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
