domination, defiler of sacred ground and usurper of true gods, ruiner of kings and destroyer of hopes.
The testudo hammered into the rear of the first scattered group and the swords of the front rank hacked down any man who stood before them or simply battered them to the ground where iron-shod sandals smashed into disbelieving, upturned faces. It was called the tortoise but to those watching, astonished, from the doors and windows along the street it appeared more like an armoured galley cutting its way through a human sea, leaving in its wake a flotsam of dead and dying bodies and accompanied by an unearthly clattering, as if a hundred shields were being battered simultaneously against a hundred trees. Closer to the hated temple, the street became more crowded and logic dictated that the sheer mass of British tribesmen must slow the testudo, but the power of legs hardened by thousands of miles of marching and driven by an insatiable urge to survive somehow maintained its momentum. Behind his shield in the oven of the interior Valerius felt his mind empty and his exhausted body accept the tempo of the battle line. A screaming, unshaven face appeared and disappeared in a welter of blood. A spear thrust was met by an unbroken wall of shields. A dying man squirming beneath his feet was dispatched with a swift thrust to the throat. The world slowed but his own reactions quickened and it seemed that the gods marched at his side because he was beyond suffering now, in a place where no man could harm him. His body was a weapon of war yet at its centre was only peace. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world and it seemed to last a lifetime, but only moments later a voice he didn’t want to hear shouted in his ear.
‘Sir, the temple.’
Unwillingly, his mind returned to the real world, the world of pain, and he realized that there was nothing in front of them. To his left, the wonderful, tortured creak of a gate opening sounded like the gift of life. Still in formation with their shields raised, he led the survivors of the battle of the bridge through the walls of the Temple of Claudius.
XXXV
Inside the gate the testudo disintegrated into a slumped huddle of exhausted men. Valerius lay back against a wall with his eyes closed. He could hear the shouts of acclaim, but he really didn’t care. He was alive. For the moment that was enough.
He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through the damp thickness of his hair, relishing the feel of the cool air on his head and neck. Sweat ran in a stream down his back and his tunic felt as if he’d been swimming in it. Someone thrust a water skin into his hand and he suddenly realized how thirsty he was. When was the last time he’d drunk or eaten? His brain didn’t want him to know, but when he placed the skin to his lips the tepid, musty liquid seemed to be instantly absorbed by his brain and the skin was empty before his dust-dry mouth could benefit. He opened one eye. Lunaris stood over him silhouetted by the sun, which was still low and in the east. It didn’t seem possible it was less than two hours since dawn.
‘Bread?’ A hand like an engineer’s shovel emerged from the glare to offer a big quadrant of panis castrensis, the rough peasant bread of the lower ranks. He took it and bit into it, ignoring the wheat grains, hard as road grit, which threatened to break his teeth.
‘More water,’ he mumbled, and tossed the skin at the dark mass looming over him.
He knew they were only delaying the inevitable, but all he wanted to do was rest here against this wall with the sun on his face. Let someone else do the leading. Lunaris handed him another skin and he drank eagerly, this time savouring the feel of the water in his mouth and allowing it to run slowly down his throat.
He looked around at the men he’d brought back from the bridge in the testudo. Falco had saved them all with his suicidal charge. A fat merchant who could barely fit into his armour had never stopped being a soldier. None of them had. What was it Falco had said — you will go on your knees and seek my forgiveness before the end — well, not now and more’s the pity. He would have done it gladly just to share one more cup of wine with the old man. He closed his eyes again, and his head was filled with flashes of incidents he barely remembered witnessing. The Briton with a gladius buried in his guts growling like a dog and trying to tear with his teeth at the man who’d stabbed him. The unarmed veteran whose name he’d never know who had thrust himself into a gap in the line and held it with his dying body until he’d been chopped into ruin. Matykas, the Thracian, riding off to die when he could have run, because that’s what Rome paid him to do. Dead, all dead, yet he lived. Why? His plan had never been to hold the rebels, only to hurt them, yet he felt a terrible sense of failure. And guilt. There was no blame, he understood that. Paulinus and the legate would have applauded his actions. He was a commander who had used the forces at his disposal to do the most possible damage to the enemy. When the time came he had been strong enough to throw them into the abyss. He felt like weeping.
But he had no time for self-pity. ‘Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to give me your report?’ He used the wall to push himself to his feet. It was an effort. The armour on his back seemed to weigh three times as much as normal and his body felt as if every inch of flesh was bruised.
‘Thought you were asleep, sir.’ The duplicarius grinned, but his relief was clear. He’d had more than enough of the burden of command. ‘Three hundred and fifty effectives, if you count civilians, disabled veterans and the ration thieves from the armoury, but not including the women and children in the temple.’ That surprised Valerius. He’d thought everyone had gone with the convoy. Another problem he didn’t need. Lunaris continued: ‘Enough food and water for a week if we go easy. Defences built and manned as ordered, but we’re down to the last two hundred javelins.’ The statistic made Valerius flinch, though he kept his face immobile. He had seen how effective the spears had been at the bridge. They could be the difference between holding out for hours or days. Lunaris continued. ‘I tried to get rid of the chicken murderer who runs the temple, but he didn’t want to go. You could have heard him whine in Glevum when the lads started dumping supplies all over his pretty sanctuary and tearing up curtains for bandages. You’d think he’d be grateful we were here to save him from the barbarian hordes, but he as good as accused me of treason. God-botherers are worse than politicians.’
Valerius managed a tired smile. ‘You’ve done well, Lunaris.’ He considered the meagre forces at his disposal. In his heart he’d always known it would be like this. He had no choice but to defend what he could and be wary of what he could not. ‘We’ll put two hundred and fifty men across here in two ranks.’ He pointed to an area a dozen paces inside the gate. ‘Organize four squads of ten and position them to deal with any breakthroughs. They will be my strategic reserve. I know it’s not much, but it will have to do.’ He looked over to where the young priest, Fabius, stood uneasily with the other civilians alongside a few resting legionaries, like sheep amongst a pack of wolves. ‘The rest we’ll leave in the pronaos redoubt and when we are finally forced back they will cover us until we can join them in the temple.’ He said it matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing the price of grain in the Forum, but the words sent a chill through Lunaris. It did not matter how long the defenders held them, he was saying, or how many they killed; defeat was as inevitable as the next dawn.
Valerius replaced his helmet and the two men walked towards the south wall of the complex and the gate which bisected it. They kept their pace unhurried, aware the eye of every defender was upon them.
Two legionaries were placing the last of the timber baulks to block the arched gateway. The wall on either side of the gate was only shoulder height. Valerius looked beyond it to where the Celts waited in a sullen compact mass, half filling the area of gardens and vegetable plots. There were no taunts or challenges now, only a brooding hate-filled silence that seemed to make the air around him hum with energy. From beyond them came the howls and cries of those looting the city and the thousands more trying to reach the temple through the choked streets.
‘When they first appeared we were certain that you had been wiped out,’ Lunaris said quietly, and Valerius realized how difficult it must have been for the temple’s defenders listening to the sound of battle but able to do nothing. ‘There were only a few hundred but they tried to attack the gate and we had to use half of our reserve of spears to see them off. They’ve been warier since then. Maybe we killed their leader. Now they seem content to wait.’
‘They won’t attack until Boudicca is here to witness it,’ Valerius said with certainty. ‘She will not only want to see her revenge, she’ll want to feel it and taste it. We still have time.’
Time to wait. And while they waited, the legionaries talking quietly among themselves and dictating last messages to the more literate, Valerius watched Colonia die. It was no haphazard destruction. It was organized, directed and designed to wipe the city from the face of the earth. The rebels had already discovered a stoutly built Roman home was not easy to burn. A torch thrown on to a tiled roof only burned itself out, leaving a blackened
