Hero of Rome (3 page)

‘May your god protect you, Crespo.’ The centurion followed Mithras and somewhere in the camp was the hidden shrine where he would have made a sacrifice to the bull-slayer. It was a secretive cult but anyone who survived the initiation was worthy of respect – for courage at least. Soldiers did well not to ignore the gods, but Valerius worshipped them the way most men did, doing just enough to keep them happy and calling on them in time of need. ‘Stay close on the way in. Once we’re past the gates, the First will hold the enemy in position while you punch a hole through their line with the Second. When you’re beyond them, turn and we’ll crush them between us.’ It was a good plan, but its success depended on many different factors. He had fought the Celtic warriors of western Britain before and, for all his confident talk about their weaknesses, he knew them for courageous fighters prepared to die in defence of what was theirs. Today, they would have no choice, because they had nowhere to run.

Crespo grunted suspiciously. ‘So we do the fighting and dying while you hide behind your shields and take all the glory?’

Valerius felt the anger rise in him, but bit back the words that accompanied it. No point in getting into an argument with the embittered Sicilian. ‘Dying is what we are paid to do, centurion,’ he said, and turned away before Crespo could reply.

III

The barrage paused and for a few seconds the soft, false light of the grey predawn was accompanied by an unearthly calm, the serenity broken only by the crackle of burning wood from the hilltop. At the head of his men, Valerius closed his eyes and tried to read the sounds. At first, nothing. But a moment later he heard the muted growl he knew was the start of the auxiliary attack. He kept his eyes shut a little longer, enjoying a final moment of peace, and when he opened them a fire arrow arched through the sky like a shooting star.

Now!

He led the legionaries at the trot, eight abreast in their centuries. The legate had placed a screen of archers to the right and left of the assault point and, as the spearhead of the attack passed them, the bowmen loosed a flight of arrows that harvested the defenders from the first of the three ramparts. Valerius had spent the two days preparing for the attack, examining every inch of the eastern slope, and he had noted something that gnawed like a maggot at his brain. The most obvious route to the gate had a very clear entrance, but no apparent exit. Of course, the way out could be hidden, a tunnel perhaps, but that, even in a fortress of this size, would be the expenditure of enormous effort for very little gain. The longer he looked at it, the less he liked it. The anomaly might have a perfectly innocent explanation but, in Valerius’s experience, nothing in war was innocent. Now he made his choice, knowing he was gambling his soldiers’ lives on the result. He led his men swiftly past the first opening and on to a sloping platform running parallel with the fortress walls, and when it took a sharp uphill turn he followed it. The route brought the first legionaries within range of spears hurled from the palisade that topped the second rampart. ‘Form
testudo
!’ At the order, each man in the first century locked his shield above his head with those of the man next to him. Only those in the front and rear ranks and the men on the edges of the formation kept their shields vertical. The result was a solid carapace which made the eighty men inside the
testudo
invulnerable to attack from above. Behind him, Valerius knew each century in the attacking cohorts would be following his example. Now he was operating on pure instinct, following the well-worn path upwards, and praying the Silurians had placed no more false exits or hidden traps; a dozen knee-deep pits could shatter a
testudo
in less time than it took to draw his sword. No. A fortress this size must be a place of commerce as well as refuge, and commerce meant ease of access. Whoever had designed the defences would have been forced to make that compromise. His chest was heaving, his arm ached from holding the heavy shield above his head and the breath rasped in his throat. Sweat blinded his eyes in the little oven of his iron helmet, with the big cheek flaps that restricted his vision but wouldn’t save him from a blade to his throat. The clatter of spears and arrows against the outer surface of the
testudo
was almost constant now, like a heavy shower of rain. Death was everywhere around him but he had never felt more alive.

He thought of his father, mouldering in semi-retirement on the country estate in the pretty, wooded valley close to Fidenae and making his plans to revive the family’s political fortunes; plans which had Valerius at their very heart. Next year he would have to return to resume his legal career, touting for minor cases outside the Basilica Julia; snapping up the crumbs left by brighter minds. It wasn’t that he disliked the law; to sit and listen to one of the great practitioners wield logic and rhetoric the way a champion
retiarius
wielded net and trident was one of life’s pleasures. But to stand up before a court didn’t light a fire in his belly the way he knew it must do in a Cicero or a Seneca. Only combat did that, and — The gate! They had reached the gate!

‘Ram to the front.’ The missiles had destroyed the gate structure beyond recognition, but the Britons had used the smashed timbers to form a makeshift barrier. It wouldn’t take long to clear, though it would delay the assault, and he’d seen what happened when attacks became delayed. The battering ram was with the second century, but the legions practised re-forming the
testudo
under fire until it was almost habit, and the big rectangular shields quickly formed a tunnel that allowed the ram squad forward. Most legionaries were small men, iron tough but more gristle than muscle. Compared with them, the soldiers who wielded the legion’s battering ram were broad-chested giants; they had to be to handle the specially reinforced oak trunk that was their stock-in-trade. Still it took too long and he heard the inevitable crashes and screams that told him the Britons were making good use of the boulders the catapults had hurled at them. Now they were dropping those stones, some of them weighing as much as a small ox, on to the
testudines
following him. The defences were sure against light weapons, but a big boulder would smash a gaping hole in the shields, and then the spears and arrows could seek out the soldiers below. The
testudo
would reunite quickly enough but, behind him, he knew men were dying.

At last! He stepped sharply aside to allow the ram to do its work, the massive head of carved stone surging forward with the strength of twenty men behind it to smash the pathetic blockage aside. One. Two. Three. Yes, three, that would do it. ‘First cohort, with me. For Rome!’

As he turned to lead the way through the breach in the British defences, he glimpsed a line of snarling moustached faces from the gap between his helmet’s cheek pieces. A shower of burning fat thrown from his left spattered his legs and he screamed a curse. Now he was inside the fortress and his men filed past him to make the line and he stopped thinking and allowed training to take over.

‘Forward.’

The curve-edged shields of the leading cohort’s first and second centuries locked in one solid defensive wall, and the weight of the attack was multiplied by the addition of two further lines. At the far right of the first line Valerius tightened his fist on the wooden grip at the rear of the shield boss, bunched his muscles in the arm straps and butted the edge against that of the man to his left. He knew every man to his rear would be holding his shield aloft to protect the front line from spears and arrows fired by the defenders. The Romans had their own spear, the
pilum
, a four-foot shaft of ash tipped with an arm’s length of tempered iron. But no one carried one today, because they were long, heavy and awkward and would only have slowed the attack, creating more casualties than they caused. This was a day for swords.

The momentum of the initial breakthrough had pushed the defenders back a dozen paces but now they counterattacked in a single howling mass four or five hundred strong. Valerius flinched as an arrow nicked his helmet an inch above his right eye and he braced himself for the impact of the charge, his eyes searching the barbarian ranks for the man who wanted to kill him. There was always one: the single individual who hungered for
your
blood more than any other; who saw in
your
face everything he hated most in this world. It took a moment, because his eye naturally fell upon the British champions, the big men made even taller by hair lime-starched into spikes and horns who were the pick of their tribe and carried long iron swords or broad-bladed ash spears. They fought bare-chested to prove their courage and decorated their skin with blue tattoos that told the story of their heritage and their bravery in battle.

But the man who wished to kill him was no champion. Short, with lank, dirty-blond hair and a slight frame from which hung a filthy, ragged shirt, he looked almost harmless in that warrior throng because he didn’t carry a sword or a spear, only a curved dagger with an edge that gleamed blue from constant union with the whetstone. But his eyes told a different story. They burned with an enmity beyond hatred: a mindless promise of violent, painful death. All this Valerius noted in the time it took his enemy to cover a single pace. He knew that the man’s lack of height could be an advantage in this kind of fight, and it made him doubly dangerous. For the battle would be fought above the belly and he would come in low, under the big shield, and that gleaming blade would seek out the Roman’s unprotected genitals or try to hamstring him. Valerius experienced a chill in his lower guts. Yes, it would be the balls. The haunted eyes told of a loss beyond bearing. A loss that could only be avenged by inflicting horror upon its perpetrators.

A mighty crash announced that the first Britons had collided with the centre of the Roman shield wall. He felt the impact shiver along the line, bringing with it a roll like thunder as hundreds of swords began hammering at the painted oak shields, as if by obliterating the Twentieth’s emblem of a charging boar they were obliterating the men themselves. Above the rim of his shield he watched his enemy come with the extreme left of the British attack. To the man’s right were warriors bigger and better armed, but still Valerius’s instinct told him this was where the true danger lay. When the burning eyes disappeared below the level of the shield he counted the heartbeats:
one
, he would have covered another pace;
two
, he was crouching, preparing to roll under the shield and stab upward, the blade seeking the big artery in the groin;
three
. With the strength of his shoulder behind it, Valerius smashed his shield forward and down so that the rounded iron boss struck the charging Briton above the bridge of the nose, smashing flesh to instant pulp, the impact forcing his eyeballs from their sockets and splintering skull bone deep into the brain. The blow numbed Valerius’s left arm, but as it was struck his right was already moving, a lightning flick of the
gladius
that ripped out his enemy’s throat in a spray of scarlet. He felt the flame of exultation explode within him as it always did when he took a life and he tried to still it because he believed the savage, atavistic joy shamed him. He would never reveal or try to explain that feeling beyond the brotherhood of the battlefield. Only those who had experienced it could understand that most elemental of human reactions to the most basic of human experiences: to survive and to kill. The inner fire flared and was gone, replaced in an instant by cold calculation. From his left, a Silurian spear sought out the weak point below his armour. He brushed it aside with the strengthened edge of the
scutum
and, snarling defiance, he was back in line, the shield rim hooking behind his neighbour’s.

With the breath rasping in his chest, he took time to listen, attempting to gauge the battle and noticing for the first time the throat-filling stink from the burning huts and granaries, the rubbish pits and animal dung and human excrement that lay in haphazard piles all around. The main force of the British attack had struck the middle of the Roman line, and it was here that the howls of impotent rage and screams of the maimed and dying were centred. For the moment, Valerius was happy that his legionaries could contain the enemy. Crespo could not be far away.

He heard the call he had been waiting for. ‘Cornicen!’ The trumpeter who had been hovering behind the line appeared at his shoulder. Valerius spoke to the man on his left side, shouting to be certain he was heard above the clamour of battle. ‘On me, wheel right ten at the signal.’ He gave time for the order to be passed along the wall of shields. ‘Sound the command.’ The trumpeter pursed his lips and hesitated for a second before the circular horn blasted out its message.

The manoeuvre Valerius had ordered was complicated and potentially dangerous, and he would only have asked it of men he trusted with his life. It meant the entire Roman line would pivot on his position like a door opening. Simple for the legionary two or three along from his commander who only had to move forward half a step, but not for the unfortunate soldier on the far left of the line who would have to put his shoulder to his shield and smash his way ten paces forward, aided by the power of the two men at his back, and all without losing formation. But ten paces could be the difference between defeat and victory.

Because through the gap – if he had timed it correctly – Crespo was now charging with his centuries in wedge formation. Arrowheaded human battering rams that would hammer their way through the enemy ranks, utterly destroying their cohesion, and then turn and attack them from the rear.

An increase in the intensity of the battle told him he’d been right. He stepped back and allowed the man behind him to take his place in the line. A few yards away, the ruins of a shattered roundhouse gave him a vantage point from which he could view the entire length of the British fort. Studying the smoke-wreathed hilltop, he realized that Crespo had added a refinement to his plan, or perhaps deliberately disobeyed orders. Two of his eighty-man wedges had punched all the way through to the west gate, and from there the auxiliaries of the diversionary attack were now pouring into the fort, killing as they came and not distinguishing between fighters and the women and children the legate had ordered taken captive.

Now, the Britons Valerius had faced were trapped; hundreds of warriors corralled between the two legionary forces and the fortress wall. Some attempted to escape by climbing the rampart, but there would be no refuge from the bowmen posted at the base of the hill. Sharp cries rang out from within the midst of those remaining, and Valerius knew they were calling for mercy. But there would be no mercy. Only the long slumber of the Roman peace.

A Roman legion was a killing machine and now he watched that machine at work. No amount of Silurian courage would change the outcome. In the confined space, the long, curved swords of the Britons had little or no room to swing and when they did they expended their force against the three layers of hardwood that made up a legionary shield. The
gladius
was different. Jabbing between gaps in the shield wall, the short, razor-edged swords ripped into belly and groin then twisted free, creating a gaping wound that left a man praying for death. Then the big shields smashed forward and the swords flicked again. The legionaries of the First cohort worked with a studied concentration that made no distinction between old or young, brave or fearful. The Celts were beasts to be slaughtered. At first, Valerius was fascinated by this utterly disciplined lack of humanity, the relentless rhythm of death which eventually left the prospective victims slack-jawed with horror and sapped of the will even to defend themselves. But the fascination faded as the individual details of the butchery burned themselves on to the surface of his brain. The moment he felt some fragile barrier in his mind threaten to crumble he turned and walked away through the chaos of victory.