Rome’s Fallen Eagle (49 page)

The line was complete.

Vespasian pulled back, breathing in ragged bursts, and stared with wild, combat-hardened eyes up and down the beach; there was no break in the Roman formation, all the cohorts had successfully landed and linked up and were now fighting at least four deep against a much depleted enemy. However, there were scores, maybe hundreds, of Roman dead sprawled in the shallows and on the shingle and he knew that the II Augusta would need a new draft of recruits before it could start its push west the following spring.

A new sound broke over the cacophony of battle, a sound not heard since the first blows had been struck: the call of massed carnyxes. A hundred paces beyond the Britons a group of warriors blew a single note repeatedly on their strange, upright horns. As the note continued the Britons began to pull back. Vespasian sighed in relief; that call could mean only one thing: Cogidubnus’ honour was satisfied. He looked around for the cornicen and shouted: ‘Disengage!’

Four deep notes rumbled out to be taken up by neighbouring cohorts and soon the soldiers of both armies were stepping away from one another, exhausted and relieved that the ordeal was over. Here and there pockets of violence continued where bloodlust overruled self-preservation until the combat was stopped either by death or the intervention of comrades.

Eventually all hostilities had ceased, the carnyx and cornu calls faded and an eerie quiet descended over the beach, broken only by the moans of the wounded, the lapping of waves and the creaking of ships.

As the Britons withdrew in a line to the carnyx players, one man stayed facing the II Augusta.

Vespasian sheathed his sword and walked forward. ‘Keep them formed up, Tatius,’ he said, slapping his blood-covered primus pilus on his shoulder as he passed through the ranks. ‘And have Verica come and join me.’

Tatius barely acknowledged him, his chest heaving with exertion.

Crunching his way across the shingle, Vespasian approached the solitary man; even given that he was higher up the beach than
him, he could see that Cogidubnus was huge, at least a head taller with a bull-like neck around which was wrapped a golden torc as thick as a thumb. Silver arm rings, just as thick, bound bulging biceps as if they needed to be restrained from bursting through the skin.

Vespasian stopped five paces distant and, saying nothing, waited.

Cogidubnus smiled knowingly, inclined his head and approached. ‘I am Cogidubnus, King of Vectis.’

‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, legate of the Second Augusta.’ To Vespasian’s surprise, rather than bowing in submission Cogidubnus held out his arm for Vespasian to grasp as if they were equals. He did not take it but, rather, indicated with his head at the blood encrusted upon it. ‘Your honour comes at a very high blood-price, Cogidubnus.’

The King wiped some of the crust away. ‘Today is the first time that Roman blood has soiled my skin but not the last time that Britannic blood will soil yours, legate; take my arm in friendship and I swear by Camulos, god of war, that today will also be the last time I shed Roman blood.’

Vespasian looked up into Cogidubnus’ pale green eyes; they burnt with pride but showed no hatred nor sign of desire for vengeance. Verica had been right: this man would be Rome’s friend and the sacrifice of his men this day to ensure that had been worth it. He grasped the proffered arm with a firm grip; it was returned with more than equal measure.

‘You may keep your sword, Cogidubnus.’

‘And my crown? Do you have the power to promise me that?’

‘No. I’ll not lie to you; it’s something that’s only within the Emperor’s gift, but I can—’

The shrill blast of a lituus, from behind the Britons, cut him off. Vespasian jerked his head up in its direction: half a mile away, on a knoll to the right of the Britons’ line, glinting in the warm morning sun, appeared Paetus’ Batavian ala, formed up ready to charge.

Cogidubnus released his grip and wrenched his arm free. ‘Is this Roman honour to take a surrendering enemy from behind?’

The rear rank Britons began to turn to face the new threat, growling their disgust at the perceived treachery.

‘Trust me and come with me, Cogidubnus,’ Vespasian entreated, looking the towering King in the eye. ‘They’re not aware of your surrender; they must be assuming that we’re at a standoff and that their intervention will make the difference. We can stop this – but we’ll have to sprint around your men.’

Cogidubnus held Vespasian’s look briefly. ‘No, it’ll be quicker to go through.’ He turned and ran back towards his warriors; Vespasian signalled to Tatius to remain where he was and then followed, pumping his shorter legs ferociously so as not to be outpaced.

As Cogidubnus reached the first of his warriors he slowed to a walk; Vespasian tried to pass him but was restrained by the King’s massive hand clamping onto his shoulder.

‘We pass through slowly, legate, together.’

Vespasian looked up; Paetus’ ala had already begun to move forward. ‘But we’ll be too late.’

‘My men haven’t yet laid down their arms; there are many here who would kill you, so stay close.’

Unable to do anything but comply, Vespasian walked forward with the King into the mass of his bloodied and battle-scarred warriors, cutting across them towards the right-hand corner. They parted grudgingly, their mouths set grim beneath their long moustaches, their eyes hard. As Vespasian passed through they closed behind him, towering over him, pressing in on him so that he was engulfed by the stench of their sweat and their hot breath; he kept his head held high, looking neither left nor right, refusing to be intimidated by their height. Cogidubnus spoke soothingly to his people in their own tongue whilst all the time keeping a firm grip on Vespasian’s shoulder, emphasising that the Roman was under his protection. Growing shouts of warning and alarm from the rear of the formation told of the approach of Paetus’ cavalry but Vespasian could see nothing over the heads of the warriors.

They reached the tribesmen who had turned to face the charge and Cogidubnus moved with more urgency, pushing through, raising his voice to make them move aside. Suddenly
the warriors before them extended their spears forward and went down on one knee. Vespasian’s heart pounded; Paetus’ men were at full charge, almost a javelin throw away. Cogidubnus roared a command to his men and pushed him forward. Shouting for all he was worth Vespasian ran out into the open, holding his right hand, palm out, aloft.

But the volley had been released.

More than three hundred javelins soared through the air towards him, followed by a high-velocity wall of horseflesh. He stopped abruptly, still bellowing at Paetus to stop, and raised his shield. Three evilly sharp points appeared a thumb’s breadth through the board before his eyes; the weight of their impact buckled his legs and he collapsed onto his knees, twisting his right hand back to support himself as the burden of the javelins pulled his shield aside leaving him totally exposed.

He stared in horror at horses; nothing but horses: black, bay, dun, brown, grey horses. Eyes wild, mouths foaming, teeth bared, heads tossing, flanks sweating, forelegs kicking, all he could see was horses, horses. Noise suddenly broke into his consciousness: neighing and whinnying; the shouts of men in languages that he could comprehend and in those that he could not; hooves thumping the ground, metal jangling. A confusion of sound, as confusing as the images before him: horses rearing, horses scraping their forelegs through the air, horses everywhere – but not trampling him.

Suddenly he realised he could see their bellies; they were rearing; they were stationary.

And then in twos and threes they came down, snorting, prancing, high-stepping, onto four legs and now he could see their riders, bearded, chain-mailed, helmeted with the same wild eyes as their mounts as they looked fearfully beyond him.

‘Stop,’ Vespasian shouted hoarsely, as if he could not believe that they had really come to a halt.

‘We have, sir, and rather abruptly so.’

Vespasian blinked repeatedly and eventually focused on Paetus looking down at him from a very skittish mount.

‘And judging by the fact that these barbarians aren’t trying to
hack us off our horses, I take it that they’ve surrendered and that’s why you rather foolishly stood in front of our charge.’

‘And that’s why I ordered my men not to return the volley,’ Cogidubnus said, walking forward, ‘despite the fact that a score or more have been killed. But many more would have died had it not been for the legate.’ He stood over Vespasian, contemplating him with a confused expression for a few moments as if trying to decide just what was kneeling on the grass. He held out his hand and helped Vespasian to his feet.

‘Take your men back to the beach, Paetus,’ Vespasian ordered, still reeling from the terror. Feeling the weight of the javelins embedded in his shield he threw it down and winced; there were four heads piercing it, not three, and one was bloodied. He turned his arm over to reveal a seeping puncture just below the elbow; a shock of pain suddenly hit him and he clasped his hand to the wound.

Cogidubnus pulled his hand away to examine the injury. ‘It’s not deep and it’ll heal well; it was honourably received. It was a brave act that saved many lives, both Roman and Briton. My crown may not be yours to give, legate, but I would rather accept it from your hand than from an emperor who expects men to die for him whilst he sits in his palace.’

Verica emerged from the ranks of Britons. ‘There is no choice in the matter, nephew; it is only the Emperor who has the power to grant your kingdom. However, he is imperfectly formed and cannot fight.’

‘Then Rome has the wrong emperor. What is an emperor if he does not lead his men in battle?’

‘An emperor is power; power to which you and I must now submit. He is on his way here to lead the army into Camulodunum. When we go there and bow before him we will act as if he has personally achieved the greatest victory and we will laud him as the supreme man on earth, even though he is a fool that drools.’

‘And this is the man I must serve, rather than the warrior who defeated me and then saved the lives of many of my men?’

Vespasian kept his face neutral. ‘Yes, Cogidubnus, we all must serve him.’

CHAPTER XXI

V
ESPASIAN STOOD AT
the stern of the trireme, next to the trierarchus as he guided the ship into the port of Verica’s capital. Sweltering in the hot, late August sun burning down from a cloudless sky, he watched an electrical storm rumble and flash its way along the range of downs, not five miles inland, and marvelled at the strange weather that afflicted this northerly island.

‘Taranis, the god of thunder, often visits the southern downs to watch over us,’ Verica informed him, clutching the golden, four-spoked wheel pendant around his neck. ‘He will require a sacrifice.’

‘What sort of sacrifice?’

‘Well, it is normally the druids who decide, and they would burn a virgin alive in a tub. However, they’ve fled west, cursing me as a blasphemer because of my support of Rome, so it’s up to me instead.’

‘We consider human sacrifice abhorrent.’

‘I haven’t lived in Rome for three years without realising that; I’ll choose a chariot and two horses. I intend to wean my people off the more extreme practices of the druids.’

‘What exactly are druids?’

Verica sighed, long and slow. ‘They’re the priestly class, exempt from taxes and military service; they think they have a monopoly on the will and desires of the gods and so the people both fear them and stand in awe of them at the same time. They do not fear death because they believe that the soul lives on and is transferred into another body; that makes them very dangerous. I’m pleased to have got rid of them because they meddle like women and plot like younger sons; but I’m sure
they’ll be back, seeking to regain their power over my people, and the first thing they’ll try to do is kill me. They belong to no tribe and have no loyalty other than to themselves and the gods of our fathers and of this land.’

‘They’re different?’

‘Yes. When my people came to this island – the bards deem it to be about twenty-five generations ago – the people we supplanted worshipped different gods; they had built great henges in their honour, ancient beyond reckoning. The druids dedicated these places to our gods but still the presence and power of some of the island’s gods persisted and they demanded worship.’ Verica’s face darkened and his voice fell low. ‘The druids took on that responsibility and uncovered their dark secrets and rituals; they keep the knowledge to themselves and they’re welcome to it; but what I know of it fills me with dread.’

Vespasian felt chilled by the old King’s evident fear. ‘What is it that disturbs you?’

Verica looked into Vespasian’s eyes; his gaze intense. ‘Some of these gods have a real power; a cold power that cannot be used for good.’

Vespasian grimaced. ‘In the hands of priests?’

‘In the hands of fanatical priests.’

‘My experience of priests hasn’t been good.’

‘No one’s experience of priests is ever good, unless you happen to be one. My advice to you is to kill them all otherwise Rome will never hold this land. The druids will always be able to rouse the people by putting the fear of the gods into them; they know that there is no place for them under Rome so they will have nothing to lose by being your most implacable enemy.’

Vespasian looked over to Cogidubnus leaning on the rail, watching the approach of the newly built wooden jetty. ‘Would your nephew agree with you?’

‘Ask him yourself, but yes, he would. He understands, as I do, that if we are going to bring our people into the modern world and share in all the prosperity that that entails then we have to look forward; the druids only ever look back.’

Vespasian contemplated this as the ship slowed, nearing the jetty. His experience of Rhoteces, the duplicitous Thracian priest, and Ahmose, the lying priest of Amun, as well as the selfserving Jew, Paulus, who had usurped the Jewish sect he had once persecuted and had begun moulding it into an unnatural religion based upon redemption in some theoretical afterlife, had left him fully aware of the power religion had to stir men into fighting, and how susceptible that power was to abuse. ‘We shall have a hard journey west, then.’