Authors: Douglas Jackson
XXVIII
Valerius emerged from the low building that served as the port commander’s office and shook his head. ‘Every ship that’s docked this week has been at least three days late. Apparently there have been poor winds in the bay. The galley bringing our man isn’t expected until the end of the week at the earliest.’
Lunaris nodded. His knowledge of ships was limited to the transport that had brought him to Britain but he understood enough of the vagaries of the wind to accept the delay without complaint. ‘So what do we do now?’ He pointed with his thumb to the men lounging among the bales along the wharf by the Tamesa. ‘If we don’t keep them busy they’ll get up to mischief.’
‘I’ll report to the camp prefect and have you put on the ration strength. Three days isn’t long, but I’ll try to make sure you’re on light duties.’
‘Watch your back. Crespo might still be around,’ the
duplicarius
warned.
‘If Crespo’s around he’s the one who needs to be watching his back.’
Two hours later they met on the wharf and Valerius gathered the legionaries around him. ‘You’ve been excused duties for the rest of the day.’ The news raised a small cheer. ‘But I’ve been made responsible for your behaviour and you’re to be on parade for inspection before dawn tomorrow.’ The cheers faded as they realized there would be no night of debauchery in Londinium’s inns and brothels.
When the men had dispersed, Lunaris approached Valerius with a scowl. ‘I sent the Mules out to ask around about Crespo. Know your enemy, right?’ Valerius nodded. ‘The word is that he left eight or nine days ago to do the procurator’s dirty work and took half of the garrison with him.’
Valerius whistled. ‘That’s a lot of dirty work.’
‘That’s right, but he must have finished the job, because most of them are back now, which is why we aren’t up there patrolling the walls.’
‘Did anybody say what it was?’
Lunaris hesitated. ‘Only that it was up somewhere in Iceni country.’
Valerius froze. He thought of Maeve and Cearan in the little township at Venta.
If Crespo harmed her…
The hut stank of fish.
Maeve had bandaged Cearan’s shattered face as best she could, but was barely able to look at the torn flesh and splintered bone created by Crespo’s sword. Now she sat with her back to the thatch wall, cradling his head as his body shook uncontrollably. She had little medical knowledge, but enough to know that if he did not receive help soon he would die.
Little Banna lay slumped against the opposite wall. Her eyes were closed but Maeve doubted she was sleeping. Beside her, a dark-haired woman spoke quietly as Rosmerta sobbed against her breast. Maeve shuddered as she thought of the horrors they had endured. The Romans had eventually tired of the two girls, but so many … She knew they would never be the same again.
She had been certain she would be killed, and every man, woman and child in Venta along with her. The Roman commander was the tall pock-marked officer who had kidnapped her – the man Valerius called Crespo – and she had known better than to expect mercy. She brushed away a tear. What she had suffered was nothing compared with the suffering of the Iceni. When Crespo eventually left the square with the bulk of his men she had rushed from her refuge to Cearan’s side. Aenid’s lifeless blue eyes had stared uncomprehendingly, but Cearan still breathed and somehow she managed to raise him to his feet. The Roman guards had averted their eyes as she supported him away and Maeve sensed that some of the soldiers with the procurator were ashamed of what they’d been ordered to take part in. It gave her hope she would survive, but did not quench the fire of her anger. Later she returned to the square with a small party of women and cut Boudicca down and recovered the girls. They had left Venta and journeyed eastwards, the dark-haired woman leading them along secret paths to this isolated community among the endless reed beds and swamps of the coast.
Now the queen sat alone, a coverlet across her scarred back and breasts, staring south through the open doorway her eyes filled with unnerving savagery.
As the hours passed, the heat became oppressive and the unceasing buzz of insects filled the salt air. Dark clusters of flies settled on Cearan’s bloodstained bandages and Maeve was kept busy brushing them away. At one point she must have fallen asleep. When she awoke the queen hadn’t moved from her position. From time to time she heard her whisper to herself, a garbled litany of fury. Maeve could distinguish only a single word. ‘Andraste.’
In the late afternoon voices outside alerted them. Maeve reached for Cearan’s dagger, which was the only protection they had, but it was the Iceni lord, Volisios, who entered, accompanied by a stooped figure in dark clothing, a young man with pale, almost translucent skin that clung to the bones of his face, and eyes that knew you in an instant. He carried no weapon but wore a belt studded with loops holding short cattle-horn containers, each about three inches long and stopped with birch bark. He took in the occupants of the hut at a glance and immediately crossed to where Maeve sat with Cearan.
‘I am said to have some healing skills,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would allow me to look at his wounds.’ He deftly unwrapped the bandage and studied the Iceni without emotion. ‘He will lose the eye, I think, but one eye will suffice.’ He heard Maeve’s gasp and without turning said: ‘A man’s looks are but an outward decoration. It is what is inside that makes him who he is. Our first task is to fend off the spirits that would enter him and set the wound afire.’ He reached into one of the containers at his belt. ‘Boil water and place this in it, and when it has cooled sufficiently, make him drink it, every drop.’ He left the hut and returned an hour later with a cloth bag. ‘This is a poultice which you must place over the wound. The drink will ease his suffering, the poultice will begin the healing process. See, you place it like this.’ He manoeuvred the bag, which was damp and gave off an unusual earthy smell, directly over Cearan’s ravaged face, taking care to leave the mouth clear. When he was satisfied he lit a small fire in the centre of the floor. Then he unstoppered another of the horns at his belt, took out a handful of what appeared to be dust and scattered it in the flames, where it hissed, sparked and crackled. Instantly, the room filled with a suffocating, evil-smelling smoke that battered Maeve’s senses and left her head reeling. The thin man bowed his head over the fire and began to chant a rhythmic, sonorous incantation, and Maeve felt the hut spin around her. At one point she was certain she was taken by the hand and drawn into the sky, to look down upon the land of Britain and all who dwelt there. Strange that she thought not of her father or Cearan, but of the Roman, Valerius.
When she woke for a second time, she felt as refreshed as if she had spent a long night in her own soft bed, rather than a few minutes on a hard earth floor. The healer sat by Cearan, but, like her, he could not ignore the heated conversation between Volisios and Boudicca.
‘I have swords, shields and spears and the warriors to wield them,’ the nobleman insisted.
‘And I am Boudicca, queen of the Iceni.’ Self-will kept her voice controlled but Maeve could almost feel the physical force of Boudicca’s suppressed rage.
‘Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, was dispossessed by the Romans,’ Volisios persisted.
Boudicca laughed mirthlessly. ‘And you, Volisios, if you were brave enough to return to your estate, would no doubt find a Roman in your bed. I am Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, and if I were not you would not be here, with your talk of warriors and spears.’
‘I came here to assure myself of your safety.’
‘You came here to assume my authority. To raise yourself above the rest.’
Volisios flinched at the undeniable truth, but he held her gaze. ‘And do I have it?’
‘No!’
‘Then who does?’
‘I am Boudicca, queen of the Iceni,’ she repeated, and her words rang through the little hut like a voice from another world. ‘No man among the Iceni has suffered greater wrong than I.
I
will take the fight to the Romans with sword and spear.
I
will destroy them with fire and with iron.
I
will have my vengeance! Go now and call the war bands. Every man, be he warrior, youth or elder, must play his part.
I
will wipe the Romans and any who stand with them from this land or I will die in the attempt.’
Volisios stared at her, overwhelmed by her presence and her anger. He snatched a startled glance at Gwlym. Now he understood. The wrath of Andraste. The druid rose to his feet and Boudicca glared at him.
‘You are no longer Boudicca of the Iceni,’ the priest declared, ignoring the fierce eyes that hooked him like an eagle’s talons. ‘The spirit of Andraste lives within you. The spirit of the hare and the horse … and now of the wolf.’
‘And who is it who is so impudent as to gainsay a queen?’
The stoop vanished and the young man’s paleness took on an almost mystical light, so his skin shone in the gloom.
‘I am Gwlym, druid of Mona, and I am here to guide you.’
He was finely muscled, with long brown hair drawn together by a red ribbon at his neck.
Gwlym watched from his place beside the queen as the guardian of the sacred pool led the young man forward. He had been carefully chosen for his untarnished character; no stain sullied his past or his present. He was a prince of his tribe, and he had come willingly to this place and to his death. The druids of Britain knew they had one last opportunity to drive the Romans from their land and they had sacrificed themselves and their sanctuary on Mona to achieve it. But there had to be other sacrifices. Nothing could be left to chance. Gwlym had sent word by swift horsemen to north and west and south. Now. Now was the time. And from each place, as the forces of free Britain assembled, a messenger would be sent, a messenger of such status as to impress even the most blood-weary deities.
So they had gathered here beside the forest pool, in a place sacred to the Iceni and their forebears since antiquity.
Gwlym led the chants, his powerful voice ringing out through the glade, and they were taken up by each of the elders of the tribe in turn. Once, these men had been acolytes and the keepers of the groves, but they had lost their way when the druids were driven into the west. But they still remembered. A thin cord attached the victim to the guardian, a warrior dressed in a red tunic and plaid trews. The others formed a loose circle on the firm ground by the water’s edge.
As he sang, Gwlym watched the moon as it made its unflinching arc across the night sky. When the glowing orb reached the exact centre of the circle in the tree canopy he raised his arms high. At the signal, the sacrifice threw off his cloak to stand naked in the firelight, swaying in time to the rhythm of the chanting.
Gwlym hid his relief. The drug had been administered in the exact quantities. He slipped his hand into the folds of his robe. This was his time. This was what all the years of tests and trials on the sacred isle had been for. He allowed the others to continue the chant and walked forward, talking reassuringly to the young man, as he would to a nervous colt, and as he talked he circled round behind him.
When he was in position, Gwlym swung up the short-handled metal axe and brought it down on the boy’s head with such force that everyone round the pool clearly heard the sharp ‘thunk’ as the blade bit into the bone. The blow would have felled an ox, but, incredibly, the victim still stood, swaying wildly, until a second blow of the axe knocked him to his knees.
Now the young druid stood back to allow the warrior with the red tunic to take his place above the prince. With both hands the man took hold of the noose with which he had led his captive, twisted it round the helpless boy’s neck, and pulled it until it bit deep into the flesh of his throat. But still he would not die. Without relaxing his grip, the warrior dropped on one knee on to his victim’s back with such violence they clearly heard a rib break. Then he used the extra leverage to twist the ends of the noose until the boy’s head suddenly flopped forward as his neck snapped.
The warrior rose, his job done, but two deaths were not enough. Three gods needed to be appeased. Volisios, his face a mask of determination, lifted the dead prince’s lolling head by his gore-thick hair and in a final act of mutilation drew the edge of a dagger slowly across his throat.
While the guardian carefully weighted the body and placed it in the sacred pool, Gwlym, breathing heavily, strode to where Boudicca stood in a hooded cloak. The three deaths had been administered exactly as ordained by Aymer and in accordance with all the edicts of the sect. The gods would accept the sacrifice.
‘It is done,’ he said. ‘Unfurl the wolf banner. Unleash the wrath of Andraste.’
XXIX
Crespo rolled the dice. ‘Seven,’ he announced. ‘All right, Vettius, the one with the big tits is yours. But take her into the other room. I’m sick of seeing that great arse of yours bulling up and down.’
Vettius grinned and walked across to where a group of young Iceni women huddled fearfully against the back wall of the main hall of Prasutagus’s palace. A plump girl of about fourteen squealed as he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her roughly through a doorway. Her sobbing pleas not to be hurt could be heard clearly through the thin wall before a sharp slap silenced them, but such sounds had become so familiar that Crespo barely registered them.
They had been here for almost two weeks now, supervising the collection of Iceni wealth and cataloguing the extent of Iceni lands by day, and drinking and playing dice for the use of the captured women each night. He reflected on a job well done. The procurator, now back in Londinium, had promised to commend him in his report to the Emperor. Crespo prided himself on being a man who took each day as it presented itself, but such recognition opened doors. He certainly didn’t intend to return to the legion. No need to as long as the pretty-boy tribune kept his promise to pay up. He didn’t have any doubt Valerius would pay. Why did the honest always have to be so pious? Fool. Then there was the bonus he’d managed to hide away – the golden torc the queen had worn at her neck. The sale of that would make his retirement much more pleasurable. Pity about the girl, though. He would have liked to tup her just to see the look on that bastard Valerius’s face.
Yes, it was all very satisfactory. He lay back and closed his eyes, still remembering the way the whip had raised bright red welts against the paleness of Boudicca’s skin, and the taut, youthful flesh of her daughters. He felt himself stir. Perhaps he wasn’t too drunk after all.
‘Smoke!’
He came instantly alert at the shout. Vettius emerged from the room at the rear and pointed at the roof. Crespo looked up to see the slim streamers of smoke replaced by a flare of light as a portion of thatch caught fire and the flames quickly spread to a nearby beam. Vettius and a few others reacted quickly, grabbing swords and armour and making for the doorway, but most of the men just stared at him in confusion.
‘Get out,’ he barked. ‘Gather your gear and leave the women.’ He knew how quickly a thatched house could turn into an inferno. He’d burned enough of them in the past. They might only have seconds.
‘Fuck.’ Vettius was the first man to the door and he screamed and staggered backwards, clutching in disbelief at the ragged gash in his belly. He extended one hand towards his leader in a despairing plea for help before collapsing on his face in the dirty straw.
Crespo stared at the dying man for a split second, his mind racing. Given time they could cut through the walls, but they didn’t have time. The flames had already spread across the entire roof and the hall had begun to fill with choking white smoke. For the first time he felt panic. The gods only knew what awaited them outside, but better to go down fighting than to burn. He made his decision. ‘Out,’ he repeated. ‘If we stay here we’re all dead.’
A collective wail from the British women was followed by a rush towards the door. A legionary took a cut at one of them as she ran by and she fell, howling, to the floor.
‘Leave them,’ Crespo ordered. ‘Swords and shields. We go as one man and when we’re clear of the door we form
testudo
. It’s our only chance.’ He picked up a shield and hefted his
gladius
in his right hand. He wasn’t sure where it had all gone wrong, but it had and now there was only one choice. ‘On my order. Now.’
The little group burst from the doorway as the roof of the palace collapsed behind them, but when he saw what awaited him Crespo stumbled to a dazed halt. Behind a circle of spear points an unbroken ring of silent, vengeful faces glistened in the dancing light of the flames.
‘Shit,’ he said, as his nerve failed him and he fell to his knees. He tried to manoeuvre the
gladius
so he could drive the point below his ribs but his hands were suddenly clumsy. A spear shaft knocked the sword from his grasp and another smashed him into unconsciousness.
‘The ship should arrive tomorrow,’ Valerius told Lunaris. ‘So make sure everyone’s accounted for with their equipment all present and correct. We don’t want you making a poor impression on your new tribune.’
Lunaris laughed. ‘Like as not he won’t know one end of a sword from the other. How long before it sails again?’
‘A couple of days, maybe three.’
Lunaris nodded. ‘I’m sorry you won’t be coming with us to Mona.’
Valerius stared out across the river to the settlement on the south bank. ‘One thing I’ve learned, Lunaris, is that you can’t fight the fates. When I came to Britain
I
barely knew one end of a sword from the other. But I think I became a good soldier, maybe even a good officer. Part of being a good soldier is obeying orders. They’ve ordered me back, so back I’ll go. Still, I’d like to have fought alongside you.’
He turned to the big man and offered his hand. Before Lunaris had time to take it, they heard a shout from the quayside and a legionary ran up to them.
‘Sir, you’ve to report to the procurator,’ he said, belatedly remembering to salute.
Valerius frowned. ‘What does he want with me?’
‘The Iceni have risen.’
*
Maeve witnessed Queen Boudicca’s terrible revenge.
One by one, warriors nailed the men of Crespo’s command to the doorposts along Venta’s main street with their arms and legs broken, in a mockery of Roman crucifixion. Crespo himself was last to be fixed. They stripped him naked and carried him to the main gate as he struggled and protested, pleading for a mercy he would never have given. They stretched his arms brutally to left and right and when the carpenter hammered the first of the big iron nails through the palm of his right hand into the wooden boards of the gate he shrieked in agony and called out to Mithras for aid. By the time they had fixed his feet in similar fashion he was delirious with pain but still aware enough to understand what was happening.
Boudicca stood before him as he hung from the gate with every sinew of his body reminding him of his torment. When they brought the cudgels to break his bones, she held up her hand to stop them. She had a more appropriate refinement in mind for the man who had led the rape of Banna and Rosmerta.
‘He was very proud when he removed my daughters’ innocence. Remove his pride,’ she ordered.
Crespo was still conscious when the executioner approached with the gelding knife. His screams split the night.
It was still not enough.
‘This place is a stain upon my honour and the honour of the Iceni. Burn it and let the flames which consume Venta be the start of a fire which cleanses all of Britain.’
As the town blazed and his men with it, they pulled Crespo’s broken body down and staked it out on the roadway outside the gate. He still lived when the iron-rimmed wheels of Boudicca’s chariot crunched across his bones, but by the time the last warrior of her avenging army had passed over him the only evidence of his existence was a smear of blood and bone in the dirt.
Catus Decianus did not inspire confidence. His long nose twitched as he studied the scroll pinned to the desk in front of him and a sheen of sweat glistened on a forehead creased by worry lines. Disdain for the world about him was carved into every line of his pasty, underfed face. He looked up as Valerius entered, but immediately resumed his reading of the document.
After a few moments, he sighed. ‘Inconvenient,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘I said this is terribly inconvenient. You are Verrens, am I correct? Tribune Gaius Valerius Verrens?’
‘Yes, sir. Late of the Twentieth legion and bound for Rome.’
The procurator emitted an audible sniff and his pained expression grew more pained still. ‘Yes, on the ship which should also have carried my report of the successful annexation of the Iceni into the province of Britain. But that report cannot be sent now.’ He paused. ‘Not until this regrettable misunderstanding can be resolved.’
Valerius wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly. ‘Misunderstanding?’
Decianus peered at him with beady, sharp-set eyes. ‘Of course. I have here a request from Colonia to provide reinforcements for the local militia. It is the
quaestor
’s belief that a section of the Iceni have risen in armed insurrection against the Empire. This belief, I am certain, is based on rumour and speculation. You served a recent posting in Colonia, I understand?’
‘Six months over the winter,’ Valerius agreed. ‘I found the
quaestor
to be most capable and not a man to be diverted by … rumour and speculation.’ It wasn’t entirely true. He’d found Petronius to be arrogant, divisive and venal but he was also at the centre of a spy network which spread far up the east coast. If those spies reported trouble Valerius couldn’t allow Decianus to dismiss it, which seemed to be his inclination. ‘I also received information of agitators working among the Iceni, which I passed on to the
quaestor
,’ he added to reinforce his point.
The procurator’s lips compressed in a tight smile. ‘Yet I myself spent time in the Iceni capital not more than two weeks ago and found it peaceful and the people quiescent. In any case, our standing treaty with the Iceni only allows them such weapons as are required to defend their borders. Only one in ten even owns a sword,’ he ended triumphantly.
Valerius knew that was true, but treaties could be broken. He could tell where the interview was going now. He was to be part of an expedition against the Iceni. It was not a fight he would have chosen, but it was a fight he was going to have … if the rebellion existed.
‘Nevertheless,’ Decianus continued, ‘I propose to send a force which I consider proportionate to the threat under the most senior commander available. These are your orders.’ He handed Valerius the scroll he had been reading. Valerius hesitated. His only independent command had been the First cohort on the winter road detail. Still, he could hardly refuse. He studied the orders, which commanded him to march to Colonia with all speed and deal with the situation as he saw fit, which, if he knew the army, was as good an invitation to put his neck in a noose as he’d ever seen. It meant any decision was his and his alone. Any mistake would be his responsibility.
He pointed out the elementary error. ‘This doesn’t say how many cohorts I’ll have under me.’
‘Cohorts? I do not believe we need think in terms of cohorts,’ Decianus sniffed. ‘You will have one hundred and fifty men from the Londinium garrison and such other troops as are on leave or in transit. Enough to provide a stiffening for the militia and stay the panic in the
quaestor
’s heart until such time as the governor considers it necessary to move a vexillation of the Ninth legion to Colonia.’ He smiled disdainfully. ‘You see, Verrens, I take no chances. The governor is informed, a solution suggested and a reinforcement sent. What more should I do?’
‘Sir, with respect, two hundred men is—’
‘Appropriate to the threat, and as many as you will receive. Am I to understand that you are refusing this command?’
Valerius shook his head. He could protest that a force of two hundred men was as much use for defending a place like Colonia as two hundred sheep, but the procurator’s mind was made up. If the Iceni came he would have to depend on Falco and his veterans.
‘No sir, I will accept the command. But I’d like to request that the men of the Twentieth who formed my escort accompany me.’ Decianus frowned and Valerius continued quickly: ‘They know the area around Colonia well and have worked with the militia there.’
The procurator nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well. This interview is at an end.’
‘So we’re not going to Mona?’
Valerius shook his head. ‘No, we’re going back to Colonia.’
Lunaris sucked his teeth and looked longingly westwards over the rampart of the Londinium wall. ‘Mona could make a big difference. Those druids are trouble-making bastards.’
‘That’s true enough, but if the Iceni really have risen we’ll be needed in Colonia.’
‘Two hundred of us?’ Lunaris scoffed. ‘If nothing’s happened all we’ll have done is waste
caliga
leather. And if they’ve really decided to try to kick us out…’
‘Falco will be glad to see us.’
The
duplicarius
shrugged. ‘I suppose orders are orders. The Mules will miss us in Mona, though.’
‘We’re marching at dawn. Have the men ready.’
‘With these buggers?’ Lunaris nodded gloomily at a pair of garrison rats leaning against the parapet of the nearest watchtower. ‘By the time we get there I’ll be carrying them.’