Claudius (3 page)

IV

Early the next evening the column camped on the edge of a forest, with the flank of the earthen fort protected by the sweeping bend of a wide, slow-moving river. When the ditch was dug and the guards were set, Rufus unshackled Bersheba and led her to an area of shallows a hundred yards downstream from the legion’s watering point. His body was chafed where his clothing had rubbed against skin caked in the salt sweat of an interminable, stifling hot day. When Bersheba waddled out into the stream with a trumpet of pleasure, he pulled his tunic off and followed her, settling languorously into the clear water until it reached his haunches.

He watched as Bersheba filled her trunk and curled the delicate tip to her mouth, gulping down gallons of water at a time. When she had drunk her fill she bent at the knees and flopped down, creating a wave that almost swept Rufus away, then rolled, scrubbing her back on the big pebbles of the river bottom. Her obvious delight made him laugh, and when she rose to her feet with all the grace of a queen finishing her morning bath, he called out to her. ‘Thank you, great Bersheba, monarch of all elephants, for as you frolic you save me work. You were so heavy with dust I feared I would have to wash you down with a bucket.’

Bersheba replied with a playful jet of water from her trunk that took him full in the chest with so much force that he lost his balance and ended submerged. He came up spluttering and it was a few moments before he noticed a vague figure through the damp curtain of his hair.

‘Narcissus assured me there would be fifty elephants. War elephants.’

Rufus swept the hair from his eyes and splashed to the bank where Verica stood. Bersheba remained in midstream spraying her wide back with river water over each shoulder in turn. Sometimes, when the fine droplets caught in the sun, she gave the illusion of blowing smoke from her trunk.

‘Narcissus often exaggerates,’ he said, as he carefully dried himself with his tunic. ‘Rome doesn’t fight with elephants, it fights with men; well-trained, well-armed and well-disciplined men. Legions.’ He and Narcissus had once discussed Bersheba’s potential as a weapon, a role which, fortunately, she had never been called on to carry out, and now he quoted the Greek’s words. ‘Elephants have never been part of the Roman order of battle. They are too ill-disciplined. They can be as dangerous to their friends as to their enemies.’

Verica eyed Bersheba doubtfully. Rufus guessed that he and the Briton were around the same age, in their early twenties, but where he was athletically slim, the Atrebate prince had a stocky warrior’s physique, and the ends of his long blond moustache flopped below the level of his chin.

‘I have heard stories of great victories. There was a general, Scipio, who fought with elephants?’

‘Borrowed elephants.’

Verica blinked. ‘Borrowed elephants?’

‘Yes. He borrowed them from a prince of the Indus, where they thrive, who loaned him little brown men to drive them and archers trained to fire from their backs.’ He didn’t know if it was true, but it sounded plausible. He had discovered that if he spoke confidently on the subject of elephants, however unlikely the claim, he was accepted as an expert. He had a vague memory of Narcissus spinning him a similar tale.

Verica looked at Bersheba wistfully. ‘I wish we had more elephants. It will take more than men to defeat Caratacus.’

‘You haven’t seen the legions fight,’ Rufus assured him, with more confidence than he felt. ‘Anyway, where is Narcissus? Shouldn’t you be with him?’

‘He is with the general,’ Verica said. ‘They are discussing the timetable for the return of my kingdom.’

Rufus thought this was unlikely, but decided it wasn’t worth arguing about. ‘I saw you once, in Rome. The first time you set eyes on Bersheba, you fell over.’

Verica gave him a look of irritation. ‘I wouldn’t have noticed you, a mere slave. I was a guest of the Emperor.’

The words ‘mere slave’ were meant to wound, but Rufus ignored the insult. It was true. He had been sold into slavery when he was six years old, by his father, a Spanish colonist who couldn’t feed a family of five from a few square yards of parched Mauritanian earth that produced more rocks than grain. He had been brought to Italy in the belly of a packed galley and counted himself fortunate that he had been bought by the family of Cerialis, a baker, and more fortunate still when he had passed into the ownership of the animal trainer Cornelius Aurius Fronto. The old man had sensed a talent in him he wasn’t aware he had: a talent to train animals for the arena. It had given him fame, of a kind, and it had led him inexorably into the clutches of Caligula. So, yes, he was a ‘mere slave’, but that didn’t make him any less of a man.

Verica mistook Rufus’s silence for disbelief. ‘It is true. I was in exile in Gaul when Narcissus heard of my plight. He summoned me to Rome to put my case to the Emperor. When I convinced them of the justice of my cause, Emperor Claudius vowed to create a mighty army to help me regain what was mine.’ The Briton’s voice held a faint hint of doubt, as if he didn’t quite believe the outcome himself, and Rufus decided this new, charitable Narcissus must be some kind of benign twin to the ruthless schemer he knew so well.

‘You are fortunate, then. But I am curious. How did you come to be in Gaul?’

‘When my father died I was proclaimed chief of my tribe, the Atrebates. We hold lands between here and the coast. Soon after I took the throne, the Catuvellauni, our neighbours to the north, demanded a cut in the taxes levied on their goods passing through my country. They are a warlike people and their king, Caratacus, is very powerful, so I agreed to a modest reduction. A week later I received a similar demand from the Dobunni, who are ruled by Caratacus’s brother Togodumnus. When I refused, they turned my cousin Etor against me. Of course, I had to kill him, but the Catuvellauni and the Dobunni joined together and invaded my land. If I had not fled when I did, they would have taken my head.’ Verica spoke matter-of-factly, as if losing a kingdom was an everyday occurrence. ‘Soon I will have my throne restored, and with Rome’s support, and Caratacus and Togodumnus gone, I will rule the south. Already my enemies fear my coming.’

Rufus remembered Narcissus’s reference to ‘poor Verica’. He suspected this guileless young man would have to bathe in British blood before Plautius handed him the kingdom he assumed was his by right. The Celtic noble’s hopes, based as they were on courage, honesty and trust, had as much chance of being fulfilled as Bersheba had of joining the long skeins of snowy-white swans which occasionally flew over the column in the early morning.

V

The fire burned bright in the centre of the meeting house as Nuada carried out the ceremonies of cleansing and called on Esus to ensure the success of their enterprise. Caratacus, in the place of honour directly opposite the doorway, allowed his glance to wander round the circle of seated men. There were twenty in total, kings and princes all, but only a dozen of them mattered. It was more than he expected, but fewer than he had hoped. They represented the tribes of southern Britain; the dam which must hold back the legions of Rome. But if any part of that dam should fail . . .

They had gathered at a temporary camp on the southern border of Caratacus’s lands, from where his warriors could cover all the likely river crossings the Romans might use. He knew each man in the hut by sight or by reputation, had drunk with some of them and taken land and cattle from others, sometimes both on the same night. A few of them liked him, some of them hated him, but they all respected him.

He had placed Togodumnus at his right hand so all should know the rift between them was healed. Antedios, king of the Iceni, sat to his left, his chest torn by an occasional cawing cough. He was an old man now, but in his youth he had been the most fearsome of Iceni champions and his people would still follow him. Closer to the doorway Bodvoc, the Regni chief, was a warrior king in the prime of his life, massively muscled and with a fortune in gold at his neck and on his upper arms. He grinned fiercely and raised his cup in salute when he noticed Caratacus looking at him. Bodvoc could be trusted to fight. Epedos, whose claim to the Atrebate throne Caratacus had supported when the feckless Verica had proved incapable of holding what he had, would not meet his eyes. Why? It was something he must find out later. Adminius, king of the Cantiaci, was studying him with frank distaste, but that was to be expected; born of the same father, but to different mothers, they had clashed in the past and would clash again. There were others, the Parisii, the Coritani, the Cornovii, whose support he must have, but who could be counted on to follow where the strong led. She was not here. Why had she not come at his summons?

‘I see no Silure or Ordovice representatives, brother. I was certain they were part of your grand design.’

Togodumnus, as always, had found a way to irritate him, the buzzing insect never far from his ear. ‘They do not feel the threat as we do,’ he replied, keeping his voice emotionless. ‘But they know it exists. The time will come when we have common cause, but it is not yet.’

‘What is to stop them from raiding the border villages when my warriors are off fighting your Romans? Is that not the Silure way, to stab you in the back when you least expect it? We should combine now,’ Togodumnus raised his voice so the others could hear, ‘combine now and destroy the power of the Silures so that when we advance on the invaders there is no threat to our rear.’

Bodvoc growled his assent, which did not surprise Caratacus. Bodvoc would fight anyone. The others looked to him, awaiting his reply, but it was Adminius who intervened.

‘Why should we fight at all?’ he asked.

His words had the same effect on the gathering as red-hot coals dropped into a pail of water. The tensions which had been held in check just below the surface erupted in an explosion of spluttered fury and demands to speak. Caratacus cursed beneath his breath. He had lost them. No. He had never had them. Like a fool, he had allowed Togodumnus to sow the seeds of disruption. He had to do something. But before he could get to his feet there was a sharp crack as Nuada rapped his staff against the centre post of the meeting hut.

‘We should fight for the gods,’ the Druid growled, pinning Adminius with a glare that dared him to speak, and gave Caratacus a moment to step into the void. The Catuvellauni king knew he had only one opportunity, and when he spoke it was with all the power of a lifetime preparing for just such a day. His voice was strong, but devoid of any harshness, and it seemed to fill the roundhouse with its resonance. Its message was that he bore none here ill-will, not even those who opposed him. That he spoke because it was his right. That they should listen because he had won their respect a hundred times over.

‘We should fight because we are warriors, the protectors of our people. We should fight because if we do not fight we will be enslaved. We have all lived through the plagues that ravaged this land. All felt the sorrow of a loved one lost. Unless we fight we will feel that sorrow a hundred times over – no, a thousand – and we will condemn our children and our children’s children to suffer it also. Do not mistake me: this is a plague more deadly than any we have faced. A human plague that will strip the land of Britain clean and condemn its people to death or slavery. These Romans have not come here for a season, but for a lifetime – perhaps many lifetimes. Nuada is right. We should fight for the gods, for only by fighting for the gods will we deserve the help of the gods. But the gods have their own battle to win, the battle against the gods who watch over the Romans. So it will be men, men with iron in their souls and blades of iron in their hands, who will defeat the red scourge.

‘You are all here because you know that if each of us stands alone we will be crushed into the dust the way a dung beetle is crushed beneath a wayward foot. We all have courage.’ He waved a hand to acknowledge them as warriors who, each in his own way, had proved their worth many times. ‘But courage alone will not be enough. Nuada, whom you know by reputation, has sent a messenger to the gods and the message he received in return is that only united will we prevail. My brother, who sits at my right hand, witnessed it, and he and I have put aside our grievances to meet this greater threat. Come, brother.’ He took a startled Togodumnus by the arm and raised him to his feet. ‘Give me the embrace of friendship.’

Togodumnus’s face was frozen somewhere between a dead man’s grin and a wolf’s snarl, but he allowed himself to be taken into his brother’s arms. ‘You take unity too far, brother, and push my patience further still,’ he said through gritted teeth into Caratacus’s ear.

‘It is a small price to pay, brother.’ Caratacus turned back to the circle of kings, and when he spoke the power in his voice grew with every word. ‘I do not ask you to do as my brother and I have done, but I do ask you to forget your grievances; to set aside the blood feuds and the border disputes that have long sapped our strength, and combine with me in one great battle against the enemy. Together we will destroy them, and the vanquished will take the tales of our valour back to their villages and their towns and their cities, and their stories will ring down the generations and ensure no Roman returns to these shores for a thousand years.’

Bodvoc started it. Each man in the circle had his war shield with its personal crest laid out on a frame in front of him. The Regni leader thumped a giant fist against the leather-covered ash in a rhythmic, measured drumming that was taken up by each king in turn. Caratacus saw Epedos hesitate before joining in the rhythm and taking up the chant that now rattled the wooden rafters of the hut. ‘War! War! War! War! War!’

Caratacus waited until they were hypnotized by the steady beat of flesh upon wood, their blood was racing through their veins and the savagery of their shouts was mirrored in their eyes before he raised a hand for silence. He opened his mouth to give orders for the muster. In his mind he had already chosen the sites for the stores of food that would sustain a great army until the harvest. Knew even where he would bring the Romans to battle if the gods favoured him.

‘Am I to be denied my say?’ Adminius demanded.

‘We do not need the words of a coward and a Roman-lover.’ Togodumnus was on his feet, his face flushed with the honeyed ale he had consumed and the battle-rage Bodvoc had inspired. ‘If you want to lick this Claudius’s boots, take your little tribe and go. Leave the fighting to real warriors.’

Adminius rose and would have walked out, but Epedos laid a hand on his arm. ‘Adminius is a king, as we are kings. He is my neighbour, and we have had our differences, but I say he should speak.’

The last thing Caratacus wanted was to allow Adminius to speak, but Epedos was central to his plans. He put a hand on Togodumnus’s shoulder and forced him down. ‘This is a gathering of friends. You are of my blood, Adminius, but even if it were not so you would have your say, though I fear it will not be what we want to hear.’ He gave way to his half-brother with a bow.

Adminius acknowledged the courtesy with a curt nod and rose to his feet. He was smaller in stature than Caratacus and Togodumnus, but with a girth and a pair of greedy eyes that told their own story. Yet his fine clothing and the gold torc at his throat marked him as his brothers’ equal, and when he spoke it was with a ponderous sense of his own dignity. He looked slowly round the room.

‘So we are all friends?’ He paused and took in the puzzled stares which answered him. ‘That will be why Bodvoc here encourages his warriors to steal my grain and take my young maidens for concubines.’ Bodvoc’s face split in a grin of acknowledgement. The Regni chief’s passion for auburn-haired Cantiaci girls was a byword in both tribes. ‘And why the king of the Atrebates allows my
friend
’ – Adminius’s voice was slick with sarcasm – ‘Togodumnus to cross his land to raid my northern estates for plunder to repay some disputed debt that we have both long forgotten. And why you, my brother, do not have the will to stop the Trinovante nobles, over whom you claim kingship, from causing havoc with the river trade on the Tamesa that is the lifeblood of my people.’

Caratacus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Everyone in the room knew it was all true.

Adminius continued: ‘King Caratacus is correct. One thing we can learn from the Romans is unity.’ He paused again to allow his words to sink in to drink-addled skulls. ‘But it is not the only thing.’

Togodumnus gave a growl and would have risen to his feet again if Caratacus hadn’t held him down.

‘It was the Cantiaci and our Atrebate allies,’ he bowed to Epedos, ‘who bore the brunt of the fighting when the Romans came before—’

‘And who’ve forgotten how to fight now.’ Bodvoc belched. ‘Or you’d still have a few more of your pretty wenches.’

Adminius ignored the laughter and continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘It is we, the Cantiaci, who control trade with Gaul, who provide you with your wine, and the pretty pots and precious oils your wives covet. Therefore it is we who are best placed to understand the Romans, who have had lordship over Gaul for a hundred years and who have brought that land prosperity—’

He was interrupted for a second time by Bodvoc’s growl. ‘If you call prosperity a boot across your throat and six inches of iron in your gullet, then, yes, they have brought prosperity. But I for one can do without that kind of prosperity. Give me a warm hut and a warmer woman any day.’

‘The kings of Gaul no longer live in huts,’ Adminius countered. ‘I have travelled there and I have seen their great palaces, the fine houses of their nobles, and their temples.’

‘Temples for Roman gods.’

‘No, lord king. Not Roman gods. Celtic gods. The Romans are pleased to allow the Gauls to worship their own gods if they wish. Of course, some see benefit in worshipping Mars alongside our own Teutates, Venus alongside Epona, goddess of the horses, but that is their choice. There is no coercion.’

Old Antedios coughed. ‘Yet we hear of Druids abused and imprisoned, even executed.’

Adminius smiled indulgently. ‘Not all Druids are of the calibre of Nuada. Perhaps the Druids as a society have placed themselves above the kings they profess to advise? Even above the gods they profess to serve. Does any of us here not know of priests who have overstepped their position?’

There was a low murmur of assent from Epedos, and even Bodvoc nodded. Caratacus sent an almost imperceptible signal to Nuada, who had listened to the insult to his sect with a face that could have been carved from granite. When the priest spoke, his words dripped with a contempt that stung Adminius more than any blow. He pointed his bear claw at the Cantiaci chieftain and the men on either side of Adminius shifted instinctively away.

‘Before you were born, Adminius, the Druids of Britain were all that stood between this island and a maelstrom of blood and madness. Every petty king and chief of a dozen men or two dozen sheep fought the others for land, or for water, or for gold. No man could till his field without a weapon to hand; no woman was safe, even in her own hut. It was the Druids who wrought order from this chaos, who found the strong men capable of ruling, and who taught them how to rule. Men like your grandfather Tasciovanus, and your father Cunobelin, whose legacy you appear to hold so cheap. It is Druids who preserve the history of our tribes in song and story, Druids who bind the gods to the people, Druids who decipher the skies, without which the crops would fail. Who provide healing in time of plague and counsel in time of strife. Without the civilizing influence of the Druids, Adminius, you would still be living like a cockroach in the cave your ancestors inhabited.’

He paused and looked slowly round the men in the hut until his gaze fell again on the king of the Cantiaci. ‘When I look upon Adminius I see a man driven by the desire not for peace, but for advancement. A man who twists the words and deeds of other men to suit his own purposes, and sees only that which he wants to see. Yes, the kings of Gaul have palaces of stone, but it is the stone we chain to a slave’s neck to prevent him from escaping. Yes, they drink Roman wine, but that wine poisons their minds and influences their decisions in favour of their Roman overlords. The Roman gold that flows into their treasure chests only serves to divide them from their people. Is that the Britain you wish to inhabit, Adminius? A Britain where no man is his own lord and where the only freedom lies in death?’

Adminius shrugged, as if the question were beneath him. ‘I merely point out that Rome is an opportunity as well as the threat you all perceive. It is a poor king who pushes his people towards a war he cannot win, when a few words would lose him nothing but his over-bearing pride and gain him an ally with the power to extend his rule over all Britain.’