Claudius (16 page)

XXIII

The rain slanted from the darkness and twinkled as it was caught in the flickering light from a hundred torches.

Rufus had still been awake when the messenger from Narcissus tapped him on the shoulder, taking care not to disturb Gaius, who slept dreamlessly at his side. He felt a pang of regret that he had no token he could leave, no message of reassurance in case he didn’t return. But the Greek’s orders had been clear. There was one thing he could do, though. He bent his head low over the russet curls and gently kissed the little boy’s forehead, producing a faint whimper that made his breath catch in his chest. He wished more than anything that he could stay; this was where he belonged, not out there in the dark unknown, his fate in the hands of men he hadn’t even met. But he could not let Narcissus down. He took Bersheba by the harness and led the elephant carefully through the baggage carts into the open. He had hidden the Praetorian uniform in the base of the wagon beside Narcissus’s great secret. Now he donned the black linen tunic and the sculpted armoured breastplate with its wolf symbol. On his head he placed the heavy metal helmet with its wide cheek pieces. When he had fastened his sword-belt, he slid the short, razor-edged
gladius
from its scabbard with a hiss that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was comfortably heavy in his hand and he couldn’t resist two or three practice cuts before he returned it to its sheath.

He expected the messenger to lead them towards the river where Plautius’s four legions must already be forming up in preparation for the dawn crossing. Instead, the man turned in the opposite direction, away from the three bridges which would carry the Roman army into the centre of the British battle line.

Rufus struggled to hide his confusion, but he knew better than to ask questions. He was in Narcissus’s world now; a world where the unexpected must be taken for granted and where nothing was ever quite as it appeared. It was full dark, but his escort was well versed in his business, for he never deviated from the path as they marched across the rough country south of the river. Only twice did he hesitate, and both times it was to stop and listen.

‘Did you hear anything?’

Rufus shrugged. ‘An owl. A rustle in a hedgerow. Just night sounds. Why?’

‘It’s nothing. A little nervous maybe. There’s word of British scouts this side of the river. Wouldn’t want you getting your throat cut.’

They continued for ten minutes before they topped a low rise and Rufus stopped so abruptly Bersheba almost walked over him. The grassy bowl below his feet stretched for perhaps four hundred paces in each direction and it was overflowing with the shadowy figures of men. Legionaries. The extent of the enormous mass of soldiers was defined by pinpricks of light from the torches which identified the pathfinders who would lead them through the night. It was a full legion, he realized. No, it was more than a legion. There must be five or six thousand men.

The messenger touched him on the shoulder and they made their way carefully down the rain-slick slope towards a group of mounted men waiting on the right. Vespasian’s aides looked as if they would prefer to be hooded against the relentless drizzle, but if their commander noticed the conditions he didn’t acknowledge them. The legate wore the gilt armour breastplate that signified his general’s rank and had his cloak thrown back from his shoulders so all could identify it. His face was a frown of concentration, but his expression softened when he saw Bersheba.

‘So, our secret weapon. I hope you are right, Master Narcissus.’

Rufus blinked and turned to find the Greek standing behind him, with Verica, his eyes bright with excitement, by his side. The young Atrebate studied the black and silver of Rufus’s Praetorian uniform with interest and nodded his approval.

‘Oh, I don’t believe either the Emperor’s elephant or his handler will let you down, General. They have been of great service in the past – and will be again in the future,’ Narcissus replied.

Vespasian gave a thin, tight-lipped smile. ‘If they survive. And who but the gods can say if any of us will survive this night?’ The Roman general shouted a name that Rufus couldn’t quite identify, and an officer marched briskly out of the darkness. ‘This is Justinius Frontinus, prefect commanding our Batavian auxiliaries, and tonight he commands the Emperor’s elephant. What say you, Frontinus? Will the beast do?’

Frontinus, an earnest young man with prematurely ash-grey hair, looked Bersheba up and down, giving Rufus an opportunity to gather his thoughts. Will she do for what? He had expected to be part of a battle – had prepared for it – but what madness had Narcissus trapped them in this time?

‘Oh, I think it will do, sir. If it is as strong as it looks.’

‘Well, elephant keeper?’ Vespasian demanded. ‘Is the beast as strong as it looks?’

‘Stronger.’ Rufus tried to think of some feat of Bersheba’s that would make his point more forcefully, but the legate had heard enough.

‘Then she will do indeed. I had hoped to have her beside me in my battle line, but she has other duties tonight.’ An orderly spoke quietly in his ear and he nodded. ‘It is time. Do your duty, young man, and your Emperor will reward you; fail him and your only reward will be death. But I do not think you or the elephant will fail him. If you survive, visit me tomorrow and I will give you my own reward, insignificant though it is. Perhaps when we next meet we will have made history.’

In the darkness around him, Rufus felt the mass of troops begin to move off and Vespasian and his retinue turned their horses to keep pace with them. They were heading east. Downstream, away from where Caratacus’s army waited. He expected the order to follow, but Frontinus stood and watched them go. Narcissus strode off, calling for his horse.

‘So, tonight you will be given the opportunity to prove yourself in battle, you and your elephant,’ Verica said. Whenever he’d spoken to Rufus in the past it had always been in the patronizing tones of a social and physical superior, but here, standing in the soft rain with the muffled sound of gently clinking armour all around them, there was a new respect in his voice. ‘Do not fear. It is not so terrible. Keep your guard up and always stay on the move. I have watched you; you are strong and you fight well. I think you will survive this night. I have fought a dozen battles, but I will never forget the first. It is what makes a man a man.’

Rufus smiled in the darkness. Verica could never keep his natural arrogance at bay for long, even when he was making an obvious effort. He decided it wouldn’t be out of place to do a little boasting of his own.

‘I have fought before. In Rome, my friend and I saved our Emperor from assassins.’ He saw Verica’s head come up in surprise. ‘It was during the procession for the Divine Drusilla, the Emperor’s sister. Cupido was an officer of the guard and Bersheba pulled the goddess’s golden statue. We saved Gaius Caligula from men sent to kill him.’ And later I killed him myself. He didn’t say it, but he couldn’t suppress the memory of that blood-soaked duel in the passageway.

‘You saved an Emperor, yet you are still a slave?’ Verica’s voice betrayed his doubt. ‘If you had done the same for me I would have freed you and given you gifts of great worth. Where is this friend now? He must have been a mighty warrior to be part of the Emperor’s guard.’

‘He is dead, killed by the man he protected.’

Verica grunted, as if Cupido’s death somehow made him less interesting. On another day, Rufus might have reacted to the slight, but tonight they were two comrades on the eve of a battle. Tomorrow, both of them might be dead. Apart from Narcissus, Verica was the closest thing he had to a friend, and tonight he needed the companionship of such a one. There was a shout from the shadows and Verica turned to go. Rufus felt a momentary pang of regret. ‘Prince Verica?’ The Atrebate hesitated. ‘I will pray to Mars to bring you through the battle safe, give you victory over your enemies and return your kingdom to you.’

There was a flash of white in the darkness and Rufus imagined Verica grinning. The shouted reply came amid the jingle of harness as he struggled to mount his horse. ‘I thank you, Rufus. Stay safe, and when we meet again tomorrow you will be a hero, and I will be a king.’

XXIV

A touch on his right arm made Rufus turn and he found the auxiliary officer, Frontinus, by his side. ‘Is it possible your beast can move quietly in the dark?’ he asked. ‘We must close on the enemy without being discovered. They may have spies on this side of the river. Silence will be essential to our success.’

Rufus thought for a moment. ‘That depends on what kind of country we are crossing. In heavy forest I wouldn’t give much for our chances of going undetected, but over open ground, and if I lead her rather than ride her, Bersheba can make less noise than an ant.’

The Batavian looked doubtful, but he nodded. ‘Very well, then. I will make space for you in the centre of the column, between the third and the fourth cohorts. I will guide you there.’

‘What are our duties to be?’ Rufus asked the question that had been tormenting him for most of the day. ‘No one has given me any instructions.’

The prefect shook his head. ‘The army never changes. General Vespasian, in his wisdom, has decided that our little force will be the left wing of the attack. It is a great honour, but one I fear we may not live to appreciate. Now, follow me, and make sure that thing doesn’t crush any of my men. I’ve few enough to do the job as it is. I will join you later if I can.’

The Batavians were ranked six abreast in their centuries and the line stretched away into the night. Facing west – upriver – away from the bulk of the Second Augusta. As Bersheba passed along the column, Rufus heard the murmurs of surprise and awe. Many of these men would have heard of the Emperor’s elephant, but few would have set eyes on her. Now she was here, joining them on whatever perilous mission they had embarked upon. Some of them would be encouraged by the massive grey presence among them; others would fear her, for that was always the way with Bersheba. Rufus saw that a few of the younger Batavians sported full beards and wore their hair long, in defiance of fashion and military practice, and these he noted also wore neck rings, made not of precious metals but of rough-smithed iron. Frontinus explained the puzzle while they walked. ‘They are the’ – he used a word of unashamed coarseness that approximated to virgin – ‘of our tribe, who have yet to kill a warrior in battle. Only when they dip their spears in another man’s blood will they cut their hair and cast away their childhood along with the torc they wear, which will be presented to Donar, the chief of our gods.’ As they passed each century of mail-clad soldiers, the prefect had a word for an individual officer or a soldier. Had Macrinus received the equipment he’d requested? How were Taurinus’s feet, had the blisters healed? Eventually they came to a gap in the ranks and Frontinus halted. ‘This is your position. Hold station on the unit in front. Do not lose them. I don’t want half my force to go missing on the way to the river. When we get where we need to be I’ll send word for you.’ With that, he marched off.

Rufus stood close to Bersheba, whispering reassuringly to her. Though his heart was racing, she was at her most placid. Night-time escapades like this were alien territory for both of them, but there was something in her nature that allowed her to accept, even to enjoy, the unusual. He slipped her one of the sweet apples he always carried and she gave a soft grunt of thanks as she crunched it. While they waited for the order to march, a man from the century ahead approached cautiously, carrying a length of rope. ‘My commander bids you take hold of this. The other end is tied to a man in the last section. It can be confusing in the dark, and this will ensure you stay in contact.’

Rufus thanked him. It meant one fewer problem to rattle round his head. The night was pitch dark and the rain dampened any noise; there was a fair chance he would have lost touch with the ranks ahead of him. The auxiliary centurion’s foresight proved he was in good hands. There was no command, but a short tug on the rope told him they were on the move. Walking silently through the darkness, he kept Bersheba at a steady pace, maintaining station on the shadowy silhouettes and the occasional glint of light on an armoured helmet in front. He tried to concentrate only on the moving backs, but his mind was inevitably drawn to the imponderable question of what lay ahead. They were part of the attack, yet their route was taking them
away
from the main body of the enemy. Frontinus had said they were making for the river, but what would happen when they got there? Could there be a ford the Britons had left unguarded? It seemed unlikely. Had the engineers constructed a fourth bridge? Less likely still, for the enemy would certainly be aware of it and their welcome on the far side would be a shower of spears. Nothing made sense. Eventually he gave up his pointless brooding and forced himself to focus on the ground beneath his feet and the men to his front.

Frontinus was as good as his word. Rufus had no way of measuring how long they had marched, but at one point he found the auxiliary commander keeping pace beside him. Rufus asked the question that had been gnawing at him. ‘You say we are to close on the enemy? How is that possible when the barrier of a mighty river separates us? Do you have a sorcerer who will lift us over its waters undetected?’

‘Not a sorcerer.’ Frontinus laughed. ‘River rats.’

‘River rats?’

‘That’s right. River rats and an elephant.’

Rufus must still have looked mystified.

The auxiliary commander explained: ‘It is what my men call themselves – river rats from the wetlands between the two great rivers of Germania. Water rules our life from the day we are born. When we take our first breath our father sacrifices to the water gods. One of the great trials of manhood among the Batavi is to swim the Rhenus, a river twice as wide as this rather pitiful thing we approach, and when we die our bodies are consigned to its waters. The rivers provide us with everything: fish and wildfowl for food, driftwood to build our huts, the beaver and otter pelts that clothe us. The only thing they cannot give is gold, and that is why we fight for the Romans. Every family of my tribe supplies a son of military age to serve, and when these men return home they come with bounty and plunder that gives them the pick of the women, and the Roman citizenship which guarantees an honoured place in our society and the patronage of Rome. We are attached to the Fourteenth Gemina, but for this operation General Vespasian has asked for our specialist skills.’

Frontinus’s face mirrored his pride in his men. Rufus realized that, for all his fine manners, he was a barbarian chieftain at heart. The men he commanded were the same warriors he would have led as part of his tribe, if the Empire had not enticed them into its service. There was no need to ask what the specialist skills were that Vespasian believed so important.

‘If your men are so good, why do you need me – and Bersheba?’

Frontinus turned to study Bersheba, who swung out her trunk to take his scent. Some men would have flinched in the face of that mighty implement, five feet of solid muscle that could smash a man to the ground, or lift him from it, but the Batavian commander smiled and allowed her to run her sensitive nostrils over his arm. ‘How deep a river could she cross?’

Rufus frowned. ‘That would depend. Eight feet if the current was not too strong.’

‘And if your life depended upon it?’

Rufus felt a thrill of alarm. ‘Ten,’ he said.

‘Eight will be enough. If the rain doesn’t get any heavier and if we ever find the crossing point.’

‘But what will she have to do? She is not a war elephant. She can’t fight the Britons for you.’

‘She won’t have to.’ Frontinus laughed again. ‘My river rats can cross the Tamesa even with their weapons and equipment.’ He saw the disbelief on Rufus’s face. No man could swim a broad river in full armour, not even if he had webbed feet. ‘Oh, there are ways, have no fear of that. But to achieve what General Vespasian asks of us we must land as a unit, and that is where Bersheba can help.’

By the time they reached the riverbank, there was activity all around them. The men closest to Rufus were working in small groups, each certain of his duty even in the sullen darkness.

Frontinus explained. ‘We constructed the rafts yesterday, and they were carried by the lead group, but the goatskins have to be inflated, tested and properly secured. Then the weapons, clothing and armour are covered by oilskin cloth and loaded. Everything goes on the rafts, everything but the men. They do what they do best. They swim. But tonight they won’t swim on their own. They’ll be towed by Bersheba. Even in a gentle current the rafts would drift downstream, and this current is far from gentle. By the time they reached the far bank my men would be scattered for miles and they’d walk straight out of the river on to the enemy spears. They would have no time to unpack their weapons. It would be a massacre. Worse, it would be a pointless massacre. We are soldiers, and happy enough to die, but none of us wants to be sacrificed in a useless cause. If Bersheba can tow six rafts and four times as many men, six crossings will secure us a bridge-head. We’ll put twenty ropes across and use them to relay the rest of the unit. We can have two thousand on the far side long before daylight.’

‘And then?’

‘And then we do the other thing we do best. We fight.’

While the preparations were going on around him, Rufus took the opportunity to study the river. What he saw knocked all the bravado from him. He estimated they were three miles above the place where Plautius’s main force faced Caratacus. The river was narrower here, but this was no gentle stream. It was a formidable barrier a good two hundred paces across, probably more. The surface was dark and dangerous, full of swirls and eddies that were a sure sign of broken ground on the river bed. That was the key. What was the bottom like where they planned to cross? If it was gravel, hard-packed and solid, he was confident Bersheba could do what he had boasted she could. She had forded deep rivers before, enjoyed nothing better than to frolic in the clean water. But what if the bottom were mud, or, worse, composed of large rocks with gaps between them like mantraps? She would lose her footing, might even break a leg. He reached up to stroke the yellowing lion’s tooth charm and sent up a silent prayer to Fortuna.

When he returned to Bersheba, Frontinus was already at her side. At the Batavian’s instructions he led the elephant through the small groups of soldiers making a final check of their rafts by the river, where the grassy sward shelved steeply into the water. Rufus had a momentary vision of Bersheba stumbling and throwing him into the depths. The fact that he had never learned to swim properly suddenly became very important.

Frontinus appeared beside him. ‘Six, you understand? You are certain she can tow them? Once you are out there it will be too late to turn back.’

Rufus nodded. These men were more important than his fears. ‘Six, and twenty-four men.’

‘Then truly she is the Emperor’s elephant. May the river gods protect you!’

Then Frontinus was gone, replaced by naked Batavian infantrymen who tied the cords of their rafts to Bersheba’s harness with practised fingers. The closest, Taurinus, the centurion whose feet had so concerned his commander, explained what would happen next. ‘Just take it slowly. We’ll carry the rafts down to the river at your pace. Once we’re in the water there’ll be a little confusion at first, there always is, but we’ll soon get it sorted out. Don’t worry about us. Just concentrate on getting this beast to the far side and we’ll be right behind you. When we reach the bank we’ll untie the rafts.’ The tall, heavily muscled soldier patted him on the shoulder. ‘Strength! Never thought I’d say that to a fucking Praetorian.’ He laughed and disappeared towards his men. Rufus climbed on to Bersheba’s knee and up her great slab of a flank.

When he was ready, Frontinus appeared beside the elephant, glancing worriedly back to where his men were completing their preparations. Eventually he was satisfied. ‘Go,’ he hissed.

Rufus urged Bersheba forward into the unknown.