Britannia (Veteran of Rome Book 3) Read online

  For a moment Brann's face was unreadable as he stared at Marcus in silence.

  "The fort is not safe Marcus," Brann hissed with a sudden hint of desperation in his voice, "trouble is coming for you Romans. Your family will be safer with me. I beg you Marcus, let them go whilst you still can."

  Marcus eyes widened and suddenly he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He took a step towards his father in law.

  "What do you mean, the fort is not safe, what trouble?" he said quickly.

  Brann glanced nervously over his shoulder at the Celtic round houses. Then he shook his head.

  "Please Marcus," Brann was pleading now, "Let them out. I will take them to a safe place, no harm will come to your family, I swear it."

  Marcus glanced over the man's shoulders at the civilian settlement and for a long moment he did not reply. Then slowly he turned to look at Brann.

  "I will protect my family," he muttered, "You have my word and you will just have to trust me," and with that he turned round and strode back into the fort.

  As the gate crashed shut behind him, Marcus felt a hot flush spread across his cheeks.

  "Lucius, where the fuck are you?" he shouted as he strode across the open parade ground. To his right a group of Batavians were lounging about around the entrance to the officer's quarters. The men clad in their fur-lined helmets were singing a native Batavian song and, as Marcus caught the scent of roasting sheep, he veered towards the building. Inside, some of the off duty Decurion's were clustered around an open fire over which they were roasting a whole sheep. The men fell silent as they noticed Marcus. Then slowly Adalberht rose to his feet.

  "What's going on Marcus? Have you come to join us?" Adalberht grinned.

  "Outside now," Marcus ordered as he turned away without waiting for an answer. As he stepped out of the barrack's block he saw Lucius hastening towards him across the muddy parade ground. Marcus waited for him as Adalberht emerged into the open air with a sullen look. Impatiently Marcus took a few paces away from the group of Batavians, who by now had fallen silent and were watching him curiously. Lucius frowned as he caught the look on Marcus's face.

  "So what the fuck is going on?" Adalberht growled.

  Marcus glanced at the two officers. Then he took a deep breath.

  "Tonight the whole Cohort will remain under arms. I want every available man armed and wearing his armour and up on the ramparts. That includes your cavalrymen Adalberht."

  The two senior officers looked surprised.

  "But Cotta just ordered us to do no such thing," Adalberht blurted out. "You are disobeying a direct order Marcus. He's not going to like that."

  "I will handle Cotta," Marcus said sternly, "just make sure your men do as instructed."

  "Why?" Lucius interrupted with a concerned look, "Do you think the Britons are going to attack us tonight?"

  Marcus nodded, "It's possible," he muttered. "I just received another warning."

  "You are going to get into trouble for this," Adalberht snapped, "but fuck it Marcus, if you are convinced these Britons would be so stupid as to attack us then I'd rather be prepared than unprepared and dead."

  "Good, then its settled. This is my decision and I shall take full responsibility," Marcus said, as he turned to look at the wooden ramparts.

  "What about Cotta?" Lucius said, "He's bound to notice that the men are not in their barracks. Adalberht is right. This could end badly for you Marcus."

  Marcus looked grim. "Maybe," he muttered, "but we are doing this none the less."

  Chapter Three - The Long Night

  Marcus strode along the parapet with his hands clasped behind his back. Behind him came the Cohort's trumpeter, holding onto his conical brass trumpet and the standard-bearer, clasping aloft the unit banner. It was night and beyond the ramparts the darkness was silent and impenetrable. Marcus glanced up but there was no moon. The only light came from the torches that burned in the watch towers and around the southern gate. In the reddish devilish glow he could see the Batavian auxiliaries lining the walls. The men wearing their exotic feathered infantry helmets with the cheek and neck-guards removed, sat slumped on the parapet with their backs pressed up against the wooden palisade and their long flat oval shields leaning against their shoulders. Their long thrusting Hastae spears lay at their feet and in the faint light he could see the glint of their chain mail armour and hear the soft clink of equipment and the odd muffled cough.

  Near the southern gate of the fort he turned to stare out into the dark night and mutter a short silent prayer. The darkness hid the look on his face and for that he was glad. If the decision he'd just taken proved wrong, his military career would be over and possibly his life too for the army took insubordination very seriously and there was no doubt he would be punished. He bit his lip. Long ago he had decided that he would never be like his father, Corbulo. For most of his life his father had led a debauched, violent life; he'd driven his first wife to suicide and he'd beaten Marcus more times than he cared to remember. No, he would never be like his father, so upon his return from Hibernia three years ago he'd made a solemn vow before the immortal gods that he would protect his family from all harm and that he would rather die than see them suffer. If the Britons were going to attack the fort they would slaughter everyone inside. There was no doubt about that. He sighed and rubbed his forehead. But if he was wrong and the authorities had him executed, how could he protect his family then? He shook his head. This was no time for doubts. He had made his decision and that was that.

  "What are those men doing out of their barracks!" a loud annoyed sounding voice suddenly screamed in Latin. The noise seemed to come from the centre of the camp. Marcus closed his eyes. It was Cotta.

  "What the fuck is going on? Cotta yelled.

  The fort remained silent. Cotta was swearing now as he clambered up onto the parapets and began to pick his way down the line. He was coming towards the southern rampart and as he passed by, the Batavian auxiliaries turned to look at him.

  "Adalberht," Marcus heard Cotta's voice cry out, "What are you doing? Who gave the order to move the men up onto the ramparts?"

  For a moment the darkness remained silent.

  "Marcus did, Sir," Marcus heard Adalberht reply. "He's over near the southern gate I think."

  A storm of swear words spewed forth from Cotta's mouth.

  "Marcus, get your arse over here right now," the Prefect roared.

  Quietly Marcus turned and climbed down the ladder. On the ground he strode straight towards Cotta. The Prefect was holding a flaming torch in one hand and he was surrounded by a few men from his personal bodyguard. He glared as he caught sight of Marcus, his face flush with anger.

  "What do you think you are doing?" Cotta hissed, as he shook his head, "You disobeyed a direct order, my order. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

  Marcus glanced calmly towards the ramparts. "I believe we are in imminent danger of being attacked Sir, that's why I ordered the men up onto the walls. It was my decision alone Sir."

  "You are fool and a disgrace," Cotta hissed his eyes flashing wildly. "There is going to be no attack. The Britons are not that stupid. There are a thousand armed men inside this fort." For a moment the Prefect was silent as angrily he examined Marcus. Then abruptly he turned to the men of his bodyguard.

  "Take him," Cotta snarled, "and bind him to the lashing pole in the parade ground. At first light he's to receive twenty lashes and I want the whole camp to witness it. This man has surrendered any honour he ever had."

  "What will you do with me?" Marcus cried out as the bodyguard closed in on him.

  Cotta's lip curled in contempt. "I know about you and your father's friendship with Agricola but even he will not save you this time. I have witnesses. You disobeyed a direct order and I can have you executed for that."

  ***

  "Eighteen," the man holding the whip cried out.

  The whip flew through the air and struck Marcus's back with a dull whacking noise. Ma
rcus jerked forwards and cried out as an explosion of pain ripped through his body. It was dawn and he stood bare-chested tied to a wooden post in the centre of the parade ground inside the fort. Blood was welling up from the cuts made by the whip and his face was soaked in sweat. Around him, drawn up in neat straight lines as if they were about to charge into battle, rows upon rows of Batavians stood to attention, watching the spectacle in complete silence.

  "Nineteen," the man behind Marcus called out and once more the whip came flying in and struck Marcus in the back sending his body jerking forwards. Marcus groaned and forced open his eyes as he waited for the final blow. His back was a streaky mess of blood and his legs shook as he tried to stay upright. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Kyna, his wife. She was holding a hand to her mouth in horror and at her side Fergus, his three year old son clung to his mother's leg. Cotta had been adamant that they watch Marcus's disgrace.

  "Twenty."

  Marcus closed his eyes and cried out as the whip struck. For a moment he hung from the pole; the ropes that bound him, the only thing preventing him from falling to the ground.

  "Soldiers! This is what becomes of men who disobey orders," he heard Cotta shout in a loud voice. "This man betrayed my trust; he betrayed the honour of this Cohort. He is a disgrace. He will stay where he is all day and all night. No one is permitted to give him food or water or speak with him. That will be all. Now get back to your duties. Move it."

  The neat lines of soldiers dissolved as the men turned away and began to spread out through the camp. Marcus opened his eyes and looked down at the mud. The pain was intense. He groaned and a little bit of spittle slowly extended from his mouth. There had been no attack that night. He'd been wrong. He had thrown away his military career and possibly his life for nothing. The doubts came thick and fast threatening to tear him apart. With an effort he forced himself to look up. Cotta had gone but he caught sight of Lucius and Adalberht. The two officers were watching him with weary resigned expressions. Then they too turned away and joined the throng of men going about their morning routine. Marcus lowered his head as he suddenly thought of Corbulo, his father. His father had always been in trouble with his superior officers and had often been disciplined during his service with the Twentieth. Despite the pain and remorseless doubts Marcus raised his head and began to laugh. And here he was believing that he was any different to his father.

  ***

  Marcus licked his cracked lips as he felt the glare of the sun on his head. It was late in the afternoon. He half hung from the wooden post. Around him the fort was going about its business, as if he did not exist. How long had he stood here? Wearily he closed his eyes. Cotta's punishment was proving brutally effective. Every man in the Second Batavian Cohort would know by now what happened to men who disobeyed orders. His mind began to drift once more. What would he give to touch Kyna's cheek or ruffle Fergus's hair.

  Suddenly he heard someone coming towards him and a moment later a hand lifted up his chin and pressed a wooden bowl of water against his lips. Marcus opened his eyes and looked up at the man standing over him. It was Lucius. There was a stern look on the first centurion's face.

  "Drink it, Marcus," Lucius said quietly.

  Gratefully Marcus opened his mouth as Lucius emptied the bowl down his throat.

  Around them a few soldiers had paused to stare.

  "Thank you," Marcus whispered.

  "Cotta has sent a messenger to Deva," Lucius said, eyeing Marcus carefully, "he is putting his case to the Legate of the Twentieth himself." Lucius sighed. "He intends to have you executed but he's wary of the patronage you enjoy with Agricola. It may be a few days before we receive a reply."

  Marcus coughed and grimaced as his body shook in a spasm of pain.

  "Lucius," he muttered at last, "Tonight, have the men arm themselves, have them ready to fight, but keep them inside their barracks. Do this, please."

  For a moment Lucius remained silent as he examined Marcus sternly.

  "You still think these rumours about an uprising are true?" he muttered. "There was no attack last night Marcus and some of the men are questioning your judgement."

  "Just do it," Marcus said looking Lucius straight in the eye, "I am right about this, I know that I am right. They are coming for us."

  "Alright," Lucius replied looking away, "I will think about it."

  Chapter Four - Rebellion

  Marcus was woken by a sudden shriek. Startled he opened his eyes. He was still tied to the wooden post in the middle of the parade ground. It was night and the fort lay blanketed in darkness. To his right a flaming arrow arched gracefully into the sky and flew over the rampart before thudding into the mud not far from him. It was followed by another shout. Marcus blinked rapidly. What was going on? Ahead of him, along the north eastern rampart, one of the Batavian sentries suddenly staggered and toppled backwards into the camp clutching a spear, that had embedded itself in his chest. Marcus's eyes widened in horror as in the dim light he caught sight of silent men surging over the top of the palisade.

  In one of the watch towers a Batavian yelled out and a moment later a hasty trumpet blast echoed away into the night.

  "We're under attack, we're under attack!" someone screamed.

  A dull bang suddenly erupted against the southern gate and one of the sentries cried out in alarm and fright.

  "They are trying to break down the gate, help us, help!"

  Suddenly the night erupted as all at once hundreds of voices cried out and screamed their battle cries. The noise sent a shiver of pure fear down Marcus's spine. The voices belonged to Britons. Along the north eastern rampart he caught sight of more ladders thudding up against the wooden palisade. The Britons were pouring over the wall and onto the parapet and some had already jumped down into the fort. The unlucky sentries along that stretch of the defences did not stand a chance, and as Marcus stared at the scene with growing horror another lifeless body tumbled from the parapet.

  "What the fuck is going on?" a Batavian voice close by shouted. Marcus blinked. Had that been Lucius?

  "Second Batavian Cohort, to arms, get out here and fight! They are coming over the wall!" the voice screamed a split moment later.

  "Cut me free, cut me free, I am over here," Marcus yelled as desperation filled him with a surge of energy.

  A figure loomed up out of the darkness. The man was holding a burning torch and he was clad in armour but Marcus could not tell who it was. Quickly and expertly the man sliced through the ropes that bound Marcus to the wooden post.

  "You were right," the figure hissed, "you were right. Here take this," the man said flinging a Gladius onto the ground at Marcus's feet. Then he was gone shouting orders as he vanished.

  From the barracks blocks the Batavian auxiliaries stumbled out into the fort. There was no time to form up into a body of men or execute any tactical manoeuvres. The Britons were already inside the fort and it was every man for himself. Marcus scrabbled wildly in the mud until his fingers closed around the hilt of the sword. Around him the night air was rent with screams, yells, shouts and curses as the Batavians ran straight into the attackers and the night descended into chaos. Clutching his sword Marcus crouched in the mud and wildly looked around him. The pain in his back was a dull throb but his long exposure had weakened him. There was no way he would stand any chance in the desperate, vicious, bloody melee, that was developing along the north eastern wall.

  A loud bang echoed through the fort and another yell for help rose from the southern gate house.

  "Get up on that parapet and clear those ladders from the wall," a Batavian voice boomed in the darkness.

  Marcus rose to his feet and dashed across the parade ground towards the barracks block, where the slaves had their quarters. In the darkness he collided with a figure running in the opposite direction and both of them tumbled to the ground with a startled terrified cry. There was however no time to find out if the man was friend or foe. Marcus groaned as he forced himself o
nto his feet and staggered off. He was in no state to fight, especially with no armour or shield. The barracks block, where Kyna and Fergus had their quarters, loomed up out of the darkness and Marcus crashed heavily into the wooden door, but it would not budge. He groaned as a wave of pain shot through him.

  "Kyna, are you in there, Kyna, it's me Marcus!" he yelled, leaning his head against the door. Something was stopping it from opening.

  There was no reply from inside. Marcus pressed his shoulder against the door but it would still not budge.

  "We've barricaded the door, you won't get in," a frightened voice cried out.

  Marcus groaned again. The man sounded like one of the slaves. Then a Batavian cry to his left made him groan in dismay.

  "They are coming over the south western wall. Drive them back!"

  Marcus stepped away from the barracks block. He would just have to hope that his wife and son were inside with the slaves. There was no time. All at once a yelling figure came charging out of the darkness to his left and instinctively Marcus thrust his sword forwards, catching the man neatly in his side. The man screamed and spun away into the darkness, taking Marcus' sword with him. To his left more men appeared, rushing along the sides of the barracks blocks towards the centre of the fort. Marcus pressed himself against the door of the slave quarters as the Britons rushed past yelling their battle cries. He was unarmed. A trumpet suddenly blasted away. It had come from close to the southern gate. Marcus snatched a glance in that direction. Then with a groan he was hobbling away into the darkness towards the gate. Figures rushed past him. A high-pitched scream rent the darkness. Then he heard a tremendous bang, followed by the splintering of wood. Then came a desperate shout.

  "Hold them, hold them, don't let them get through," a Batavian voice screamed in the dark. Marcus stumbled over a corpse and tumbled to the ground. He cried out as a wave of pain crashed through his body. A shield and a discarded spear lay beside the corpse and wildly Marcus scrambled around in the darkness to get a grip. It was a useless idea for he just didn't have the strength to fight. Then he was on his feet and stumbling towards the gate and its flaming torches. As he approached he could see the defences were in a bad state. Corpses littered the parapet above and around the gate and the Batavians were locked in a fierce hand to hand fight with the Britons who were still coming over the wall. Down beside the gate the wooden doors had been battered until they were half off their hinges and the Britons were thrusting spears through the holes to drive the defenders back. A Decurion, clad in full armour, was trying to hack away at the spears with his long cavalry sword.