Rebellion

Book 22: Eagles of the Empire

by Simon Scarrow

Genres: Historical Fiction; War & Military; Military Thrillers

Synopsis

AD 60. Britannia is in turmoil. The rebel leader Boudica has tasted victory, against a force of tough veterans in Camulodunum. Alerted to the rapidly spreading uprising, Governor Suetonius leads his army towards Londinium with a mounted escort, led by Prefect Cato. Soon it's terrifyingly clear that Britannia is slipping into chaos and panic. Cato and Suetonius are grimly aware that they are ill-prepared for a full-scale rebellion. In Londinium there is devastating news. Centurion Macro is unaccounted for after the massacre at Camulodunum. Has Cato's comrade made his last stand? Facing disaster, Cato prepares his next move. Dare he hope that Macro has escaped the bloodthirsty rebels? For there is only one man Cato trusts by his side as he faces the military campaign of his life. And the future of the Empire in Britannia hangs in the balance.

Release date: November 9, 2023

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

The column was in trouble. Centurion Bernardicus, commander of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion, sensed it the moment he caught sight of the enemy, shading his eyes in the bright sunlight. A distant line of riders regarded the approaching Romans from a low ridge half a mile ahead. At first the centurion mistook them for some of the legion’s scouts screening the advance of Legate Cerialis and his soldiers. But there was something irregular about the disposition of the riders, and then he noticed the absence of any standard or the red crest of an officer’s helmet.

How in Hades had a party of rebel horsemen managed to slip through the line of scouts? he wondered. The officer in command of the mounted picket was going to feel the sharp edge of the legate’s tongue when the column made camp that night. Assuming the enemy made no mischief before then. Bernardicus squinted up at the sun and calculated that there was another three hours to march before the legate gave the order to halt and erect the defences of a marching camp. Maybe longer, given the late halt the day before. Then there had only been time to set up the stockade of sharpened stakes to guard the camp. No ditch, nor rampart.

Bernardicus had fretted at the legate’s failure to follow the army’s doctrine for preparing defences when marching into hostile territory. There was little doubt in his mind about such dangers, given Cerialis’s briefing on the eve of their advance from the legion’s base at Lindum two days before. A message had arrived from the senior magistrate of the veterans’ colony at Camulodunum reporting an uprising by the Iceni tribe and their Trinovantian allies. The magistrate had learned that the rebels were making for Camulodunum and had begged the Ninth Legion to march to the veterans’ rescue.

As the senior centurion of the legion, Bernardicus had put his concerns to the legate and been rebuffed with haughty disdain.

‘We’re dealing with a ragtag mob of armed peasants,’ Cerialis had scoffed. ‘Led by the scrapings of whatever warrior caste has survived the conquest. We have nothing to fear from such a rabble. They’ll take one look at the vanguard of the Ninth and turn tail and bolt for the safety of the woods and bogs of their territory.’

‘I hope you’re right, sir.’ Bernardicus nodded diplomatically. ‘But if they stand and fight?’

A cold smile formed on Cerialis’s lips. ‘Then we’ll crush them, scatter any survivors and crucify the ringleaders. After that, I doubt that any tribe on this island living under our rule will have the balls to ever rebel again.’

Bernardicus could not help a small degree of bitter mirth at his superior’s words, given the gender of the enemy’s leader. He had seen Queen Boudica several months earlier when she was amongst the tribal leaders declaring their annual homage to the emperor before the provincial governor in Londinium. Tall, haughty and flame-haired, she had stood out amongst the others. A woman to be reckoned with, Bernardicus had thought, and he had been proven right. Where Boudica led, her people, men and women, old and young alike, would be sure to follow in their desire to humble Rome and its ruler, Emperor Nero.

Rome had a history of fearing powerful women and, fortunately for the Empire, triumphing over them. Yet the centurion could not help a tremor of anxiety. Under other circumstances he might have shared the legate’s easy confidence. As things stood, the bulk of the Roman army occupying Britannia was campaigning against the mountain tribes far to the west of the island. Governor Paulinus had stripped the province of the best soldiers to fill out the ranks of the army, including four of the cohorts from the Ninth. The only forces available to confront Boudica and her rebels comprised the raw recruits being trained at the Second Legion’s base down at Isca Dumnoniorum, a handful of poor-quality auxiliaries and the six remaining cohorts of the Ninth at Lindum.

Proud as Bernardicus was of his legion, he was aware that the cohorts marching behind him were under strength and their men had not made the cut to join their comrades now serving under Paulinus. He was also aware of the limitations of his superior. Legate Cerialis had only recently been appointed commander of the Ninth and had arrived in Britannia wreathed in the customary arrogance and ambition of his class. His only combat experience had been a brief punitive expedition across the Rhine during his time as a tribune. He had yet to earn the hard-won experience required to make a decent legate of him.

All this flowed through the veteran centurion’s mind in a matter of heartbeats before he drew a deep breath to give the order. ‘First Cohort! Halt!’

The men, bent slightly forward under the burden of the kit on their marching yokes, took a pace and a half further along the track and drew up. Some regarded him with surprise. They had stopped for a rest break less than a mile back, and it was too early in the day to make camp. Bernardicus ignored them and strode on another twenty paces ahead of the column before he paused to scrutinise the distant horsemen.

The dull thrumming of hoofbeats heralded the approach of Legate Cerialis and his small band of staff officers, fresh-faced tribunes who had yet to see any combat. Maybe that was about to change, Bernardicus mused.

‘What’s the bloody meaning of this?’ Cerialis snapped. ‘Who gave the order for the column to halt?’

The centurion turned and nodded a salute. ‘I did, sir.’

Cerialis frowned. ‘Why?’

Bernardicus gestured towards the ridge. The legate straightened and squinted briefly. ‘So?’

‘The enemy, sir.’

‘Nonsense. Those are our scouts.’

‘Look again. They’re no more Roman than I am a Druid, sir.’

Cerialis and his tribunes stared ahead of the column before one of the latter cleared his throat. ‘The centurion’s right, sir.’

‘Then where are the scouts? They’re supposed to clear the way ahead of us.’

Bernardicus took a deep breath before he responded. ‘I’d say our lads are either dead, taken prisoner or have been forced to flee. Some of ’em might make their way back to us, but the scouts are gone, sir.’

‘Gone?’ Cerialis stared back as if the centurion were quite mad. ‘Impossible.’

Bernardicus shrugged and there followed a strained silence as the officers waited for the legate to give fresh orders. Nearby, the legionaries stood ready, still shouldering their yokes. At length, the senior tribune edged his horse alongside his superior.

‘Give the word, sir, and I’ll lead the rest of our mounted contingent forward to drive those rebels off the track.’

Cerialis chewed his bottom lip for a moment before he shook his head. ‘If they have dealt with our scouts, then I’ll not throw any more men away or send them on a wild goose chase. No . . . We’ll continue the advance. The rebels wouldn’t dare attack the column. Besides, we must reach Camulodunum as swiftly as possible and save our comrades there.’

And no doubt claim a civic crown for saving their lives in the process, Bernardicus thought cynically. Like most of his kind, Cerialis was eager to win military decorations to add lustre to his family’s name.

‘Pass the word for the column to close up,’ the legate continued. ‘The mounted contingent is to form up at the rear.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the tribune trotted back along the ranks of the waiting legionaries, Bernardicus made his own way down the track, cupping a hand to his mouth as he bellowed, ‘First Cohort centurions! On me!’

When he was safely out of earshot of the legate, he stopped, and the other centurions of his cohort gathered round.

‘Looks like we’ve seen the last of our scouts, lads. Cerialis is determined to reach Camulodunum nonetheless. Reckons we can see off any rebels that try their luck. So we keep closed up and keep a good look out for trouble. We’re the spearhead of the Ninth, so it’s up to us to set the example. No slacking or grousing from our boys, understand? If the other side try and block our path, we go through them quicker than shit through a sheep.’ He glanced at his subordinates and was met with steady gazes. ‘Our comrades at Camulodunum are counting on us. They’re good men. I knew their chief magistrate back when we both served in the Second Legion. Macro’s one of the best. If our positions were reversed, he’d give his all to save us.’

‘Do you think there’ll be any trouble?’ asked a well-built centurion.

‘There’s always trouble in this shitty island, Timandrus.’

There was a chorus of chuckles and some smiles from the other centurions.

‘Without the scouts, we’re blind,’ Timandrus continued. ‘Who knows what we’re marching into? Could be a trap.’

‘Could be,’ Bernardicus conceded. ‘But we’ve never let those hairy-arsed barbarians get one over us yet, and they ain’t going to do it today. Right?’

The other man nodded.

‘That said, if I give the order to down packs, I want the boys formed up in a heartbeat, with their shields out and javelins ready. Now get back to your men and be ready to move as soon as Cerialis gives the command.’

Bernardicus returned to the head of the column and strode out boldly the instant the legate called the order to resume the advance. The legionaries of his century tramped steadily behind him. Ahead, on the ridge, the horsemen held their position as they observed the approaching Romans. The track inclined slightly, and as Bernardicus came within two hundred paces of the rebels, he felt the first icy trickle of concern slide down his spine. At the same time, he stiffened his shoulders and continued to advance without the slightest sign of hesitation. He had always striven to appear fearless and bold to provide a reassuring example to his men. Even now, he resisted the urge to call for his manservant to bring up the mule carrying his heavy rectangular shield, while he handed over his cloak so that the folds did not encumber him if it came to a fight.

Closer still, no more than a hundred paces from the crest of the low ridge, he could make out the grisly trophies the horsemen now raised for the Romans to see. Severed heads, gripped by the hair. Brandished at the legionaries as the rebels jeered and shouted insults.

‘Bastards!’ a voice cried out close behind Bernardicus. ‘They’ll pay for that.’

‘Silence in the ranks!’ The centurion glanced over his shoulder. ‘Next man to open his mouth gets latrine duty for a month!’

The horsemen lowered their heads, then turned their mounts away and trotted down the far slope and out of sight. Bernardicus had marched along this route many times before and knew the lie of the land beyond. There was a sharp dip into a wooded vale where the ground had been cleared by the army’s engineers for sufficient distance on either side of the track to deny any attacker the chance to spring a sudden surprise. It also provided the Romans with space to change into a more defensive formation if necessary. The vale was also as good a place as any to ambush the column, but three thousand heavily armed soldiers of the finest army in the world should be more than a match for any force the tribes could scrape together, Bernardicus reassured himself.

Glancing back, he saw that the gaps between the six cohorts had narrowed, and their small baggage trains of carts and mules were now flanked by the legionaries of the rearmost century of each cohort. The column was now little more than half the length it had been before the halt, when it had been strung out along the track.

The centurion reached the crest and looked down into the vale. He could see that the horsemen had increased their distance to half a mile ahead of the column, but there was no sign of any other rebels. He scanned the treeline on either side of the track, but there was no sign of movement. Then his eyes fell upon a cluster of bodies lying halfway between himself and the horsemen. The headless corpses of the scout squadron. They had been stripped and their weapons and horses taken, and their pallid flesh was spattered and streaked with blood under the bright sun. As the column drew closer, he heard the muttered curses of his men rippling through the cohort and angrily demanded silence once again before turning to his second in command.

‘Optio Severus, my compliments to the legate. Tell him that we’ve found what’s left of the scouts.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bernardicus paused while the optio trotted back along the column, then gave the follow-up order. ‘First Section, First Century . . . Fall out and get the dead off the track and loaded onto our wagons.’ The funerals could be arranged once the legion had made camp at the end of the day. Identifying the bodies, though, would be a problem, especially if the enemy had taken the scouts’ identity tags as trophies.

The men of the leading section dropped their packs at the side of the track and jogged forward to take care of the bodies as the centurion continued leading the column into the vale. He spared the corpses laid out beside the track a brief glance as he marched past, then resumed scanning the way ahead for signs of danger. The wooded slopes on either side blocked all but the lightest puffs of breeze, and the air in the vale was still and hot. Sweat trickled from under the felt skullcap beneath his crested helmet. The bracken and undergrowth on either side was parched and dry after many days without rain. Overhead, the sky was cloudless and the afternoon sun grilled the marching men without pity as two kites swooped languidly against a cerulean backdrop searching for prey. Every so often the horsemen would rein in and taunt the Romans with their gory prizes before trotting off again. Each time Bernardicus felt his blood run hot in his veins, frustrated that he was powerless to avenge his comrades.

The column had advanced nearly two miles into the vale when he saw the first swirl of white ahead. An instant later, there was another, and another, until several trails of smoke were visible across the width of the open ground either side of the track. He could make out figures with torches moving to set alight yet more of the dry bracken and undergrowth. Soon the flames beneath the smoke could be discerned, brilliant flares of red and orange that swiftly spread from side to side until there was a curtain of fire and smoke blocking the way ahead. Now and then Bernardicus could see the figures of the rebels beyond, shimmering in the heat haze.

He halted the column once again a hundred paces from the blaze and ordered the cohort to down packs and stand to along the track.

‘Sir! Look!’

He turned to see Timandrus gesturing towards the rear of the column. Above the cloud of dust stirred by thousands of boots and the hooves and wheels of the carts, smoke billowed from yet more fires stretching across the vale behind the legion. As the Roman soldiers looked anxiously in both directions, there was a deep roar from the trees on either side. Bernardicus felt his guts twist as he saw figures emerge from the gloom beneath the boughs of the trees and pour out onto the open ground.

Hundreds, then thousands of the rebels were massing on each side of the Ninth Legion, roaring their battle cries, jeers and insults as they brandished spears, swords and axes. In amongst them, their chiefs and Druids urged their followers on.

‘First Cohort! Form square!’ Bernardicus had to strain his lungs for the order to be heard above the din that filled the stifling air. He waved his servant forward and took up his shield, handing his vine cane over before ordering the man to fall back to the baggage train. Around him the men of his cohort changed formation, his century facing the fire, two more on either flank and the last closing the rear of the formation. Their large, heavy shields formed a wall, and between each shield, the point of a short sword protruded. The javelins were handed back to the men of the rear rank, ready to hurl over the heads of their comrades.

The other five cohorts of the column were still completing the manoeuvre when the rebels’ war horns sounded. The rearmost unit surrounded the baggage train and the mounted contingent, as well as the legate and his staff. Bernardicus could just make out the glint of the gilded eagle standard and the bright red falls of the other standards of the legion.

The horns sounded again and the Romans braced themselves for the enemy charge. Instead, hundreds of men advanced to within a hundred feet of the legionaries. Each carried a torch, and they bent to thrust them into the dry undergrowth, surrounding the Ninth with fire. Only now did Bernardicus realise that the ground in front of the trees had been cleared of most of the combustible material, which had been cunningly concealed amongst the parched bracken close to the track.

‘Shit,’ he mouthed softly before turning to steady his men with a forced grin. ‘Hold fast, boys! We’ve some hot work ahead of us!’

The cordon of fire was still some distance away, and he caught glimpses of the enemy through the wavering flames and searing air. The blaze prevented any attack for the present, he mused. Then the truth of their predicament struck home. The enemy did not intend to attack the legion directly; they meant to let the fire do the work for them before picking off the survivors. Already the flames were working their way towards the Roman column in an uneven ripple of smouldering, then roaring bursts that crackled and hissed like some demonically possessed monster. There was only one path to salvation that occurred to Bernardicus, and he sheathed his sword and turned to his men.

‘We have to create a fire break. Cut away as much of the undergrowth as we can and dump it close to the fire. Severus, set the men to it!’

Leaving the optio to obey his orders, the centurion moved along the column to pass on the instructions. As he reached the Fifth Cohort, he saw Cerialis riding towards him.

‘What in Jupiter’s name is going on, Centurion? Why are the men breaking ranks? They need to be ready to receive an attack.’

Bernardicus explained briefly, and concluded with a warning. ‘We have to do it, sir, or perish in the blaze.’

The legate looked towards the head of the column and observed the frantic efforts of the legionaries before he winced and nodded. ‘Very well, carry on. Once we have tamed the fire and it burns out, we’ll teach those barbarians the price of defying Rome.’

As the centurion turned away, a blast of scalding heat from a nearby flare-up made him flinch. Along the column, the legionaries had downed their shields and were hacking at the undergrowth, using their swords to loosen roots and strip the combustible material away from the bare earth before hurling it into the flames. Still the fire crept closer, the heat forcing the men back into an ever smaller space each side of the track. Nor was the blaze the only danger. The enemy were hurling rocks and spears and loosing arrows through the flames and smoke, shooting blind but striking Romans who had been forced to set down their shields to work on the fire break. The casualties were hauled onto the track, where the legion’s medics attended to their wounds as best they could while smoke and cinders swirled around them. The mules of the baggage train were braying with terror as they pressed together, the drovers trying to prevent them becoming entangled. The disciplined cohesion of the legion was beginning to break down as the men were steadily driven back by the heat.

Bernardicus turned to the legate. ‘We’re going to have to break through the blaze, sir. We can’t stay on the track. The fire’s getting the better of us.’

Cerialis glanced at the cordon of glittering flames and smoke. ‘We can’t get through that.’

‘We have to, sir. And quickly. Before it closes in.’

‘How?’

‘The men will have to use their cloaks to beat paths through the flames.’

‘Even if that works, the enemy will be waiting for us on the far side.’

‘Yes, sir. That’s the choice before us. We either stay put and roast, or we take our chances with the rebels. I’d sooner die with a sword in my hand than be burned to death.’

The legate shuddered. ‘Then there is no choice. Re-form the cohorts and tell the men we’re going to fight our way out of the trap. We’ll head to the right,’ he continued. ‘That way we’ll only have to face half their number before the rest see what’s up and work their way round the blaze to join the fight.’

‘Yes, sir. Good idea,’ the centurion conceded. ‘We’d better move all at once to make the most of it, sir.’

‘I’ll have the bucinas sound the advance when the men are ready.’ Cerialis gestured to the men carrying the brass instruments who were formed up behind the legion’s standards. ‘Go and give the order, Centurion.’

Bernardicus hurried back up the column, pausing to relay instructions to the commander of each cohort, and the men fell back from the flames, faces gleaming with sweat as they took up their shields and waited for the signal. When he reached his century at the head of the column and explained the plan, his optio glanced at the fire, no more than twenty feet from them, and shook his head. ‘We’ll never make it.’

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ Bernardicus replied laconically. ‘We can discuss that afterwards. Get the men ready.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The optio forced a grin. ‘Later, then.’

The men of the First Century formed up, four deep, to the right. One section had their cloaks ready while their comrades carried their shields. The cloaks were hurriedly soaked with water from the canteens. Three more sections stood with javelins, ready to unleash them against the enemy on the far side of the blaze as the way was opened for the century to pass through and engage the rebels. Looking down the column, Bernardicus could see the other centuries making their preparations, and the legate and his men in the distance.

‘Give the order,’ he muttered to himself. The flames were close enough that he had to squint to protect his eyes from the searing heat. ‘For Jupiter’s sake, man, give the fucking order . . .’

He saw that his men were pressing closer together and raising their shields to protect themselves from the scalding air that stung their exposed skin. He raised his own shield and ducked his head behind it.

‘Sir!’ a voice called out. ‘Your crest’s alight.’

He smelt the sudden acrid odour of burning horsehair and snatched at his canteen, removing the stopper and dousing the top of his helmet with what was left. The strident notes of the legion’s bucinas sounded above the roar of the fire, and he let the canteen drop to his side as he shouted to his men, ‘Beaters! Get forward!’

The men with the dampened cloaks bent double to keep the heat off their faces as they scurried forward and started striking out at the burning grass and bracken, then cast the cloaks onto the ground to smother the flames. Within moments, only a thin line of fire separated them from the enemy.

‘Javelins!’ Bernardicus called out. ‘Loose!’

The legionaries hurled the weapons in a shallow arc and the shafts disappeared into the smoke. An instant later, there were cries of alarm as the points penetrated the enemy’s ranks. Long experience had taught the centurion the importance of striking home while the enemy was still recoiling from the impact of a javelin volley, and he snatched out his sword and shouted for his men to follow as he ran towards the smouldering cloaks on the ground. He heard a man close behind him call out the legion’s battle cry, ‘Forward Hispania!’

Bursting through a thin screen of flames, heedless of their sharp sting, he charged across the ground on the far side, where wisps of smoke curled from the blackened earth. The first of his men ran close behind and fanned out on either side as they made for the nearest rebels. The enemy were loosely massed and had been cheering at the prospect of their foes being burned alive. Now they were taken by surprise as the Romans surged through the flames and slammed their shields into the tribesmen, stabbing at them with their short swords.

Bernardicus saw a tall figure with helmet and armour to his right and took the man for one of the enemy leaders. He swerved towards his opponent, who had time to raise his kite shield so that they clashed with a jarring thud. The momentum was with the Roman and the rebel stumbled back. Bernardicus seized the advantage and thrust his sword into the other man’s throat, driving the point through the back of his neck. Recovering the blade, he did not spare his enemy a second glance as the rebel fell to his knees, sword and shield dropping from his hands as he gurgled blood. On either side, more of his men were throwing themselves at the enemy after braving the thin curtain of fire. To his right, the other Roman units were following suit, charging home with desperate fury to shatter the rebels’ morale.

The centurion turned to face a younger rebel warrior, tall and skinny, barely old enough for stubble to grow on his jawline. The youth’s eyes were wide with fear and the point of his spear trembled as he confronted the Roman officer. Bernardicus smacked the flat of his sword sharply against the trim of his shield and noticed his opponent flinch. He feinted with the sword and gave a vicious snarl, and the youth backed away hurriedly and disappeared amongst his comrades.

The enemy’s battle horns sounded in answer to the bucinas, their flat notes overwhelming the sound of the Roman instruments. The air filled with the battle cries of the Iceni and their Trinovantian rebels, who pressed towards the scattered groups of legionaries desperately fighting for a foothold beyond the flames. Glancing over his shoulder, Bernardicus could see that almost all his century had passed through the fire and were holding their own, for the moment. Other units of the legion were not faring so well. Some had not even breached the flame wall. Others had, but were being forced back on the blaze. He felt a leaden sickness in the pit of his stomach as he realised that the fight was already lost. The odds were against the Romans and worsening with every heartbeat. The only hope for himself and his men was to try and cut their way through the enemy and escape into the trees.

‘Form a wedge on me!’ he cried out above the din of battle. ‘First Century, on me!’

His men edged toward him in tight formation, with the century’s standard two ranks behind Bernardicus. He waited an instant to ensure that the last of them had escaped the flames, then called the pace as the wedge of overlapping shields, punctuated by the tips of the legionaries’ swords, tramped into the dense mass of tribesmen. Bracing their shield arms, the Romans punched and pressed their way forward, stabbing at any enemy warrior who came within reach. Sword and axe blows thudded off the curved shields and rang sharply where they struck the large hemispherical hand guards.

Steadily the wedge cut its way through, leaving a trail of bodies in its wake. A handful of legionaries were wounded, and those who could still walk fell in behind the standard and did their best to keep up. Those who could not were borne away by their comrades in the middle of the formation, but as the latter were called on to fill the gaps, the injured men were left behind to be slaughtered by the enemy.

Bernardicus steered the formation towards the nearest trees, noting that there appeared to be a narrow track that ran up the slope towards the ridge. That would be the century’s best chance of escaping the fate of the rest of the legion, he decided. All around the enemy continued their assault, increasingly frustrated by their failure to break up and crush the wedge as it carved its way through. Only a handful of rebels now stood in the centurion’s way, and he battered one to the side and cut through the arm of another before those left backed away and left the path unguarded.

‘Stay with me, lads!’ he called out. ‘Keep on the path!’

He moved swiftly between the trees and trotted up the incline, his lungs burning with the effort of his exertions. His men followed him, the rearmost turning to cover the retreat as the enemy pursued them closely. The undergrowth began to thicken as the path penetrated the trees, hampering any attempt by the rebels to harry the flanks or cut round the Romans and block their escape. The sounds of the fighting in the vale began to fade as the trees muffled the noise.

After half a mile, the trees began to thin out, and a short distance ahead Bernardicus could see the bare crest of a hillock that formed part of the ridge. If they could occupy the high ground, his men could catch their breath while he considered the next move.

‘Set the standard up there,’ he panted to the century’s standard bearer, then stepped to the side to urge his men on as they stumbled past him, gasping for breath. As the stragglers came up, labouring under the burden of their armour and shields, he pointed to the standard.

‘Up there, lads. Then you can rest a while.’

He could hear the sounds of fighting drawing closer: the clash of blades and the thud of weapons on shields. He headed back down the path, rounded a corner and came up against Optio Severus, who was commanding a section that made up the rearguard. Beyond them, he could see the enemy, desperate to hunt down and slaughter their prey. The six legionaries were falling back in relays, using their broad shields to