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Chapters (76)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. I
  4. II
  5. III
  6. I - INVADER AD 43-70
  7. I
  8. II
  9. III
  10. IV
  11. V
  12. VI
  13. VII
  14. VIII
  15. IX
  16. X
  17. XI
  18. XII
  19. XIII
  20. XIV
  21. XV
  22. XVI
  23. XVII
  24. XVIII
  25. XIX
  26. XX
  27. XXI
  28. XXII
  29. XXIII
  30. XXIV
  31. XXV
  32. XXVI
  33. II - BUILDER AD 122-138
  34. I
  35. II
  36. III
  37. IV
  38. V
  39. VI
  40. VII
  41. VIII
  42. IX
  43. X
  44. XI
  45. XII
  46. XIII
  47. XIV
  48. XV
  49. XVI
  50. XVII
  51. XVIII
  52. XIX
  53. XX
  54. XXI
  55. III - EMPEROR AD 314—337
  56. I
  57. II
  58. III
  59. IV
  60. V
  61. VI
  62. VII
  63. VIII
  64. IX
  65. X
  66. XI
  67. XII
  68. XIII
  69. XIV
  70. XV
  71. EPILOGUE
  72. I
  73. II
  74. III
  75. IV
  76. Afterword

Cunedda struggled to sit up. They were in the shade of the trees, in cool green. His head banged with pain; Nectovelin said a warrior on his own side had managed to clatter him with a club. He was drenched with blood, but little of it was his own.

The roaring of the battle continued, and the air stank of shit and death. He scrambled to the edge of the copse and peered out.

From this bit of high ground he could see the disposition of the Roman army. The Roman units were still hard, compact blocks, red and black and silver. There were ten of them, with four in a front row engaged with the British and two rows of three waiting in reserve behind. Further away was another set of ten cohorts with a similar deployment. Away from the stolid blocks of the legionary cohorts were smaller units, on foot or horseback. They were auxiliaries, he knew, cavalry or specialists such as archers and slingers. They held their positions, not needed yet.

By comparison the shapeless British mob looked like a tide that had swept forward. And wherever British wave crashed against sturdy Roman block there was a bright froth of blood.

Nectovelin, beside him, pointed. ‘Look over there.’

Marching from the west, Cunedda made out more compact Roman units, tramping steadily towards the fray.

‘I’ve been counting the cohorts,’ Nectovelin said grimly. ‘I reckon we face three Roman legions today. Ten cohorts each, see? We’ve already broken ourselves on two of them. And now here comes the third, to mop us up.’

‘How long was I out?’

Nectovelin shrugged. ‘Heartbeats. Not long.’

Cunedda glanced up and saw that the sun hadn’t moved perceptibly from where it had been when the charge had begun. ‘And yet the battle is already lost.’

‘Oh, there’s plenty of killing to be done. But, yes. In fact we lost it the moment we charged. Look.’ He pointed to the rear of the British lines, where the non-combatants, the wives and children and traders, were hastily packing up and fleeing. ‘The Roman cavalry will come after them, but the women and children ought to get away. Agrippina has a chance.’ He laughed darkly. ‘Never did think much of Roman cavalry.’

‘What of the princes?’

‘Who can say?’

‘Nectovelin, in the thick of the fighting - the way the Romans killed - it was relentless.’

‘This is the way civilised men kill,’ Nectovelin said. ‘It is an industry. They kill as they make pots. To leave a man to fight again is, to them’ - he waved a hand - ‘a waste of effort.’

‘Why did you pull me out of there?’

‘Because, by Coventina’s baggy quim, though the day is lost, Cunedda, the war is long. We’ll find Agrippina, and we’ll think again.’

They turned from the grinding battle and slipped away.

XVI

XVI

Agrippina woke to Cunedda shaking her shoulder.