Masters of Rome (3 page)

‘So that you can carry on your petty squabbles living on the fringes of the world?'

‘It may be the fringes of
your
world, but this island is our whole world and before you came we were free to organise our lives according to our own laws and customs. Can you blame us for wanting to keep it that way?'

‘No, but you're being impractical.' Sabinus shivered again, his toes were frozen. ‘Rome has come to stay and you'll cause the death of many of your people realising that.'

‘Not now that we have you.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Today is the spring equinox; the few survivors from your escort have wetted the altars of our gods with their blood in honour of the day – but not you. You're the one we came for. We knew that to get you, it had to be before you went out on campaign. You wouldn't have believed a summons from Plautius after.'

Sabinus' teeth started to chatter as a deep chill crept up his legs. ‘How did you forge his seal?'

‘If you have access to documents with his seal intact on it then it's not that difficult; you've got three months to work it out.'

‘What for? Why not just kill me now?'

‘Oh, you're too precious for that. It would be a waste. The druids have decided that the most potent sacrifice to offer the gods on behalf of Caratacus – to strengthen him in his struggle – is a Roman legate.' Alienus raised his eyebrows and pointed at Sabinus with a half-smile. ‘That would be you.' He indicated with his head towards the druids who were standing in the golden rays of the setting sun that flooded through two of the arches in the henge to exactly illuminate the altar stone. ‘And Myrddin, the head of their order, who knows about these things, has decided that the most auspicious day and location for that sacrifice will be the summer solstice in the grove of the sacred springs.'

Sabinus looked over to the druids as they continued their chant and realised that no heat was coming off the sun's rays but, rather, a cold power, filled with malice, emanated from the group, chilling its way up him like a series of freezing breaths; and
yet Alienus seemed unaffected. Sabinus' mind started to slow, rendering it incapable of questioning. His eyes began to frost over; with a final effort he spat a weak globule of vomit-tainted saliva into the spy's face. ‘I'll be gone by then. My brother will come for me.'

Alienus wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smiling without humour. ‘Don't worry, Myrddin wants me to ensure that he does come and that he brings his doomed legion with him. I think you'll agree that two legates would be much more powerful than one; and a brace of brothers would be the most potent sacrifice to win the gods' favour for the army that Caratacus is now assembling. And Myrddin always gets what he wants.'

Sabinus' vision went white as the coldness settled on his heart; he felt a malevolent presence draw him away from consciousness and he screamed until he was deafened. But no sound emerged from his frozen lips.

PART I

B
RITANNIA
, S
PRING AD
45

CHAPTER I

V
ESPASIAN SECURED THE
leather thongs of his chinstrap with a tight knot, pulling the articulated cheek-guards close about his face. He shook his head; the helmet stayed firm. Satisfied, he nodded at the slave waiting upon him; the man – in his early twenties – stepped forward and draped a deep red, heavy woollen cloak about his shoulders, fastening it with a bronze brooch in the shape of a Capricorn, the emblem of the II Augusta. Despite the two mobile braziers in the tent, there was a morning chill and Vespasian was pleased with the garment's extra warmth. He grasped the hilt of his sword, tugged it, checking the weapon was loose in its scabbard, and then glanced at the slave as he stepped back, his task complete. ‘You may go, Hormus.'

With a short bow, Hormus turned and disappeared through dividing curtains into the sleeping area at the rear of the
praetorium
tent – the headquarters of the legion and living area of its legate at the heart of the II Augusta's camp.

Picking up a cup of warmed wine from a low table, Vespasian strode over to his desk, covered in neat piles of waxed wooden tablets and bundles of scrolls; he sat down and opened the despatch that had caused him a sleepless night. Sipping his morning drink, he reread it a couple of times, his full face drawn into a strained expression, and then clacked the tablet down. ‘Hormus!'

‘Yes, master?' the slave answered, scurrying back through the curtains.

‘Take this down and then have a messenger set out with it immediately.'

Hormus sat at his smaller, secretary's desk, took up a stylus, poised it over a clean sheet of wax and nodded his readiness to his owner.

‘To Gaius Petronius Arbiter, senior tribune of the Fourteenth Gemina, from Titus Flavius Vespasianus, legate of the Second Augusta, greetings.

‘My brother, Titus Flavius Sabinus, did not arrive at the Second Augusta's camp around the time of the spring equinox; nor was there any meeting scheduled here between General Plautius, myself and my brother. I know of Tribune Alienus; he is the grandson of the late Verica of the Atrebates. I vaguely recall coming into contact with him a few times whilst he has been serving on Plautius' staff during the last two years and I have no reason to doubt his integrity; but neither do I have any reason to believe that his loyalties may not still lie with the rebels. What was he doing leading my brother to a meeting that did not exist? If you are positive that it was to here that they set out fifteen days ago then I can only assume that Alienus was, after all, never truly one of us but, rather, a Britannic spy. Therefore, my brother is either a prisoner or, the gods forbid …' Vespasian paused, not wanting to say the word that had tormented him all night as he contemplated Sabinus' possible fate.

Although Sabinus – almost five years Vespasian's senior – had terrorised him as a child and treated him with scorn as a young man, their relationship had gradually changed over the last dozen years or so and matured into one of mutual respect. It had been Vespasian's part in helping his brother recover the lost Eagle of the XVII Legion that had brought the two siblings close enough to communicate without constant bickering. Sabinus had been under threat of death from the Emperor Claudius' powerful freedman, Narcissus, for his part in the assassination of Caligula; his fellow conspirators had all been executed. However, owing to the intervention of the brothers' old acquaintance, Pallas, fellow freedman to Narcissus, Sabinus' role had been covered up and his life spared on condition that the siblings retrieved the final Eagle still missing after the German rebel, Arminius, destroyed three legions in the Teutoburg Forest in the year of Vespasian's birth, thirty-six years previously.

Although the Eagle's return to Rome did not go exactly as planned, it was recovered and the brothers found themselves
back in favour with the real power in Rome: not the Emperor but his freedmen. Their success had forced Sabinus to admit that he owed his brother his life and it was with a heavy heart that Vespasian completed his sentence: ‘… dead.'

Vespasian waved a hand, dismissing his slave, and downed the rest of his wine, praying to Mars, his guardian god, that somehow Sabinus was still alive; although why the Britons would spare any captives he did not know as they were well aware that Plautius refused to bargain with their lives. To be sold into slavery to the tribes in the north or the west was the best that any man could hope for and that was a living death. But, if that was the case, at least there would be a chance of finding him.

The two guards outside the tent crashing to attention and the sound of someone entering brought him out of his reverie. The prefect of the camp, Maximus, the third most senior officer in the legion, marched briskly in and snapped an immaculate salute honed by almost thirty years of service.

Vespasian stood out of respect for his junior in rank but senior in experience. ‘Yes, Maximus?'

‘The legion is deployed, sir! We're awaiting your orders should the parley prove to be unsuccessful.'

‘Is Cogidubnus talking with them?'

‘They wouldn't allow him and his two bodyguards to enter the fort so he had to negotiate from outside the gate; he's still up there.'

‘Very well; I'm on my way.'

Vespasian walked out through the gates of the II Augusta's camp, built on a low flat-topped hill that ran gently down to a stream at its base. The guards on the gate, staring rigidly ahead, presented arms with overemphasised stamps as he passed.

His primus pilus, Tatius, the most senior centurion of the legion, and his thick-stripe tribune, Valens, were waiting outside along with the thin-stripe tribunes: five of them, teenagers or in their early twenties, and here to learn. A quarter of a mile ahead of them stood another hill, round like a giant molehill, three hundred feet high and half a mile across at its base, which stood
apart from the surrounding undulations for no apparent reason other than to provide a formidable fortified refuge; and fortified and formidable it was. Three-quarters of the way up its summit, two great ditches, each ten feet deep, had been carved out of its circumference and filled with fire-hardened, pointed stakes. The slope before them was steep and had been cleared of all trees and bushes, except, as Vespasian had noted on his circuit of the fort upon arrival, the western slope on the far side; that was too steep for an assault and bushes had been allowed to flourish on it. Behind the inner ditch, the excavated earth had been piled up and packed down to make a steep mound on top of which a palisade of thick logs, twice the height of a man, had been constructed. Hundreds of warriors lined its length and behind them, amongst the scores of round huts that covered the summit, waited many more along with their women and children, plenty of whom, Vespasian had learnt from bitter experience, were capable of using a sling or hurling a javelin to deadly effect.

On the downwards slope between Vespasian and the hill-fort stood the II Augusta in two lines of five cohorts each; rank upon rank of iron-clad heavy infantry, their burnished helmets glowing golden in the newly risen sun as they stood, motionless, beneath their standards fluttering in a chill breeze. Vespasian had ordered this display not because he intended to send the full might of his legion against the enemy; the ditches would make that impracticable and a waste of legionary life. No, the noncitizens of the more expendable Gallic auxiliary cohorts would make the first assault. The parade was purely to intimidate the defenders and aid Cogidubnus, the new King of Rome's allies, the confederation of the Atrebates and the Regni, in his negotiations with the chieftain of this sub-tribe of the Durotriges who had been trapped in their hilltop redoubt by Vespasian's lightning move inland, to the northwest, in the first days of the new campaigning season.

The thrust had been initiated by the report from a Britannic spy, in Cogidubnus' pay, of the muster of a large war band at the fort, perhaps under the command of Caratacus himself, in preparation to strike eastwards, behind the line of the II Augusta's
advance, to harry their supply lines in order to force the legion to turn and deal with them, thus delaying considerably their spring campaign.

The legion's arrival and surrounding of the fort the previous evening had been so swift that none of the Britons had managed to escape; those who had made it over the palisade had been quickly cut down or picked up by the legion's Batavian auxiliary cavalry, which had skirted around the fort specifically to prevent anyone escaping and calling for aid. The spy's estimate that there were upwards of four thousand men of fighting age within had been confirmed by prisoners less willing to endure the knives of their inquisitors. However, they had all denied Caratacus' presence to the point of death.

Caratacus' plan will not work now, Vespasian thought with a self-congratulatory half-smile, putting his anxiety for his brother to one side and concentrating on the matter in hand. The scene before him would have impressed him four years ago when he had first taken command of the II Augusta, but now, after two seasons' campaigning in Britannia, it was a common sight for him; he counted them in his head and reckoned that this was his ninth siege.

Although the defences were almost a mile in circumference, there was but one entrance and that was facing Vespasian; but it was not a straight route up the hill to get there. The crossing points in each ditch were at different points, forcing an attacker to zigzag during the ascent, exposing their flanks to constant missile fire from the men on the walls. Many auxiliaries would die in a frontal assault just to reach the gates and then many more would perish as they tried to batter them down with the ram that stood ready, encased in a wooden housing covered with dampened leather to protect it from the fire-pots that would surely be hurled down from above.

But Vespasian was hoping that it would not come to that as he watched three mounted men, Britons, turn their horses and ride away from the gates. As they did there was a commotion on the palisade next to them; a figure jumped down, rolling as he landed, before fluidly regaining his feet and pelting towards the
three riders. One slowed, braving the few javelins hurled down at the fugitive, and leant back, his arm outstretched towards the fleeing man who leapt, grabbing the proffered hand, and using his momentum swung himself up behind the rider. The horse reared in fright, almost unseating the men, before its rider brought it back down with a brutal tug of the reins and kicked it forward to thunder down the hill in the wake of his two comrades, now passing through the gap in the outermost ditch.