Authors: Douglas Jackson
‘I have a desertion to report,’ he said, before Valerius could reply. ‘Corvinus, the armourer.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘One of our bravest and best. It is hard to believe.’
Valerius remembered the goldsmith’s nervous manner earlier in the day. Or was it yesterday? In any case, he couldn’t find the anger or the outrage befitting a commander who had been betrayed. How much difference would one man make?
‘Can you blame him?’
Falco looked at him seriously. ‘We are soldiers, tribune. We fought together in the legions and sweated together in the militia. When the people of Colonia laughed at us as we exercised with our rusty swords we ignored them because it was our duty. We may be old men, but we still believe in duty. And comradeship. And sacrifice. So, yes, I blame Corvinus, though he is my friend. And, if he is caught, I will nail him to a cross, though he is my friend. If at the end all I can do is die together with these men, I will count it a privilege.’
He turned away, but Valerius called him back and held out his hand. ‘I too will count it a privilege.’
As Falco returned to his veterans, Valerius’s eyes were drawn back to the hillside where Lucullus’s farm still burned, and Boudicca’s horde gathered in the darkness.
XXXIII
A dull hint of ochre on the far horizon was the first evidence of the new day, and with it came a subdued murmur that seemed to shiver in the air and which puzzled Valerius until he recalled the words of the Thracian cavalryman on the bridge. Bees, he had said.
They are like a swarm of bees
. And that was it. The sound, which grew in volume with each passing minute, resembled an enormous beehive: unseen but omnipresent, a danger, but not yet dangerous.
Then, beginning in the east, second by second and yard by yard, the darkened slope opposite was illuminated as the sun rose gently from the far end of the valley between Colonia and the ridge. And on the slope they saw their deaths.
Each of them had heard the figure of fifty thousand, but it was just that, a figure. Now they saw the reality and their minds rebelled against the evidence of their eyes. Boudicca’s host covered the rise like a vast living blanket of multicoloured plaid, and still they came in their multitudes: tribes and their sub-tribes and their clans, each identified by its brightly coloured banner and led by a chief on horseback or a warlord in one of the small two-wheeled chariots of the Britons. Valerius studied them, attempting to discern some pattern or guiding mind, but he couldn’t tell one tribe from another in the shifting throng. The Iceni must be a force among them, with their wronged queen somewhere at the centre of that great mass; the Trinovantes come to regain their homes and their land, and the Catuvellauni to avenge the insults of a decade; men of the Brigantes and the other northern tribes sickened by Cartimandua’s betrayal of Caratacus and, inevitably given these numbers, even from Rome’s allies, the Atrebates and the Cantiaci, drawn by the scent of blood and loot like carrion birds to a new kill. Through them and around them wove hundreds more chariots carrying the half-naked champions who would take their place at the front of the battle line in the position of greatest danger. Most of the warriors, though, were on foot, trudging through the meadows and the fields with their shields on their shoulders, weary now after their long march from Venta, but still eager. Many would be trained fighters, armed with the best their people could provide, but more would be the farmers, tradesfolk and servants who had picked up anything with an edge or a weight that would kill the hated enemy. All had hungered for seventeen long years for the chance to drive the Romans from their lands; rest could wait. They would be fearful, because there could be no turning back, but that would only make their hate stronger and more dangerous. Among them loped the huge attack dogs trained to tear out an enemy’s throat with a single bite. Behind them, each identified by a single column of smoke, lay the way posts of their coming, the villas and farms the veterans and the settlers who followed them had taken years to build, now nothing but smouldering rubble. The militiamen watched with disbelief as a constant dark stream of humanity flowed upriver from the coast, out of the woods and over the ridge to swell the numbers opposite them. This was not an army; it was a nation on the move.
Valerius attempted to study the enemy with a detached soldier’s interest, but soon he felt his mind begin to vibrate and his ears fill with a pounding he recognized as the first signs of panic. Despite the coolness of the morning a trickle of sweat ran slickly down his spine. Further along the line he heard a man vomit and another mutter a low prayer to a god who was not listening. Nothing in his imagination had prepared him for this. All his plans and stratagems were shown up for what they were: pointless diversions which would no more harm this enemy than a flea on an elephant’s back.
He took a deep breath and scanned the slope again, but could still find no apparent sign of organization or leadership. The first Britons halted a quarter of a mile north of the river, not through fear but through confusion and suspicion. He knew what they were seeing and he could understand the reaction. They would have expected the veterans to defend the city or to retreat, with their loved ones and their possessions, along the Londinium road. Instead, they were confronted by this tiny force, like a sickly lamb staked out to trap a marauding wolf, and they wondered where the net was.
‘Primus Pilus!’
Falco trotted from his position in the centre of the line to where Valerius stood on the left. ‘Sir.’ He saluted. The militia commander’s face was the colour of week-old ash but his eyes held a glint of iron and his features were set and determined.
‘March the First cohort forward to within forty paces of the bridge and keep the others in station.’
He had formed his force into three strengthened cohorts of just over six hundred men each. Now those cohorts marched in lines two hundred legionaries wide and three deep, one behind the other, towards the bridge and he strode at their side. The gap between each cohort was ten paces. It was the standard deep defensive formation of the legion, if on a smaller scale. It had advantages and disadvantages, but his choice of battlefield suited it as long as conditions didn’t change.
The short advance brought a concerted growl from the mass across the river, but still there was no general movement.
The bridge was the key. And the river.
The bridge stood less than a spear’s throw to his front now with the road from Colonia to Venta curving from the left over the meadow towards it, then continuing across to disappear among the massed ranks on the north bank. It was a sturdy structure, built of oak, seven or eight paces in width and surfaced with thick planking. A wooden rail had been added at waist height on each side to prevent the unwary from falling into the water ten feet below.
He walked forward until he could study the river, keeping a wary eye for any enemy spearmen close enough to do him harm. It wasn’t wide – he could toss a stone across it without any great effort – but it was deep and here, and for as far as he could see, the banks were steep and overgrown with trees and thorn bushes, making them an obstacle even if the water itself could be crossed. The line of flotsam told him the spate level of the past two days was falling, but it was still too deep and the current too fast for a fording to be attempted with any likelihood of success. Of course, it could be done, especially to the west where the river narrowed, but it would take time. That was why he had given her the bridge.
‘Look!’ Falco pointed to the ridge, where a line of chariots flanked by horsemen cut their way diagonally through the crowd. They came at a steady trot, taking no account of those who stood in their way, and gradually word spread of their progress and the cheering began. Fifty thousand voices rose in acclamation. Swords, spears and fists clashed against wooden shields with a crash to rival a thunderstorm, and a hundred of the Britons’ animal-headed horns joined the clamour. She was here.
The leading chariot burst clear of the mass of warriors and reined to a halt opposite Valerius, quickly followed by the others. It was too far away to be certain, but the Roman had an impression of hair the colour of burnished copper and a long skirt of azurite blue. She waited, allowing the cheering to build, and, standing in front of the pathetically thin ranks of the leading cohort, Valerius sensed her scrutiny. He remembered the day below Venta’s walls and the impression of power she had given. He sensed she was studying him now and for some reason he tensed as if he were trying to stop her from stealing his soul. Minutes passed and the feeling of being dissected from within grew almost unbearable. His legs told him to walk away and he turned, to find Falco at his side.
‘I don’t think they will want to talk.’ The wine merchant was forced to shout to be heard above the noise.
Valerius almost laughed. Before a battle the Celtic champions were always willing to challenge a rival leader, but he agreed it was unlikely to happen today. ‘A pity,’ he said. ‘I could have used the exercise and it would have eaten up a little more time. How are the men?’
‘Nervous, but not afraid. They wish it would begin.’
Valerius looked across the river, to where the British leaders were holding some kind of discussion. ‘It will be soon enough.’
As he said the words, he saw a spear raised above the lead chariot and a ripple ran through the barbarian ranks like the wind rustling through a field of ripening corn. A moment later the first of the champions appeared, big men in the prime of life, naked to the waist and of proud bearing, with their hair limed and spiked to make them seem taller. They carried long swords or iron-tipped spears and their oval shields were brightly painted with the emblems of their tribes or their clan. They were the elite of their people, bred to war and eager for the fight. For years they had been forced to accept the bitter taste of subjugation and a place at the plough or in the field, but their elders, men who had last fought the Romans on the Tamesa, had kept the old traditions alive. Trained in secret in the lonely places their conquerors never visited, they had honed their skills and worked their muscles. Waiting for the day. Now the day had come.
Valerius and Falco re-joined the militia, the wine merchant taking his place behind the front rank of the lead cohort and Valerius continuing to the rear, from where he would conduct the battle. As he passed through the ranks he had a word of encouragement for every man he knew and many he didn’t and they smiled momentarily before their faces resumed the mask of grim concentration that marked a battle-ready legionary.
He remembered the first time he had seen these men, on the day he had inspected them on this very field. He and Lunaris had laughed at their ancient weapons and worn uniforms, their pot bellies and the scrawny arms that looked as if they could barely carry a spear let alone throw it. The faces ran through his mind: old Marcus Saecularis, the sheep farmer, in the centre of the front rank, with the horsehair of his crested helmet announcing his rank to any enemy; Didius, scratching his nose distractedly at the head of his century, who would lend money to any man as long as the rate of return was high enough, but whose last act before donning his armour had been to annul each and every debt; bearded Octavian, named for an emperor, who had stood in the line against Lunaris and his legionaries and had taught them a lesson in humility. And Corvinus, who had never struck him as a coward, but whose position with the fourth century of the Second cohort was left unfilled. Where was he now, when his comrades were about to…
‘They’re coming!’
Strange that the pulsating crash of sword against shield had calmed him to the point where he could watch without emotion the British champions sprint in a great surging crowd towards the bridge. Thousands of them across a front of almost a mile, each racing to be first to reach the Romans on the far side of that narrow barrier. As they advanced and the mass of warriors began to take on individual identity, he felt his heartbeat increase and his breathing deepen.
‘Spears,’ he roared. Each man had two of the iron-pointed
pila
embedded in the soft grass at his side and a further pair in reserve in the space between the cohorts. Now they chose one and hefted it in their right fists, balancing the weapon for the cast.
The first of the champions were still a hundred paces from the bridge. Good. They would be the fastest, the strongest and the bravest. He saw that many of them had thrown away their shields in their eagerness and their momentum was taking them ahead of their rivals. He counted down in his head. Ten seconds at most until they reached the bridge, then two more heartbeats and…
‘Ready!’
Bare feet thundering on wooden planking. Two, one. Now!
‘Throw!’
Four hundred javelins hissed through the still air for a flight that lasted a split second. The hands that held the spears might be wrinkled and the arms might have lost the awesome power of a quarter of a century before, but they could still throw and at forty paces the target was unmissable. More than two hundred warriors had crowded on to the bridge, eager to be the first to strike a blow against the Romans. Instead, they were the first to die. Heavy spears capable of punching through light armour slammed the champions in the forefront of the attack back against those behind as they took the points in chest, belly or throat. Valerius had known some of the precious weapons would be wasted, but he had to be certain. The entire bridge must be covered in that first cast. Falco had snorted disdainfully and pledged his fortune on it and the wine merchant was as good as his word. Only a handful of the men on the wooden planking survived the rain of spears and most of those were wounded or disabled. The others were pinned by one, two or even three of the weighted
pila
. Already, two hundred bodies writhed and groaned and stained the boards of the narrow bridge with their blood. But behind them came thousands more.
‘Ready!’ Valerius was well pleased with the result of the first throw. Every warrior now attempting to cross would be impeded by the bodies of the men who had preceded them. He waited until the first of the second surge of warriors stepped on to the dirt of the south bank.
‘Throw!’
With each cast another few hundred joined the corpses on the bridge floor until a literal wall of dead and dying obstructed the attack. In their fury, those who came behind frantically bundled the bodies of brothers, friends, comrades and rivals over the barriers and into the river in an attempt to clear a path. They clawed their way forward snarling like attack dogs, only to die in their turn.
‘Second cohort, to the front.’ In a carefully choreographed movement the cohort behind stepped forward to take the place of those who had exhausted their supply of spears.
‘Ready!’
‘Throw!’
‘Ready!’
‘Throw!’
‘Third cohort, to the front.’
‘Ready!’
‘Throw!’
It could not last. He knew it could not last.
Inch by inch, the Britons edged their way across the barrier of their dead. They were the invincibles, but even invincibles would use a shield if it was the only way to survive this slaughter. As the veterans’ arms tired, the volleys of spears became more ragged, allowing still more to cross. A dozen turned into a hundred, and a hundred into two. Soon, Valerius knew, unless he stopped them, hundreds would turn into thousands.