Claudius (2 page)

‘Look!’ He turned at a shout from one of the baggage slaves and stared towards a distant ridge where a group of tiny figures was just visible. As he watched, a horn sounded a series of harsh notes and a squadron of auxiliary cavalry galloped eastwards to see off the threat. The enemy.

II

The boy started screaming the instant he recognized the pointed stake. He had been taken captive in a raid on the Ordovici two years earlier and had heard the whispered tales of what happened behind the screen of oaks in the sacred grove. Now he would experience the dreadful reality. Caratacus frowned. The gods must have their sacrifice, but he wondered if it was necessary for the victims to suffer so much. On another occasion the boy might have been drugged, but Nuada, High Priest of the Catuvellauni, had ordained the threat so great that the victim must undergo the ordeal in the full knowledge of what was happening to him. Only then would the Druids be certain of the reply the gods gave to the gift of a soul.

There was no need for torches. A full moon flooded the grove with pale light, occasionally part shadowed by a wisp of cloud. A thin, misty rain drizzled down through the oak canopy and Caratacus could taste its sweetness on his lips. The new-life tang of damp summer grass filled his nostrils.

The screaming changed to a shocked whimper as the two guardians of the grove picked the boy up by the arms and carried him, struggling, towards the stake. It was set on a low mound at the centre of the clearing. The mound was surrounded by a circle of cloaked and hooded figures. Only Druids and kings could witness this ceremony. Caratacus stood outside the circle of priests beside another powerful figure in front of a carved wooden throne at the edge of the trees.

‘Squeamish, brother?’ the second man asked with a cold smile.

‘I have seen blood before, Togodumnus. I only take enjoyment from spilling it in battle.’

Why must his brother continually antagonize him? It hadn’t always been like this. Their father, Cunobelin, had raised them to rule together. The Druids had taught them the art of kingship and between them they had combined the strength and intelligence to make the Catuvellauni the most powerful tribe in southern Britain. They were so different, yet so alike: Togodumnus, a year older and stocky, with the heavy shoulders of a full-grown ox; Caratacus, tall and slight, but with a strength that always surprised his opponents; both of them hungry for a power that would not be shared. He couldn’t point to a single incident that made them rivals. It had happened over time: a slight here, a disagreement there, and finally the moment when his brother challenged him to single combat. The king had forbidden it, of course, but Togodumnus never forgot the imagined insult.

The screaming began again when the boy felt the point of the stake at the opening of his anus, and grew to an agonized, throat-tearing shriek as it penetrated his bowels. He had been carefully chosen for his size and weight. The stake must penetrate his heart at the very moment the sun rose between the two most ancient oaks at the eastern side of the clearing if the ritual were to have its full effect. It was two hours till daylight.

The victim’s arms were unbound. Their flailing would add to the Druids’ understanding of the gods’ message. The priests studied his torment with an intensity that was almost hypnotic, recording each change of expression, each shudder of agony and, when the screaming finally stopped as he lapsed into blessed unconsciousness, each dying gasp.

‘Will your Dobunni fight?’

Togodumnus shrugged. ‘That is for the council to decide. I am here to listen. Once I have listened I will take what I have learned back to my tribe and we will decide in the old way.’

Caratacus knew it would serve no purpose, but he couldn’t resist goading his brother. ‘A king is not a king if he cannot command his people.’

Togodumnus flinched and his hand went to his sword belt, but it grasped empty air. ‘We will see who is the better king. It is fortunate for you we have left our weapons outside the shrine. A king’s blood would have been more welcome to the gods than any slave’s.’

The timing was perfect. The boy gave a final, convulsive shudder just as the first rays of the sun speared between the trunks of the twin oaks. The Druid circle drew closer and an intense discussion took place among them. Eventually, one of the priests broke away and walked towards the two brothers.

‘What news, Nuada? What omens from the sacrifice?’ Togodumnus asked respectfully. Before he had taken the tests, Nuada had been a prince of the Catuvellauni. He was an adept of the sacred rituals and in his youth he had travelled to Gaul to study among the learned men of the Veneti among the great Stones. It was said he was welcomed even in the highest councils of the society at the enormous sanctuary on Mona in the Western Sea. He was old now, older than any man in the tribe, but he still stood tall. His grey hair was cut short and his scalp shaven in a half-moon from his forehead. The cloak he wore was of the finest woven goats’ hair and seemed to shimmer in the dawn light. At his throat was an amulet of Silurian gold in the shape of a bear, and where his right hand should rightfully have been a bear’s razor-clawed pad was fixed by a leather socket that covered his lower arm. But it was his eyes that made men fear him. They were the colour of old amber and had the intensity of a stooping falcon’s.

The Druid ignored Togodumnus and took his place solemnly on the throne in front of the two men. His breast heaved, and as they watched the amber eyes rolled back into his head, so the sockets were filled with the unnerving milky white of a blind man. From deep in his chest came a low growl, and the unearthly voice that emerged from his throat sent a shiver through Caratacus.

‘The gods accept our sacrifice, but are puzzled why the invaders have been allowed to sully this land with their presence for so long without being swept back into the sea whence they came. The sacred places are defiled and their servants insulted and killed, yet the men of Britain stand aside and allow these Romans to advance ever further. Are the gods to believe that their warriors fear the invaders?’

Caratacus felt Togodumnus stiffen, but he ignored the implied criticism. Nuada had been one of the strongest advocates in council for an immediate counter-attack on the Roman army, and it was surprising how often the musings of the gods echoed his own view-point. This was merely the prelude to the true message of the prophecy.

‘Yet the gods are both forgiving and generous. They understand the reluctance to attack an enemy of such power; understand, even, that mere men might hesitate.’ The sound of Togodumnus’s teeth grinding almost made Caratacus smile, but he maintained his solemn expression as Nuada continued. ‘Nevertheless, victory is assured. When the time is right, Taranis will shower thunderbolts from the heavens and Andraste will call on the rains and raise the rivers to cleanse our land of the Roman filth. Epona will seduce their horses and drive them wild and Belenus will send a plague to strike their soldiers down. All this the gods pledge.’

Togodumnus relaxed at his side, but Caratacus sensed they still had more to hear. The support of the gods was welcome, but they were fickle masters. He had noticed that often everything would be in place for their intervention, only for some stronger or more deserving god to take precedence and cancel out what was to be. Nuada had not mentioned the Roman gods, so perhaps the fear he spoke of was not only felt by ‘mere men’. Certainly, they would have power in their own lands, but would that power extend to the island of Britain? Caratacus knew only one thing with certainty: when it came to the fight it would be man against man, sword against sword, and shield against shield, and only the god within each would affect the outcome.

Nuada’s voice grew in intensity. ‘Only this do the gods ask of the men of Britain. That they stand firm in the face of the threat, even if the enemy appears to have the ascendancy. For the gods to prevail, men must have faith, and it is by your courage that your faith will be proved. That for each victory, large or small, the gods should be rewarded appropriately from among the enemy champions, for it is from the souls of the strong that they themselves gain strength. Finally, they require that that which is broken must be mended, and that that which is divided must be joined, and that the festering wound which is weakening the men of Britain must be healed.’

The Druid slumped forward in his throne. After a few seconds he raised his head, and the eyes which looked up at them were the eyes of Nuada and not the prophet. When he spoke, his voice was the voice of an old man, gentle and slow.

‘Go now. The gods have spoken.’

Togodumnus hesitated as if he were about to speak, but thought better of it. Caratacus could feel his brother’s confusion, and understood why. The message from the gods, though couched in the archaic, coded language the Druids favoured, was a straightforward one: if the warrior tribes of Britain would fight, the gods would aid them. But the final part was different. It was more the kind of riddle with which Nuada had taxed them during the long winter nights when he had tutored them for the kingship. It contained a hidden message which Caratacus had already untangled, but which his brother’s furrowed brow demonstrated was still not clear to Togodumnus. This was one of the reasons Togodumnus was now king of the Dobunni, a numerous but not influential tribe who acted as a buffer between the civilized peoples of the east and the wild savages who populated the untamed lands of Siluria and Demetia in the west. Caratacus acknowledged his brother was a prodigious warrior who had bested many enemies, but their father understood he did not have the temperament to maintain peace and discipline among the British tribes at a time of ever-growing pressure from the Romans. That took intelligence and cunning. The kind of intelligence and cunning that allowed Caratacus to stay silent during the long minutes until his brother worked out the answer.

They were approaching the settlement when the final piece clicked into place and Togodumnus whirled round to face him. ‘This was your doing,’ he snarled. ‘Somehow you put Nuada up to this.’

Caratacus gasped, feigning shock at his brother’s sacrilege. ‘You would accuse me of interfering with the gods?’ he demanded. ‘You impugn not only my honour but that of the holiest man in the tribe, a priest who has communicated with the gods since before we were born and whose prophecies guided our father before us and his father before him? Are you mad, brother? Even to make such a charge is to invite the three trials before Esus. Only my love for you holds me from returning to the sacred grove and demanding immediate justice.’

Togodumnus hesitated. He had witnessed the three trials of Esus, and he knew a man’s chances of surviving them were slim. ‘You must excuse me, brother. My mind is confused and I spoke hastily. It is just that the message . . . You understood the message from the gods, surely?’

Caratacus pretended to accept his sibling’s apology with as much grace as he could muster, but there was still an edge of false exasperation to his voice when he replied grudgingly, ‘The message is not clear to me. I was turning it over in my mind when you attacked my integrity. Perhaps you would enlighten me?’

‘Not your integrity, brother; never your integrity. But I admit I questioned your judgement, and now that judgement has been confirmed by the gods. I was suspicious, but I see I was wrong.’

‘And what is it you gleaned from Nuada that I have not? It was always obvious we must face the Romans, but it will be at a time and a place of our choosing. I will not sacrifice warriors on the whim of anyone, not even Taranis. I do not have enough of them.’

‘But do you not see, brother?’ Togodumnus was excited now. ‘That is the message the gods sent: “That which is broken must be mended, and that which is divided must be joined, and the festering wound which is weakening the men of Britain must be healed.” Surely what is broken is our friendship, and what is divided are the two tribes we rule—’

The light of understanding gleamed bright in Caratacus’s eyes. ‘And the festering wound is the enmity we have allowed to grow between us! You are right, Togodumnus. I see it now. The gods wish us to put aside our rivalry and combine our strengths to meet this greater threat.’ He grasped his brother by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. ‘I for one bow to the will of the gods. What of you, brother? Will you join me and smite the Romans such a blow that the ravens and the foxes will feast on their flesh and the frost will crack their bones when winter comes?’

Togodumnus hesitated for only a second. A tiny twinge of doubt told him something was out of place here, but his brother’s confidence and all that he had witnessed this night overcame any scepticism that remained. ‘The Dobunni will fight with the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes,’ he said firmly. ‘And with the aid of the gods we will sweep the raiders into the sea.’

‘Not just the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes, brother, but the Cantiaci and the Atrebates, and the Durotriges, the Iceni and the Cornovii, the Coreltauvi and the Brigantes, the Parisii and the Dumnonii.’ Caratacus listed the roll call of the southern tribes. ‘I will even make accord with the Silures and the Ordovici if it means we can turn back the armies of Rome. The messengers have set out. The chiefs will be here in three days. Will you stay for the council?’

Togodumnus nodded, stunned by the scale of his brother’s ambitions. They parted, Togodumnus for the roundhouse whose family had been evicted to provide suitable accommodation for the honoured guest, Caratacus for the modest home he shared with his wife and family in a wing of the royal palace.

Nuada was waiting for him. ‘Well?’ The Druid raised an eyebrow.

Caratacus gave him a weary smile. ‘We have one pigeon in the net. It is yet to be seen whether we can ensnare the rest.’

Nuada shrugged. ‘That is the will of the gods.’

III

Rufus swung his mattock savagely at the dry turf and forced another foot of sod from a meadow that was so reluctant to give up its bounty he had to assume it had been bewitched to resist the invaders. When the grassy square was free he carried it over the ditch and placed it firmly against the sloping bank of the temporary marching camp. All along the top of the bank men of the Second were carefully positioning sharpened four-foot wooden stakes to create a defensive palisade. He laid the mattock on the ground to rest. His arms ached and he was struggling for breath. Each evening every fit man in the legionary column helped dig an eight-foot ditch with an earthen rampart round a perimeter of more than two thousand yards. Only then were they able to pitch their leather tents and sit back to watch the squealing antics of squadrons of playful scythe-winged swifts against the perfect blue of the skies as they prepared their evening meal.

‘What’s wrong, elephant man? All those nights with the big Gaulish bitch tiring you out?’

Rufus looked up to find a grizzled legionary with close-set, spite-filled eyes, and a mouth that seemed to contain a single blackened tooth, sneering down at him. He picked up the mattock and stared up at the man. He was tempted to take up the challenge, but he knew it was what the soldier wanted. Rufus was a slave, the soldier was a Roman citizen; a citizen from the gutter, but still a citizen. The merest breath of an insult and he would be dragged before the legionary’s centurion and whipped until he bled.

‘Leave him be, Paullus,’ the man working next to the soldier said. ‘He’s doing all right for a slave. Look at his hands.’ Rufus noticed for the first time that his palms were coated in blood from burst blisters. ‘He’s one of them pampered ones. Not used to this, he ain’t. Not like you and me. Come on, old mule; nearly finished now. We’ll soon be tucking into some hot grub and I’ll be skinning you of every sesterce you’ve got, same as usual.’ Rufus relaxed as the first soldier gave him a hard look and turned to follow his comrade.

‘I see you still make friends everywhere you go, Rufus.’

He turned at the sound of the familiar voice. He hadn’t seen Narcissus since they set foot on the beach as part of the third wave of Plautius’s invasion force. Now he barely recognized him. It was obvious the tall Greek hadn’t washed for a week. He’d swapped his immaculate palace clothes for a coarse woollen tunic of the type the Celts favoured, and a muddy pair of breeches of similar material. An untidy shale-dark beard disguised the lower part of his face and his pale scalp was hidden beneath a crumpled leather cap. He sat astride a small native pony that was dwarfed by the horses of his escort, a section of auxiliary cavalry who formed a half-circle behind him.

Rufus smiled. For all his complaints, he had come to enjoy Narcissus’s company during the long roundabout journey from Rome. Not that he deluded himself he had got to know Claudius’s aide well; quite the opposite. He seemed to end every conversation attempting to unravel a labyrinth of contradictions and enigmatic hints which, after prolonged consideration, revealed nothing about the giver, but some-how induced him to divulge more than he wanted about his own thoughts and fears.

His hopes, too.

Narcissus read his face. ‘The Emperor will free you, Rufus, I have his word on it. But at a time and in a place that benefits you most. And whatever happens to you, your sons will grow up free men.’

Rufus laughed. ‘It doesn’t matter. I am as free as any man in this army. We all march and we all dig. We eat, then we march again.’

‘The marching I can do nothing about,’ Narcissus admitted. ‘But no more digging. The keeper of the Emperor’s elephant is an honoured member of the legate’s staff. I will talk to Vespasian and ensure you are excused fatigues.’

Rufus knew such preferential treatment was certain to increase his troubles with the likes of one-toothed Paullus, but he accepted in any case. It didn’t surprise him that Narcissus would approach the Augusta’s commanding general over such a trivial matter. The Greek had an influence in this army far beyond his diplomatic status and he enjoyed using it. Rufus changed the subject. ‘You have been busy, I see. Is there any news of the enemy? The soldiers say bringing the Britons to battle is as difficult as pinning down smoke with a tent peg.’

Narcissus smiled wearily. ‘After a week in the saddle I feel part horse and I’m raw in places that may never heal. There have been times when I thought I would never see another dawn, never mind a soft bed, but my efforts are close to bearing fruit. Your friends will see more smoke than they bargained for soon enough. Is that not so, Verica?’

A straw-haired young horseman at Narcissus’s right shoulder grunted a reply. Rufus thought there was something familiar about the trooper. The Greek noticed his interest. ‘I brought Verica to see your elephant in Rome. Surely you remember? He fell over the moment the beast came out of the barn. Thought Bersheba was going to eat him. He’s one of the reasons you are here.’ He gritted his teeth as he swung his right leg over the pony’s back and slid gingerly from the saddle. ‘See to the horses, Verica. I will rest here awhile with my young friend.’ He threw the reins to the Briton and the group rode off.

‘Come, show me Bersheba. Does she thrive in this country? I was wrong about it. Not about the people: they are crude and uncultured. But it is good land, and beautiful. If it were not for the natives I might be tempted to stay here. It’s more dangerous than it looks, though.’ He waved a thin arm at the gentle contours of the horizon. ‘You can’t see them, but their scouts are behind every tree, in every fold in the ground. I have come to respect them. Some of them, the Cantiaci and the Atrebates, are actually part civilized. Their warriors don’t know fear, but I think their leaders can be made to see sense. Most of them. Not the Druids. The Druids would have them fighting till the end of time, but if you could separate them . . .’ His words tailed off aimlessly as his train of thought faded. He shook himself like a wet hound and resumed his monologue. ‘Verica speaks Latin like a dog barking, but I’ve grown quite fond of him. He is of the Atrebates who hold land towards the south coast around their capital Calleva. His grandfather, Commius, was an ally and friend to Divine Julius in the days before Gaul was a province. Verica, too, has been a friend to Rome. But the Catuvellauni are the real power in Britain. When the old king, Cunobelin, died, his sons, Togodumnus and Caratacus, did what princes always do: they marched on their weaker neighbours and threw Verica out. Now he wants us to give him his kingdom back. Poor Verica; he’ll probably be killed. He knows Plautius won’t hand him a crown unless he earns it, and he can only do that by proving himself in battle. I’ve been sitting by the campfire with him every evening and he’s taught me his language, after a fashion. Of even greater interest is the information he has provided. The Britons are more divided than in the days of Julius. When they are not at each other’s throats, they glare at each other across their boundaries, spoiling for a fight. The Cantiaci, in the south, despise their neighbours the Regni; the Atrebates live in fear of the Trinovantes; and they, the Iceni and the Catuvellauni are in constant dispute.’

He was still talking when they reached the section where Bersheba was hobbled. Britte sat on top of the cart, stitching part of the elephant’s harness. When she heard their approach she lifted her head and gave Narcissus a look that would have soured new-drawn milk and muttered a Gallic curse under her breath. But her features softened a little when the Greek drew a cloth bag from beneath his tunic and threw it towards her.

‘Here. Fresh-baked bread, and cheese. The Britons make good cheese. You are well, I hope, lady,’ he said with an overstated courtesy that made the wet nurse’s eyes narrow with suspicion. ‘And little Gaius too, I see. The air here must agree with him. He seems to have sprouted another inch or more since last we met.’ He ruffled a hand through the little boy’s untidy curls, and walked on a few yards with Rufus to where the elephant stood shovelling great trunkfuls of straw into her mouth.

‘I see our secret is still safe in Britte’s charge. Did I not tell you she was worth a full cohort of legionaries?’ Rufus didn’t react. The matter Narcissus referred to kept him awake at nights and made the inside of his head buzz like a wasps’ nest. He tried not to think about it.

The Greek changed the subject. ‘Do you not miss Drusus?’ Drusus was a year younger than Gaius and the son of Aemilia, who had been Rufus’s co-conspirator, along with her brother, the gladiator Cupido, in the intrigues that led to Caligula’s death. She had become his lover in the months that followed and Rufus was her son’s acknowledged father. They were the only people who knew the true identity of the child’s sire, and that was the way it would stay. Rufus conjured up a scowling, petulant face below a sparse clump of dark, tufted hair. No matter how he tried, he could never quite find the affection for Drusus that stirred him when he was with Gaius. ‘He is his mother’s son, more than mine. Better that he should stay with her in Rome,’ he said. He and Aemilia had drifted apart. It had been inevitable, he thought. She may have been a slave, but she had been born a princess.

Narcissus put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Aemilia still believes we had a hand in her brother’s death, although we both know the blame, if blame there be, lies closer to home.’

Suddenly, the air lost its warmth. Rufus glanced up and noticed that the sun had slipped behind a silver-grey mountain of cloud. At first it was still bright beyond the fragile curtain, but he watched its power dim as it neared the centre of the huge mass. It reminded him of the light fading in Cupido’s eyes as he died in Aemilia’s arms.

Bersheba sensed the change in his mood and reached out to run the tip of her trunk over his face. The familiar touch of warm, wet flesh restored his humour and he absently patted her wrinkled cheek. ‘Why are we here?’

Narcissus didn’t answer directly. ‘Did you know it is less than a week until the Festival of Fortuna? In Rome, the gardeners will be preparing the flowers for the ceremonies, and the year’s new vintage will be almost ready to drink.’

Rufus shook his head. On the march one day merged into the next, one step into the next. But the question carried his mind back to his home, among the palaces and temples on the Palatine. The festival to the goddess of Fortune was the only one, apart, of course, from Saturnalia, he’d ever taken part in. His head had ached for three days afterwards.

‘Verica has been very useful to me,’ Narcissus continued, obliquely returning to the subject. ‘He has introduced me to his cousins, and his cousins’ cousins, his friends and their friends. Important men and utter nobodies. Clever men and fools. From them all, high or low, I have learned something of value; each, willing or otherwise, wishes to contribute to our cause. Do not mistake me: they hate Romans. But they hate their own countrymen more. In our presence they see opportunity; the chance for the restoration of the fortunes Caratacus and his Catuvellauni lords took from them when Verica was deposed. They will support us. But first they want to see if we can fight.’

Rufus stared at him. ‘The soldiers say the barbarians are great warriors who believe they cannot be killed.’

‘There is only one certainty, Rufus – war is coming and it will be hard and it will be bloody, for that is the nature of war. But I will tell you something you must divulge to no other. When we meet the enemy you will have an important task to fulfil. You and Bersheba will stand in the front rank of the army facing the countless host of our enemy and it is
you
who will know no fear. That is what I came here to tell you. There is a great service you can do for your Emperor. Can he trust you?’