Douglas Jackson - Hero of Rome

Now, the Britons Valerius had faced were trapped; hundreds of warriors corralled between the two legionary forces and the fortress wall. Some attempted to escape by climbing the rampart, but there would be no refuge from the bowmen posted at the base of the hill. Sharp cries rang out from within the midst of those remaining, and Valerius knew they were calling for mercy. But there would be no mercy. Only the long slumber of the Roman peace.

A Roman legion was a killing machine and now he watched that machine at work. No amount of Silurian courage would change the outcome. In the confined space, the long, curved swords of the Britons had little or no room to swing and when they did they expended their force against the three layers of hardwood that made up a legionary shield. The gladius was different. Jabbing between gaps in the shield wall, the short, razor-edged swords ripped into belly and groin then twisted free, creating a gaping wound that left a man praying for death. Then the big shields smashed forward and the swords flicked again. The legionaries of the First cohort worked with a studied concentration that made no distinction between old or young, brave or fearful. The Celts were beasts to be slaughtered. At first, Valerius was fascinated by this utterly disciplined lack of humanity, the relentless rhythm of death which eventually left the prospective victims slack-jawed with horror and sapped of the will even to defend themselves. But the fascination faded as the individual details of the butchery burned themselves on to the surface of his brain. The moment he felt some fragile barrier in his mind threaten to crumble he turned and walked away through the chaos of victory.

Surviving women and children huddled for protection amongst the wreckage of the wattle-and-daub huts by the south wall. Close by, the bodies of the elders who had stood with them only a few moments earlier still twitched in an untidy heap. Valerius studied the prisoners, but none would meet his eye. He was reminded of cattle marked for slaughter, disturbed by the smell of blood from those who had gone before but helpless to escape their fate. Meanwhile, fighting continued all around him: small skirmishes involving groups of warriors who had defended the west gate; individual Britons fleeing for their lives from a dozen legionaries still lost in the frenzy of battle. The air was filled with screams. But one scream was different.

It was a child’s scream of pure terror.

He knew he should walk away: what was another child’s life in this slaughterhouse? But the scream was repeated and he realized it came from one of the few surviving huts less than twenty paces away. Two legionaries stood in the doorway with their backs towards him beside the crumpled body of a woman in a torn grey dress. He dropped his shield against the fence of a nearby animal enclosure and advanced to place the point of his gladius below the closer man’s ear. The legionary froze.

‘First rule of war, soldier,’ Valerius said quietly. ‘If you don’t keep your mind on the job, you get yourself killed.’

The second legionary turned with a nervous grin. He looked towards the first soldier questioningly, but Valerius shook his head and maintained just enough pressure on the sword to keep him honest.

‘Nothing in there you’d want to see, sir.’

‘I think I should decide that for myself, soldier. What century are you?’

‘Third of the Second, sir. We-’

A muffled cry of distress interrupted his words and Valerius pushed past him and stepped into the hut. At first he could see nothing in the darkness, but as his eyes acclimatized to the gloom he heard a rhythmic shuffling and traced it to a white blur at the rear of the hut. On closer inspection the blur was identified as a pair of male buttocks heaving and thrusting at something below it. He gave the buttocks a sharp kick and the heaving stopped. The man turned his head and stared up at him. The pale eyes were no longer expressionless. They could have been those of the Briton Valerius had killed earlier. The only difference was that in Crespo’s the killing rage was more controlled.

‘Go and find your own whore.’ The centurion’s voice was slurred with lust and contained a clear warning. He turned contemptuously away and began deliberately thrusting his hips back and forth in a brutal, almost violent motion. Over his shoulder Valerius could see two terrified, pain-filled eyes. He remembered the screams and wondered why the girl — she could be no more than twelve years old — now stayed silent. Then Crespo moved again and he understood. As he held his victim down with one hand, with the other the centurion had forced a dagger between the girl’s lips, the point at the back of her throat. He only had to shift his weight and she would be dead. Valerius almost gagged on the wave of disgust that swept through him. He turned as if to walk away, then spun and with all his strength swung a kick that took Crespo on the side of the skull, pitching him clear off the girl and catapulting the dagger from his hand.

The kick would have knocked a lesser man senseless. Crespo only shook his head and launched himself across the hut. Valerius was able to half sidestep the charge, but Crespo caught him with just enough force to throw him off balance and send his own sword flying. A fist landed a glancing blow below Valerius’s left cheek and he felt fingers clawing for his eyes. He retaliated with a punch of his own that took the centurion square on the chin and knocked him backwards, so he stumbled and almost fell. When he stooped to the floor Valerius thought he had stunned or disabled him, but Crespo straightened with the knife glittering in his right hand.

The Sicilian didn’t hesitate. He came in fast, holding the dagger low, point upwards, and feinting right and left, but Valerius knew he would go for the soft flesh of the lower belly just below the armour. He had no doubt that Crespo wanted to kill him, but he felt no fear at the sight of the blade. It was what made him a soldier. He knew instinctively he was quicker than his opponent. He allowed the centurion to come in close before twisting his body so that the thrust slid down his left side. The blade scored his hip and he gasped at the lightning streak of pain, but the sacrifice had been worthwhile. As he pivoted he grasped Crespo’s knife arm with both hands and used the man’s momentum to swing him against the centre post of the hut with a force that shook the whole structure. The centurion’s unprotected face took most of the impact and he reeled back spitting blood and teeth, with one eye already swelling closed. Still he retained the strength to stagger towards Valerius. Would the man never give up? The tribune allowed Crespo to take two tottering paces then stepped forward and smashed the reinforced cross-brace of his helmet into the centurion’s forehead, dropping him like a poleaxed bull.

Valerius picked up his sword and stood over the prone body. He remembered the feeling of power when he had killed the Briton and fought back the urge to experience it again. It would be neater. Crespo was capable of anything. He would never forgive or forget the disgrace of a defeat. But the moment passed quickly and all Valerius felt was a curious emptiness.

A sob attracted his attention and he turned to see the girl standing naked against the rear wall of the hut with one hand to her mouth and the other covering her sex. Fresh blood stained her inner thighs and Valerius had to look away. ‘You!’ he snapped to the two men staring wide eyed from the doorway. ‘Cover her up and put her with the rest.’ He took a last sickened look at the figure on the floor, noisily snoring through a broken nose. ‘When he wakes up tell him to report to the legate.’

‘You are a fool, Valerius. You should have killed him and had done with it. Instead you burden me with trouble I don’t need and paperwork I don’t have time to deal with.’ Valerius stood at attention in front of the legate’s desk, exactly where Crespo should have been standing. The general pursed his lips and frowned. ‘Did you really think I would arrest Crespo? The man may only be a centurion but he has powerful friends. When I took command of this legion I received letters of commendation about him from my three predecessors. Look!’ He waved a document he had been reading. ‘One of them is now a consul, another a military adviser to the Emperor. I do not need enemies like that.’