Claudius (14 page)

‘He looks a mighty warrior. His father’s son. How many like him do you lead?’

‘Ten thousand.’ The figure brought a murmur of appreciation. ‘Ten thousand Durotriges, plus another five thousand Dumnonii, who are better off getting killed by the Romans than staying behind and plaguing my borders. Most will be here by tonight, the rest tomorrow.’

Fifteen thousand warriors, Caratacus calculated; fifteen thousand to add to the thirty-five thousand already gathered along the river. Fifteen thousand extra mouths to feed, but they would cope with that. They would have to. It was a mighty host. Together they would out-number Plautius’s whole army, perhaps outnumber the best Roman legionary troops by two to one. He would beat them, but the battle must be fought on his ground and his terms.

He looked up and saw Scarach staring at him in a significant way, and he realized he had missed something.

‘I said does our bargain still hold?’ the Durotrige war chief repeated. ‘The Dumnonii will only fight for pay.’

‘They will have their gold.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Our bargain holds.’

‘What bargain is this?’ Togodumnus was on his feet. ‘Was the council consulted?’

‘This is a bargain between myself and Lord Scarach.’ Caratacus looked to Scarach for support, but the Durotrige saw an opportunity for mischief that was not to be missed.

‘But surely Lord Togodumnus is a vital component of it?’ he said innocently.

Caratacus could feel every eye on him, and realized he had no choice. ‘I have pledged to provide a force of warriors to fight for Lord Scarach against the Irish sea folk who raid his coasts – once we have defeated the Romans.’

Scarach nodded his head in acknowledgement of the favour, but everyone in the room knew there was more to come.

‘I have further agreed to build and equip a fleet of ships to carry those warriors and a force provided by Lord Scarach to sweep the Irish coast, to wipe out the pirate bands and to take slaves.’ Scarach had driven a hard bargain. It would strip Caratacus’s treasury bare to find enough gold to build the ships. The only consolation was that once the Romans had gone he would annexe Adminius’s kingdom of the Cantiaci to help pay for the expedition.

‘How many men?’ Togodumnus demanded. ‘Whose men?’

‘Why, yours, Lord Togodumnus.’ Scarach smiled. ‘Five thousand of them. Are not the Dobunni the finest warriors in Britain?’

Togodumnus gave a strangled snarl and would have spoken again, but Bodvoc got to his feet. ‘Enough of this,’ he growled. ‘When do we fight?’

‘The Romans will be here in three days,’ Caratacus told him. ‘They will not attack immediately. I estimate another three days at most. Then we fight.’

XIX

‘We should attack now, when they do not expect us.’

Plautius stared. There was something in Vespasian’s tone that was not quite respectful, particularly in front of junior commanders. Still, there was nothing to be done about it. The legate might be a boor, but he had friends at Claudius’s court and in the senate and must be humoured. The annoying thing was that from a purely military standpoint he was correct. Caratacus must be off balance after the slaughter five days ago. Whatever force he had been able to gather since would be demoralized and disorganized. He believed himself to be safe behind the river, and therefore would be off guard. He underestimated the legions, and commanders who underestimated the legions were defeated before they even fought. Nevertheless, Plautius stood his ground.

‘We will rest and resupply, deploy the legions for attack . . . and wait.’

They had set up the invasion commander’s pavilion on rising ground south of the river. It was a fine day, and the front and side cloth walls were raised, allowing Plautius, his legionary commanders, their aides and the Emperor’s representative Narcissus an unbroken view of the far bank. Sunlight glittered on the swirling, shadowed waters, and occasionally a substantial fish would leap, causing a splash near the centre. The river was wide here, possibly as much as three hundred paces, and, if the sluggish flow was anything to go by, also deep. But there had been a bridge – the top few inches of the blackened piles stuck out from the surface like so many broken teeth – and where the British had built a bridge the Romans could build a better one. Of course, the British bridge had not been built under attack. The crossing would be opposed. They would lose men, but that was what men were for.

Plautius studied the far bank. The point he overlooked was on a gentle bend in the river, but it was clear the river itself was not always gentle. Regular flooding had cut away the bank, leaving a sharp edge and a steep climb of perhaps four feet. There was no beach that he could see, although there might be one at low water. He guessed that the river bottom was not uniform. The bridge was evidence of that. His engineers had identified that it stood on a gravel ridge which cut diagonally across from just below where they sat to a point slightly further upstream on the north side. Beyond the steep bank, a lush green meadow stretched away to a long, low hill – a whaleback – where his enemy stood and watched him in his turn.

It was a good position, one he might have chosen himself. The British warriors were arrayed along the crest of the low hill, most of them on foot, but the line was broken at intervals by the taller figure of a horseman or a chieftain standing in his chariot. He knew there would be more chariots, but it didn’t concern him. They were an annoyance, that was all. When a man had fought a chariot-borne warrior once, he had the measure of him. The horsemen, too, had only nuisance value. Cavalry tactics were alien to the barbarians. They used their horses to carry them into battle and away from it. Transport for the chiefs and the nobles, nothing more.

Plautius cocked his head to one side as he thought he heard a howl and he wondered if they had dogs. Realized they almost certainly would have. The British war dog had a fearsome reputation. Huge, powerful beasts with razor teeth and sharpened claws. A charging man might not break the line, but if a dozen snarling hounds started tearing at the legionaries’ unprotected legs it might be a different story. He would give it thought.

From time to time an individual or a small group of warriors would come to the water’s edge and scream what must have been insults, but they were much too far away to make out the words. He knew he was seeing only a fraction of the British force, and only what Caratacus wanted him to see, but it did not concern him. When the time came, there could be no doubt about the final outcome. The augurs had done their work, the sacred chickens had been consulted and the corn had danced in the most positive omen of all.

Vespasian, however, wasn’t finished.

‘If we wait we give the barbarians the opportunity to strengthen their defences, reinforce their army and recover from the beating we gave them. Tactically, there is no purpose to be served in waiting.’

‘Sometimes there are other imperatives than the tactical imperative,’ Narcissus said indulgently, but if he expected his words to mollify the Second’s commander he was mistaken.

‘What would you know of tactics, spy? I see no triumphal regalia on your chest.’

‘I would ever bow to your tactical knowledge, General, but I recognize a reality when I see one, and the reality is that the army must conserve its strength for the coming battle. There can be no mistakes.’

Vespasian scowled. ‘Do you allow this informer to dictate our movements?’ he demanded.

Plautius’s face turned almost as scarlet as his cloak. ‘You overstep your position, Legate. You command the Second. I command the invasion force by the authority of Emperor Claudius, whom you also serve unless you have changed your allegiance in recent days.’

Vespasian growled at the insult, but he was interrupted by his younger sibling, Sabinus, commander of the Fourteenth, who was as polished as his brother was coarse-grained.

‘I think that what the legate of the Second is attempting to convey, and I might add, respectfully, with the full support of his fellow legionary commanders, is that he is . . . perhaps the best word is
puzzled
by our dispositions. You estimate a halt of a week to ten days, yet he sees nothing to be gained and much to be lost by such a delay. Naturally, we accept the authority of our commander, Aulus Plautius, but we feel that a more . . . detailed . . . explanation of his dispositions might be in order.’

Plautius glared at him. It didn’t matter how thoroughly it was cloaked in diplomatic language, Sabinus was challenging the authority he claimed to accept so readily. Yet Plautius was commander enough to know he had been outmanoeuvred by the Flavians. He looked to Narcissus for confirmation.

‘Perhaps we might continue our discussions on a more private basis,’ the Greek agreed.

‘Junior commanders are dismissed,’ Plautius barked.

When they were alone with the four legates, Narcissus signalled to an orderly for wine. The six men sat in silence until it arrived, a delay which allowed the tensions in the room to abate, as Claudius’s freedman had intended it should.

‘Other imperatives.’ Narcissus dropped the words into the silence.

‘If the blood of a single legionary of the Second is spilled unnecessarily as a result of your “other imperatives”, spy, I shall give his comrades the pleasure of watching you die slowly on a cross.’ Vespasian’s words were threatening, but his voice was more controlled now. ‘What other imperative can there be but the destruction of the barbarian forces and the bringing of civilization to this benighted land?’

‘The imperial imperative,’ Narcissus said simply.

The four legates turned from Narcissus to Plautius, who sat back in his padded chair, thinking deeply. He looked up to find them watching him.

‘I have dispatched a message to the Emperor Claudius in Rome calling for reinforcements. The message states that, defying all nature, the British tribes have united against us and have forced us to a halt. It further states that other British forces are active in our rear and threaten our lines of supply. It is my belief that the Emperor will act upon this communication and send another legion to our aid.’

For a moment there was a puzzled calm, before the full impact of his words came home to the four officers. They all started to speak at once.

‘But . . . none of this is true,’ spluttered the legate of the Ninth, an elderly politician forced on campaign by his wife’s ambition to be the spouse of a consul.

‘We have the barbarians at our mercy,’ Sabinus pointed out. ‘Our supply chain may be stretched, but I have heard nothing of any attacks.’

The legate of the Twentieth shook his head. ‘No, this cannot be. We require no aid. Victory is certain.’

‘There is more to this than is at first apparent.’ Vespasian stared at Narcissus. ‘It will take weeks for another legion to reach Britain from Rome, if a legion is available in Italy. More likely the Eighth will need to march from Dacia. By the time this unnecessary reinforcement arrives we won’t have to attack the Britons, they will have died of old age.’

‘The Eighth legion will join us in ten days,’ Plautius said steadily.

‘Pah! A legion cannot fly. It would take five of those days to reach us from the coast and that at a forced march.’ Vespasian’s voice was thick with disbelief. ‘I mean no disrespect to you, Commander, but what you say is impossible.’

‘You mean you think I have gone mad.’ Plautius smiled his eagle’s smile. ‘Yet what I say is true. The Eighth will land at Rutupiae on the Kalends of July and we will not attack until after that auspicious day.’

‘But how?’ Vespasian shook his head in confusion. ‘I do not understand.’

‘Because I sent the message requesting reinforcements several weeks ago.’

‘But that was . . .’

‘A few days after we landed on the soil of Britain,’ Plautius confirmed. ‘As soon as I could be reasonably certain of our progress and success.’

‘This is madness.’

‘Not madness, my dear Legate.’ Plautius nodded towards Narcissus who stood by the doorway, his face expressionless. ‘Politics.’

‘We will attack Caratacus on the day the Army of Plautius becomes the Army of Claudius,’ the Greek said quietly.

‘The Emperor . . .?’

‘That is correct, gentlemen. The Emperor will assume command of the army in ten days. You have ten days to prepare your forces. Ten days to ensure your Emperor the triumph he needs to be proclaimed
Imperator
and to enshrine his and your places in history.’

Now they all saw it. Victory. A triumph.
Imperator
. Conspiracy was what won an Emperor his throne, but these . . . these were the currency that allowed him to keep it.

They were interrupted by a commotion at the doorway, where a rotund, richly dressed Celt swept in as if the pavilion belonged to him, with two large bodyguards at his back. The small man stared contemptuously around the room until his eyes fell upon Narcissus.

The Greek smiled a welcome. ‘May I introduce Adminius, king of the Cantiaci, and half-brother of the British leader Caratacus. He has a multitude of reasons to hate his brother and I believe he has news which may be of interest to you.’

XX

Four days after the meeting by the river, Claudius lay beneath a bright awning on the wide deck of his galley and tried to ignore the interminable creaking of planks and ropes. It was well past the fourth hour after dawn, but all he could see was grey. Grey sky, grey mist, grey sea. All the same dull, uniform grey. How he yearned for the familiar multihued contrasts of the
Mare Nostrum
; the deep blue and the aquamarine of the waters and the stark, glistening white of the sands. The journey had been long and tedious, but the captain assured him they would soon reach the shores of Britain. He felt a faint thrill of apprehension. What awaited him there? It had all seemed so simple when Narcissus had explained it, but weeks of interminable boredom had given him ample opportunity to explore every avenue of failure. There were so many, and each of them seemed inevitably to lead to his death. He tried to suppress the habitual tingle of panic. Whatever the next few days brought, he must retain that spirit of absolute confidence with which he had set out for the Senate that day five weeks ago; the day when he had truly become an Emperor.

He remembered each detail as if it were cast in stone. Messalina had been visiting her artistic friends, but his niece Agrippina had been there with the boy, Nero, when the messenger arrived. Sweet Agrippina was so attentive these days, always with some new tonic that calmed his nerves or helped him sleep. There were two messages. The first, from Plautius, bore its dread news of obstruction, failure and potential defeat. Callistus presented it with grave ceremony; the chamberlain already knew its contents, which would soon reach the ears of the palace servants and from there, inevitably, the streets, where rumour of disaster would spread like flame within a summer-dry thicket. The second was from Narcissus and was in a simple coded cipher which had been developed for just such confidential correspondence. This told the true situation, which filled Claudius’s heart with hope.

‘Callistus, prepare my chair and call an emergency session of the Senate.’

He had kept his face suitably grim as he made the short journey from the Palatine to the forum. As his bearers reached the foot of the Clivus Palatinus he could see that a crowd had already gathered among the marble columns and the gleaming temples along the Via Sacra. The steps of the Domus Publica and the frontage of the House of the Vestals nearby were packed with staring, wide-eyed faces. Of course the mob would be aware of some impending crisis, but he ignored every shouted call for information. Instead, he admired the perfect proportions of the temple of Divine Julius and paid a silent tribute at the little shrine to Venus Cloacina. Then he was there, in that hallowed place. The Senate House.

Why was it only here that he truly felt like an Emperor; when he was faced by his rivals, his enemies and his detractors? Look at them, dewy-eyed and solemn, yet every one of them exulting in his discomfort. Each ready to take what advantage they could from his dilemma. Why, Galba was even snivelling like a child, no doubt lamenting the greatest military disaster since Varus lost his legions among the swamps of the Teutoberg forest. Well, let him snivel. It was difficult to keep from feeling smug. No. The mask must not slip. This was his time. Remember. The performance.

He looked out over the rows of tiered benches and felt the power rising in him, his brain taking on the icy sharpness of the surgeon’s scalpel. He kept his face immobile, and as the seconds stretched into minutes the fat backsides filled with aristocratic blood began to fidget on the worn white marble. Let them wait. The gods had given him a gift to offset the disabilities and the humiliations they had heaped upon him at the moment of his birth, but they had hidden it well. Only Augustus, that most prescient of Emperors, had recognized it. Had seen that, while Claudius dribbled and stuttered like the most ill-starred lunatic when confronted on equal terms by anything born of mortal woman, he was still capable of charming, seducing and convincing when he spoke to an audience. What had the old man written to his grandmother? Oh yes. The pompous, growling voice filled his head as if he were mimicking it. ‘Confound me, dear Livia, if I am not surprised that your grandson could please me with his declaiming. How in the world anyone who is so unclear in his conversation can speak with such clarity and propriety when he declaims is more than I can see.’

He felt a smile threatening at the memory, but was just able to suppress it. Now. Now was the time. He got to his feet, hitching the toga over his shoulder. His eyes ranged over the benches once more, acknowledging the powerful and the influential, ignoring the others. ‘Senators of Rome.’ He projected his voice so that it seemed to rattle from the marble columns of the house, and those in the front ranks of the crowd beyond the ropes outside the building could hear each word and pass it on to those behind. ‘Senators of Rome, I have called you here on a matter of the gravest importance. The honour – no, the very future of the Empire lies in the balance.’

A murmur of dismay ran through the white-clad ranks on the benches. He raised his hand for quiet.

‘General Aulus Plautius, whom all here know, and I tasked with the long overdue annexation of the peoples of Britain, reports a set-back. The British tribes, which he had supposed defeated, have united under the command of a new and resourceful leader, Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni. This Caratacus now gathers a mighty host to his standard, a host which threatens the very existence of General Plautius’s army. Four Roman legions – four, I say – are now held with the point of Caratacus’s spear at their throat, beyond reach of their supplies, without reserves, with no hope of succour, unless,’ he paused to let his words and their message be absorbed, ‘unless we, the conscience and the conviction of the Empire, give them hope.’

He stopped again and allowed his head to drop slightly. His voice seemed quieter, but somehow still reached every ear he intended it to reach.

‘I blame myself for placing Rome’s bravest and most honoured in such deadly peril. General Plautius asked for more troops – indeed, he outlined this very situation – but I – and you – denied them to him.’ He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his own foolishness, and with that one act included every man in the Senate House in his guilt. ‘Too expensive, we said. We need them in the east, we said.’ His voice rose in volume again, its power growing with each word. ‘What price do we put now on Roman blood, what price on Roman honour? Is there any price we would not pay, any gift we would not give, to turn defeat into victory?’

‘No!’ ‘None!’ ‘Anything!’ The words were repeated along the benches, taken up by one senator after another, and he knew he had them. Had them all.

‘Then I propose we send the Eighth legion to the aid of our beleaguered commander. I have already taken the liberty of alerting their legate at his base in Dacia, and they have begun a forced march through the Alpine passes.’

There was a murmur of assent, but one senator ventured his concern. ‘Will a single legion be proof against an enemy who have the measure of four already?’

Claudius allowed himself a grave smile. Thank you, Lucius Vitellius, for playing your part. You will have your reward.

‘Not just a single legion, Vitellius. The expedition will be accompanied by a force consisting of the Praetorian Guard and auxiliary cavalry, which is equal to a second legion.’

He waited until the full impact of his words was rewarded by a murmur of surprise. The Praetorian Guard was the élite of the Roman army, headquartered in Rome and the personal bodyguard of the Emperor. He never went anywhere without them, or they without him.

‘Yes, senators of Rome, I, an old man, will personally lead the relief force.’ He let his eyes range across the tiered benches. ‘But who will join me? You? You? Or you? Will you come to General Plautius’s aid and redeem the glory of Rome?’

What could they do, when the senator seated next to them was clamouring to be included? To gainsay him would be to admit cowardice or lack of patriotism. So one by one his enemies stood and clamoured with the rest. And, one by one, he swept them up.

‘Yes, you brave Marcus Vinicius. I accept your gracious offer. Valerius Asiaticus, you live up to your noble name. Lucius Sulpicius Galba, I am humbled by your sacrifice and will willingly serve beside you. Gallus, old friend, and now comrade.’

One after the other he netted them, the cunning and the ambitious, the plotters and the backstabbers, until every danger of consular or senatorial rank was safely in his basket. When it was done he studied his haul like a hunter weighing his bag at the end of a long day. Asiaticus and Vinicius had both married into the imperial family, and been involved in the plot to kill Caligula. But for the accident of Claudius’s discovery by the Praetorian Guard, Vinicius could have been sitting here in his stead, for he had been nominated by the plotters to replace the Emperor. Nobody had more reason for hate than he. Gallus was a fool, but he could not be left behind when he wore his contempt for the Emperor like a badge of honour and waved his ambition like a flag. Sulpicius Galba was more dangerous still, since he was the most able of them all, and kept his ambition hidden behind his patrician scowl. Yet he talked ceaselessly of what was
needed
to make Rome great again, and all knew that he believed what was
needed
was Lucius Sulpicius Galba.

It could not have gone better, and when he had them eating from his hand like caged lovebirds, he convinced them to appoint his most trusted ally, Lucius Vitellius, to govern in his stead during the campaign.

Yet, when it was over, elation had been replaced by a strange melancholy. Would there ever be another day like this? Would he ever reach these heights again? He knew he had only won a brief respite from the pressures ranged against him. To truly cement his position he needed a victory and a triumph.

So he had returned to the Palatine – to arm himself for war.