The Forest House (39 page)

The Caledonians were ranged upon the rising ground, their ranks rising in tier upon tier above the plain.

Now their chariots came rushing down the slope with the horsemen ranging about them, agile ponies careering at full tilt with their drivers swaying on the wickerwork platforms while the spearmen they carried shook their weapons and laughed.

To Gaius they were an image of beauty and terror. He understood that he was seeing the warrior soul of Britannia as Caesar and

Frontinus had seen it, sensing that after this it would never be seen in all its glory again. The chariots hurtled forward, turning at the last moment as their javelins thudded into the Roman shields, and the warriors ran out along the poles between the horses, throwing their swords glittering into the air and catching them again. They had come to this battle as if to a festival, and the sun glinted from torques and armrings. Some had mail and helmets, but most fought in brightly checked tunics or half naked, their fair skin painted with spiraling designs in blue. Gaius could hear their boasting above the rattle of the chariot wheels, and felt not terror but a terrible sorrow.

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One of the tribunes protested loudly as Agricola dismounted and a man came up to lead his horse away, but the faces of the others set grimly at this evidence that whatever happened to his army, Agricola would not flee.
They would give their lives to protect him,
thought Gaius,
and so,
he realized suddenly,
would I.
Some of the General's personal staff were dismounting as quiet orders set others cantering down the lines. Gaius reined back, uncertain what to do.

"You." The General gestured him closer. "Get down to the Tungri and tell them to spread out further.

Tell them that I know it weakens the center, but I don't want the enemy outflanking us."

As he kicked his pony into a gallop, Gaius heard the thunk of javelins slamming into shields behind him and realized that the British chariots had pulled away and their first line of infantry were moving in. He bent over the animal's neck and urged it to better speed. The space between two armies that were closing for the first, devastating exchange of missiles was no place to be. He saw the gleam of the Tungrian standard before him and the line parted to let him through; then he was gabbling his message, moving behind the men as they began to press sideways, and watching from the corner of his eye as the enemy attack expanded outward.

The British warriors were good, he thought as he saw them deflecting Roman spears with their round shields. Their greatswords were longer even than the Roman spatha, slashing weapons blunt at the tips but wickedly sharpened along the side. The Roman trumpets blared and Agricola's center bulged forward, closing with the enemy.

Gaius knew he could do no more good here with the infantry, but the General had given him no further orders; with sudden decision he kneed his mount further down the line to join the cavalry there. Over the heads of the auxiliaries he saw the battle

lines breaking up into a close, confused struggle in which the Caledonians had no room to swing their longer swords. This was the Batavians' favorite kind of fighting; they pressed forward, stabbing with their gladii and smashing enemy faces with the bosses of their shields. There was a shout from the Romans as the first line of foes gave way, and Agricola's center began to advance up the lower slopes of the mountain after them.

More slowly, the infantry to either side tried to follow them, but now the British chariots, seeing their lines thin and sensing a weakness, plunged towards them, bouncing on the rough ground. In another moment they were in among the infantry like wolves in a sheepfold, savaging the footsoldiers with sword and spear. Someone screamed at the men to close ranks; men and horses and chariots swirled in confusion; Gaius saw a blue-painted warrior loom up before him and thrust with his spear.

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In the moments that followed, things happened too fast for thinking. Gaius stabbed and parried as weapons flared around him. A chariot plunged towards him and his pony whirled, throwing him hard against the back horns of his saddle. He felt the spear wrenched out of his hand and ducked as a javelin sped towards him. The missile clanged on his helmet, caught for a moment in the crest and fell away.

Gaius blinked dizzily, understanding now why only officers wore crests on their helms in battle, but the pony, wiser than its master, was already carrying him out of danger.

For a moment he was clear; Gaius tugged his spatha from its sheath and straightened. He could see now that the chariots, having failed to break through the Roman lines, were becoming entangled within them.

A chariot lurched towards him on the uneven ground; wood crunched as a wheel hit a boulder and it slewed round. He saw the driver hacking at the traces. Whinnying wildly, the horses sprang free, joining the others that careered in panic through the battle, knocking down friend and foe.

Battle was fairly joined now; the slopes of Graupius seethed with knots of struggling men, clumping and unraveling and knotting again in a constantly shifting tapestry. But it appeared to Gaius that little by little, the Romans were gaining ground.

Then a spear seemed to thrust up from the ground before him with a snarling face behind it; his pony reared as he whacked the shaft aside with his sword and slashed downward. Red covered the blue designs as the blade bit, then the horse leaped forward and the face was gone, and Gaius was slashing and guarding with no time for thinking at all.

When he next had a moment to focus, they were well up the mountain. From the left he heard shouting; the Caledonians who had been watching the battle from the summit were now descending, leaping down the slope with appalling swiftness to take the Romans from the rear. Could Agricola see it? Gaius heard once more the bray of the Roman trumpets, and grinned as the four wings of cavalry the General had been reserving swung into action at last. They outflanked the Britons and hammered them against the anvil of the infantry; then the true slaughter began.

Calgacus's force had lost all cohesion. Some men were still fighting, others tried to flee, but the Romans were everywhere, killing or making prisoners only to slay them in turn as yet more enemy warriors came their way. Gaius saw a gleam of white near by and spotted Agricola in the middle of the battle with only two tribunes and a couple of legionaries to guard him. He turned his mount that way.

As he neared them, one of the tribunes shouted. Three Britons, their finery soaked in blood and armed only with knives and stones, were charging. Gaius kicked the pony hard. He swung and his blade tore a
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crimson gash through the chest of the first man. Then his horse stumbled on something soft; Gaius felt himself falling, released his shield and wrenched himself free as the animal went down. He saw a knife flash and felt pain sear his thigh; the horse tried to struggle to its feet and the knife flared again, sinking into its neck; the animal jerked and went back down.

Gaius got up on one elbow, sank his own dagger into the Briton's chest and then used it to cut the throat of the dying horse. Then, grimacing as his thigh began to throb, he started to get up, searching around for his shield and sword.

"You all right, lad?" Agricola was looking down at him.

"Yes, sir!" he started to salute, realized that the dagger was still in his hand, and sheathed it again.

"Fall in, then," said the General, "we still have work to do."

"Yes —" Gaius began, but Agricola was already turning away to give someone else an order. One of the tribunes helped him to his feet, and he tried to catch his breath.

Blood had dyed the bracken at his feet a deeper crimson. The field seemed a mass of broken men and weapons, and those enemies left alive were scattering, pursued by the cavalry. The Romans on foot followed more slowly as the Caledonians fled towards the forest on the other side of the mountain.

Agricola ordered some of the men to dismount and beat through the wood while the others circled round behind it.

It was at the edge of the wood as dusk was falling that Gaius whirled to face a man who sprang out at them. He swung instinctively, but he was tired and the blade turned in his hand, taking the warrior on the side of the head and bearing him to the ground. He drew his dagger and bent over the man to finish him, and swore as a bloody hand seized his arm. He lost his balance and came down on top of his enemy; the two of them rolled over and over, fighting for possession of the blade.

Gaius's arm began to shake as muscles that had never quite recovered from the old wound where the boar stake had gone into his shoulder began to give way. Panic tapped his last reserves of energy, and his fingers closed on the other man's throat. For a moment they heaved, the dagger digging uselessly into his armor. Then all the fight went out of the other man and he lay still.

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Shaking, Gaius pulled himself upright and plucked the weapon from his enemy's nerveless fingers. He bent over to finish the job he had begun and found himself staring into Cynric's dazed eyes.

"Don't move!" he said in British, and the other stilled. Gaius looked quickly around him. "I can save you

— they're beginning to take hostages. Will you surrender to me now?"

"Roman." Cynric spat, but weakly. "I should have left you in the boar pit!" It was then that Gaius realized the other man had recognized him as well. "Better for me . . .and for Eilan!"

"You have as much Roman blood as I do!" Guilt added venom to Gaius's reply.

"Your mother sold her honor! Mine died!"

Gaius found himself pushing down on the blade, and at the last moment realized that was what Cynric wanted him to do.

"You saved my life once. Now I give you yours, and Hades take your damned British pride! Surrender, and another day you can fight me." He knew this was foolish; even lying in his blood Cynric looked dangerous. But saving him was the only thing he could do for Eilan.

"You win . . ." Cynric's head fell back in exhaustion, and Gaius saw new blood seeping from the gashes on his arms and thighs, ". . . today . . ." Their eyes met, and Gaius saw the hatred still burning in his eyes.

"But one day you will pay . . ." He fell silent as the wagon that was picking up the wounded creaked towards them.

Gaius watched two battered legionaries load him in with the others, his satisfaction in the Roman victory dissipating as he realized that he had lost his friend as surely as if he had seen Cynric die before his own eyes.

With darkness Agricola called off the pursuit, not wishing to risk his men on unfamiliar ground. But for the Caledonians who survived it was not yet over. Far into the night the Romans could hear women
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calling as they searched the battlefield. Over the next few days returning scouts reported an ever-widening circle of devastation. The land that had once supported a thriving people was now a silent world in which the bodies of women and children killed by their own men to save them from slavery gazed blankly at the heavens, and the smoke of burned housesteads darkened the weeping sky.

When the numbers were finally tallied it was estimated that wounds or battle had accounted for ten thousand of the enemy; while only three hundred and sixty Romans died.

As Gaius rode along the column of men marching south to winter quarters, he remembered the words of Calgacus:
"To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles they call Empire; and where they
make a desert, they call it peace."

Certainly the North was peaceful now, the last hopes for British freedom as dead as the men who had defended it. It was
this,
more than the fact that the despatches he carried included a very flattering description of his own conduct on the battlefield, that made Gaius realize that he must become entirely a Roman now

Nineteen

Despite Agricola's hopes, the pacification of the North was not to be neatly accomplished with a single battle. And though the people of Rome danced in the streets when the triumphant account of Mons Graupius was proclaimed, a great deal remained to be done to secure the victory. The despatches that Gaius bore southward included an order for him to return as soon as his wounds were healed, for the Governor was not inclined to let so useful a young man go to waste in Londinium.

One of Gaius's assignments was to visit the compound where they were keeping the more important prisoners. Cynric was still there, scarred and embittered, but alive, and grimly triumphant that Calgacus had not been captured to grace Agricola's triumph in Rome. Indeed, no one seemed to know what had happened to the British leader. There were rumors that the Druid Bendeigid was hiding out in the hills.

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"I was taken in arms, and expect no mercy," said Cynric in a momentary softening, "but if your general has any regard for you, ask him to pardon the old man. I pulled you out of the boar pit, but he saved your life. For that, I think you owe him something, don't you?"

And Gaius had agreed. In truth, his debt was greater than Cynric knew, and since it could not be proven that Bendeigid had fought against Rome, Agricola was willing to let word be circulated through the North that the Druid could safely return home.

In the event, it was not until the Governor himself headed south to prepare for his return to Rome that Gaius was given leave to do the same. And so it was the end of winter by the time he found himself on the road to visit his father in Deva, free at last to follow the instructions Julia had given him months before to make his peace with Eilan.

Winter in the North had been black and chill, with bitter winds and nights that seemed to have no end.

Even this far south the air was brisk, though the first buds were beginning to tip the branches with green, and Gaius was glad of his wolfskin cloak. In Britain even the deified Julius had sometimes worn three tunics, one above the other, against the cold.

It felt strange to ride through a country that was at peace. It seemed to Gaius that everything must have changed since last he saw it, as if he had been gone for years. But as he neared Deva, the raw wind that blew in off the estuary was the same, and the dark mountains that hung on the western horizon were the brooding shadows that had haunted him since he was a child. He rode past the mighty embankments of the fortress to the main gate, and found the timber stockade that crowned them only a little more weathered than he remembered. It was he himself that had changed.