Paulinus stared at him. Lowly tribunes did not answer back to their commander in chief, but then perhaps this tribune was not so lowly. He cast his mind back in an attempt to fathom what political leverage Valerius might have that made him so brave. It did not occur to him that someone might be brave for its own sake. The family Valerii had once wielded influence on the Palatine; perhaps they would wield it again, and one day that influence might be useful to him. Very well, he would humour the boy.
‘I underestimate nothing. The eastern tribes are a toothless, leaderless rabble. Their kings have taken our gold and eat off our plates. The warriors sit in the shade and watch their women plant seeds all day, and they drink beer all night. Their swords are rusted to an edge that would not cut grass, oxen pull their chariots and they use their shields to water their cattle. Am I to fear them? Does Colonia fear them?’ He thought for a moment. ‘King Prasutagus still lives. I will consider his queen’s case if and when he dies, but it must wait until my return.’
‘And the druids?’
‘If what this Cearan claims is true there would already have been attacks. It is always the way. We old men counsel patience, but the young hotheads cannot keep their swords sheathed. No. Even if a few druids are spreading poison, their work is at an early stage. They are no danger yet.’
‘But they could be in future?’ Valerius suggested.
Paulinus suppressed his annoyance. ‘It is possible, but I will not jeopardize this mission on a possibility. If the tribes were to combine to threaten Colonia, I would know of it. No force of any size could gather without my knowledge in this province. The Ninth are only a few days’ march away; they would be there before the rebels reached the gates.’
‘And if they were not?’
‘Then Colonia must be held by its people.’
‘And if they cannot hold it?’
‘Then they do not deserve to keep it.’
Paulinus picked up his stylus. Valerius was dismissed. He had failed.
He expected to be ordered to Londinium immediately, but the Twentieth’s preparations were behind schedule and an extra pair of hands was not to be lightly discarded. That day and each day thereafter the legate found some new logistical crisis for him to solve, a supply line to unclog or a dispute to smooth over. The armourer went sick and his deputy turned out to be incompetent, and a new armourer must be found. Valerius thought of Corvinus back in Colonia, but the distance was too far and the time too short. Eventually he bribed the prefect commanding the Frisian auxiliaries to give him the use of a blond giant with a manic grin and Latin that sounded like a bathhouse draining. And so it went on.
On the ides of Aprilis he watched with Lunaris as governor Paulinus and his personal bodyguard marched out with the auxiliaries to join the Fourteenth legion, the massed cornicens blowing a strident fanfare and the eagle standard glittering in the fresh morning sunlight. His heart swelled as they passed, rank after rank, with their shields on their backs and their spears and equipment and a week’s rations already grating on their shoulders. The letters to their loved ones had been sent, their bellies were full and they were eager: he could see it in the way they stepped out and in the determination on their faces.
Behind them by the thousand came the mules of the supply train; no ox carts on this campaign because no roads existed where they were going, only precipitous mountain passes and boulder-filled valley bottoms that would snap an axle as if it were a toothpick. The mules were followed by more auxiliaries than Valerius had seen gathered together in one place. The Frisians and Tungrians had been joined by Vangiones and Nervians from the swamps of Germania, Gauls from every part of that vast land, and lithe, tanned hillmen from Pannonia and Moetia and Dalmatia.
‘Better them than me,’ Lunaris growled. ‘They’ll have to clear the hills and force the passes. A Black Celt on every ridge and a boulder on your helmet from every clifftop. At least when we go that job’ll have been done.’
‘You think they’ll fight?’ Valerius asked. ‘The legate of the Fourteenth has been telling whoever wants to know that the druids will pull them back to the island.’
‘They’ll fight all right,’ the big man said gloomily. ‘If the barbarians came to burn down the Temple of Jupiter would you sit and wait at the bottom of the Capitoline? No, you’d block the streets and have an archer at every window and a spearman at every corner and by the time they got to the temple there wouldn’t be enough of them left to take it. That’s why he’s taking so many of the country boys. They’ll do the dying and then the Fourteenth and the Twentieth will finish the job and take all the glory.’
‘If there’s any glory they’ll have earned it,’ Valerius said, considering the perils of a massed assault on a defended island. Any bridgehead would be paid for heavily in Roman lives. ‘Would you rather be staying behind with me?’
Lunaris shook his head. ‘No,’ he said seriously. ‘I’ve been doing this for a dozen years. Mostly digging and marching and waiting — lots of waiting. Fighting is the best part of it, even with all the torn guts and the tent- mates who don’t make it back, because it’s what we’re paid for and trained for. And because we always win. Because we’re the best.’
The next day they heard that Prasutagus of the Iceni was dead.
Valerius considered riding out after Paulinus and pressing him for a decision on the Iceni succession, but reviewing his interview with the governor convinced him that it would do more harm than good. He thought of Cearan’s earnest, handsome face and felt the hollow emptiness of having failed a friend. Yet there was always a chance Queen Boudicca would prevail without the governor’s sanction. Paulinus had dismissed her as a mere woman, but Valerius had sensed a formidable presence when he had seen her at Venta. In any case, he had done everything he could.
Another week passed and, although the legate kept him busy enough, he began to have a strange detached feeling of not belonging. Each man in the legion had a definite aim and a place in the battle line, but not him. What they did, they did for a purpose: to ensure they reached Mona with the equipment they needed in a condition that would allow them to use it to the best effect. All he did was fill gaps. He was considering asking the legate for leave to go when he received the legionary commander’s summons.
Livius received him in the principia with the harassed look of a man with too many problems and not enough time. ‘Nonsense,’ he snapped, throwing a scroll on to the campaign desk in front of him. ‘We are not ready but I am commanded to march within forty-eight hours, so march we must.’ He frowned. ‘You have done good work here, Valerius, for which I thank you, and if I had my way you would be going with us, but…’ he glanced at the scroll in front of him and gave a bitter smile, ‘orders are orders. However, you can do me a last favour. Your replacement is due in Londinium from Rome in one week on the ship that will take you back there. Mars aid me but we need him. He’ll be wet behind the ears and I can’t have him wandering around these mountains on his own or some Silurian will eat him and have his skull for an oil lamp. Choose a dozen experienced men from the First cohort as an escort and take them with you. Once they have picked up your replacement they are to follow us as they can. Judging by the governor’s dispatches we won’t have gone too far. We appear to have underestimated the obstinacy of the Celts defending the passes.’
‘Of course, sir. It will be my pleasure.’ Which was true. He couldn’t think of better company than Lunaris and his comrades from the second century. They might not relish the march, but if they weren’t marching east they’d be marching west into the arms of the druids. At least they’d be safer with him.
XXVII
Crespo stared at the thatched roofs of the walled town across the river. He’d made no attempt to conceal the approach and he knew they knew he was here because he could feel their fear.
He heard a sniff behind him and felt a twinge of annoyance.
‘Are you certain we will be safe among these savages?’ Catus Decianus asked in his nasal drawl.
‘Safe as if you were back in Rome, your honour.’ They would have been safe with half the force he had at his back. But it made the job all the easier. The men he could always depend on, Vettius and his gang of thieves and bullies, plus a few slave dealers who smelled a quick profit, formed the nucleus of the unit, but this was a big operation and he’d used Decianus’s authority to strip the Londinium garrison and form a force of a thousand men. They weren’t frontline troops, mostly legionaries nearing retirement and the remnants of shattered auxiliary units,
