Hero of Rome trt-1

by Douglas Jackson

  Valerius smiled coldly and looked around to where Lunaris was now jogging up the temple steps with an amphora under each arm. The younger priest recognized the dangerous change in the atmosphere and stepped away from his colleague.

  ‘By order of the governor, this temple and everything and everyone in it are now under military authority.’ He had no orders from the governor, but compared with sacrilege it seemed a minor offence. ‘I’m sure Divine Claudius as a military man will understand. You are obstructing a vital military operation and under military law may be subject to summary justice. What’s inside here?’ He pushed between the two men and shook the door, which was solid and obviously locked.

  ‘That is a private area,’ the older priest cried. ‘There is nothing of military value there.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’ Valerius put his foot to the wooden panel and the lock snapped, allowing the door to swing open. He looked inside. ‘You will take every piece of furniture and every carpet, every statue and every wall hanging and carry them to the temple. Tell the tall soldier there that I want the area between the columns fortified around the area of the pronaos.’

  ‘But this is…’ the priest protested.

  Valerius very deliberately slid his sword from its scabbard. The gladius came free with an ominous whisper and the edge glinted blue in the morning sunlight. ‘Perhaps you did not understand the meaning of summary justice.’

  The priest’s mouth dropped open and he scuttled through the door, from where there came the satisfying sounds of furniture scraping on the mosaic floor.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ he growled at the young augur.

  ‘I wondered where I could find a sword, sir,’ the boy said, nervously eyeing the gladius.

  Valerius almost laughed, but he knew that would have shamed the lad. Courage could be found in the most unlikely places and he had need of all the courage he could get. He had another warrior. ‘Well…’

  ‘Fabius, sir,’ the boy volunteered.

  ‘Well, Fabius, when you’ve finished here talk to Lunaris at the temple. Tell him I said to station you in the pronaos.’

  He walked the seventy paces back to the temple studying his surroundings, seeking out anything that could give the defenders an advantage, or any vulnerable point where the enemy could gain one in their turn. The front wall with the gateway in the centre was the most obvious weakness and therefore the most likely place the Britons would attack. So, when the time came, if he was still alive, that was where he would place his strongest force and he would use that wall to wear them down. He would keep a strong reserve — he shook his head. How could he use a word like strong in a situation like this? As strong as he could afford, then — by the temple steps ready to react if the barbarians broke through anywhere. Yes, he was satisfied he could make them pay dearly for the front wall.

  But there were four walls. What about the east, west and north? He considered the east first. Sturdy single-storey offices and storerooms beneath a tiled roof that pitched upwards and ended where it met the wall, which on the sheer outer face was higher by far than the combined height of two men. The north? He realized there was a gap in his knowledge and abruptly changed direction and marched out of the front gate to make a circuit of the outer walls. The inner wall was a continuation of the covered walkway which also included the west side of the precinct but outside, he noted with satisfaction, it backed directly on to the slope which fell away to the flat meadows that edged the river. An enemy without siege equipment would have to be very determined to climb the slope and then take on a surface without the slightest hold for hand or foot. He gazed down towards the meadow, where the thick, sweet grass ended so abruptly against the silver ribbon of the water. That was the key. This was an enemy without climbing ladders and siege towers or the knowledge to manufacture them. An enemy who favoured frontal attack above all else. Yes, it would do. But when he rounded the corner he discovered something that wouldn’t do at all. Along the outer west wall an almost continuous line of crude lean-to shacks had been built, which, on closer inspection, were being used to store building materials. Any of them could make a ready platform for an enemy assault.

  He stopped at the gate on his way back to the temple, where Gracilis, the Twentieth’s hard-case wolf hunter from the Campanian mountains, was supervising the strengthening of the defences.

  ‘Take some men and tear down the huts along the west wall. And while you’re at it, clear everything for a javelin throw in front of this gate. I want a killing ground from there to about there.’

  Gracilis grinned and saluted. Like all legionaries, the only thing he liked better than fighting and drinking was destroying someone else’s property. ‘Should we burn them, sir?’ he said hopefully.

  Valerius shook his head. No point in creating smoke to warn the enemy. ‘Just break them up and add them to the barriers.’

  A line of legionaries passed water jars into the interior of the temple as Lunaris watched the final pieces of the barricade around the pronaos being put into place between the massive pillars. The pronaos formed the outer area of the temple and behind it lay the cella, the inner sanctum of the cult of Claudius. ‘Kind of you to send me the reinforcements,’ the big man said. Valerius was puzzled, until Lunaris pointed to where Fabius peered from behind a padded couch propped against one of the columns. Someone had provided him with a helmet several sizes too large and it sat on his head like a cooking pot.

  ‘You may thank me for him later.’

  Lunaris looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe they won’t come.’

  Valerius stood back as one of his men carelessly threw a bust of the Emperor Augustus on to the top of the barricade. ‘In that case you can join me in the sack when they throw me into the Tiber.’ He looked up at the temple above them. ‘Do we have any archers?’

  ‘Not among our lot that I know of. A few of the veterans may be hunters and I’ve seen some of the auxiliary cavalry practising with bows. Why?’

  Valerius pointed to the temple roof. ‘If we can get a dozen men up there they could cover the whole perimeter. I don’t see how the Britons can make a direct assault anywhere but the southern wall, but-’

  He was interrupted by a shout from the direction of the gate and turned to see Falco at the head of a line of veteran militia, each with a bundle of pila in his arms. The wine merchant’s round face glowed pink with indignation.

  ‘Enough to supply an army,’ he fumed. ‘That damned man. Enough spears for every soldier and this is what’s left. Shields and swords too, bright as when they were forged. And for years we have made do with…’

  ‘And how is our good quaestor?’ Valerius asked mildly. ‘Will he take his place in the line?’

  ‘Vanished. He hasn’t been seen since the meeting. Just as well. If I could lay my hands on him he’d wish he was with the rebels.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll miss his presence. Come. We need a stockpile of spears thirty paces behind the south wall, and another by the steps.’

  Falco looked at the bustle of preparations going on around him. ‘So, you mean to defend the temple. I thought-’

  ‘No, we will fight them first beyond the walls. I am sorry,’ Valerius apologized. ‘I should have kept you better informed.’

  The wine merchant shook his head. ‘The last of the militia won’t come in from the outlying farms for a few hours yet. Time enough then. We would have heard from the cavalry pickets if there was any immediate threat.’

  ‘We will place any civilians who are willing to fight here, in the temple, with a stiffening of my men. I want only hardened soldiers in our battle line.’ Valerius imagined the terrified merchants, craftsmen and servants facing battle-crazed British champions, the bloody chaos of a splintered shield wall. ‘I doubt they’d stand for long and who could blame them. If the Britons do not take fright at the sight of us…’

  Falco laughed. ‘That was a pretty fantasy you spun for the council. I almost believed it myself.’

  They walk
ed from the temple precinct back to where the ground fell away towards the river. Below them was the meadow where Valerius had inspected Falco’s militia during his first week in Colonia. It seemed a lifetime ago. The river encircled it in a long curve, wide and deep enough thanks to the recent rains to provide an effective barrier against an advancing enemy with a need to move fast.

  ‘I will burn the bridges, all but one.’ He pointed to the main crossing that carried the road from Colonia north to Venta. ‘That will be our bait. They are fighters, the Britons, but not soldiers. They will be drawn to the bridge because behind the bridge is where we will make our stand and their first instinct will be to annihilate us. Utterly.’

  ‘But what if…’

  Valerius understood his plan’s weakness. ‘The cavalry will patrol the near bank to ensure we are informed of any general crossing, but I do not think it will happen. If they want Colonia they must destroy us, Falco. By offering ourselves to Boudicca we can buy enough time for Paulinus to counter-march his legions from Mona. Failing that, the Ninth is only five days away in Lindum; it’s possible they are already on their way to join us. If we cannot save Colonia, at least we may be able to win time for Londinium.’

  A shout from one of the legionaries working on the temple defences interrupted them. Valerius instinctively turned to the northeast and saw the flare as a beacon blazed at the signal tower on the ridge. He knew the men in the tower would also be straining their eyes to the north and that twenty miles away on the far horizon they could see a tiny echo of the flame they had just lit. It would only be seconds before it was extinguished, he was sure, but it had done its job. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for the Tungrian auxiliaries at the station on the Venta road who had stayed at their posts to the end.

  They would not be the last.

  ‘She is coming, then,’ Falco said solemnly.

  ‘Did you ever doubt it?’

  The older man shook his head. ‘At least the women and children are safe.’

  Bela rode in an hour later slumped over the neck of a blown horse near crippled by the vivid red slash where a sword had sliced its haunches and groaning with the agony of an iron spear point still embedded in his ribs. Two of the Thracians held their commander upright in the saddle long enough for him to make his report to Valerius.

  ‘Cowards. They ambushed us in a wood.’ Bela’s face shone with sweat and he flinched with the pain of each word. ‘They blocked the way with a felled tree and were on both sides of the road. Spears, arrows and slings out of hiding and we had no reply. At first our women stayed among the wagons, but what could they do when one after the other they saw their little ones spitted by arrows or spears? In their terror they sought any way out of the trap. But there was no way. We…’ His body shuddered at the memory. ‘We could hear the screams from among the trees.’ He raised his head to look Valerius in the eye. ‘They will have spared none.’

  Valerius thought of all the escapees he had helped into the wagons less than twelve hours before. The sad, grateful smiles on the faces of mothers torn between the hurt of being separated from their husbands and gratitude that at least their children would be safe. He wondered about the fate of the blind old man and the whores who had given up their places in the cart. Were they picked off one by one by their faceless enemy? Did they rush into the woods to be butchered? It didn’t matter. He had failed them all. This was his fault, in his arrogance and his pride. But there were things he needed to know before he could mourn them.

  ‘Bela, who were they and how many were there?’ Was it possible Boudicca had already bypassed Colonia and was making for Londinium? The Thracian was on the point of collapse, but this was no time for pity. He had to know. He laid a hand on Bela’s shoulder and felt the two men holding him stiffen protectively. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded.

  ‘A few hundred, no more.’ The cavalryman coughed, and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his lip to his chin. ‘Locals, I think, scum taking advantage of the chaos and lured by the prospect of blood and gold.’ His head slumped forward and Valerius released him.

  In a flat voice the trooper on Bela’s left said, ‘We charged them six times, and six times they repulsed us. We are all that is left. He would have stayed and died with the rest if we had not carried him away.’

  ‘I know,’ Valerius said, patting him gently on the arm. ‘Take him to the infirmary and get some rest. Say nothing of this to anyone.’

  He sent for Falco, who read the look on his face and turned pale.

  ‘All?’ he asked quietly.

  Valerius nodded. ‘The Thracians did what they could, but there were not enough of them.’

  Falco closed his eyes and swayed on his feet and Valerius knew he was thinking of his plump wife, as courageous as any soldier as she sat stiff and erect with their nine-year-old son in the first wagon. But he could not be allowed to think for too long.

  ‘Will your men fight better for knowing or not knowing?’

  The wine merchant’s eyes snapped open and his nostrils flared. ‘You forget yourself, tribune,’ he rasped, and Valerius had a glimpse of the old Falco, who had terrorized the Twentieth legion for two decades. ‘The Colonia militia will fight and that is all you need to know.’

  ‘I need them to fight with fire in their bellies not tears in their eyes.’ Valerius kept his voice hard. This man was his friend, but he could not afford to show weakness.

  ‘If I can fight with both, they can fight with both,’ Falco said fiercely. ‘The answer is that I have served with these men for a lifetime, they are my comrades and they deserve to know. The veterans of the Colonia militia will stand, they will fight and they will die, tribune, and you will go on your knees and seek my forgiveness before the end.’ He turned and walked stiffly away, an old man carrying all the burdens of a life on the march on his shoulders in a single moment.

  XXXII

  Late in the afternoon, Valerius gathered his officers in the long room in the temple’s east wing — the one with the painting of Claudius accepting the surrender of Britain. He doubted whether they saw the irony of it. What wouldn’t he give now for even one of those four legions displayed there on the wall, their armour and their spear points glinting? With a full legion at his back he would have marched northwards to meet Boudicca and left the rebellion stillborn, her army either shattered or so mauled that she would have no choice but to turn back and regroup. But he didn’t have a full legion. He had two thousand of Falco’s veterans, the two hundred men he had brought from Londinium and a few hundred of Bela’s cavalry.

  The young Thracian lay back stiffly on a padded couch recovered from the temple’s barricade with his chest heavily bandaged and his eyes fever bright with whatever drug he’d been given to ease the pain. He had insisted on attending the final briefing even though he could barely stand. Falco stood among his cohort commanders with his face set in a mask of grim intent and refused to meet Valerius’s eyes. The men surrounding him took their mood from their leader, but there were those who couldn’t hide the signs of their grief or their nervousness. He searched for any other suggestion of weakness, but found none. These men still had their pride, even though time had marked them as it had marked the uniforms they wore. He knew some resented his youth, but with Falco’s support he had no doubt they would accept his authority. Lunaris leaned against the side wall, his tall frame relaxed and his face expressionless.

  ‘I have had word from our scouts.’ Valerius’s voice silenced the subdued murmurs. ‘If the Britons march hard, their vanguard will be here well before dawn. It is difficult for one man to judge, but the trooper who carried the message believes that Petronius’s spy did not exaggerate their strength.’ He paused and waited to see if any of them reacted to that terrible truth. There were no doubts now. They would be enormously outnumbered. ‘Yet any man who has studied history knows that sheer numbers need not guarantee the outcome of a battle. Alexander had only half as many troops as the Persian Darius when he triumphed a
t Issus. Caesar himself defeated Pompey the Great at Pharsalus when he was outnumbered by more than two to one.’

  ‘Not twenty to one, though.’

  Valerius was surprised at the intervention from Corvinus, whose support he had assumed. ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Not twenty to one. But these were soldiers fighting soldiers. We are soldiers fighting barbarian warriors. Does any man here doubt that ten legionaries are worth a hundred of these Britons?’

  ‘No!’ At least half of them growled the reply, and Valerius smiled.

  ‘Two to one, then.’ To a man, they laughed, even Falco. He allowed them their moment and then continued seriously. ‘I do not intend us to fight fifty thousand or even ten thousand. We will burn every bridge but one and the rebels will be drawn to the remaining crossing like wasps to a rotting peach. Only a few thousand will be able to cross at one time and those thousands will die before our swords.’ He didn’t allow any arrogance to creep into his voice. These men were not fools. ‘No, I do not expect to win,’ he answered their unspoken question. ‘I am no Caesar or Alexander and there are too many of them. Even a veteran’s arm must tire. We will bleed, just as they do. That is why I have fortified the temple. At the last we will withdraw here.’ And here we will die. They all knew it. No one needed to say it.

  ‘Why not fight from the temple in the first place?’ Corvinus demanded, and was rewarded with a rumble of support. ‘With close to three thousand men and enough food and water we could hold the grounds for a month.’

  Valerius shook his head. ‘And watch Boudicca burn your city to the ground around you?’

  ‘She will burn it in any case.’

  ‘Yes, but she won’t just leave a few thousand warriors to starve us out and march on Londinium with her army intact. If they are fifty thousand strong now, how many will rally to their cause if they destroy all that is best of Roman Britain? A hundred thousand, perhaps more. Enough even to overwhelm Paulinus and his force. It would be the end of the province. We cannot allow that. By forcing her to do battle we have the opportunity to tear the heart from the rebel army, here at Colonia.’