roads existed where they were going, only precipitous mountain passes and boulder-filled valley bottoms that would snap an axle as if it were a toothpick. The mules were followed by more auxiliaries than Valerius had seen gathered together in one place. The Frisians and Tungrians had been joined by Vangiones and Nervians from the swamps of Germania, Gauls from every part of that vast land, and lithe, tanned hillmen from Pannonia and Moetia and Dalmatia.
‘Better them than me,’ Lunaris growled. ‘They’ll have to clear the hills and force the passes. A Black Celt on every ridge and a boulder on your helmet from every clifftop. At least when we go that job’ll have been done.’
‘You think they’ll fight?’ Valerius asked. ‘The legate of the Fourteenth has been telling whoever wants to know that the druids will pull them back to the island.’
‘They’ll fight all right,’ the big man said gloomily. ‘If the barbarians came to burn down the Temple of Jupiter would you sit and wait at the bottom of the Capitoline? No, you’d block the streets and have an archer at every window and a spearman at every corner and by the time they got to the temple there wouldn’t be enough of them left to take it. That’s why he’s taking so many of the country boys. They’ll do the dying and then the Fourteenth and the Twentieth will finish the job and take all the glory.’
‘If there’s any glory they’ll have earned it,’ Valerius said, considering the perils of a massed assault on a defended island. Any bridgehead would be paid for heavily in Roman lives. ‘Would you rather be staying behind with me?’
Lunaris shook his head. ‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve been doing this for a dozen years. Mostly digging and marching and waiting — lots of waiting. Fighting is the best part of it, even with all the torn guts and the tent-mates who don’t make it back, because it’s what we’re paid for and trained for. And because we always win. Because we’re the best.’
The next day they heard that Prasutagus of the Iceni was dead.
Valerius considered riding out after Paulinus and pressing him for a decision on the Iceni succession, but reviewing his interview with the governor convinced him that it would do more harm than good. He thought of Cearan’s earnest, handsome face and felt the hollow emptiness of having failed a friend. Yet there was always a chance Queen Boudicca would prevail without the governor’s sanction. Paulinus had dismissed her as a mere woman, but Valerius had sensed a formidable presence when he had seen her at Venta. In any case, he had done everything he could.
Another week passed and, although the legate kept him busy enough, he began to have a strange detached feeling of not belonging. Each man in the legion had a definite aim and a place in the battle line, but not him. What they did, they did for a purpose: to ensure they reached Mona with the equipment they needed in a condition that would allow them to use it to the best effect. All he did was fill gaps. He was considering asking the legate for leave to go when he received the legionary commander’s summons.
Livius received him in the principia with the harassed look of a man with too many problems and not enough time. ‘Nonsense,’ he snapped, throwing a scroll on to the campaign desk in front of him. ‘We are not ready but I am commanded to march within forty-eight hours, so march we must.’ He frowned. ‘You have done good work here, Valerius, for which I thank you, and if I had my way you would be going with us, but…’ he glanced at the scroll in front of him and gave a bitter smile, ‘orders are orders. However, you can do me a last favour. Your replacement is due in Londinium from Rome in one week on the ship that will take you back there. Mars aid me but we need him. He’ll be wet behind the ears and I can’t have him wandering around these mountains on his own or some Silurian will eat him and have his skull for an oil lamp. Choose a dozen experienced men from the First cohort as an escort and take them with you. Once they have picked up your replacement they are to follow us as they can. Judging by the governor’s dispatches we won’t have gone too far. We appear to have underestimated the obstinacy of the Celts defending the passes.’
‘Of course, sir. It will be my pleasure.’ Which was true. He couldn’t think of better company than Lunaris and his comrades from the second century. They might not relish the march, but if they weren’t marching east they’d be marching west into the arms of the druids. At least they’d be safer with him.
XXVII
Crespo stared at the thatched roofs of the walled town across the river. He’d made no attempt to conceal the approach and he knew they knew he was here because he could feel their fear.
He heard a sniff behind him and felt a twinge of annoyance.
‘Are you certain we will be safe among these savages?’ Catus Decianus asked in his nasal drawl.
‘Safe as if you were back in Rome, your honour.’ They would have been safe with half the force he had at his back. But it made the job all the easier. The men he could always depend on, Vettius and his gang of thieves and bullies, plus a few slave dealers who smelled a quick profit, formed the nucleus of the unit, but this was a big operation and he’d used Decianus’s authority to strip the Londinium garrison and form a force of a thousand men. They weren’t frontline troops, mostly legionaries nearing retirement and the remnants of shattered auxiliary units, only fit for fetching and carrying, but they looked formidable enough. Which was the point.
‘Very well. You have your orders.’
Crespo called his centurions forward. ‘First five centuries with me inside the town. The rest fan out and surround the place as we agreed. Anyone who tries to run you hold, or kill, I don’t really care. Once we’ve made our point you march to your assigned sector along with your unit’s slaves and carts and strip every farm and every home. If you don’t find any gold give the owner a tickle with a spear till he tells you where it is. Because it will be there. But don’t kill too many.’ It wasn’t compassion, purely business. This was the Emperor Nero’s land now and the Emperor would need people to work it. The pragmatic King Prasutagus had left half his kingdom to Nero and had named
his daughters heirs to the rest, relying on his wife Boudicca to rule until they came of age. But Nero didn’t want half. He wanted it all. And Crespo was going to get it for him.
Which was why Queen Boudicca was about to be taught a lesson.
Cearan stood in the main square of Venta beside his queen and waited for the Romans to enter through the double gateway. Boudicca wore a long dress of plaid belted at the waist with a chain of gold links. She held her noble head high and her long russet hair had been carefully combed to a fine sheen, falling over her shoulders in a fiery cascade. A gold band circled her forehead and a torc of the same precious metal shone at her neck. She looked magnificent, he thought, but in his heart he wished it otherwise. This was not a day for a display of queenly splendour. He was not sure yet what it was a day for but it was a day he had done his best to ensure would end peacefully.
Word had reached him of the Roman advance several hours earlier and he had puzzled over it. A force of such strength could only be the escort for the governor or one of his senior officials. Was this Suetonius Paulinus on his way to endorse the queen’s proposal and confirm her daughters as Prasutagus’s heirs? It seemed unlikely. The Iceni were Rome’s clients not its subjects, a separate entity outwith the province of Britain. The endorsement of Rome was needed for the succession, yes, but a simple courier would have sufficed. Such a show of power sent out a message which was disturbing, if not frightening. Worse, this was the best reading of the situation he could arrive at. When he had informed Boudicca of the Romans’ approach, the colour had flared in her cheeks.
‘They seek to cow us.’ Her voice shook. ‘But I will not be cowed. As long as I am queen of the Iceni, I will rule as queen. No Roman will dictate to Boudicca what she can or cannot do, but…’ she turned to him, and for the first time he saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, ‘I cannot place my people at risk.’
‘There are a thousand Romans,’ he replied. ‘Give me two days and I could have five thousand warriors at your call.’ The lords of the Iceni had travelled from their estates to Venta to discuss the succession and it would have been a simple matter for them to return and rouse their fighting men, but… ‘But we do not have two days. In any case, it would still not be enough. What arms do we have to face their swords and their spears? Nothing but knives, scythes and a few hunting bows. We cannot afford a confrontation.’
‘There are swords,’ a voice volunteered to a growl of approval.
Volisios. So his suspicions about the lord of the northern Marches had been correct.
‘Not enough and not here, Lord Volisios.’ He stared at the queen, a question in his eyes. She looked away and his heart sank, then she turned to meet his gaze and nodded. He sighed with relief. ‘You must take the young men to the secret places and conceal them there. If you have swords,’ he nodded to Volisios, ‘then now is the time to sharpen them. Then you must wait.’
A buzz of disapproval greeted his words and he raised a hand for quiet.
‘We cannot fight the Romans here, and we cannot fight them now. They are too many and they are too well armed. They will come, and they will swagger and they will make their demands — and then they will leave. When they leave we will resume this discussion. There is a time for swords and a time for words. I do not believe it is a time for swords yet.’
So why, when the Roman officer with the arrogant, pock-marked face rode in at the head of his men, did he wish more than anything on earth that he had a sword in his hand?
A scuffle from behind distracted him and he saw a flash of gold in the corner of his eye as Tor, his grandson, darted from the crowd and pleaded to be lifted. Cearan picked the little boy up and tenderly kissed his head, remembering the last Romans to visit Venta and wishing that Valerius was among these men. The thought of Valerius made him think of Maeve, who was safe in one of the huts, and he prayed she wouldn’t emerge to retrieve the child. But it was a pretty girl with her mother’s red hair and the leggy confidence of a young colt who took Tor from his arms. Boudicca’s daughter Rosmerta. He smiled his thanks and turned to face the Romans again — and froze. The officer was staring past him at the girl’s retreating back and the naked, undisguised lust on his face sent ice water cascading down Cearan’s spine. Beside him he felt Boudicca stiffen.
Crespo studied his surroundings. Who did these people think they were? The town might have been Roman if it hadn’t been made of straw and mud. Rectangular buildings with narrow fronts facing the streets. Shops and workshops. A marketplace that aped a forum. And a large building at the far end of the square that was probably Prasutagus’s palace. He had noted the handsome, aristocratic Briton standing with the tall red-haired woman in the centre of the square, but his attention had been diverted by the girl. Perhaps today wasn’t going to be such a chore after all.
Decianus, who had naturally waited until he was certain he faced no danger, rode in with his escort. At last, they could get on with it. Crespo turned to his officers. ‘First century, separate the men from the women and children and herd them outside. Make sure they understand what will happen if they don’t behave. Third and fourth centuries, search the houses for valuables, but leave the big house at the end to the procurator and his staff.’ That was where the records would be, if these people kept records, and the most valuable possessions. ‘The rest of you, stand fast. If there’s any sign of trouble, you know what to do.’
A few women cried out as the legionaries advanced into the crowd, selected the adult males and pushed them towards the gate. He noted the absence of men of fighting age. Someone had sent them away and he thought he knew who. He studied the Iceni noble at the queen’s side. So much the better.
Decianus slid gingerly from the saddle and Crespo dismounted with him. Together they marched towards the little group and halted three or four paces in front of them. The procurator pulled a thin tablet of bronze from the sleeve of his toga and immediately began reading. Crespo saw the woman frown. Decianus truly was a fool. At least he should have found out if she understood Latin.
The tall man began whispering urgently in the woman’s ear, translating as the procurator continued.
‘… will of Prasutagus, heretofore known as king of the Iceni, clients of Rome, is repudiated and its terms annulled… designated sole heir and all others hereby disinherited… all monies, lands, properties, minerals, crops, livestock… revert to the Emperor Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus… all profits from said goods revert to the Emperor Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus… all future profits from the sale of said crops, livestock, minerals and… revert to the said Emperor Nero Claudius Drusus Germanicus…’
Cearan was appalled. He could barely believe what he was hearing, the words seeming to tumble in his head, but somehow he managed to maintain the sense of what the long-nosed bureaucrat was announcing. Boudicca’s breasts rose and fell with increasing force and he felt her anger grow as she began to fully understand what the little piece of bronze plate signified. Nero was stealing her nation.
‘No,’ she screamed, spitting a wall of Celtic invective that made Decianus back away before the intensity of her fury. Cearan attempted to translate as she demanded a meeting with the governor, justice from a Roman court and the rights of a queen.
Crespo laughed at the procurator’s fear and allowed Boudicca to rave for a further minute for his own amusement before he struck. The full-blooded punch took the Iceni queen on the side of the skull, sending the gold circlet she wore spinning into the air. Boudicca collapsed to the ground, stunned, and when she attempted to rise Crespo placed his foot in the small of her back and forced her into the dust.
‘Vettius,’ he called to his second in command, ‘bring my whip. This bitch needs teaching some manners.’
‘Please!’ Cearan rushed forward, instinctively defending his queen.
Crespo drew his gladius and turned in one movement, bringing the razor edge of the sword down in a savage diagonal blow across Cearan’s face. The Iceni shrieked and reeled back with
his hands to his eyes, the blood already spurting scarlet between his fingers. Aenid, who had been among the crowd of women, screamed and rushed to her husband’s aid, but one of Crespo’s legionaries kicked the legs from under her and stabbed down with his sword.
‘Not so pretty now,’ Crespo laughed. ‘Vettius, where’s my fucking whip?’
Decianus shuffled uncomfortably at the violence being displayed before him. The procurator had served his six months with the legions but he’d never been at home among men whose first instinct was to strike a blow. He disliked Crespo, indeed found him disgusting, but he had a distasteful mission to accomplish and a man like the centurion was a useful means to that end. He looked down at the Iceni queen wriggling in the dust beneath the soldier’s sandal and fought back the urge to intervene. No. She had defied Rome and if she was not taught to fear it there was a danger she would defy it again.
He turned away and walked past the bloodied, kneeling figure of the golden-haired Celt scarcely noticing the dead woman at his side, his mind focused on the more urgent problem of discovering the extent of King Prasutagus’s wealth.
Crespo’s blunt-faced deputy handed him a whip, but the centurion knocked it away. ‘Not that one. Get me my flagellum.’ The flagellum was the heavier whip, made of ox leather. Boudicca would not only feel the pain of her punishment but bear the scars of it till she died. He felt the queen struggling harder now and realized she was recovering from his punch. She was a big woman, and strong, which might be awkward. He looked around the square and his eye settled on a post used for tying up livestock on market days.
‘Truss her up to that,’ he ordered, hauling Boudicca to her feet. Two men dragged her to the post, her red hair and clothing now matted with dust and her cheeks dirty and tear-streaked. She struggled and twisted between them, but her green eyes, blazing with the fire of her hatred, never left Crespo. She unleashed a string of curses, each predicting a worse death, but Crespo only laughed.
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