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Hammer of Rome Page 5


  He felt a surge of relief. For the moment, it seemed, the fort had been forgotten. But even as the thought formed a squadron of cavalrymen decided to prove him wrong and charged the mob of refugees struggling at the gate.

  ‘Lord king?’ Arvirasto, the commander of his guard, shouted a warning, but he was pointing east. The cavalry charge had been prompted by a cohort of infantry who’d fought their way through the crumbling defences and were trotting towards the fort. Guiderius saw the danger in an instant. If the cavalry caused enough chaos and the legionaries reached the fort before he could close the gate it was over. All this slaughter would have been for nothing. At least if he defended the fort to the last he could make an end that would leave his name untarnished.

  ‘Back,’ he screamed. ‘Force your way through to the gate. We must close the gate.’

  He tore at the refugees in front of him, throwing them aside and striking out with the butt of his spear, uncaring whether his victims were women and children. His guard followed his lead, smashing their way with brutal intent through the helpless civilians. At last, Guiderius looked up to see wooden timber walls. Only a few more paces. A new rumble of thunder and shrieks from behind as the cavalry struck, accompanied by the familiar butcher’s block sound of metal on meat.

  ‘The gate,’ he shouted to Arvirasto. With a grunt the big warrior threw away his spear and drew his sword, hacking left and right to clear a path through the shrieking crowd that blocked the gateway. Guiderius stumbled on the body of a grey-haired woman, but he had no time for compassion. The guard reached the gate and held the terrified refugees at bay as Guiderius stepped inside. ‘Close the gate,’ he ordered.

  The gate guards looked to where the king’s personal guard still fought to keep the mass of people back, even as the Roman cavalry hacked their way through from the other side. ‘But—’

  ‘I said close the gate!’ The words emerged as a panicked shriek and the men threw themselves against the double wooden doors. Arvirasto heard the squeal of the hinges and turned towards the fort. Too late. An auxiliary cavalryman appeared from his left and the last Guiderius saw of his guard commander was his startled features as his severed head leapt into the air.

  Now it was a combination of cavalry troopers and his own guard trying to force the gate open. Guiderius hurled his weight against the oak planks, only for a pair of arms to reach through and rough hands take him by the throat. Wild eyes glared at him from a bearded face and he struggled in a grip that felt like iron claws. A spear thrust from behind Guiderius pierced the auxiliary through the eye. The death grip on the king’s throat loosened, but the dying man’s arms were trapped in the gate, keeping it from being barred. Someone appeared with an axe and hacked the arms off above the elbow, and others used their spear butts to smash the cavalryman away. The bar dropped and Guiderius collapsed to his knees and vomited.

  When he looked up, he was the focus of hundreds of accusing eyes from every conceivable platform and vantage point.

  ‘What will we do now, husband?’ Regina stood a few feet away, her arms across the shoulders of their two daughters. Like their mother they were beauties, dark of hair and fair of skin even at eight and ten, and it made his heart lurch to see them. ‘With enough food to supply five hundred people for a week, trapped in a fort that now contains five thousand and more.’

  ‘What else can we do?’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘We must fight.’

  She went pale and the mixture of rage and despair in her eyes made him glad when she turned away with the children.

  They waited for the inevitable assault as the sun climbed in the sky. Thankfully the Romans halted their slaughter and Guiderius watched the shattered remnant of Brigante might being led away in rope fetters.

  Legionaries collected the few Roman casualties and carried them away, but the Brigante dead lay where they’d fallen. It wasn’t long before the sickly sweet stink of corruption hung over the field, competing with the stench of evacuated bowels as the numbers in the fort quickly overwhelmed the capacity of the latrine pits.

  It puzzled Guiderius that the Romans went about their business as if the fort didn’t exist, but he used the respite to order an issue of food and water, and inspect his defences. He had more than a thousand warriors manning the walls, and more ready to replace those who fell. It composed a formidable host that he was confident, despite what had happened, could hold off any attack. A guard alerted him to the arrival of a senior Roman officer, splendid in a sculpted brass breastplate and with gold gleaming on his helmet. A trumpet sounded and the Brigante king felt a shiver as the legionary cohorts appeared from the direction of the outer gate and formed up a few hundred paces from the fort.

  An emissary on a white horse approached, holding a green branch.

  ‘Put a spear a pace in front of the beast’s legs,’ Guiderius ordered one of the surviving members of his guard. ‘But make sure you don’t kill him. We are not barbarians.’

  The spearman did as he was ordered and the Roman turned away with a grim nod.

  Still, the attack didn’t come. Instead, a wail went up from the civilian occupants of the fort as the enemy began to deploy their stone-throwing catapults in a half circle around the beleaguered outpost.

  Regina joined him on the parapet. ‘You must surrender, Guiderius,’ she insisted in a low voice. ‘Your people have suffered enough.’

  She had always been outspoken, but this was too much. ‘I am their king,’ he snarled. ‘And I will say when they have suffered enough. We are not fighting for them. We are fighting for Brigantia. We are fighting for the name and the honour of Guiderius. This was where my mother bowed to the Romans. No man will ever say Guiderius did likewise.’ He heard her draw in a breath as he turned away, but she said no more.

  Your people have suffered enough. Part of him knew it was true, and they suffered more when the Roman missiles began to land amongst them. The fort was built on a succession of rises, each with its own rampart, but the refugees packed every available space, so any boulder or dart that landed within the confines was certain to cause casualties. It continued relentlessly all through the night. Only a single catapult at any one time, but none the less terrifying. Every second filled with terrible anticipation. The distant thump, a sudden rush of air in the darkness, then the crash, sometimes almost liquid, and the awful screams that followed. Man, woman and child, not one person within the confines of Guiderius’s sanctuary had the respite of a single moment’s sleep.

  Guiderius spent the night on the fighting platform, setting an example to his warriors and trying to appear heedless of the danger. By the time the sun came up his mind was a curious mix of broken, jagged-edged confusion and numbed exhaustion. Gradually the compact squares of the legion became visible, as if they had stood there waiting all through the night. My bane, he thought. But there was something he knew he must do. He had to struggle to make himself think, and when he spoke his voice shook.

  ‘Collect the dead from last night,’ he ordered in a croak, ‘and throw them into the ditch. And bring me something to drink,’ he called as an afterthought.

  When he heard someone coming up behind him he thought it was a servant bringing the water.

  ‘Have you reconsidered, husband?’ Regina’s voice came as a surprise. ‘Will you not surrender?’

  ‘Never.’ He turned towards his wife, intending to dismiss her. At first it felt as if someone had placed a red-hot poker against his neck two or three times. He tried to cry out, but he was choking. Still unwilling to believe what was happening, Guiderius put a hand to his throat and it came away dripping red. The front of his tunic was sheeted with blood. He spun, reaching out to Regina, but the strength was already fading from his legs and only his wife’s slim form stopped him from falling.

  ‘My daughters will not die for your honour, husband.’ Regina drove the knife she held directly into his throat. Guiderius’s world turned upside down and his last conscious image was the splintered planking of the walkway
.

  ‘Open the gate,’ Regina commanded. The men of Guiderius’s personal bodyguard stared at the woman still holding the bloodstained knife in her tiny, clenched fist. ‘Are you deaf?’ she spat. ‘I said open the gate.’

  Valerius saw the gates of the fort swing open and a small group of people step out into the morning sunlight.

  ‘Hold,’ he ordered, and the ballista crew stepped back from their catapult. ‘Gaius Rufus, to me.’

  ‘Are you sure, legate?’ Quintus Naso said. ‘It could be a trap. Let me go. Or one of the tribunes.’

  Valerius studied the fort again. The Second cohort’s centurion reported that at least five thousand civilians had sought refuge there during the final stages of the battle for Brynmochdar. He could only imagine what the conditions had been like when the stones and darts landed among them during the night.

  ‘I think we’ll be safe enough,’ he said. ‘Guiderius would have to be a fool or a madman to carry on fighting.’

  He nudged his horse forward and Gaius Rufus took station at his side. He knew without looking that Felix and the men of his bodyguard would be a little way back, close enough to intervene if anything untoward happened.

  As they drew closer he saw that the group was made up of a woman in a red dress, two children, and a group of four or five grey-bearded elders who hung a little back.

  ‘Mars save us,’ he heard Rufus mutter.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Her dress.’

  Valerius looked again and realized that what he’d taken for red cloth was actually white, but so badly stained with blood that she might have bathed in it. And not just the dress. Her face was spattered with gore and her arms were crimson to the elbow. Valerius drew up in front of her. The two girls were weeping, but they kept their heads high in emulation of their mother. He scanned the male faces behind her, but none fitted the description he’d been given.

  ‘Ask her where Guiderius is,’ he said to the scout.

  ‘I speak Latin perfectly well.’ Her voice was firm and clear, the words tinged with only the slightest hint of accent.

  ‘Then so much the better, lady,’ Valerius said. ‘King Guiderius?’

  ‘I am his wife, Regina, and these,’ she placed her arms round the girls’ shoulders, ‘are his daughters. Bryn?’

  One of the elders stepped forward. Valerius blinked when he saw what the man carried.

  ‘I offer my husband’s head in exchange for our lives,’ she continued, ‘and those of our people. This war was his choice, and his choice alone. Those who followed him did so out of loyalty. Sadly, that loyalty was not repaid.’

  ‘You may keep your husband’s head. You have nothing to fear from me, lady. Once my clerks have questioned your people they will be free to return to their homes. The warriors who laid down their arms will be held until we decide which hostages to take for their future allegiance to Rome. Not your daughters,’ he assured her, seeing her clutch the children closer. ‘As queen you will be treated with as much honour as you were before this unfortunate misunderstanding between our peoples.’

  ‘What will happen to us?’

  Valerius held her gaze. ‘Brigantia will be absorbed into the province of Britannia.’ He saw her flinch. ‘She will have her own tribal council but the leaders of her people will be required to live in administrative centres to deal with Roman officials.’ This had been the plan from the start. Agricola’s conquered tribes were to be taught Roman ways. The procurator’s representative would lay out townships and force the farmers to build new homes within those precincts. There would be councils. Perhaps, in time, basilicas and forums. And taxes. The sons of the chiefs and the young hostages taken by the victors would grow up speaking Latin. The last great barbarian strongholds of Britannia would become as Roman as the cities of Gaul and Hispania. ‘Your warriors’ swords and spears will be melted down and turned into the tools they will need to rebuild their lives. They will live in peace with Rome and with each other. There will be reparations, but I am certain the governor will wish to see them reinvested in your country’s recovery. For the moment, I will have you and your daughters escorted to my tent, where you will be given the facilities to bathe, and a change of clothing.’

  ‘You are generous in victory.’ She looked up at the tall, scarred soldier in the glittering breastplate and helmet, and took note of the wooden fist that confirmed her suspicions.

  ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, legate of the Ninth legion, at your service, lady.’ Valerius bowed his head. ‘I am only sorry that we had to meet in such unfortunate circumstances. May I also say that I am glad it was Guiderius my men faced in battle and not his queen. I fear you would have been a much more formidable opponent.’

  ‘Not a bad day’s work,’ he said to Gaius Rufus as they rode back to the legion. ‘A victory won at the cost of fewer than two hundred casualties, Brigantia falls into our hands like a ripe pear, and we have a queen better equipped to deal with Rome than her fool of a husband.’

  ‘I’m not sure our illustrious governor will see it that way,’ Gaius Rufus pointed out.

  Valerius returned his grin. ‘A pity we couldn’t have given him that big northern barbarian to make up for the Twentieth missing out on the glory.’

  ‘Calgacus.’

  ‘Calgacus?’

  ‘That’s what the mules are calling him. Calgacus. The Swordsman. They say he took out three Pannonians with a single swing of that great blade while his men were lifting your horses.’

  Valerius remembered the tall figure silhouetted against the light, and the easy way he held the huge sword. The Swordsman. It fitted him perfectly. Yet he felt an odd stirring of unease when Rufus spoke the name. His voice contained the same mixture of awe and respect men used when they spoke of Boudicca.

  Calgacus.

  VII

  ‘So he is as formidable as the stories say. All the better when we finally bring him to bay.’ Agricola had listened to Valerius’s report of the siege with an equanimity the legate of the Ninth legion found surprising, given that he’d been denied any opportunity to share the glory. ‘You did well, Valerius,’ the governor continued. ‘As neat a battle as I’ve ever heard and I approve all of your decisions regarding the disposition of the prisoners and the civilians. We will install Queen Regina at Iseur; it’s close enough to Eboracum to keep her honest and will serve as an administrative centre for her tribe. Yes. In all the circumstances it’s just as well that you acted with speed.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes. Because the campaign is suspended for at least one hundred days.’

  ‘A hundred days?’ Valerius frowned. ‘But this victory gives us the platform to move north right away. There’s nothing but mountains between the Ninth and Brigantia’s northern border. You could secure it with a single cohort. If we do nothing for a hundred days we’ll have wasted an entire season.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Agricola said testily. ‘But I’m afraid the conquest of northern Britannia is no longer our foremost priority.’

  Valerius could barely believe what he’d just heard. Conquest had been Agricola’s aim since the day he was appointed governor of the province. What could have changed?

  ‘The news only reached me this morning and the men are not to know until they are back in barracks.’ Agricola studied the other man’s face. ‘The Emperor is dead.’

  Valerius should have felt grief, or at the very least surprise, but he remembered the frail shell of a man he’d last seen on the Capitoline Hill and he knew that death would have come as a relief to Titus Flavius Vespasianus Caesar Augustus. Then the true implication of the Emperor’s passing knocked the air from him like a punch from a clenched fist. He stared at Agricola.

  ‘Yes, Valerius. That means your friend Titus will be declared Emperor of Rome at the end of the formal mourning period. It will be Titus who decides whether we continue the campaign or not. In the meantime, I must return to Rome for consultations. You will act as governor of Britannia in my abs
ence. It will be your task to organize the appropriate ceremonies and conduct them in my stead.’

  Titus Flavius Vespasian looked down upon the shrunken features of his dead father and felt a huge weight on his shoulders that hadn’t existed the previous day. A sad, wistful smile momentarily touched his lips. The old man looked at peace, almost relaxed, the look of sullen, frowning concentration that had been his permanent expression for the last few years gone. And little wonder.

  Vespasian had often used Augustus’s description of being Emperor of Rome as like ‘holding a wolf by the ears’ to describe the daily trials he faced. Now those same trials loomed over Titus like a mountain avalanche. His advisers would tell him he’d been Emperor in all but name for the last year and more, and they’d be right, but that wasn’t how it felt. The decisions he’d made had been his decisions, but the responsibility for their outcomes lay with Vespasian. If he thought Titus had made a mistake, the Emperor would smile, tell him why, and act to correct it.

  Now there was no Vespasian. Only Titus.

  And Domitian.

  He could feel his brother staring at his back. It sent a prickling sensation down his spine and the feeling troubled him. He’d always tried to treat Domitian with, at the very least, forbearance, if not liking, but the younger Flavius had never made it easy. A petulant child, he’d grown to become a sulky, and sometimes vicious, adult. Titus had never truly been able to comprehend the enmity that existed between his brother and his friend Valerius, though he sensed that Domitian’s wife Domitia had her part in it. Yet that enmity was real, and on Domitian’s side potentially deadly, he knew. His father had been able to give Valerius Verrens a certain level of protection, but Vespasian had taken care not to alienate his younger son entirely. Domitian, characteristically, had used this leeway to continue his campaign. In a few short weeks Titus would don the purple of an emperor of Rome, and then he would put an end to the antagonism for good. But first he must accord his father the proper rites and ceremonies he had earned so selflessly. Titus Flavius Vespasianus Caesar Augustus would join his predecessors Caesar, Augustus, Tiberius, Gaius, Claudius and Nero in the divine pantheon.