The Furies of Rome (28 page)

‘Take my word, you don’t want to go back there at the moment. What did Hormus say?’

The fisherman sat up now that Sabinus had withdrawn the blade from his throat. ‘I don’t know.’ He rummaged about in a sack next to him and brought out a scroll; he handed it to Vespasian.

Squatting down next to the fire he broke the seal and unrolled it and began to read.

‘Well?’ Sabinus asked, impatiently.

‘Well, things aren’t looking good.’

‘What do you mean?’

Vespasian looked at the fisherman. ‘When did Hormus write this?’

‘Midday yesterday. He told me to come straight back with it; we was lucky with the tides there and back again.’

Vespasian looked at his brother. ‘That’s not good at all. Hormus says he’s heard that a messenger from Paulinus has told the garrison commander and the procurator that he won’t arrive in Londinium for two days.’

‘So that’s tomorrow, the day we had hoped that he’d be arriving here; what kept him?’

‘I don’t know but he’s not going to get here for at least three days.’

‘Cerialis!’

‘I know; he’s got to withdraw tonight. You take Caenis and get back to Londinium in that boat. Tell Paulinus when he arrives tomorrow what’s happened here but don’t get into recriminations about Decianus; that won’t help.’

Sabinus bridled. ‘Don’t patronise me, you little shit.’

‘Sorry, but I know what you’re like.’

‘What do you mean, “what I’m like”?’

‘This isn’t helping either,’ Caenis butted in. ‘We’ll just tell Paulinus the facts and then he can decide what to do.’

‘Exactly,’ Vespasian said, relieved that Caenis had averted a spate of bickering.

‘What about me and the dogs?’ Magnus asked. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘You’re coming with me.’

‘Where to?’

‘We’re off to find Cerialis tonight, alert him to the fact that he’s on his own and advise that he withdraws to Londinium.’

‘But he’s on the Lindum road on the other side of Camulodunum with the whole Iceni tribe between him and us.’

‘We’ll skirt around to the west and then head north. If we don’t find him by dawn then I very much doubt that his legion will see dusk.’

CHAPTER XIIII

‘C
AN YOU HEAR
anything?’ Vespasian whispered, standing just beyond the glow of a torched farm, listening to the soft sounds of the night.

‘Just the horses,’ Magnus muttered back, restraining Castor and Pollux by the collars, ‘and the crackle of the fire, of course.’

Vespasian listened again; no human sounds came from the burnt-out farm. Smoke still wafted from smouldering timbers; here and there was the flicker of flaming wood but there was no sign of any Iceni in the firelight. Yet they must have been there because tethered in a small, still-intact orchard, twenty paces away, were half a dozen ponies of the shaggy sort favoured by Britannic horsemen; the saddles on the beasts confirmed the origins of their riders but of them there was no sign. ‘They must be asleep.’

‘Tiring work, all this massacring.’

Vespasian looked at the bodies of the former occupants of the house, nailed by their wrists to the trunk of an oak tree: a man and wife and their three young children. Their heads had been removed and, judging by the wounds to their chests, so had their hearts. ‘I’d like to do the same thing to the savages that did that.’

‘Another time, perhaps; let’s just take the horses and get away.’ Magnus moved forward at a crouch with his dogs.

Vespasian followed, drawing his sword as he did, praying that they would get away unnoticed. They had already been travelling for four hours, skirting around the south of Camulodunum, and had come across nobody in the night; they had begun to believe that the rebels had stayed in the town and that they might get through to Cerialis without incident until they had seen the burning farm. If it had not been for the ponies they would have given it a wide berth; however, the chance of quick transport had outweighed the danger of coming close to a small war band.

The ponies shifted about nervously in reaction to Castor and Pollux approaching; a couple of wickers and a snort made Magnus stop and let go of the dogs’ collars. ‘Sit!’ he hissed and, to Vespasian’s surprise, the dogs did as they were told. Magnus moved forward.

Vespasian moved past the sitting dogs and on into the orchard after Magnus; quickly they began to untether the ponies whose nervousness had not been abated by the dogs’ halting. Another couple of snorts, a wicker and then a full whinny as the first beast untethered by Magnus kicked and bolted, its hoofs pounding.

‘Juno’s tight arse!’ Magnus swore as he worked on the second tether in the dim light.

Vespasian tore at his knot with his fingers for a few moments and then shook his head in disbelief at his stupidity, drew his knife and severed the tether.

Another whinny came from the bolting horse; sharper this time.

Magnus followed Vespasian’s example and swapped to knife-work.

A deep growl rumbled out and then both hounds started vicious barking as a shout came from out of the night.

‘Shit!’ Vespasian slashed at a second tether, cutting it, and then a third, keeping hold of it and control of the pony as the other two trotted off. Thankful that the beast was not a full-sized horse, he swung his leg over its haunches and hauled himself into the saddle as figures appeared, fifteen paces away, from close to the burning house, by which, presumably, they had been sleeping, warmed by their handiwork. Vespasian kicked his mount into action.

Slapping the rump of the final pony to be released, Magnus mounted his and urged it after Vespasian as Castor and Pollux, still barking, bounded after him.

A couple of javelins slammed into the ground to Magnus’ right; furious shouting followed them.

Leaning forward, close to his mount’s neck, Vespasian accelerated away, outpacing Magnus who had less skill in the saddle, but, due to the darkness of the night, he soon had to slow again as they got further from the burning house. The shouts from behind them continued and, rather than diminish into the distance, they seemed to stay constant and then, gradually, got closer.

They were being chased.

After another few hundred paces, Vespasian looked behind; Magnus was ten paces away with Castor and Pollux lolloping beside him, almost invisible in the dark. Behind were the silhouettes of at least two pursuers and they were gaining. He looked forward into the night and could see no way of increasing his speed without running the risk of being dismounted, and yet if they did not they would surely be ridden down. Not to get through could be the death sentence for a legion. ‘We need to turn and face them,’ he shouted over his shoulder to Magnus, ‘otherwise they’ll catch us.’ He slowed and turned his mount, rearing on its back legs; Magnus managed the manoeuvre with less panache as the pursuit came on at speed, now less than twenty paces out. Drawing his sword, Vespasian urged his mount back towards them, slapping its rump with the flat of his blade. The two pursuers checked their pace, unsure of this confidence in their quarry; two dark shadows suddenly appeared, flying towards them, and, before they had time to register the attack, they were punched from the saddles. Castor and Pollux landed on their prey in a welter of ripping and growling; screams of abject terror of being devoured by unknown things-of-the-night issued from the Britons, long and hard, as they fought these monsters that could just materialise out of nothing.

Vespasian and Magnus both watched as the life was eaten out of the men, feeling that such a death was no more than their due; quickly, their struggles ceased and they were silent and still.

‘Good boys,’ Magnus purred with genuine affection for his pets as he dismounted and eased them off their feasts. ‘But we haven’t got time for a snack just at the moment.’ He tickled each under its bloody muzzle and leapt back up into the saddle as the sound of pursuit on foot reached them.

Off they sped into the night, travelling as fast as they dared for the first quarter of a mile and then, once they had outpaced their pursuit, slowing down to a trot, heading ever northward.

With no care for the fatigue of their ponies, Vespasian and Magnus pressed on and soon, directly to the east, to their right, they could see the distant glow of Camulodunum.

‘We’re level with the town now,’ Vespasian said. ‘If we carry on for another mile or so and then head northeast we should hit the Lindum road and then we’ve got about an hour left of the night to find the Ninth.’

‘Well, I hope they’ve got something good to eat; we haven’t had anything since yesterday and that ain’t good at my age. I’m starting to feel very weak.’

Vespasian said nothing on the subject; he was feeling the effects of hunger too and felt that talking about it would only make things worse. They rode in silence for a while.

In the distance the glow of the town grew, even though they were drawing away from it. ‘They must have really put it to the torch,’ Vespasian observed some time later, ‘for it to be burning like that eleven hours later.’

‘We shouldn’t have stayed there,’ Magnus said, ‘it was almost suicide.’

‘It was for a lot of people but had they had fled then they would have stood even less chance in the open. It was the Trinovantes within the walls breaking them down that really tipped the balance.’

‘Bollocks it was; it was the sheer fucking size of their army. It’ll take a few legions to stop it.’

‘Which we’ll have when they all converge.’

Magnus grunted and expressed no further opinion; they kept to their own thoughts until, a short time later, the sound of their ponies’ hoofs on stone alerted them to the fact that they had finally reached the road.

And then a strange sound, faint and yet strong at the same time, floated on the pre-dawn air; Vespasian cocked his ear, frowning. ‘What’s that?’

They halted their tired ponies and listened.

It was a rumble that they could hear; a rumble not of inanimate objects but rather voices, male voices, thousands of them, in fact, tens of thousands of them. The Iceni army was on the move.

‘They’re heading up the Lindum road to surprise Cerialis!’ Vespasian said, realising what Boudicca planned to do. ‘If she takes us one legion at a time we’re finished. There’s not a moment to lose.’ He kicked his long-suffering pony back into action and they raced away, their path along the road easier to see as the dawn glow in the east strengthened.

Behind them they could just make out a great shadow to the south, spread out to either side of the road. They thrashed their beasts north, hoping that Cerialis had already pulled back. But they did not have far to travel for, after half a mile, another shadow became distinct, this time ahead of them.

It did not take Vespasian too long to work out what it was. ‘Cerialis, you fool. You’re marching your legion towards certain death.’

But Cerialis did not know that he was marching towards annihilation, not because he was marching in the classic Roman fashion, without scouts; but because the scouts he had sent out had not, so far, returned. And so, Vespasian and Magnus were not challenged as they pelted up the road towards the VIIII Hispana.

‘Where’re his scouting units?’ Vespasian wondered aloud as the cohort leading the legion’s advance became distinct in the ever growing light. They swerved off the road and raced down the ranks and ranks of legionaries; past two cohorts they went until they approached the command position to see Cerialis, fifty paces away, sitting proudly on his horse with the legion’s Eagle parading before him and his tribunes and his escort cavalry behind. The first rays of the newborn sun glinted pale off their helms.

‘Cerialis, Cerialis!’ Vespasian shouted, galloping towards the legate.

Cerialis looked towards his father-in-law but failed to recognise him in the dawn light with his unshaven face and dishevelled clothing. With a barked order to a decurion he sent him and four others of his escort against Vespasian and Magnus. Detaching themselves from the rest of the legionary cavalry they accelerated towards the two incoming riders.

‘We’re Roman! Roman!’ Vespasian roared, slowing his pony and spreading his arms to show that he was not armed.

Magnus growled an order at his dogs to keep them in check.

‘Roman!’ Vespasian shouted again as the decurion and his men approached. ‘Mutilus,’ Vespasian cried, recognising the officer as the same man who had escorted him south from Lindum, ‘it’s me, Senator Vespasian; I must speak with the legate at once.’

Mutilus squinted at him and then recognition flooded onto his face. ‘Of course, sir, right away.’ The decurion spun his horse about and led the way back to Cerialis.

‘Father!’ The surprised legate exclaimed upon recognising Vespasian and Magnus. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘No, Cerialis, it’s what you’re doing here that is the question.’

‘I’m coming to relieve you in Camulodunum.’

‘Camulodunum fell yesterday evening; didn’t your scouts tell you?’

‘They told me that it had been invested so I thought that with swift action, like Corbulo, I could surprise the Britons this morning and we could crush them between us.’

Vespasian could not believe his son-in-law’s folly. ‘But you were meant to join up with Paulinus and …’ He stopped, realising that they were wasting valuable time discussing what Cerialis should have been doing. ‘You have to deploy defensively, Cerialis, and make a fighting retreat back to your camp.’

‘Why?

‘Because …’

But Vespasian did not need to explain why, as just at that moment two factors combined: the sun rose and its light strengthened at the same time as the Iceni had a clear view of the VIIII Hispana. These two factors brought about the biggest roar that any in the legion had ever heard; on hearing it each legionary knew that it was baying to the gods of Britannia for every drop of their Roman blood.

‘A hollow square is our only chance, Cerialis,’ Vespasian urged. ‘And then we fight step by step back to your camp.’

There was a distinct look of panic in Cerialis’ eyes. ‘Do we have time to deploy, though?’

‘We’re about to find out; if you don’t give the order we’ll all die anyway.’

Cerialis swallowed and nodded. ‘
Cornicern
! Legion hollow square!’

The musician put the mouthpiece of his G-shaped horn to his lips and issued four deep notes, each identical in pitch, and then repeated the alarm. All through the legion cornicerns relayed the rumbling call to their cohorts and then onto centuries. The repetitive drill of the Roman army was not done for nothing; every centurion, optio and standard-bearer knew his place upon hearing the signal, which was only sounded when the legion was in dire circumstances. Although none of them had ever had to react to the command in the field for real before, their innate discipline meant that they began to lead their men, with bellowed orders, to the correct place in the formation. The legion began to transform from column to defensive square with blocks of men fanning out, left and right, whilst the first and second cohorts formed up to the front, facing the threat.

But despite their efficiency, Vespasian could see that that it would be a very close-run affair; ahead of the VIIII Hispana the Iceni nation had broken into a mad charge, their chariot horses galloping and the warriors sprinting, keeping no order, all just intent on being the first to catch the legion in the middle of its manoeuvre, thereby ensuring its doom.

On they came as the legion’s officers roared their men into more haste and precision, knowing that a hollow square with a gap in it was nothing more than a column with right angles and just as vulnerable.

‘I don’t like the look of this,’ Magnus said, seeing how the first cohort had not yet completed its frontage and the space between it and the fourth cohort, facing west, was still considerable.

The sick feeling in his stomach, which Vespasian had experienced on that night, all those years ago, when his II Augusta had so nearly been caught mid-deployment, returned.

That night they had just made it; it was becoming apparent that this morning they would not.

The Roman horns rumbled, thousands of pairs of hobnailed sandals stamped, kit jangled and centurions bellowed, but all this did nothing to mask the sound of the Iceni as they savoured the scent of legionary blood.