Cogidubnus held Vespasian’s look briefly. ‘No, it’ll be quicker to go through.’ He turned and ran back towards his warriors; Vespasian signalled to Tatius to remain where he was and then followed, pumping his shorter legs ferociously so as not to be outpaced.
As Cogidubnus reached the first of his warriors he slowed to a walk; Vespasian tried to pass him but was restrained by the King’s massive hand clamping onto his shoulder.
‘We pass through slowly, legate, together.’
Vespasian looked up; Paetus’ ala had already begun to move forward. ‘But we’ll be too late.’
‘My men haven’t yet laid down their arms; there are many here who would kill you, so stay close.’
Unable to do anything but comply, Vespasian walked forward with the King into the mass of his bloodied and battle-scarred warriors, cutting across them towards the right-hand corner. They parted grudgingly, their mouths set grim beneath their long moustaches, their eyes hard. As Vespasian passed through they closed behind him, towering over him, pressing in on him so that he was engulfed by the stench of their sweat and their hot breath; he kept his head held high, looking neither left nor right, refusing to be intimidated by their height. Cogidubnus spoke soothingly to his people in their own tongue whilst all the time keeping a firm grip on Vespasian’s shoulder, emphasising that the Roman was under his protection. Growing shouts of warning and alarm from the rear of the formation told of the approach of Paetus’ cavalry but Vespasian could see nothing over the heads of the warriors.
They reached the tribesmen who had turned to face the charge and Cogidubnus moved with more urgency, pushing through, raising his voice to make them move aside. Suddenly the warriors before them extended their spears forward and went down on one knee. Vespasian’s heart pounded; Paetus’ men were at full charge, almost a javelin throw away. Cogidubnus roared a command to his men and pushed him forward. Shouting for all he was worth Vespasian ran out into the open, holding his right hand, palm out, aloft.
But the volley had been released.
More than three hundred javelins soared through the air towards him, followed by a high-velocity wall of horseflesh. He stopped abruptly, still bellowing at Paetus to stop, and raised his shield. Three evilly sharp points appeared a thumb’s breadth through the board before his eyes; the weight of their impact buckled his legs and he collapsed onto his knees, twisting his right hand back to support himself as the burden of the javelins pulled his shield aside leaving him totally exposed.
He stared in horror at horses; nothing but horses: black, bay, dun, brown, grey horses. Eyes wild, mouths foaming, teeth bared, heads tossing, flanks sweating, forelegs kicking, all he could see was horses, horses. Noise suddenly broke into his consciousness: neighing and whinnying; the shouts of men in languages that he could comprehend and in those that he could not; hooves thumping the ground, metal jangling. A confusion of sound, as confusing as the images before him: horses rearing, horses scraping their forelegs through the air, horses everywhere — but not trampling him.
Suddenly he realised he could see their bellies; they were rearing; they were stationary.
And then in twos and threes they came down, snorting, prancing, high-stepping, onto four legs and now he could see their riders, bearded, chain-mailed, helmeted with the same wild eyes as their mounts as they looked fearfully beyond him.
‘Stop,’ Vespasian shouted hoarsely, as if he could not believe that they had really come to a halt.
‘We have, sir, and rather abruptly so.’
Vespasian blinked repeatedly and eventually focused on Paetus looking down at him from a very skittish mount.
‘And judging by the fact that these barbarians aren’t trying to hack us off our horses, I take it that they’ve surrendered and that’s why you rather foolishly stood in front of our charge.’
‘And that’s why I ordered my men not to return the volley,’ Cogidubnus said, walking forward, ‘despite the fact that a score or more have been killed. But many more would have died had it not been for the legate.’ He stood over Vespasian, contemplating him with a confused expression for a few moments as if trying to decide just what was kneeling on the grass. He held out his hand and helped Vespasian to his feet.
‘Take your men back to the beach, Paetus,’ Vespasian ordered, still reeling from the terror. Feeling the weight of the javelins embedded in his shield he threw it down and winced; there were four heads piercing it, not three, and one was bloodied. He turned his arm over to reveal a seeping puncture just below the elbow; a shock of pain suddenly hit him and he clasped his hand to the wound.
Cogidubnus pulled his hand away to examine the injury. ‘It’s not deep and it’ll heal well; it was honourably received. It was a brave act that saved many lives, both Roman and Briton. My crown may not be yours to give, legate, but I would rather accept it from your hand than from an emperor who expects men to die for him whilst he sits in his palace.’
Verica emerged from the ranks of Britons. ‘There is no choice in the matter, nephew; it is only the Emperor who has the power to grant your kingdom. However, he is imperfectly formed and cannot fight.’
‘Then Rome has the wrong emperor. What is an emperor if he does not lead his men in battle?’
‘An emperor is power; power to which you and I must now submit. He is on his way here to lead the army into Camulodunum. When we go there and bow before him we will act as if he has personally achieved the greatest victory and we will laud him as the supreme man on earth, even though he is a fool that drools.’
‘And this is the man I must serve, rather than the warrior who defeated me and then saved the lives of many of my men?’
Vespasian kept his face neutral. ‘Yes, Cogidubnus, we all must serve him.’
CHAPTER XXI
Vespasian stood at the stern of the trireme, next to the trierarchus as he guided the ship into the port of Verica’s capital. Sweltering in the hot, late August sun burning down from a cloudless sky, he watched an electrical storm rumble and flash its way along the range of downs, not five miles inland, and marvelled at the strange weather that afflicted this northerly island.
‘Taranis, the god of thunder, often visits the southern downs to watch over us,’ Verica informed him, clutching the golden, four-spoked wheel pendant around his neck. ‘He will require a sacrifice.’
‘What sort of sacrifice?’
‘Well, it is normally the druids who decide, and they would burn a virgin alive in a tub. However, they’ve fled west, cursing me as a blasphemer because of my support of Rome, so it’s up to me instead.’
‘We consider human sacrifice abhorrent.’
‘I haven’t lived in Rome for three years without realising that; I’ll choose a chariot and two horses. I intend to wean my people off the more extreme practices of the druids.’
‘What exactly are druids?’
Verica sighed, long and slow. ‘They’re the priestly class, exempt from taxes and military service; they think they have a monopoly on the will and desires of the gods and so the people both fear them and stand in awe of them at the same time. They do not fear death because they believe that the soul lives on and is transferred into another body; that makes them very dangerous. I’m pleased to have got rid of them because they meddle like women and plot like younger sons; but I’m sure they’ll be back, seeking to regain their power over my people, and the first thing they’ll try to do is kill me. They belong to no tribe and have no loyalty other than to themselves and the gods of our fathers and of this land.’
‘They’re different?’
‘Yes. When my people came to this island — the bards deem it to be about twenty-five generations ago — the people we supplanted worshipped different gods; they had built great henges in their honour, ancient beyond reckoning. The druids dedicated these places to our gods but still the presence and power of some of the island’s gods persisted and they demanded worship.’ Verica’s face darkened and his voice fell low. ‘The druids took on that responsibility and uncovered their dark secrets and rituals; they keep the knowledge to themselves and they’re welcome to it; but what I know of it fills me with dread.’