The Spear of Crom Read online

  ‘What do we do now, sir?’ Cetillus, one of the new recruits, said.

  Fergus, realising the young trooper was addressing him, looked around uncomfortably.

  Where was Sedullus? To his surprise and consternation he saw that the decurion was not taking part in the defensive circle but had ridden into the centre of it where he was protected by the circling horsemen.

  ‘What shall we do now, sir?’ Fergus repeated the question in a louder voice.

  ‘Emm…’ Sedullus’s face creased with anxiety. Fergus knew how he felt. He had no idea himself how they were going to get out of this mess, but for a brief moment he enjoyed his young superior officer’s predicament.

  At that moment the drumming of approaching hooves signalled that help was coming. The rest of the cavalry was responding to his whistled alarm.

  Turma XV came thundering through the trees, hacking and stabbing their way through the surprised Britons who were thrown into more confusion by their sudden arrival. Fergus grinned at the sight of the big Gaul, Viridovix, in the lead.

  Sedullus, looking like a man who had just woken from a nightmare, shouted the order to withdraw. The Tenth Turma broke their circle and surged forward across the clearing to meet Turma XV. The tribesmen caught amongst the horses were quickly dispatched on the way.

  ‘Viridovix! Good to see you.’ Fergus touched his blade to his helmet by way of a salute.

  The Gaul shook his head in mock admonishment.

  ‘What are you lot up to, Fergus?’ he said. ‘My grandmother could have seen that was a trap.’

  ‘Just following orders.’ Fergus smiled, raised an eyebrow and cocked his head in the direction of his decurion. Viridovix grinned and rolled his eyes.

  Their moment of shared contempt for Sedullus was interrupted by a sudden hail of ill-aimed slingshot from the Britons. By now the tribesmen had withdrawn to a safe distance where they could subject the Romans to further assault without risk of injury to themselves.

  Attempting to control their agitated horses, the Roman troopers huddled behind their shields as deadly pebbles bounced and rattled off their helmets, shields and chain mail.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Viridovix said.

  Needing no second bidding, the troopers began to withdraw from the clearing into the trees. Fergus slung his shield across his back by its long leather strap to protect him as he fled. Most of the troopers did likewise as they plunged through the thick undergrowth once more.

  ‘Blood of Camulos!’

  Fergus heard Viridovix cursing in the name of the Gaulish war god. He looked back to see that his fellow officer was well behind the rest of the troopers. He was clutching his right hand, which had been struck by a stone. The sudden pain of the blow had made him drop his spatha, which now lay on the forest floor amongst the undergrowth.

  Fergus knew Viridovix would have to stop, dismount and pick up the sword or face punishment. Leaving a serviceable weapon on the battlefield was a disciplinary offence in the Roman army.

  None of the other escaping cavalry had seen what had happened and Viridovix would be left behind alone. Fergus wheeled his horse around once again. He had to go back and help his friend. Viridovix was already dismounting as Fergus dug in his spurs to urge his horse back through the trees.

  As if from nowhere, a huge Briton ran out of the undergrowth behind Viridovix who was stooping to pick up his sword. The tribesman was almost naked, his body smeared in blue warpaint and his long hair spiked up from his head in outlandish fashion, held in place by congealed limewash.

  Fergus called out a warning. Viridovix looked up.

  It was too late. The Briton swung his long Celtic sword and with a sickening crunch the blade caught the Gaul under the rim of his helmet at the back of his neck. Viridovix’s head came off cleanly and his body pitched backwards, his recovered spatha still clutched tightly in his injured right hand. His severed head tumbled end over end across the forest floor while from his decapitated torso three huge jets of blood were pumped out by his dying heart before it stopped beating.

  Fergus arrived as Viridovix’s body collapsed to the forest floor. With a roar of frustration he hacked down with his spatha. It caught the still-running tribesman who had killed Viridovix across the skull, splitting his head almost in two.

  More tribesmen flooded out of the woods in pursuit of the fleeing cavalry and Fergus realised with deep regret that he was going to have to abandon his friend’s corpse or he would share his fate. With an angry curse he turned his horse and galloped after the rest of the troopers.

  Within moments the remnants of Turmae X and XV had cleared the trees and made it back to the relative safety of the meadow to rejoin the legion.

  2

  General Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, the new governor of the Roman Province of Britannia, was not happy.

  All through dinner he had seethed with quiet rage and hardly said a word. The other officers knew his fearsome reputation and the conversation in the officers’ dinner tent during the meal had not strayed beyond the odd awkward pleasantry.

  Right in the centre of the army encampment, furthest away from any danger, was the praetorium, the legion’s headquarters. Here the officers pitched their tents and now the day’s duties were over, after changing out of their leather armour into formal togas, they gathered for dinner.

  Reclining on couches, the XIV Legion’s officers were served by bustling slaves, while Paulinus’s musicians played soft music in the background. It was a scene similar to that occurring at any upper-class dinner party in any great villa in Rome itself, the general reflected, except that this was under canvas in a muddy British field. These men were Roman citizens, after all. Certain standards had to be maintained. The only reminder of where they actually were came from the incessant patter of rain on the tent roof. The only concession made to the local climate was that some of the officers wore woollen socks under their sandals.

  Paulinus eyed these with barely disguised contempt. To him it was typical of the state of Rome’s legions in this dreadful province. Shortly after arriving in Britannia he had come to the conclusion that Rome’s difficulties in subduing the natives was due to the weakness of the legions stationed here and he had seen little to contradict that impression since.

  Rome had lost patience with her newest province. For nearly twenty years, four of her legions – more than was required for any other province – had been bogged down in this wretched island. Keeping any semblance of order here required more troops than any other part of the empire. The Britons refused to accept that they were conquered. Tribesmen picked off soldiers and colonists one at a time then melted away into the woods and mountains, while native kings pretended fealty to the emperor but refused to pay taxes and schemed with non-allied rebels.

  Meanwhile, despite their numbers, the Roman army in Britain had become lazy and soft. The men patrolled safe territory, built roads and bridges instead of fighting and lay around in bathhouses and wine bars while their officers amused themselves and their wives in a constant round of dinner parties and socialising.

  By Jupiter, thought Paulinus, his gaze on the wool-clad feet of a particularly overweight cavalry officer, things would be different now he was in charge. This time, Nero Caesar had picked a man to be governor whose reputation was already proven. The brutalised, decimated population of Mauretania – his last posting – could testify to that. Paulinus now intended to bring to heel those Britons who stubbornly refused to realise they were part of the empire. His first step was the campaign they were now embarked on. He had marched the XIV Legion – better known as the Gemina – out of its safe, comfortable barracks in Viroconium and they were heading west.

  The Kingdom of the Silures was to be the first to feel the new strong hand of Roman government. Rome had a score to settle with that wild, savage people who had not just humiliated Veranius, Paulinus’s predecessor, and the XX Legion, but they had been in a constant state of rebellion since the Emperor Claudius invaded Britain two
decades before.

  The campaign would be a short, sharp and bloody shock designed by Paulinus to both knock the Britons into line and the XIV Legion back into shape.

  Once the Silures were conquered, the Ordovices would be next, then the druids’ nest of Mona. Beyond that a whole new island, Hibernia, as yet unconquered by Rome, lay before him. With conquest came honour and fame. The Roman public liked nothing more than a military hero who expanded the bounds of the empire and Paulinus intended to be such a hero.

  Before he whipped the Britons into line, however, he would have to whip his own men into shape.

  ‘Not a very auspicious start to the campaign, was it?’ He finally broke the silence as the slaves cleared away the dishes from the secundae mensae, the last course of dinner. No one responded. All the officers avoided his gaze.

  ‘Not even a mile from our camp and we are attacked,’ he continued. Still no one spoke. ‘And then some fool of a junior officer decides to charge straight into an ambush. Not good enough, is it?’

  Titus Pomponius Proculianus, the praefect of the Gaulish cavalry, the officer whose socks had caused the general such offence, was finally goaded into speaking.

  ‘Sir, with respect, Decurion Sedullus was only recently promoted,’ he said. ‘He’s new to command and I can assure you he will prove to be a fine officer in time. Sedullus was keen to fight the enemy and I think we should not punish him for that. We all can make mistakes.’

  ‘Mistakes get men killed, Pomponius!’ Paulinus thundered. The Gaulish praefect noticeably flinched at the venom in the general’s words.

  ‘What casualties did we take?’ Paulinus asked, though he knew full well the answer.

  Pomponius looked slightly lost. He had no idea. A polite cough came from behind him and the Gaulish cavalry praefect turned to see the handsome, tanned features of the young tribune of the legion, Gnaeus Julius Agricola.

  ‘If I may be so bold.’ Agricola smiled provocatively at Pomponius. ‘The XV Cavalry troop lost their decurion – killed – and duplicarius – also killed – as well as one man badly injured. The tenth troop lost nine troopers. All either confirmed dead or missing, presumed dead.’

  Pomponius glared at Agricola with undisguised dislike but said nothing.

  ‘Thank you, Agricola.’ Paulinus’s thin, almost bloodless lips curved slightly into what may have been a smile. ‘Well. One troop of our cavalry almost decimated. A second with both officers dead. We cannot afford any more incidents like this. I will not tolerate indiscipline and I’ve a good mind to disband the tenth troop as an example to the rest. Unfortunately we are short of men as it is, so we need to regroup them. Decurion Sedullus is obviously not ready for command.’

  ‘Sir, with respect,’ Pomponius interjected, aghast. ‘While Sedullus may have acted impetuously, it was only through eagerness to attack at the enemy. Also, once the troop was in danger, Sedullus tells me it was he who led them out of it again. They did kill many Britons after all. I think that should be taken into account.’

  This time not bothering to disguise his contempt, Paulinus glared at the Gaul.

  ‘You seem very fond of this young fool, Pomponius. Perhaps he is a relation of yours?’

  Pomponius, his face flushing livid with anger, glowered at the general.

  ‘I knew his father well,’ he said. ‘He comes from a good, noble Gaulish family. I am confident he will make a fine officer.’

  Paulinus regarded the cavalry praefect for a few moments before replying, battling to control his scorn. In many ways, Pomponius represented in person a lot of the faults he saw in the modern Roman army. The Gaul was a Roman citizen, but only because his grandfather had been a king with enough common sense to submit to Rome when Julius Caesar conquered his tribe. Unlike himself, Pomponius did not come from generations of Roman forefathers. And yet here he now was, a man far too fat to be training every day with his men as he should, commanding an elite cavalry regiment of the Roman army. Paulinus, on the other hand, prided himself that his body was still lean and hard from continuous exercise, even though he was now in his early fifties and getting on in years.

  With a conscious effort, he bit his tongue and swallowed his opinions. He still had to work with these people and they all had a job to do.

  ‘Very well. This Sedullus will get a second chance, but from now on I hold you, Pomponius, completely responsible for his actions. Let’s hope if he gets anyone else killed, then next time it’s himself.’

  Paulinus paused, considering the situation further.

  ‘However,’ he went on, ‘an example must be set. You will regroup Turma Ten,’ he ordered. ‘Make it up to full strength with troopers from Turma XV and form whoever is left into a special operations group – a numeres punishment team – under the command of Turma Ten’s duplicarius.’

  ‘Sir, there’s a problem with that,’ Pomponius said. Although it was clear from his agitation that he feared his general’s further wrath, his indignation at what he saw as interference in his jurisdiction gave him courage. ‘The duplicarius of the tenth is not a Gaul. In fact he is not even from the empire or an ally: he’s a Hibernian. I don’t recommend we promote someone to a command position who may be, shall we say, unreliable. Remember Varus.’

  Paulinus glanced away from the cavalry officer. As far as he was concerned the matter was decided.

  ‘Pomponius, I don’t care if he’s from the moon. He’s in the Roman army and he has taken the same vow of loyalty to the emperor as the rest of us.’

  He was enough of a politician to know not to add that Hibernians, Gauls, Britons – whatever – were all the same to him: just barbarians. Celts.

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘he’s being put in charge of a punishment squad. This numeres will be given dangerous tasks that are too risky for other troopers. I intend this to serve as an example to the rest of the cavalry. They will see where indiscipline will lead them.’

  Pomponius did not object further. The discussion was very obviously over.

  ‘Now,’ Paulinus addressed all the officers, ‘I’m sure everyone has work to do. We have to be up early tomorrow. I’ll not keep you any longer. Goodnight, gentlemen. Let’s try and make tomorrow a better day, shall we?’

  Realising they were being dismissed, the officers of the legion filed out of the headquarters tent, their sullen expressions betraying their disappointment – shock even – that the meal had not ended in the customary prolonged drinking session.

  Watching them go, Paulinus picked up a stack of reports, sat down at his writing desk and sighed heavily. This was going to be a tough command. He looked up again to see that the tribune had remained behind.

  ‘You see what we’re up against here, Agricola?’ Paulinus said, wearily running a hand through his short-cropped, iron-grey hair. ‘Men like that will be the ruin of Rome. They’re just barbarians in togas. They don’t have our inner qualities. They wear Roman dress, but they don’t have the virtus of men like us whose forefathers steered the course of Rome down through centuries. They are not patricians; they just don’t have the breeding.’

  Nodding in agreement, Agricola enquired, ‘You’re sure you want to place a non-alae – a Hibernian – in charge of the numeres? You must have a good reason?’

  Paulinus smiled. From anyone else he would not have tolerated such a question. However, he liked Agricola, as much as he liked anyone.

  ‘Well spotted, Agricola,’ he said. ‘In many ways you remind me of myself in my younger days. Of course I have a reason. Naturally I’m curious as to just how this Hibernian got into the emperor’s army, but it’s an unexpected piece of luck. As it happens, I just may have a very special task for a Hibernian cavalry officer.’

  3

  On the first day of basic training in the Roman army, Fergus MacAmergin’s centurion had told the raw recruits: ‘Even if you don’t believe in the Roman gods, by Jupiter you will all worship them.’

  It was soon clear to Fergus that the army was obsessed by religion. Not
from any great sense of spiritual conviction, he realised, but because the observances required by the various imperial deities provided two things the army valued above all else: routine and discipline. Holy days were marked by parades, rituals were scrupulously observed and when any marching camp was established, the first thing constructed after the outer defences had been built were the altars to the gods. They were simple, quickly erected structures of wood, but they served two purposes: a focal point for the religious practices that needed to be performed, and a visible stake into whatever land was being entered. The statement they made was clear: ‘Rome is here, and here is now Rome.’

  As the drizzly, grey evening turned towards night, Fergus stood before the altar of Mars to say a prayer for Viridovix. His friend had worshipped the Gaulish god of war, Camulos, and Mars was the closest Roman equivalent. However, standing in front of the wooden altar decorated with imperial symbols, he felt slightly uncomfortable. Camulos had similar characteristics to Mars, but he was not really the same god. Viridovix may have worn a Roman uniform, but he was a Gaul.

  Viridovix’s death had been the shit end to a shit day. The Gaul had been Fergus’s oldest friend in the army. They had joined up at the same time and gone through basic training together. Naturally gifted horsemen, both had been posted to the Ala Gallorum as troopers and both had been quickly promoted to the non-commissioned officer rank of duplicarius. Recently, to Fergus’s chagrin, Viridovix had been promoted further to decurion of Turma XV. Not that Fergus had resented his friend’s promotion, far from it; it was the fact that he had been passed over himself that rankled. He was duplicarius of the tenth troop, Turma X – one of the fifteen squadrons of troopers that made up the cavalry regiment – and had been for over a year. For most of that time the troop’s commanding officer, the decurion, had been Casticus, a doughty Gaul whom everyone respected and with whom Fergus had got on well.