Hero of Rome

XXXI

Valerius watched the tail of the convoy lumber down the hill towards the gap in the ancient Trinovante walls and the long journey to Londinium. When the road was finally empty he waited for a few moments before turning and walking slowly back through the arch into Colonia.

‘Will you inspect my men, tribune?’

Falco stood on the main street outside the goldsmith’s shop alongside Corvinus. Normally a hundred people would be in this section even at this hour, buying or selling or just looking. Now it was eerily silent. An empty wicker birdcage rolled back and forth outside one of the other shops and the curtain flapped in an empty doorway.

‘It would be my privilege, Primus Pilus.’ Valerius bowed. ‘And perhaps you would do me the honour of inspecting mine.’

The militia commander looked pleased at the compliment. Strange that the years seemed to have dropped away from him during the long, punishing night, while the goldsmith’s burden appeared to have doubled.

They walked towards the Forum past Lucullus’s townhouse and Valerius remembered the day he’d read his father’s letter pleading for his return to Rome. A shiver ran through him and he looked up at the sun rising strong and bright over the roof of the great temple. It brought back memories of other suns; fierce Tuscan suns and suns glittering on the azure sea at Neapolis, the sun on his back when he had made love to his first woman and the sun that had highlighted the stark bones on his mother’s face a week before she died. There had been so many suns. Would this be his last?

Falco said sadly, ‘My slaves buried the amphorae with my best wines in a pit outside the east gate. I didn’t have the heart to smash them and watch all those years of effort go to waste. A pity you didn’t arrive a few days earlier — we could have given them the send-off they deserved.’

‘Anything is better than leaving them for the Celts,’ Corvinus said bitterly, and Valerius wondered what he’d done with the accumulated treasures and profits of nine years. Buried, most likely, somewhere safe where he could recover them if… He realized he’d not seen the gold-smith’s wife among the women in the carts. But then there had been so many.

They reached the temple precinct where Lunaris and the soldiers from the Londinium garrison were already working to reinforce the main gateway.

‘I want every spare weapon brought here. Spears, swords, bows, even stones, anything that can stop a man.’

‘Petronius has the key to the armoury,’ Falco pointed out.

Valerius called for his clerk. He scrawled something quickly on a wax tablet and handed it to the wine merchant. ‘This is my order to open the armoury and empty it. If he refuses or attempts to delay, break down the doors. Lunaris!’ he roared.

The big man laid down the baulk of timber he was carrying towards the gate and jogged across to them. ‘Sir,’ he acknowledged, his broad face shining with sweat.

‘Water?’

Lunaris frowned. ‘There’s a well in the far corner and a tank in one of the buildings on the north side that’s fed by a bucket chain from the river. Only Mithras knows how long we can depend on them.’

‘Not for long. Get some men and gather every amphora you can find. I need them filled and sealed and then stored inside the temple with a guard over them. Food, too. Have every house searched and what food there is brought here.’ He studied the sun again. Its heat was already making the red-tiled roofs of the temple complex shimmer. ‘And make sure every man has a full water skin. I don’t mind if they die but I don’t want them dying of thirst.’ He saw Lunaris hesitate. ‘What?’

‘The temple. We’ve been having a problem with the priests. They don’t want to let us near the place and the Mules are frightened they offend the god. We can’t even get into the offices and stores.’ He nodded to the buildings of the east range, where two white-robed men stood outside a doorway watching the soldiers suspiciously. Something else he ought to have thought of, Valerius realized. He should have insisted the augurs and their masters were evacuated with the convoy.

‘Leave the priests to me,’ he said and marched off towards them.

Lunaris grinned. Suddenly he felt a little sorry for the bloodsucking chicken murderers who’d been making his life difficult all morning.

Valerius recognized the younger priest as the augur who had refused payment for telling his future seven months earlier. What was it the man had said? You have much to gain but more to lose if you continue along the road you have chosen. Well, he had gained Maeve and then lost her. He had followed his road here, where there was more to lose still. He knew the perils of meddling with the imperial cult. Retribution was more likely to be earthly than divine and the punishments were very specific, very painful and very permanent. But he had a more immediate concern. He had been ordered to defend Colonia, and defend it he would. Even if it was only this small portion of it. At any cost.

‘You are in charge of the temple?’ he asked the older of the two, a bulky man with thinning fair hair and frightened eyes that never stayed still.

‘Marcus Agrippa,’ the priest said, as if his name should be familiar. ‘I have responsibility for the temple of Divine Claudius and I must protest at the high-handed manner in which your soldiers are desecrating this sacred ground. I intend to write to Rome, sir,’ he blustered, ‘and I will mention your name.’

Valerius smiled coldly and looked around to where Lunaris was now jogging up the temple steps with an amphora under each arm. The younger priest recognized the dangerous change in the atmosphere and stepped away from his colleague.

‘By order of the governor, this temple and everything and everyone in it are now under military authority.’ He had no orders from the governor, but compared with sacrilege it seemed a minor offence. ‘I’m sure Divine Claudius as a military man will understand. You are obstructing a vital military operation and under military law may be subject to summary justice. What’s inside here?’ He pushed between the two men and shook the door, which was solid and obviously locked.

‘That is a private area,’ the older priest cried. ‘There is nothing of military value there.’

‘Let me be the judge of that.’ Valerius put his foot to the wooden panel and the lock snapped, allowing the door to swing open. He looked inside. ‘You will take every piece of furniture and every carpet, every statue and every wall hanging and carry them to the temple. Tell the tall soldier there that I want the area between the columns fortified around the area of the pronaos.’

‘But this is…’ the priest protested.

Valerius very deliberately slid his sword from its scabbard. The gladius came free with an ominous whisper and the edge glinted blue in the morning sunlight. ‘Perhaps you did not understand the meaning of summary justice.’

The priest’s mouth dropped open and he scuttled through the door, from where there came the satisfying sounds of furniture scraping on the mosaic floor.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he growled at the young augur.

‘I wondered where I could find a sword, sir,’ the boy said, nervously eyeing the gladius.

Valerius almost laughed, but he knew that would have shamed the lad. Courage could be found in the most unlikely places and he had need of all the courage he could get. He had another warrior. ‘Well…’

‘Fabius, sir,’ the boy volunteered.

‘Well, Fabius, when you’ve finished here talk to Lunaris at the temple. Tell him I said to station you in the pronaos.’

He walked the seventy paces back to the temple studying his surroundings, seeking out anything that could give the defenders an advantage, or any vulnerable point where the enemy could gain one in their turn. The front wall with the gateway in the centre was the most obvious weakness and therefore the most likely place the Britons would attack. So, when the time came, if he was still alive, that was where he would place his strongest force and he would use that wall to wear them down. He would keep a strong reserve — he shook his head. How could he use a word like strong in a situation like this? As strong as he could afford, then — by the temple steps ready to react if the barbarians broke through anywhere. Yes, he was satisfied he could make them pay dearly for the front wall.

But there were four walls. What about the east, west and north? He considered the east first. Sturdy single-storey offices and storerooms beneath a tiled roof that pitched upwards and ended where it met the wall, which on the sheer outer face was higher by far than the combined height of two men. The north? He realized there was a gap in his knowledge and abruptly changed direction and marched out of the front gate to make a circuit of the outer walls. The inner wall was a continuation of the covered walkway which also included the west side of the precinct but outside, he noted with satisfaction, it backed directly on to the slope which fell away to the flat meadows that edged the river. An enemy without siege equipment would have to be very determined to climb the slope and then take on a surface without the slightest hold for hand or foot. He gazed down towards the meadow, where the thick, sweet grass ended so abruptly against the silver ribbon of the water. That was the key. This was an enemy without climbing ladders and siege towers or the knowledge to manufacture them. An enemy who favoured frontal attack above all else. Yes, it would do. But when he rounded the corner he discovered something that wouldn’t do at all. Along the outer west wall an almost continuous line of crude lean-to shacks had been built, which, on closer inspection, were being used to store building materials. Any of them could make a ready platform for an enemy assault.

He stopped at the gate on his way back to the temple, where Gracilis, the Twentieth’s hard-case wolf hunter from the Campanian mountains, was supervising the strengthening of the defences.

‘Take some men and tear down the huts along the west wall. And while you’re at it, clear everything for a javelin throw in front of this gate. I want a killing ground from there to about there.’

Gracilis grinned and saluted. Like all legionaries, the only thing he liked better than fighting and drinking was destroying someone else’s property. ‘Should we burn them, sir?’ he said hopefully.

Valerius shook his head. No point in creating smoke to warn the enemy. ‘Just break them up and add them to the barriers.’

A line of legionaries passed water jars into the interior of the temple as Lunaris watched the final pieces of the barricade around the pronaos being put into place between the massive pillars. The pronaos formed the outer area of the temple and behind it lay the cella, the inner sanctum of the cult of Claudius. ‘Kind of you to send me the reinforcements,’ the big man said. Valerius was puzzled, until Lunaris pointed to where Fabius peered from behind a padded couch propped against one of the columns. Someone had provided him with a helmet several sizes too large and it sat on his head like a cooking pot.

‘You may thank me for him later.’

Lunaris looked thoughtful. ‘Maybe they won’t come.’

Valerius stood back as one of his men carelessly threw a bust of the Emperor Augustus on to the top of the barricade. ‘In that case you can join me in the sack when they throw me into the Tiber.’ He looked up at the temple above them. ‘Do we have any archers?’

‘Not among our lot that I know of. A few of the veterans may be hunters and I’ve seen some of the auxiliary cavalry practising with bows. Why?’

Valerius pointed to the temple roof. ‘If we can get a dozen men up there they could cover the whole perimeter. I don’t see how the Britons can make a direct assault anywhere but the southern wall, but-’

He was interrupted by a shout from the direction of the gate and turned to see Falco at the head of a line of veteran militia, each with a bundle of pila in his arms. The wine merchant’s round face glowed pink with indignation.

‘Enough to supply an army,’ he fumed. ‘That damned man. Enough spears for every soldier and this is what’s left. Shields and swords too, bright as when they were forged. And for years we have made do with…’

‘And how is our good quaestor?’ Valerius asked mildly. ‘Will he take his place in the line?’

‘Vanished. He hasn’t been seen since the meeting. Just as well. If I could lay my hands on him he’d wish he was with the rebels.’

‘I doubt we’ll miss his presence. Come. We need a stockpile of spears thirty paces behind the south wall, and another by the steps.’

Falco looked at the bustle of preparations going on around him. ‘So, you mean to defend the temple. I thought-’

‘No, we will fight them first beyond the walls. I am sorry,’ Valerius apologized. ‘I should have kept you better informed.’

The wine merchant shook his head. ‘The last of the militia won’t come in from the outlying farms for a few hours yet. Time enough then. We would have heard from the cavalry pickets if there was any immediate threat.’

‘We will place any civilians who are willing to fight here, in the temple, with a stiffening of my men. I want only hardened soldiers in our battle line.’ Valerius imagined the terrified merchants, craftsmen and servants facing battle-crazed British champions, the bloody chaos of a splintered shield wall. ‘I doubt they’d stand for long and who could blame them. If the Britons do not take fright at the sight of us…’

Falco laughed. ‘That was a pretty fantasy you spun for the council. I almost believed it myself.’

They walked from the temple precinct back to where the ground fell away towards the river. Below them was the meadow where Valerius had inspected Falco’s militia during his first week in Colonia. It seemed a lifetime ago. The river encircled it in a long curve, wide and deep enough thanks to the recent rains to provide an effective barrier against an advancing enemy with a need to move fast.

‘I will burn the bridges, all but one.’ He pointed to the main crossing that carried the road from Colonia north to Venta. ‘That will be our bait. They are fighters, the Britons, but not soldiers. They will be drawn to the bridge because behind the bridge is where we will make our stand and their first instinct will be to annihilate us. Utterly.’

‘But what if…’

Valerius understood his plan’s weakness. ‘The cavalry will patrol the near bank to ensure we are informed of any general crossing, but I do not think it will happen. If they want Colonia they must destroy us, Falco. By offering ourselves to Boudicca we can buy enough time for Paulinus to counter-march his legions from Mona. Failing that, the Ninth is only five days away in Lindum; it’s possible they are already on their way to join us. If we cannot save Colonia, at least we may be able to win time for Londinium.’

A shout from one of the legionaries working on the temple defences interrupted them. Valerius instinctively turned to the northeast and saw the flare as a beacon blazed at the signal tower on the ridge. He knew the men in the tower would also be straining their eyes to the north and that twenty miles away on the far horizon they could see a tiny echo of the flame they had just lit. It would only be seconds before it was extinguished, he was sure, but it had done its job. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for the Tungrian auxiliaries at the station on the Venta road who had stayed at their posts to the end.

They would not be the last.

‘She is coming, then,’ Falco said solemnly.

‘Did you ever doubt it?’

The older man shook his head. ‘At least the women and children are safe.’

Bela rode in an hour later slumped over the neck of a blown horse near crippled by the vivid red slash where a sword had sliced its haunches and groaning with the agony of an iron spear point still embedded in his ribs. Two of the Thracians held their commander upright in the saddle long enough for him to make his report to Valerius.

‘Cowards. They ambushed us in a wood.’ Bela’s face shone with sweat and he flinched with the pain of each word. ‘They blocked the way with a felled tree and were on both sides of the road. Spears, arrows and slings out of hiding and we had no reply. At first our women stayed among the wagons, but what could they do when one after the other they saw their little ones spitted by arrows or spears? In their terror they sought any way out of the trap. But there was no way. We…’ His body shuddered at the memory. ‘We could hear the screams from among the trees.’ He raised his head to look Valerius in the eye. ‘They will have spared none.’

Valerius thought of all the escapees he had helped into the wagons less than twelve hours before. The sad, grateful smiles on the faces of mothers torn between the hurt of being separated from their husbands and gratitude that at least their children would be safe. He wondered about the fate of the blind old man and the whores who had given up their places in the cart. Were they picked off one by one by their faceless enemy? Did they rush into the woods to be butchered? It didn’t matter. He had failed them all. This was his fault, in his arrogance and his pride. But there were things he needed to know before he could mourn them.

‘Bela, who were they and how many were there?’ Was it possible Boudicca had already bypassed Colonia and was making for Londinium? The Thracian was on the point of collapse, but this was no time for pity. He had to know. He laid a hand on Bela’s shoulder and felt the two men holding him stiffen protectively. ‘Tell me,’ he demanded.

‘A few hundred, no more.’ The cavalryman coughed, and a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his lip to his chin. ‘Locals, I think, scum taking advantage of the chaos and lured by the prospect of blood and gold.’ His head slumped forward and Valerius released him.

In a flat voice the trooper on Bela’s left said, ‘We charged them six times, and six times they repulsed us. We are all that is left. He would have stayed and died with the rest if we had not carried him away.’

‘I know,’ Valerius said, patting him gently on the arm. ‘Take him to the infirmary and get some rest. Say nothing of this to anyone.’

He sent for Falco, who read the look on his face and turned pale.

‘All?’ he asked quietly.

Valerius nodded. ‘The Thracians did what they could, but there were not enough of them.’

Falco closed his eyes and swayed on his feet and Valerius knew he was thinking of his plump wife, as courageous as any soldier as she sat stiff and erect with their nine-year-old son in the first wagon. But he could not be allowed to think for too long.

‘Will your men fight better for knowing or not knowing?’

The wine merchant’s eyes snapped open and his nostrils flared. ‘You forget yourself, tribune,’ he rasped, and Valerius had a glimpse of the old Falco, who had terrorized the Twentieth legion for two decades. ‘The Colonia militia will fight and that is all you need to know.’

‘I need them to fight with fire in their bellies not tears in their eyes.’ Valerius kept his voice hard. This man was his friend, but he could not afford to show weakness.

‘If I can fight with both, they can fight with both,’ Falco said fiercely. ‘The answer is that I have served with these men for a lifetime, they are my comrades and they deserve to know. The veterans of the Colonia militia will stand, they will fight and they will die, tribune, and you will go on your knees and seek my forgiveness before the end.’ He turned and walked stiffly away, an old man carrying all the burdens of a life on the march on his shoulders in a single moment.