Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [125]
“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,