Hammer of Rome Read online

  Apart from a century that had lost its way and blundered into a bog the march had been without incident. The auxiliary cavalry squadrons reported no contact with enemy scouts, but that meant nothing. Valerius still had a niggling fear the Selgovae would be waiting at the top of the slope poised to turn the assault into bloody chaos. At the last minute he’d sent one of the reserve cohorts on a flanking march to cut off the enemy’s line of retreat. Now he wondered if they’d have been better used supporting the attack. Only time would tell. When the remaining reserve cohorts were in position he ordered his signaller to check with their commanders that they were aware of the signals that would send them into battle. They’d be out of sight of the assault and the trumpet call would tell them where they were needed and demand an instant response. He rode along the lines, exchanging a quiet word with the men he knew, their positions in their cohorts fixed in his mind, asking after their welfare and the state of their equipment. They would suffer as much, in their own way, as the men currently crawling on their bellies up the slope out there in the darkness. Valerius knew the agony of waiting in reserve for the blast of the trumpet. Not knowing whether you were advancing to reinforce success or make a suicidal charge to stem failure. The frustration and the grinding in the guts. The looseness of the bladder and the bowels.

  When he was satisfied with his dispositions he rode forward through the trees at the base of the hill, dismounted and handed his reins to an aide. ‘You don’t always have to prove yourself, Valerius,’ Quintus Naso said, so quietly that only Valerius could hear him.

  ‘You’ll get your chance of glory soon enough, Quintus.’ Valerius accompanied the words with a smile, but he found his lips were cracked and his throat dry as an Armenian salt pan. ‘Water,’ he called, and drank deeply when the aide passed him a goatskin. ‘I’ll be safe with the second wave. The men expect their eagle to be close by during an attack and they expect their legate to be with his eagle, isn’t that right, Honoratus?’ He couldn’t see the aquilifer’s face in the gloom, but he could visualize the big man’s shy smile. Quiet and thoughtful, Honoratus, but with a sword in his hand he could be a force of nature. No better man to carry and defend the legion’s sacred symbol. The solid, leaden darkness gradually receded to a silvery veil and the shapes of individual men sharpened.

  ‘Get ready.’ He could hear the tension in his voice and the shadowy figures of his bodyguard moved into position around him. ‘Send the signal, Quintus.’

  No trumpet calls would announce the initial advance. Instead the messenger raced off to give the order for the right hand cohort to move. Valerius had ordered that the charge be made in silence until the attackers were detected. Each cohort would attack in line formation three ranks deep. When the cohort began its advance, the unit on its left would set off a moment later. It meant a staggered formation across and around the face of the hill, but Valerius saw that as positive. The defenders would naturally be drawn to the point of initial danger, weakening the other parts of their line. Or so he hoped.

  Dawn proper, grey and unwelcoming. A glance showed the top of the hill concealed by mist. All the better. Time. ‘Go,’ he ordered. Honoratus set the pace, trotting diagonally towards the base of the slope, the eagle on his shoulder clearly visible now. When they hit the incline Valerius discovered it was even steeper than he’d expected. Within a few paces the rear of his calves began to burn. His sculpted leather breastplate was much lighter than the plate armour of the men surrounding him, but they had the advantage of youth and his breath rasped in his throat as he tried to maintain their pace. They advanced through the ranks of auxiliaries who would make up the second wave. Beyond them Valerius could see the backs of the legionaries trudging stolidly upwards, helmets wobbling with the effort of the climb, pila and shields at the ready. Despite the efforts of their centurions their lines were already ragged as a result of the rugged terrain.

  Gaius Rufus had identified a small plateau behind the third cohort to advance and they made their way up across the rocks and scree and tussock grass. The leading legionaries would have crossed the brow of the hill by now and even with the mist their presence must be obvious to the defenders above. Yet there had been no alarm. No hurtling boulders bounding to shatter the advancing lines. Valerius strained to detect the screams and the crash of spear on scutum that would announce the joining of battle. Nothing.

  Nervously, he checked his flanks as they reached the flat projection where he’d intended to pause. ‘Keep going,’ he ordered. ‘But aquila to the rear.’ He must know what was happening up there, but he couldn’t risk the eagle to a sudden ambush.

  ‘By the Lady’s beard,’ he heard one of the escort mutter – Hilario? – ‘the bastards must be asleep.’

  ‘If they’re asleep it must be the sleep of the dead,’ Crescens whispered.

  Valerius remembered Rufus’s reference to the Maw of Teutates and made the sign against evil.

  They continued upwards.

  ‘Lord.’ A young messenger bounded down the slope towards them. ‘Centurion Clodius says you must see this.’

  By the time he reached the top the mist had all but cleared apart from a few wisps hanging in the air like wind-borne spider’s web. Men stood around staring at the impressive ditches and successive walls. Not as large as he’d expected, but formidable enough. He could hear the sound of soldiers searching the few dozen roundhouses he could glimpse above the ramparts. One look at the gates confirmed what he already suspected. Bright splashes showed where the polished bronze had been nailed to the wood before being torn away by men in a hurry.

  The fort was empty.

  XVI

  Cathal sat on a rampart not unlike the one Valerius had just crossed, lost in his own thoughts, staring south to where a column of white smoke marked the destruction of the Fort of the Bronze Gates. He snorted disdainfully at the pretentious names men gave to objects to make them seem frightening. His reinforced gates and high walls hadn’t frightened the Romans.

  Gwlym’s head came up at the sound. ‘You still haven’t explained why you made an old man climb a mountain.’

  ‘This is a special place. A sacred place. Can’t you feel it?’

  ‘I feel your fear.’

  Cathal spat and the druid hissed what might have been a laugh. They’d dressed Gwlym in new robes, but nothing could dilute the sour stench of decay and corruption that hung about him. When they first rode into the little settlement of Mairos children had run in fear at the first sight of the pus-filled eye sockets and stretching, long nailed fingers. The village lay on a cleared strip of land snuggling in the bend of the river below the three hills. Beyond the river lay the eastern territories of the Selgovae and the ephemeral dangerous frontier with the Votadini, a people whose wealth was a result of their exploitation of land and sea and a combination of perfidy and broken promises. The Selgovae and the Votadini had been enemies and rivals for countless generations and nothing would change that. Even now when the smoke from the enemy fires was visible on the horizon Votadini scouts sent by their chief Marro harried and probed west of the Selgovae boundary stones.

  Yet Cathal knew that only by combining their strengths and those of every minor tribe within their sway could they ever hope to blunt the Roman attack. Despite the provocation he had swallowed his pride and sent emissaries to offer Marro an alliance. He must buy time.

  He moved closer and took the ancient druid’s hand in his. ‘Where you sit,’ he touched the hand to the heather-clad earth below them, ‘is the rampart of a settlement which has been used by our ancestors since the beginning of time for the great festivals of Imbolc, Beltane, Lughnasa and Samhain. This is the north hill of three. The wall around the hilltop is gapped and decayed, the thatch of the houses patched and mouldering, for this is only a gathering place these days. Here the smiths forge the axes and swords that will be given in tribute to the sky gods. Middle hill, the highest of the three, is where the ceremonies take place and the offerings are made.’

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p; ‘And the third?’ Gwlym demanded. ‘The realm of Taranis ever contains thrones for his cohorts, Teutates and Esus.’

  Cathal bit back a surge of bile. How could he have known? The Selgovae chief’s voice took on a sombre tone. ‘Things are done on the third hill that none but the highest initiate may attend.’

  ‘Then all is not lost,’ the druid said. ‘Your religion is the true religion and the gods are with you. With the correct sacrifice it is still possible we could condemn the red scourge to an eternity of suffering in the bowels of the earth. The blood of a virgin princess would be ideal. You have daughters to spare, I am sure.’

  Cathal wasn’t certain whether he was being mocked, but he drew a dagger from his belt with his left hand and the wizened priest froze at the touch of the point on his throat.

  ‘If there is any further talk of sacrifice or threats to my family the only blood that will be spilled will be that of a dispensable druid.’

  ‘That must be your decision,’ Gwlym sniffed. ‘But timidity will have its consequences just as boldness may lead to success. You were talking of the three hills.’

  Cathal slipped his dagger back into its sheath. ‘The bend of a great river cradles the three hills as a mother cradles a babe in her arms. We call the river Thuaidh and it provides an annual tribute of great fish and fat geese. Beaver and otters swim its waters and we harvest their pelts. A man could climb into his curach at Mairos yonder with the sun at its height and be at the ocean by nightfall, but only traders use the route these days. The Votadini hold sway over the lower reaches and they demand tribute for passage.’ He raised Gwlym’s hand and pointed it to the left. ‘To the east, beyond the river a land of rolling hills, heather moor, rough pasture and fertile dale. Good farmland and well-settled open country with few trees, because my people hunger for land to till and plant, and farmers are greedy for wood.’

  ‘No place to face the Romans, then,’ Gwlym said, visualizing the terrain and remembering a similar landscape where Boudicca and seventy thousand of her warriors had died on the points of the little Roman swords.

  ‘No,’ Cathal agreed. ‘But if I forge an alliance with the Votadini as I hope, I fear that Marro who rules them will insist we defend it. He too has farms on the Merse that pay him tribute and farmers who expect to be defended.’

  ‘Then you must persuade him otherwise.’

  ‘To the south,’ Cathal ignored a suggestion with which he doubted he could comply, ‘beyond Muckle Cheviot, lie the disputed lands and Brigante territory. I had thought to delay the Romans at the old hill fort, but if Guiderius could not hold Brynmochdar with thirty thousand men and more the Fort of the Bronze Gates could not be held by two thousand, no matter how valiant.’

  ‘You could have hurt them,’ Gwlym pointed out.

  ‘Hurt them, yes. But at a cost I cannot afford. Two thousand of my best warriors trapped or slaughtered, but lost in any case.’

  ‘Then there is nothing to stop them? Do you truly understand what that means, king?’

  ‘I know what the Brigantes suffered.’

  Gwlym spat a bitter laugh that emerged like a stubborn piece of phlegm. ‘The Brigantes suffered nothing,’ he sneered. ‘They were clients who bowed the knee to Rome before the first arrow was drawn. Cartimandua bought them years of freedom with the life of Caratacus. Rome paid them a subsidy in return for keeping barbarians like you from interfering with them as they remade the south of Britannia in their own image. Their roads will be the chains that bind you, allowing them to move soldiers at speed in any weather while your horses and ponies are up to their bellies in mud. They will move you from your farms and settlements into municipia with basilicas and forums where your children will be taught to love Rome. You will wear Roman clothes, drink Roman wine and learn to be your own jailers. For that is the beauty of Rome’s rule. Those ruled do not even know it is happening. You will obey Roman laws, take Roman names, make Roman lists that will identify everyone and every thing, so that Rome can tax you down to the last egg and the last bushel of barley. You will never hold another sword or throw another spear, Cathal, and one day you will wake up to find your sons and daughters are Romans. That is the reality you face.’

  ‘Never.’ Cathal’s face had gone pale beneath the deep tan. ‘But what can I do? A few rivers block their path: Owsnam, Jed and Tivyet. I have arranged for ambushes to be set and the fords to be defended, but nothing that will delay them for long.’

  ‘You can fight.’ Gwlym’s voice took on a new urgency. ‘You will fight them here. You must fight.’

  ‘No,’ Cathal said. ‘Even if the hill could be made defensible there’s no water and no shelter. We might last a few days, but then we’d be slaughtered like penned sheep.’ It had been the most difficult decision of his life. ‘If Marro refuses my offer of an alliance I will withdraw west.’ He pointed Gwlym’s hand to the right. ‘There lies the great confusion of forest, hill, lake and valley that is the true heart of Selgovae country. We have already moved granaries and cattle herds from the most threatened areas. My people were reluctant, but the experiences of our refugees convinced them they could never live under Roman rule. It is late in the season; the legions must withdraw south very soon. The first snows are not far off and if they are caught in the hills they will freeze, man and beast.’

  ‘And if they do not withdraw?’

  ‘You know them better than I, druid. You tell me.’

  Gwlym thought for a moment, everything he had learned about the Romans running through his mind. ‘They will choose a defensive position where they can build a fort and wait out your Selgovae winter in warmth and comfort. It will be on a height overlooking a river, probably near a ford. Ideally it would have hills nearby where they can site a signal tower.’

  A shiver of anticipation ran through Cathal as the reality behind the druid’s words dawned on him. He looked down towards the river. Not a mile away to the south-east, just beyond the shoulder of the great hill, lay a position that fitted the druid’s description to the last detail.

  A grim smile flitted across his rugged features. ‘Then let us hope they do. Perhaps the Romans will find a Selgovae winter too warm for comfort – as warm, in fact, as the fires of Teutates’ furnace.’

  XVII

  Dawn turned the gently rolling landscape to a glistening carpet of glowing gold. From Valerius’s position by the hill fort the sight was enough to take even the most world-weary soldier’s breath from his lungs. On the north side of a winding stream he could see the legion’s camp laid out on the far slope hundreds of feet below. Neat rows of tents, horse lines, ovens set into the turf walls, six gates, each with a raised earth mound to deter a direct assault, and the legate’s outsized pavilion his escort had cursed him for abandoning so he could be here, far above, at dawn. The sunlight glinted on the spears of the guard detachment and smoke rose in lazy spirals from the recently lit cooking fires. Gradually curiosity drew his eyes across the hills to the far distance and his heart seemed to stutter as he looked for the first time upon the silhouette that had come to haunt his dreams.

  ‘Trimontium,’ he whispered. The place of the three hills.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘See it, Shabolz?’ Valerius laughed. The sight had been hidden the previous day by thick haze. ‘Three distinct peaks. Two quite sharp, the third flatter, but still perfectly visible. Trimontium. That is where we’ll finally catch up with this Calgacus. If he is the kind of man I believe he is he will never give up his sacred place without a fight. Those hills will be our mark. If the gods are kind we will fight our battle before the freeze sets in and enjoy a comfortable winter in barracks.’ He saw the Pannonian reach up and touch the curious crooked cross charm at his neck. ‘Is something wrong, trooper?’

  ‘With respect, lord, it never does to disregard the power of the local gods. The scout tells me they are all around us, in the water and the air. Calgacus would be a fool to fight us in open battle and my instincts tell me he is no fool.’

  Valeri
us gave a mental curse. Of course Calgacus was no fool. Gaius Valerius Verrens was the fool, allowing his over-enthusiasm and the sight of a few hills to cloud his judgement. He looked back at the hills standing out like a giant milestone on the horizon. They would still be his mark, but he would treat them and Calgacus with more caution. Many a slip between the cup and the lip, as the legion’s clandestine dice players said. He would not make the same mistake again.

  ‘You’re right, Shabolz.’ He clapped the Pannonian on the shoulder. ‘I will have the priests make a sacrifice before we break camp. Let us go down now. I’m so hungry I can feel my ribs sticking to my backbone.’

  Shabolz smiled, but Valerius wondered if their relationship retained the warmth of a season earlier. Had his refusal to join the Mithras cult – yes, the invitation had never been given, but it could still be regarded as a slight – soured the bond he had with his men? Before he could consider the answer, Nilus, the signaller, alerted him to a rider forcing his mount up the slope towards them.

  ‘It looks like Arafa,’ Nilus said, confirming Valerius’s suspicion. ‘He’s in a hurry.’

  Valerius urged his horse down the hill and they met the little scout midway. A smile split his bearded face and removed the feeling of foreboding Valerius had experienced at the first sight of his approach.

  ‘Lord.’ Rufus saluted.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We have a visitor,’ the scout grinned. ‘And I think you’ll want to meet him.’

  Valerius delayed long enough to don his dress uniform, the breastplate and helmet glowing with gold and silver, the scarlet cloak and the sash that proclaimed his rank. Slaves rushed to decorate the praetorium with busts of Titus and Vespasian, brought on campaign in case he needed to entertain Agricola and his fellow legates. When the preparations were complete he stood beside a padded couch with Honoratus and the legion’s eagle to his right, and eight men of his bodyguard, including the fearsome Hilario, arrayed behind him.