Hero of Rome (28 page)

‘You want me to do it myself’ the
duplicarius
asked conversationally.

‘What about the reserves?’ Valerius ducked as a spear clattered against his helmet and skidded into the rank behind. Every instinct told him that the pressure on the right flank was growing.

‘Gracilis is in charge. He knows what to do.’

‘I hope…’

The howl of triumph from behind could not have come from any Roman throat, and suddenly the right didn’t matter at all. Because the Britons had done what they should not have been able to, and climbed the east wall in enough force to attack Valerius’s diminishing band of legionaries from the rear.

He glanced over his shoulder and was just in time to see Gracilis’s section of reserves smash into a mass of warriors racing from the northeast corner of the complex.

‘Back,’ he screamed. ‘Back to the temple.’

With even three feet of respite he would have ordered the
testudo
, but there wasn’t even an inch; every man was shield to shield and sword to sword with two or even three opponents. The only chance was to stay in formation and retreat one step at a time to the temple steps. The efforts of the archers on the temple roof kept the crisis on the right flank from becoming a rout, but he doubted that Gracilis would hold the attack from the rear for more than a few seconds. When he was overcome, the only Romans outside the temple would be dead men.

Foot by agonizing foot Valerius allowed the line to be pushed back. The pressure on his shield was growing unbearable, the scything blows of the British swords threatening to smash even the
scutum
’s sturdy structure. Beside him, Lunaris snarled and sweated, cursing his inability to fight back.

Every step they retreated allowed more of Boudicca’s warriors to pour over the wall. The soldiers of any other army would have broken. But these were Romans. Roman legionaries. They knew how to fight like no other. And they knew how to die.

Only a single, tattered rank remained. Those left behind, the dead and the injured, were trampled under the feet of Celts whose battle frenzy increased with each step closer to the temple that symbolized everything they had grown to hate in the long years since Claudius set foot on their land.

By the time Valerius felt the cool shadow cast by the temple roof less than a hundred men remained, exhausted, each bleeding from multiple cuts, scarce able to hold the heavy shields which were the only things keeping them alive. Then a roar from his left told him the inevitable had happened and Gracilis and his men were gone.

In the same moment, the line broke.

It did not really break; it disintegrated. Where a second before there had been a battered but disciplined defence, now a hundred individual legionaries fought for their very existence, trying desperately to stay alive as they backed up the steps towards the temple that was their only hope. In the maelstrom of flailing sword arms and falling bodies Valerius, shieldless now, battled with the rest. He could still see Lunaris close by, with Paulus, Luca and Messor fighting at his side. The big legionary had lost his helmet and was bleeding from a cut on his scalp, but the discipline of a dozen years of service never left him. He cut and thrust with parade-ground efficiency, never using more energy than was necessary, and killing or wounding with every stroke. The men he faced had long since learned to respect his blade and that respect allowed him to move upwards, one step at a time, towards the temple and sanctuary.

Valerius sliced at a barbarian face and moved towards his friend. Before he had taken a step, a pulse seemed to surge through the group of warriors facing him and from their midst burst the biggest Celt he had ever seen. He was one of their champions, over six feet tall, his body covered in blue tattoos intricately woven into whorls and vague animal shapes, and he was drunk on blood and possessed by the battle rage. Wounds scarred his torso but the urge to kill had overwhelmed his senses and drove him up the steps with his spear held before him in two hands.

Valerius saw him come and his mind automatically worked out how to kill him. The spear outreached the sword by several feet, but he knew if he could get past the point he could pluck the giant warrior’s life as easily as plucking a rose. A simple parry to send the spear point past his left shoulder and a back cut to chop the jaw from the snarling face. It was all about speed and timing and he had practised the move a thousand times. But he’d been fighting all this long day and maybe he got careless or maybe he’d used up all his luck. When the moment came, the iron nails of his sandals slipped on the blood-slick marble below his feet and he fell, helpless, on the steps as the tattooed Briton screamed his victory cry and rammed the leaf-shaped blade at his throat.

Paulus saved his life. The
signifer
launched himself across the stairs and diverted the blow with a cut of his
gladius
. Then, standing protectively over Valerius, he screamed insults at the Britons, daring them to try again. With a roar, the big warrior took up his challenge and darted forward, jabbing the long spear at the Roman’s eyes. Valerius scrabbled for his sword as a second Briton attacked from the left, forcing Paulus to half turn his shield to fend off the danger. It was only a momentary distraction, but, in battle, moments are the difference between life and death. The jab to the eyes was a feint and Valerius watched in horror as the spear point dropped and slipped past Paulus’s defences before he could parry it. Still his armour might have saved him, but the angle of the attack was such that the iron point found a gap between the plates to take him below the ribs, and the big warrior used his enormous strength to force and twist it deeper as the Roman’s eyes bulged and he gave a grunt of shock.

The barbarian loomed over Valerius, so close the tribune could smell the rank sweat of unwashed body. The muscles of the warrior’s massive neck bulged and he growled like an animal as he rammed the spear home still further into Paulus’s body. Only now did Valerius realize his hand held his sword. With all his strength he stabbed upwards into his enemy’s exposed throat until the point jarred against the bone where his spine met his skull. Crimson blood spurted from the gaping wound and vomited in gouts from the open mouth before the Briton finally let go his death grip on the spear.

Paulus was down, but he still lived, whimpering quietly, with that long shaft buried deep in his guts. Valerius staggered to his feet and stood protectively over his dying comrade. But before the Britons could renew their attack, hands pulled him backwards and Lunaris and Messor charged, screaming, down the steps in an attack that made the enemy hesitate. The momentary respite gave another pair of legionaries the chance to pick up their fallen tent-mate and drag him past the statues and the outer columns towards the temple.

They had one chance, but it was fading with every second. Crazed mobs of warriors gathered where Valerius’s legionaries had fought to the last, hacking at the things on the ground until they were no longer recognizable as human. A Briton raised a still twitching heart in triumph, letting it drip blood on to his face before he tore a piece from it with his teeth. Valerius staggered towards the copper-sheathed doors of the temple with the first pursuers close on his heels and then, with a final glance at the noble head of Claudius that was the centrepiece of the entrance, threw himself inside. Lunaris and Messor were the last to escape, backing in side by side and parrying the swords and spears that slashed at them. The work was so close that three barbarians forced their way inside before the men at the doors could bar them shut. The Celts died, screaming, under a dozen swords.

At last they were safe, and trapped, in the Temple of Claudius the God.

XXXVI

Paulus was dying. Agony contorted the
signifer
’s face and his flesh had taken on the waxy, yellow pallor that told only one story. The British spear was still buried deep in his stomach, and Valerius knew any attempt to remove it would only increase his friend’s suffering. He knelt at Paulus’s side and took his hand. The great strength was fading but he felt a tightening of the legionary’s fingers on his and looked down. Paulus’s eyes had been screwed tight shut but now he opened them and a tear ran from one corner down his dirt-caked cheek. He tried to say something and Valerius was forced to bend his head to make out the words.

‘I’m sorry I let you down.’ The voice was only the barest whisper. ‘Should … should have had the bastard.’

‘You didn’t let me down. You saved my life. I’m sorry I brought you here. It was a mistake. I’ve made a lot of mistakes.’

There was no reply and for a moment Valerius thought the
signifer
was gone, but the grip tightened and Paulus cried out, a long drawn-out groan.

When the legionary eventually spoke again the whisper was even weaker and Valerius barely heard the words.

‘I cannot,’ he said when he realized what he was being asked.

‘A soldier’s death, sir,’ the standard-bearer gasped. ‘A good death. We’ve both seen men die like this. Not … for … me. Please.’

Valerius hesitated, then bent low and spoke into the young soldier’s ear so there was no doubt the words would be understood. ‘Wait for me on the other side.’ At the same time he placed his sword point below Paulus’s chin and thrust. He felt the legionary shudder and perhaps it was his imagination, but there was a moment when he believed he could see the mighty spirit leave the body and fade into the darkness above him.

‘For Rome,’ he whispered.

He waited crouched over the body as the world threatened to overwhelm him. He had seen too much blood, too much death, and with each friend who passed he felt a weakening of resolve. But he knew he couldn’t allow that. He had to defend this temple to the last. Not for Catus Decianus who had sacrificed Colonia, or the governor who had abandoned the city to its fate. But for Falco and Bela and Paulus who had died to give him the opportunity. Every day he kept Boudicca here was a day’s respite for Londinium.

At last, he raised his head and took in his surroundings. This was the place of secrets, the inner sanctum of the cult of Divine Claudius. It was perhaps twenty paces long by fifteen wide, with a floor of tiled marble. It had a single doorway, the one through which they had entered, and no other. An enormous bronze statue of the Emperor in his guise as Jupiter dominated the interior from its position by the far wall, and in niches along the side walls stood other, lesser statues of members of his family.

Lunaris and the exhausted soldiers slumped to the ground close to the entrance, where they knew they would soon be needed. Across the floor and by the walls civilian refugees sprawled or huddled in little family groups, their pale, frightened faces visible in the light of a single spluttering oil lamp. At first the sheer number astonished him. There must be a hundred or more, here either because they had been too late to join the ill-fated refugee convoy or for reasons that became clearer as he began to identify individuals. Petronius, who had refused the militia the arms they needed to defend themselves, wore his sword but had decided his life was too precious to be wasted on the battlefield. He sat with a blank, almost disinterested expression beneath the statue of Claudius among four or five chests that must contain his records, but the true grounds for his defection was undoubtedly the pretty girl, young enough to be his daughter, who nestled protectively in his arms. Numidius, the engineer, had sought sanctuary in the temple he had built and could not abandon, but his scared eyes never left the butchered remains in the doorway and it was clear he was having second thoughts about his decision now. Valerius was pleased to see Fabius, the young augur, had survived, artlessly displaying the sword Lunaris had provided him with, now bloody to the hilt, with an expression of dazed wonder on his face. The sight of Agrippa, the temple keeper, was less welcome. He could already imagine the list of complaints he would have to fend off later. Two of the women appeared to be comparing dresses and a small group of Britons who had worked for the Roman authority sat slightly apart as if they weren’t certain whether they were part of this tragedy or not. And others, men who had stayed with their families out of greed or necessity or stupidity. Then his eye fell on Corvinus.

The goldsmith sat with his back against the east wall and his face lost in the shadow, but Valerius saw that he wore his militia uniform beneath his cloak and from his posture his right hand rested on his sword hilt. He had his left arm around his beautiful dark-haired wife who in turn held their week-old son. If Falco had lived he would have killed the former legionary armourer on sight, but Valerius had had more than enough killing for the day. Corvinus was a problem that would have to be dealt with, but he could wait.

‘Lunaris, I want an inventory of all food, water and equipment. Numidius!’ he called to the engineer, who scuttled to join him with a look somewhere between concern and outright fear. ‘You built this place. I need to know everything about it. How solid are the walls?’ He stared into the void above. ‘The construction of the roof? Is there any way apart from this door that they can get in or we can get out?’

Numidius quickly destroyed any faint hopes of an alternative escape route. ‘The walls are constructed of square blocks of stone, fronted with marble. The roof is of wood with marble tiles. I suppose it’s possible that with time and the right tools you could break through, but as you see it is thirty feet above you and without ladders and scaffolding is inaccessible,’ he said mournfully.

Valerius tried not to show his disappointment. ‘Well, if we can’t get out at least it means they can’t get in.’ He sniffed the musty, rank air. ‘We need a latrine area, there.’ He pointed to the furthest corner. ‘If we can’t dig a hole, at least we can provide the women with a little privacy. Raise some sort of curtain between the statues.’

Lunaris brought him the list he had asked for, and he studied it carefully. Nothing in the equipment he didn’t know about; with enough rope he might have been able to reach the roof, but there was little hope of escaping in full view of fifty thousand Britons and there was no rope in any case. The food Lunaris had stockpiled consisted of basic legionary rations: iron-hard sheets of
buccellatum
biscuit, salt pork, olive oil,
garum
and a few loaves of bread, and was sufficient for just over a week. Water was the problem. Just thirty
amphorae
for a hundred and twenty people, probably four days’ supply at most.

Again, he kept his thoughts to himself, but he ordered a guard put on the water.

‘What’s the point when we’re all going to die?’ The truculent voice came from a group at the centre of the
cella
floor and Valerius recognized Gallus, a balding young shopkeeper, sitting with the mousy little wife who didn’t know about the mistress he kept in one of Lucullus’s apartments. ‘We might as well eat and drink our fill.’

Valerius put his hand on his sword. ‘Any man who attempts to take food or water he’s not entitled to will certainly die quickly, but the rest of us still have a chance to live. We have enough water for at least four days if we ration it carefully, and the Ninth legion could be here in two.’ The announcement brought a murmur of surprise. ‘Boudicca is unlikely to keep her entire force here to deal with less than two hundred people. If we can hold out until then, the Ninth will drive them off. They won’t stand against a full legion.’ He stared at the man who had spoken, and was rewarded with a grim nod. ‘I—’

An enormous crash rattled the massive oak door and echoed around the chamber, followed by a pandemonium of women screaming in terror and men shouting in alarm. Valerius rushed to join his men at the door. The crash was repeated and the bar jumped, but was held in place by the supports.

‘Battering ram,’ Valerius shouted. ‘Put your shoulders to the door.’

The four closest legionaries responded to his cry. Again the crash was repeated, and the men recoiled from the door, holding their upper arms. He called them away, realizing he’d made a mistake. The impact of the ram could shatter bones and he couldn’t afford any more casualties.

He found Numidius by his side. ‘We have time, I think,’ said the older man. ‘The doors are six inches of solid oak and the outer surface is sheeted copper. I have had a thought.’ The final words were whispered as if the waiting Britons might hear them. Valerius drew him into a corner.

‘It was the latrine, you see,’ Numidius explained. ‘You said we could not dig a hole.’

Valerius stared down at his feet, where the floor was composed of marble tiles each eighteen inches square. ‘We can’t dig through that,’ he pointed out. ‘And even if we could you said the foundations of the temple are massive. It would be impossible.’

‘Yes.’ Numidius frowned. ‘The foundations are, but when we built the cella we made certain compensations for the British winter.’

‘Compensations?’

Numidius nodded, and it was clear he was embarrassed to talk about his innovation. ‘It is not usual, but we incorporated a hypocaust system. It was possible, you see, because the columns carry the weight of the architrave and the pediment directly to the foundations. Peregrinus was most reluctant until he endured his first winter here, but afterwards he was positively enthusiastic.’

Valerius felt his excitement grow. A hypocaust was a system of underfloor flues to carry heat through a building. Depending on the space beneath the marble floor, it could provide a potential escape route. ‘So how do we reach this hypocaust?’

‘The only way is to remove a tile.’

They bent to study the tile between them. It was mortared solidly into place and when Valerius took his dagger and chipped at the cementing he barely made a mark.

He looked up at Numidius. ‘How deep are they?’

‘Precisely two inches.’

‘And you’re sure this will provide an opening?’

The engineer sniffed. ‘I built this temple, sir. Trust me to know it. I have carried out what measurements I could.’

The rhythmic boom of the battering ram interrupted the conversation, accompanied by the muted shouts and curses of the men wielding it. Valerius ignored the noise and looked at the tile again. He turned to face the civilians. ‘I need volunteers to help loosen this tile. It will take time, but it may give some at least a chance.’ It would also keep them occupied and their minds off the fate which awaited them if the chance did not materialize. Four or five of the men stood, and one who claimed to have building experience took charge. Valerius noticed Corvinus didn’t move from his position by the wall. Deal with it now, he told himself. No point in delaying.

‘Armourer, join me at the door.’ Corvinus looked up with raw, ember-strewn eyes. He exchanged a glance with his wife and Valerius detected a nod of approval before he raised himself from the floor. So that was the way of it. Well, it changed nothing.

No privacy existed within the crowded confines of the
cella
but Valerius gave the goldsmith what he could. He took him to one side of the door, away from the soldiers who sat conserving their energy against the west wall. ‘You may consider yourself under arrest for desertion and cowardice,’ he said. ‘When we return within imperial jurisdiction I will see you stand trial for failing your comrades.’

Corvinus flinched as if he’d been struck, but shock was swiftly replaced by a bitter, knowing smile. ‘The only thing that will return to imperial jurisdiction is our bones, tribune, if the Iceni leave us even them. Your threats mean nothing to a man who is already dead.’ He started to walk away, but Valerius caught him by the arm. Beneath the cloak he felt the goldsmith half draw his sword.

‘You would fight me, but not the Britons?’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘There is death and there is death with honour, Corvinus. You could have been among the honoured dead by the river, but instead you chose to desert your comrades and friends and hide with the women and children. What will you tell them when you reach the other side? What excuse will you give for abandoning men you fought beside for twenty-five years?’

Corvinus went pale and when he spoke his voice shook. ‘Sometimes there are more important things than playing soldiers.’ His eyes strayed to his wife, who was watching anxiously with the baby on her shoulder. ‘Duty does not always mean duty to the Emperor.’

Valerius brought his face close so Corvinus could feel his contempt. ‘Do not talk to me of duty, legionary. I saw an old man walk into a wall of swords in the name of duty. That old man saved my life and the life of every proper soldier in here. Two thousand men – your tent-mates – died in the name of duty while you were counting your gold. Mention the word duty again in my presence and I’ll ram that sword down your throat. Now get back among the women where you belong.’

Corvinus turned away with a look of sheer hatred, but Valerius didn’t care. Falco had been right. He should have killed him.

Only then did he notice the battering ram had stopped, and that the silence was more ominous than anything that had gone before.