“You’ve got to admire the old man,” Porteus confided to Marcus. “The whole country’s rising and he’s as cool as ice.”
“He enjoys it,” Marcus smiled. “The worse it is, the better he likes it.”
It seemed to Porteus by the end of the second day’s journey that this might be true.
“Natives think we’re soft,” Suetonius announced as they took a much-needed night’s rest by the roadside. “That’s the trouble with these colonial settlements like Camulodunum. They see our retired soldiers turning into farmers on the land and think we can’t fight. It’s the same with every new province – natives need to be taught a lesson every generation. Now we’ll do it.”
Despite his brave face and his blunt speeches, however, the governor was seriously shaken by two events before he reached Londinium. The first concerned the garrison from Lindum in the north east. Their brave commander, Petilius Cerialis, had led the two thousand crack legionaries down from Lindum believing that he could quell the riot himself. He had not realised the seriousness of the revolt, and that already tens of thousands of tribesmen were up in arms; when his troops ran into them, they were completely massacred and only the commander and his cavalry managed to escape alive. This news had reached Suetonius just as he left Mona.
“Bad business,” he muttered: for this was a loss – almost half a legion out of four on the island – that he could ill afford; but he gave no other sign of his fear and he pushed on down the long road with as much determination as ever.
The second event took place on the fifth day, when they reached the town of Verulamium. It was a small settlement with inadequate defences that could easily be breached. It was here that the governor expected to meet the garrison of the II Legion from Glevum before they marched together to Londinium, but when the party of cavalry clattered up, there was no sign of them.
“Where in Hades is the garrison from Glevum?” he thundered at his staff. He turned irritably to Agricola, the handsome military tribune. “Who’s in charge there?”
“At present the prefect, Poenius Postumus,” Agricola replied promptly. “They should have come up here by now.”
“I told them to meet me here,” Suetonius grumbled.
It was a quandary and for once his staff could see that the governor was hesitant.
“Well, we’d better go to Londinium to see if anything can be done and hope they catch up,” he said at last. And once again the tired party pushed on, eastwards towards the port.
They came to Londinium the next morning. Although it was not an administrative centre like Camulodunum with the status of a
colonia
, it was already a large, sprawling place. Warehouses rose along the river, and the wooden houses of the traders in the muddy streets behind. There were military stores surrounded by palisades, and a make-shift forum. But unlike most Roman settlements, the majority of the buildings were still made of wood instead of stone or brick. It was a busy, informal place – a natural growth waiting to transform itself into a great city: and as Porteus looked at it, he knew that it could not be defended. There were a handful of troops at the depots; but no sign of the legionaries from the Second. The governor and his little force waited unhappily all day while ever worse reports came in. The imperial temple at Camulodunum had been razed to the ground, the colony burnt, and every Roman or pro-Roman inhabitant slain. Boudicca’s horde was on its way to London now, and there were fifty, sixty, seventy thousand of them. The traders and their families anxiously crowded round the depot where the governor and his staff were waiting.
“You must save the warehouses, protect our families,” they cried.
“With what?” demanded Suetonius angrily. And at nightfall he announced: “We’re leaving. There’s nothing we can do here. Tell these people to flee wherever they can: if they don’t, they’ll be cut to pieces.” Then without more ado, he turned his horse and made his way out on the road back towards Verulamium.
Still there was no sign of the Second; but the following night on the south-east horizon, there was a red glow, and they knew that Londinium was being burned. Before dawn reports came that the huge horde was already advancing in their direction.
“Save yourselves,” Suetonius called to the people of Verulamium. “I can’t.” And yet again, the cavalry cortège clattered back up the road still looking for troops.
That night, once more, they saw the terrible red glow along the horizon.
“Verulamium’s gone too,” Porteus whispered to Marcus. And for once even Marcus’s strong face showed that he was worried.
The XIV and the XX Legions arrived from Mona the next morning. They had covered the two hundred miles in a succession of forced marches and carrying heavy equipment, but the troops were battle hardened and ready for action.
“And now,” Suetonius said to his staff, “we shall show them.”
The battle that took place two days later was one of the most terrible and merciless examples of slaughter that has ever occurred on the island. It also proved once again that Suetonius, whatever his faults, was a great commander.
The Romans were completely outnumbered. The combined strength of the detachments of the two legions amounted to about seven thousand men: advancing upon them was a victorious horde of ten and perhaps twenty times that size, determined not only to defeat them but to exterminate every last man and destroy Roman power in the province for ever. Faced by a less able general, they might have succeeded.
Suetonius had time to choose his ground, and he chose a long, narrow, defile on a gentle slope: at the top of the slope and on each side were woods. Coolly he arranged his battle line so that the horde of the Iceni and the Trinovantes would have to advance up the slope towards its narrow point where his well-trained legionaries would be ready to receive them.
“See how well he has chosen his position,” Marcus said to Porteus.
They had been sent to join the small troop of cavalry that was being held in readiness just behind the Roman line, and from this vantage point he had an excellent view of the whole battle ground.
“They’ll outnumber us by ten to one, maybe more. But we have thick woods behind us and on each side: the Celts will think they have trapped us, but by choosing this position we make it impossible for them to surround us to outflank us. They’ll lose most of the advantage of their numbers and they will have to come and break themselves on our wall of bronze and iron.”
“And if they break through?” asked Porteus.
“They won’t!” It was the growling voice of the governor himself who had come up behind him. He looked at the young man sternly, but not unkindly. “Remember this, Porteus,” he added significantly, “the bigger the horde is, the more complete the confusion when things go wrong. You’ll see.” And such was the governor’s power of command that from that moment it never occurred to Porteus to doubt the outcome of the battle.
The advance of Boudicca and her horde was the most astonishing sight that Porteus had ever beheld. They rumbled forward out of the mists early in the morning – a huge, black mass that seemed to fill up the horizon. As they drew slowly nearer, it was impossible to count their numbers: it could have been seventy thousand, it could have been two hundred thousand. Men, women and children, they surged forward – some on foot, a few in their bright old war chariots, but most of them riding in cumbersome wagons. They carried a motley collection of spears, clubs, swords and flaming torches and when they caught sight of the Roman legion, patiently standing in the sunlight with their backs to the wood there arose a huge howl of rage up and down the line. But they continued to advance slowly, inexorably, and so great was their number that half an hour passed before they had drawn themselves up at the entrance to the defile to face the Romans.
Then Porteus saw her: a gaunt white-haired figure standing proudly in a chariot drawn by two small horses. She wheeled up and down the line, in the quick darting movements that still made the Celtic chariots so formidable on open ground of their own choosing, and so useless in a confined set-piece battle of this kind. She was screaming her instructions or her encouragement at them – he could not tell which – and at each point of the line that she touched, there was a roar of approval and defiance of the hated Romans.
“Look,” Marcus nudged him. “See what they’re doing?”
Behind the horde, the wagons were being drawn into lines, completely sealing off the fourth side of the battle ground. It was clear that Boudicca did not intend to let any of the Romans find a way to escape.
The Celts, seeing the Romans trapped, were exultant; and Boudicca whipped up their enthusiasm further.
“We have the governor,” she cried. “This place shall be the Romans’ grave.”
From obscure hiding places, a number of Druids had joined the horde, but everywhere the Celts carried images of their gods: the gorgon heads of Sulis and Leucetius, the horned hunting god Cernunnos, Dagda the red warrior god, Toutatis the ruler of the people, Nodens the cloudmaker, and innumerable little figures with hoods over their heads – minor gods of fertility, healing and good luck. In her own hands, Boudicca brandished a long pole, on top of which was the carved black figure of a raven.
“The raven gives victory in battle,” she cried. “I am the raven!” And all along the line the battle cries echoed.
It was a fearsome sight, but Suetonius watched it calmly, and in the disciplined quiet of the Roman line, his rasping voice could be clearly heard.
“Those wagons will trap them when they want to run away.”
The noise from the horde grew louder; the Romans waited in silence, and Suetonius continued to watch, a faint look of contempt on his red, weatherbeaten face. Then, while the native horde was still working itself up into a frenzy, his voice was heard once again, giving the astonishing order:
“Advance.”
It was a brilliant and daring piece of generalship, and as he had calculated, it took Boudicca and her horde completely by surprise.
The long wall of Roman shields flashed as the line advanced, and the steady, rhythmic beat of the legions’ march pounded the ground. The native horde, suddenly aware of what was happening, tried to collect itself into some kind of order, but the Roman advance did not give them time; men and women, children and wagons were all in a sprawling, contorted mass. Out of this huge dark body, eruptions of movement began: streams of warriors, acting individually and under no direction, hurled thmselves valiantly at the Roman line, where they were methodically cut to pieces. The machine of the legions pressed on.
Porteus remained stationed with the cavalry, who were ordered to wait. He did so impatiently. At last, he thought, this was his chance to win distinction. He would perform deeds that would be reported even to Graccus in Rome.
“Let us charge,” he breathed, “we can crush them with a single blow.”
But the governor was in no hurry. He watched impassively as the legions did their work. It was not a valiant cavalry charge that would break the confidence of these rebels, but the steady, invincible wall of metal against which their brave warriors were breaking themselves like waves upon the shore. When their confidence wavered, then would be the time for the cavalry.
It was now as he waited that Porteus began to appreciate the crusty commander’s infallible instinct: by some sixth sense he knew exactly when the heaving mass of the horde in front of him had reached the critical point of panic, and it was only then that he gave a curt nod to the military tribune beside him who promptly shouted:
“Sound the charge.”
The entire Roman force, infantry and cavalry, surged forward at a run and Porteus found himself galloping over the hard ground towards Boudicca’s huge army.
The rebels were already running – not from any cowardice but because their lines were in total confusion. And as the small but compact force of Roman cavalry overtook them, the cavalrymen cut them down like grass. Porteus was conscious only of the thundering horses’ hoofs and the excitement of the chase: he hardly saw what he was doing as he hacked and slashed at the ragged figures streaming by; and he was surprised to see the figure of a boy of twelve, his shoulder cut wide open, fall from his own sword. Still he did not hesitate, for this was a battle to the death, but urged his horse forward into the throng of men, boys and women. To right and to left he cut, knowing that it was slaughter, and convinced it was necessary.
Finally he heard the order shouted:
“Cavalry, wheel back.” He was nearly at the line of wagons: he did not want to turn back. But again he heard it: “Turn back: regroup.” And reluctantly he joined the other riders, careering back to the bare ground where the governor was silently watching.
It was only when they regrouped that he saw what had happened. The cavalry charge had served its purpose well: they had driven the great horde into headlong flight, and if they had not turned back, they would have become entangled in the wagon train themselves. For everything had happened exactly as Suetonius had predicted. In turmoil, their warriors, hopelessly mixed up with defenceless women and children trying to escape from the terrible wall of metal that was rushing down upon them, had crashed into their own wall of wagons and been trapped by it. They fell over traces and wagon shafts, and were thrown to the ground by the terrified horses and oxen. The whole heaving mass became a riot of confusion; and the Roman line moved on, hacking and thrusting indiscriminately at the heap of bodies before it.