The Furies of Rome (29 page)

With their Queen in their midst, the leading chariots, scores of them, swerved and tore across the frontage of the incomplete ranks of the first cohort, the warriors hurling javelin after javelin into the gaps within the formation, picking off the unshielded, punching them back and down to become an obstacle for their comrades behind to negotiate, hindering further their deployment. A few centuries were organised enough to reply with a volley of pila, the weighted heads ripping cruelly into man and beast alike bringing many crashing, legs thrashing, to the ground to skid along the grass, moist with dew.

Their javelins spent, the surviving chariot warriors, the
é
lite and pride of the tribe, jumped clear of their vehicles; with hexagonal shields, resplendent with animal designs, and long, slashing swords whirling in their hands, they charged, heedless of personal safety, into the first cohort. But it was not with shield against shield that the battle was fought, in a contest where the individualistic Britannic warriors would always lose to the mutually supportive tactics of the legion; no, this time they did not have to throw themselves against a solid wall of wood, this time the mutual support was not there and the warriors crashed through the gaps that had been widened by their javelins and took on individual combats as, behind them, their brethren on foot closed with the fraying cohort.

Screaming their hatred to their gods, smeared in strange designs, their hair stiff with lime, the cream of the Iceni brought terror with their attack. Towering over even the men of the first cohort, they brought their long blades down from great heights or slashed them in broad arcs, outreaching the short gladii of their opponents.

And then the honed iron bit into the disorganised Roman ranks and, seemingly slow as if time had relented, the first head spun up into the air, spiralling gore, at the same instant as the first right arm slopped to the ground still gripping the sword hilt. And then time accelerated. Extreme violence had begun and it was on the Iceni’s terms as they fell upon men trained to fight shoulder to shoulder and who were now unable to do so. As if crazed, the Britannic warriors twirled left and then right, forever whirling their swords in blurs of continual motion, their passage marked by sprays of blood, hurling their opponents back or down as the main infantry force of the tribe ploughed into the cohort and the second cohort next to it, forcing bloody furrows through, as the life was plucked from them and they ceased to function as units.

‘They won’t stand,’ Vespasian shouted to Cerialis as the first cohort’s standard disappeared down into the chaos of massacre. ‘If you act now there’s a chance that you can pull out with the rear six cohorts; they might get away if the Britons’ lack of discipline keeps them massacring the unlucky bastards in the first four.’

‘There’s still hope, Father; I’ve ordered the fifth and seventh cohorts to form behind the first and second to limit the breakthrough.’

‘If they get into contact you won’t be able to extricate them and then that’ll be another thousand men lost.’

‘Not if we can stop them here and complete the formation; then we can stage a fighting retreat.’

Vespasian jabbed a finger to where the Iceni had started to lap around the sides of the Roman formation, eating into the fourth and third cohorts, facing west and east respectively, their formations already buckling. ‘Look! Don’t fool yourself, Cerialis; the best that we can hope for now is to save at least some of the legion whilst the rest are sacrificed.’

‘The fifth and the seventh will stand.’

Vespasian bit back a stinging riposte as he watched the two cohorts attempt to form up at the rear of the disintegrating ones. File upon file raced forward, slotting into position in a wave effect; the fifth braced at ninety degrees against the backs of the fourth, and the seventh onto the third. But security only comes from those secure in themselves; this was not now the case. Death flowed freely through the legion and each man could feel its breath; eyes started to look nervously around rather than stay fixed to the front. Strict silence in the ranks was replaced by nervous enquiries as to the situation; old lags were asked their opinion and confirmed that they had been in far worse predicaments many a time but the tones of their voices were not convincing. Centurions started to look over their shoulders, looking for messengers with orders to begin the retreat; but none were forthcoming.

And then the dam burst: the first and the second cohorts could take no more; indeed, there were very few of them left to take anything at all, and those there were turned and fled. They crashed into their brothers forming behind; files opened to let them through ensuring the fresher cohorts were not swept away in the panic. Through these passages the fugitives ran, chased by their tormentors pressing them close. So close they pressed that the files did not close up in time and the Iceni penetrated the cohorts that were meant to hold them back with the ease and abandonment that Decianus’ men had breached the bodies of their Queen’s daughters; in they pushed, forcing themselves deeper, their weapons working constantly, blood spurting from the great gashes they hewed as more thrust in behind them, ever swelling their number and widening the passages as their sides were cleaved away, falling fouled by the slime of their own gore, faeces and urine so that cohesion entirely failed as the first warriors exploded out the other side.

In less than a tenth of the number of heartbeats, the nine hundred and sixty men of the fifth and seventh cohorts were either killed or swept away as the units were ravaged and left for dead; the Iceni were now fully within the hollow square and the same fate awaited the rest of the legion. To either side of them the warriors could see nothing but the backs of legionaries and the sight gave yet more heat to their lust for blood; as the rear ranks of legionaries began to turn, without any orders being issued, they set about them with a brutal efficiency so that they received hardly any strokes in return.

And their Queen joined them, standing tall in her chariot, arms raised, holding a bloodied spear that sheened in the sun, and beside her came her daughters, on foot and armed with long knives, attended by Myrddin and a dozen of his order. With them came an atmosphere: a fear, a cold dread that Vespasian had felt before and, even though he was three hundred paces away, he instinctively pulled his mount back as did Magnus, Cerialis and all the legionary cavalry behind them. They watched as the daughters prowled alongside their mother, roving about the fallen and upon finding legionaries, wounded but conscious, the druids would cut their armour from them as they screamed, futilely, for mercy; with eyes burning with revenge and to the accompaniment of druidical incantations the three girls harvested hearts, pulling them still pulsing from the chest cavities of shrieking men whose last moments were filled with the creeping terror instilled by the power of Myrddin and the abject horror of being slit open and feeling a hand inserted to rip out their hearts. As each victim’s eyes faded, their last image was of their own blood falling towards them squeezed from that precious organ.

Now it was over; the four rear cohorts who had yet to be engaged could stand and watch no longer the massacre of their fellows nor could they bear the slow, steady advance of Myrddin and the druids of whom so many tales had been told, all of which had lodged within their superstitious minds. Ignoring the mantra that had been instilled in them since the first day of their training, as youths of sixteen or seventeen, that strength lies in solidarity, they broke and they ran, casting aside their shields and pila and thinking of nought but their own safety, which, in their stupidity, they had now put in the gravest peril. Their officers could do nothing, neither threaten, plead nor appeal to their loyalty or sense of pride, and rather than face the ignominy of seeking the Ferryman with a wound to the back many of the centurions, optiones, standard-bearers and steadier old lags chose to hurl themselves at the enemy preying upon their comrades up ahead.

‘Let’s get out of here!’ Vespasian shouted, swinging his pony around.

‘I thought you’d never think of that,’ Magnus said, following him, his dogs at his side.

‘But my legion,’ Cerialis cried, looking desperately at his father-in-law.

‘Is gone, Cerialis. Now you have a choice: leave my daughter as a pregnant widow or ride with your cavalry back to your camp and muster as many survivors there as possible.’

‘But my reputation?’

‘Is in tatters; we’ll worry about how to restore it if we all survive this. Now go!’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Londinium. We have to get a message to Paulinus. He needs to know that the Ninth will not be joining him because the Ninth is no more.’

CHAPTER XV

LONDINIUM WAS RIFE
with rumour as Vespasian and Magnus arrived in the second hour of the night; but the rumour was of the uprising and the subsequent sack of Camulodunum. The obliteration of one of Rome’s four fighting machines in the province had not been heard of, nor had it been even imagined. As they led their horses and Castor and Pollux through the crowded thoroughfares of the town, swelled by refugees, they heard much talk of the destruction of the province’s capital and also optimism at the arrival of Paulinus, just before dusk, as his army made camp a quarter of a mile to the north. There was, however, no mention of the VIIII Hispana and that was because Vespasian and Magnus had ridden hard ahead of the news.

Having galloped away whilst the Iceni’s attention had been on running down and butchering the fleeing remnants of the legion, Vespasian and Magnus had cut across country and made it to the Camulodunum–Londinium road by mid-morning. After a couple of miles they had managed to commandeer two fresh horses from a military way-station, advising the optio in command to pull his eight men back to Londinium and warn the occupants of every farmstead they passed along the way to do the same. Vespasian and Magnus did not have time for such niceties because, for all they knew, Boudicca might turn her gaze to the southwest and set off that very morning, with the corpses of the VIIII Hispana still warm. Two forced marches could bring her to Londinium by the evening of the following day by which time Paulinus needed to have a plan based upon all the facts; Vespasian was only too well aware that a decision cannot be made until all the relevant information has been received and once it has been it is best to have as much time as possible to process it.

Finally they came to the rented house on the river; Hormus answered the door with relief on his face. ‘Master, I was beginning to worry what with the rumours of Camulodunum circulating around the forum.’

‘Didn’t Sabinus and Caenis tell you we were all right, Hormus?’

Hormus’ confusion was evident. ‘I’m sorry, master?’

‘Sabinus and Caenis, aren’t they here?’

‘No, master.’

‘We only left them last night around midnight,’ Magnus pointed out, ‘not even twenty-four hours ago. They may be having problems with that tide thing that they’re so keen on here.’

Vespasian considered that for a few moments. ‘You could be right; the fisherman did reckon two or three days for a round trip and only did it in two because he got the tides right. I’ll have to see Paulinus on my own; I assume he’s at Decianus’ residence.’

‘Yes, master, he went straight there and called a meeting with his tribunes and the two prefects of the auxiliary cohorts stationed in the town and a few men of status; it should be starting about now.’

‘Good; pack, Hormus, and have Caenis’ two girls do the same because one way or another we will be leaving tomorrow.’

The men of status, of course, included Procurator Catus Decianus who was speaking to the assembly as Vespasian pushed past the guard trying to bar his way into the audience chamber; he stopped in the shadows, out of reach of the light from four lampstands set in a square around the middle of the room, to listen to his version of events.

‘So those are the reasons for this outrageous uprising. However, I can assure the Governor and the citizens of this town that Boudicca and her rabble pose no threat to Londinium.’ The procurator had assumed an air of gravitas that sat at odds with his unmanly hair and the swelling and bruising on his face.

‘And what makes you so sure,
procurator
?’ Governor Suetonius Paulinus asked, seated on a curule chair at the far end of the room; lean and weather-beaten with an almost skeletal face and a grey wreath of hair semi-circling a shiny pate, he was the antithesis of the plump procurator and his antipathy to Decianus was made clear in the acerbic manner in which he pronounced his official title.

‘They’re an ill-disciplined band of savages who will,
if
the rumours are correct and they have managed to capture Camulodunum, which I doubt, take as much plunder as they can carry and then fall apart, like all Britannic tribes, as soon as they hear that a Roman legion has taken the field against them.’

‘And that’s your professional, military assessment,
procurator
? You seriously believe that every tribe of these warlike savages falls apart when they see a legion; if that’s the case why are we still fighting them? Why have I just spent six months subduing the druids on Mona and the tribes on the mainland up there without noticing this phenomenon of “falling apart”? Tell me,
procurator
, in which legion did you serve during the invasion of this savage isle, that you have such a firm grasp of the martial capabilities of the Britannic tribes?’

‘The Governor is well aware that I have not had the privilege of serving in any legion due to my health.’

‘Your health! Since when has timidity counted as a health problem? Sit down, Decianus, and keep quiet until a subject comes up about which you have at least a modicum of knowledge; greed, for example.’

‘But I’m the procurator, my opinion must be important.’

‘The difficulty that we have, gentlemen,’ Paulinus stated, ignoring Decianus’ protests, ‘is manpower. As you know, I’m here with the Fourteenth and a vexillation of three cohorts of the Twentieth plus four auxiliary cohorts. Now, taking into account the casualties we’ve sustained over the last campaign, what should be a force of around nine and a half thousand men is barely eight thousand.’ He nodded at the two prefects of the Londinium-based auxiliary cohorts. ‘With your men we’re still shy of ten thousand. There is also another factor: what none of you here know is that the Second Augusta, which should have arrived here at the same time as us, has yet to move from its base at Isca.’

There were cries of disbelief.

Vespasian felt sick; the news he bore had just become twice as terrible.

‘The legate and the thick-stripe had been recalled to Rome and their replacements have yet to arrive so Poenius Postumus, the prefect of the camp, is currently in command. He has refused my orders, why, I don’t know and it gets us nowhere to speculate on the subject; we will, no doubt, find out at his trial after this has been settled. So, with our almost ten thousand, the two more auxiliary cohorts promised by Cogidubnus of the united tribes of the Regni and the Atrebates that are due to cross the bridge in the morning and then Cerialis’ Ninth Hispana and auxiliaries, we can expect a force of something in the region of sixteen to seventeen thousand; with that we can stop them before they reach Londinium.’

‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Governor Paulinus,’ Vespasian said, walking forward from out of the shadows.

‘That’s one of the men I was telling you about,’ Decianus squawked, the surprise on his face showing that he had clearly thought Vespasian to be dead. ‘That’s Senator Vespasian.’

‘I know who it is, you fool: he’s a senator; a member of my class. But I thought you said he was dead.’

‘He didn’t lie to you, Governor,’ Vespasian said, stopping in the centre of the room and pointing an accusatory finger at Decianus. ‘He did think I was dead because he left me and my companions tied up at the mercy of the Iceni; and seeing as he had just stolen their gold, had their Queen, the wife of a Roman citizen and therefore considered to be Roman herself, flogged and had also allowed his men, all his men, to have their pleasure, in whatever way they chose, with her three unmarried daughters, he was quite right to consider me dead. Unfortunately for Decianus, the Queen of the Iceni, unlike him, has a sense of honour and she let us go as she could see that we had nothing to do with the outrage but, rather, tried to dissuade this rapacious idiot from his belligerent actions and prevent the rebellion that they have caused. She wanted us to tell the true story of what propelled her into her course of action; which I have now, before witnesses.’ Stating all the facts plainly was too much for Vespasian’s strained nerves and without thinking about it he spun around and landed a crushing right hook on the procurator.

Decianus twisted, arched back and slumped to the floor, stunned; his jaw would not have broken had his mouth been clamped shut but it had started to open as he had been about to try to defend himself from what he knew to be the truth.

‘I’m sorry, Governor,’ Vespasian said, looking down at Decianus who had begun to moan softly, ‘but it’s been a fraught few days and a lot of lives have been lost because of that shit.’

‘No, no, don’t apologise, Vespasian. I think that we all feel better after that; except for Decianus, of course.’

This observation caused the tension in the room to disappear, washed away by laughter.

‘It’s good to see you back from the dead; so what news do you have that tells you that my earlier arithmetic won’t be possible?’

Vespasian looked the Governor in the eye. ‘I’m afraid that there is no easy way to say this, Paulinus, but the Ninth Hispana was wiped out this morning.’

Vespasian drew to a close his recount of the events of the last few days since Decianus’ folly; there was silence in the room and a variety of grim expressions.

‘Gods above and below,’ Paulinus whispered eventually. ‘A whole legion this very morning and twenty thousand people yesterday in Camulodunum! She knows that after that she and her people can never expect mercy now. They have nothing to lose so they might as well commit the crimes that we will punish them for, in advance, tenfold. What do we do?’

‘We stop them, of course,’ Vespasian said, regretting it the moment the words slipped out.

‘Of course we stop them, senator!’ Paulinus snapped. ‘Don’t patronise me.’

‘My apologies, Governor; I’m tired and I spoke out of turn.’

Paulinus waved the apology away. ‘Forget about it. Now, the question is how do we stop them with perhaps a tenth of their number?’

‘We may get more, Paulinus; I sent messages to the Governors of Gallia Belgica and Germania Inferior asking for reinforcements as soon as possible.’

‘You’ve been stretching your non-existent authority quite a bit, senator: mobilising this province and alerting our neighbours.’

Vespasian shrugged. ‘Someone had to; otherwise we would have lost the whole of the south before we knew what was going on.
He
was never going to do anything.’ He gestured down to where Decianus lay to see that he had crawled off without anyone noticing.

‘You’re right, of course, and you have my thanks; but from now on the responsibility is mine.’

‘Indeed, Paulinus.’

Paulinus stared at him for a few moments and then, satisfied that his authority would not be questioned, addressed the rest of his officers. ‘So, what to do, gentlemen? We have ten thousand men and a Britannic army of probably at least a hundred thousand strong once it arrives here in what, if we’re lucky, could be two days but is more likely to be tomorrow afternoon if Boudicca does the sensible thing and force-marches; and there’s no reason to suppose she won’t, judging by how she jumped on Cerialis. How do we defend Londinium and, more importantly, the bridge and how do we crush this rebellion whilst we’re doing it?’

There was silence as every man in the room contemplated just how to do the impossible.

Paulinus tapped the arm of his chair with impatience. ‘Come on, gentlemen, surely one of you might try to give me a bit of advice.’

Still nothing.

Vespasian cleared his throat.

Paulinus looked over to him. ‘Go on then, senator; if the members of my staff are proving fruitless, you, perhaps, can make up for them.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Can’t what?’

‘You can’t defend Londinium and the bridge as well as crush the rebellion with this number of men; you can only do either or.’

Paulinus rubbed his chin. ‘That’s what I was thinking; I was just hoping that someone could see things differently. We either take our force into the town and defend it; if we started now, then by tomorrow afternoon, ten thousand should be able to make it defensible enough for the Iceni to move on after a couple of failed assaults and we could stay holed up until help arrives. But, by that time, Boudicca would have raised the whole province: Venutius and Cartimandua in the north would have settled their differences and joined her, the Silures in the west would have overwhelmed the holding force of the remainder of the Twentieth that I was forced to leave there, the Second Augusta would be pinned down in the southwest and probably trounced and the only useful aid would be ships to evacuate us.’ He looked around the room at his officers. ‘I think we can all agree that if we made it back to Rome, gentlemen, the Emperor would invite us to fall upon our swords only on the off-chance that he was feeling lenient.’

His men murmured their reluctant agreement.

‘So therefore I have to do what good generals always do when faced with superior numbers: negate them as Alexander did at Issus or Leonidas at Thermopylae. I need to offer battle to Boudicca in a way that she won’t be able to resist the opportunity given the odds; but I choose the ground. I believe I know the very place about fifty miles north of here, beyond the town of Verulamium; it’ll suit our purposes well. Caninius, get a message to the camp. The legion is to strike and be ready to march upon my arrival by mid-morning.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Caninius, Paulinus’ thick-stripe military tribune, said. ‘And what about Londinium?’

‘As soon as Cogidubnus and his auxiliaries have crossed the bridge we tear down a section making it impassable for the Britons, so they have to remain on the north bank, and then we abandon the town to its inevitable fate. All those fit enough to keep up with a legion’s pace may seek our shelter; the rest … well, I’m sorry, I can’t wait for the young or the frail if we are going to reach the ground I’ve chosen and be ready for that Fury and her army. We inform the citizens at first light, destroy the bridge and then head north leaving a trail of stragglers for Boudicca to follow.’

‘What if Sabinus and Caenis haven’t arrived by the time Paulinus pulls out?’ Magnus asked Vespasian as they stood, following dawn, on the bridge, staring downstream to the bend in the river, past Londinium’s port; a single trireme was being loaded in the otherwise empty harbour.