Claudius (19 page)

XXIX

A few miles upriver, Rufus stood beside Bersheba close behind the centre of the Batavian force. Frontinus had inspected the defensive line all the way from the river to the place where the red cliffs rose, giving quiet words of encouragement to his men and directions to the two centurions and the clerk who accompanied him. When he returned, Rufus could see the frown of concentration on his face as his mind went over every challenge the day would bring and how he would meet it. Frontinus knew there would be disaster as well as triumph, and chaos amidst the carnage, for that was the way of battles. But there would be a moment – there was always a moment – when the unexpected, or perhaps a combination of unexpecteds, would bring the crisis that would win or lose the fight. Nothing he did, no amount of preparation or thought, would prevent its happening and it was the way he, Frontinus, reacted that would swing the balance one way or the other. That was why he had placed Rufus where he was.

He explained: ‘No matter how many pretty speeches I make, how brave I sound, or how much my men respect me, the only certainty is that at some point we will be outnumbered, perhaps by as many as ten to one. I must use every weapon, every stratagem at my disposal to offset that fact, and no matter what you or your friend Narcissus say, the elephant is a potential weapon. The barbarians fear her. Adminius confirmed it, and even if he had not, the reaction of his warriors would have convinced me. So I want you here, at my side, in the place of greatest danger. She may make no difference, probably will not, but I can’t take the chance of losing any advantage she might give us when the lives of my soldiers may depend upon it.’

The wall of shields ahead of them was not yet an unbroken line. It was breached by four distinct gaps through which the survivors of the raid on Togodumnus’s horse lines would retreat when they fled before the barbarian host Frontinus thought – hoped – would follow them. Only when the last man was within the ranks would the gaps close. Adminius had demanded that his warriors be allowed to accompany the Batavian raid and take their revenge upon those who had humiliated them and ravaged their lands, but Frontinus refused. When Adminius talked of vengeance the prefect heard plunder, and in any case he did not need one more complicating factor in an already complicated plan. Instead, he suggested the Cantiaci king take his men to the top of the cliffs and protect the Batavian flank. The rain finally stopped, and the night was pleasantly mild after the suffocating heat of the day, but still Rufus found himself shivering. He tried to disguise it, for it was evidence of the fear that made his belly feel on fire and his bladder as if it might burst.

Frontinus appeared at his side. ‘Do not think you are the only man here who is afraid, Rufus. Look at them.’ He gestured to the wall of chain-clad backs in front of them. ‘Experience of war does not make it any less frightening. There are men here who have fought a dozen battles and shown dauntless bravery in each one. But a man’s reservoir of courage is not bottomless, and when the enemy is screaming in their faces their first instinct will be to flee – just as yours will. But they will stand, because they are soldiers and because their fear of the enemy is less than the shame of letting down the man next to them. When the time comes, Rufus, I will stand next to you and you will not run.’

That was when the soldiers came.

They saw the flames first, downstream and set back from the river. Quite small and then growing, feeding off the thatch and wattle of whatever house or storage hut the Batavian raiding party had set afire, until they reached up into the night sky like so many fingers clawing for support. One, then two, five, a dozen and finally too many to count.

They were too far away to hear the screams of the crippled ponies, hamstrung by the pitiless blades of the auxiliaries so they could be of no further use to their masters. But Rufus knew it was happening, because he had heard Frontinus order it. He imagined the carnage and panic as the sinister shadows slipped furtively among the tethered beasts, hacking this way and that, leaping to escape the lashing hooves as the stricken animals thrashed and shuddered and choked to death on their tethers. The British would hear it, though, and would have seen the flames of the burning huts. By now they would already be in their battle positions along the river, waiting for the Romans to come. But the Romans had tricked them, and they would rush to take revenge. How many had Adminius estimated? Fifteen thousand? Against two thousand. Rufus slipped his short sword from its scabbard and tested the blade.

The flawless black of the night sky had faded to sullen pewter by the time the raiders returned. They came in small groups, and at the run, but there was no panic. Every man knew his allotted place in the line and made unswervingly for the gap closest to his position. Frontinus had forbidden any looting, but Rufus noticed that a few of the Batavians at least were carrying prizes and cheerfully displaying them to their comrades. A small leather bag containing some nameless treasure. A Samian-ware drinking bowl that must have been imported from Gaul. The severed head of a small girl dangling by her blonde hair. The flow of soldiers slowed from a rush to a trickle and finally the space Frontinus had cleared between the defenders and the riverside scrub was unnervingly empty. Two thousand men held their breath and waited.

It was just light enough to see now; a ghostly, shadow light that made the impending tragedy all the more intimate. The Batavians must have been among those furthest into the British positions when Taurinus was wounded. The centurion was a big man, made heavier by the mail shirt he wore, and he was still semi-conscious, although he had taken a spear thrust in his upper leg that had crippled him. Two of his comrades carried him, stumbling over the rough ground beneath his weight. A third came behind, his face and his sword towards the enemy, and he was screaming at them to hurry. At first it was a shadow among the trees and bushes, a solid dark line against a lighter background a few dozen paces beyond the Batavians. Then the shadow took form and solidified into running men who stuttered to a silent, disbelieving halt when they saw the Roman ranks before them. As Rufus watched, the line thickened and became a wall, with the sense of an immense mass pushing behind it, urging the reluctant vanguard forward. Three hundred paces separated the pursuing British warriors from the Roman line. Taurinus and his rescuers were a third of the way across the cleared ground when the Britons noticed them. With a savage cry, a group of around thirty warriors broke clear and sprinted towards the little quartet. Rufus saw what was happening; understood the inevitable outcome.

The auxiliary acting as rearguard screamed a warning and ran for his life past the trio he had been protecting. At first, the two men carrying the injured centurian were so exhausted by the physical effort that they didn’t recognize the danger. Then Rufus saw them stop and look at each other. They knew what they were doing, understood what their decision meant to Taurinus. The very fact that they had risked their lives to stay with him was testament to the comradeship they felt. Yet there was a greater imperative: survival. They dropped their burden and ran. As he flopped to the ground, their friend was bewildered by the sudden change in his circumstances. He had been part of a unit – part of something more than a unit: a brotherhood. When the spear pierced his leg he had known, without doubt, that his comrades would bring him home. Now he was faint from lack of blood, disorientated by the shock of his wound and dumped among the filth and the sand. He opened his eyes and saw three retreating backs, closed them again. Where was he? Why had they left him? He reached out, tried to use his arms to force himself to his feet, but the strength he had always accepted as his right had deserted him. He lay back, trying to understand, but the waves of pain and exhaustion tossed him like some piece of ocean flotsam. Once more, he attempted to gather his thoughts; opened his eyes to see the roseate light of the dawn rising glorious above the trees. He had seen many such dawns. Dawns in far Germania, dawns in the sharp icy air of the Pannonian mountains; in the heat and dust of Spain. So many dawns. His mind picked him up and he ran among the woodlands of his youth, felt the sun on his back and lay down, waiting. She came then, as he always knew she would come. He couldn’t remember her name, but she was the one everyone wanted, and now she was his. A shadow covered the sun and he waited to feel the softness of her body upon his. He smiled.

Rufus saw the soldiers drop the wounded man. Knew it was the only thing they could do. Hated them for it. The pack which had broken free from the British force soon realized they would never catch the three able-bodied auxiliaries. They slowed, and very deliberately approached the crumpled form abandoned in the dirt. He watched the swords rise and fall, rise and fall again, faster and more frenzied, wisps of moisture clouding the air around the blades. Above the compact mass of British warriors first one object was raised, then another. He tried not to think what they were, but his eyes wouldn’t lie. An arm. Part of a leg. A head still encased in its helmet. A howl – more than a howl – a sound more animal than human rose from the British ranks, and Rufus realized they were not fighting an army; not fighting individuals. They were fighting a beast that craved Roman blood.

XXX

How Narcissus wished Verica would shut up. The more time he spent with these barbarian Britons the more he realized they liked nothing more than the sound of their own voices. The Atrebate prince was babbling about the deeds he would perform in the next few hours, the honour he would win and the kingdom that would at last be his. Claudius’s freedman had long since stopped listening, so that Verica’s voice had become a background drone, as meaningless as the steady clop of their horses’ hooves or the dull clunk of armour carefully packed with cloth or grass to deaden the unmistakable sound that would alert an enemy a hundred paces away.

They were stationed behind Vespasian’s headquarters in the centre of the column formed by the Second Augusta. Even though he had been aware of its construction, Narcissus had been hugely impressed by the submerged bridge the engineers had built under the cover of darkness and the sound of legionary marching songs. The plan was Plautius’s, but Vespasian had implemented it and it was he who had added the cunning embellishment of the Batavian diversion, which would draw the attention of Caratacus and his warriors to the west in the crucial moments while the legion was converging on his unsuspecting eastern flank. Thus far Mars, the god of war, had smiled upon them. Manoeuvring five thousand infantry and an
ala
of cavalry across the miles of rough ground between the crossing point and the enemy would have been demanding enough in daylight; in darkness it should have been a general’s worst nightmare. But Vespasian placed his trust in his chief of engineers and the man had not been found wanting. A score of pathfinders blazed a trail ahead of the column, tying white cloths to trees on each side of the route in imitation of the way the ingenious little poles had identified the position of the bridge beneath the dark waters of the river.

Only one incident had threatened the perfection of the operation. A cavalry patrol had ambushed a British scouting party close to the bridgehead, killing all but one of the riders. Vespasian had frowned when he heard of the man’s escape even though the scout had been wounded and unhorsed. He dispatched another dozen cavalry troopers he couldn’t spare to scour the woods with orders not to return without the Briton’s head.

‘What?’ Something Verica had said had penetrated Narcissus’s reflections.

‘Epedos,’ the young Atrebate repeated. ‘I said that after I kill Epedos I will have his body flayed and hang his preserved skin on the wall of my palace at Calleva so that all men shall know the fate of a traitor.’

Narcissus smiled at the sublime arrogance of youth. What guarantee was there that the boy would survive the battle in which they would undoubtedly be enmeshed in a few hours’ time? Verica was brave – it was one of his most appealing traits, along with his honesty – but brave to the point of foolhardiness. Where the fighting was hottest and the danger greatest, that was where Verica would be when the sun came up. The laurels he claimed to have won at the first river crossing were no idle boast. Sabinus had been genuinely impressed by the young man’s courage. But that was in a rout. Today would be another matter. While the lines – British and Roman – held, and order prevailed, a soldier knew where he was and whom he could trust. But when one side or the other broke and friend and foe surged and fought and bled together, it was different. That was when no amount of skill could save the bravest warrior from an arrow in the back, the spear that came out of nowhere or the sword thrust that was meant for another man, but took your throat out by mistake. Still, it didn’t do to dwell on such things. He decided a little flattery was in order.

‘I am sure men will sing of your deeds for a hundred years, Lord Verica,’ he said smoothly. ‘Emperor Claudius has been informed of your valour and commends it. When your kingdom is restored he has let it be known that no other hand but his will be allowed to place the crown upon your noble head.’

Verica’s chin came up and Narcissus knew he was imagining the weight of the gold upon his brow. ‘And when shall I be crowned?’ the young Briton asked, his voice taking on a new authority.

Narcissus thought for a few seconds. ‘First we must defeat this Caratacus. Once that has been achieved, Caesar is determined to take the king’s capital at Camulodunum, where he will declare Britain a province with the full protection of Rome.’ And where he will begin the process of recouping his investment, he thought but did not say. Verica didn’t need to know quite yet the price he was going to have to pay for the return of his kingdom. They rode along in blessed silence for a few minutes, following the indistinct shapes of the riders ahead. It had been almost two hours since they had crossed the river and Narcissus calculated the Roman column must be close to its destination.

‘I wonder how Rufus and his elephant fare?’

The Greek stared at Verica in surprise. It was most unlike the Briton to give a thought for anyone but himself. Had he become close to the slave? That could be awkward – or useful.

‘Do not concern yourself. Rufus is a seasoned campaigner and a member of the Emperor’s Praetorian Guard. In any case, the Batavians will look after him. Frontinus is a good commander. The best.’ Narcissus shifted painfully in the saddle. When he got back to Rome, he vowed, he would never sit on a horse again, not for all the treasures in the temple of Mars Ultor. The ground beneath them was rising now and the low scrub was replaced by the twisted shapes of a few scattered trees.

‘Halt. Halt. Halt.’ The hissed commands ran down the column, and they reined their horses to a stop. The headquarters group in front of them moved out of the line and the clerks and aides began to lay out the panoply of command. ‘Officers to the centre.’

There followed a shuffle of jogging figures as the commanders of the legion’s cohorts converged on Vespasian. Narcissus watched them form a little group around the legate. It took less than a minute to pass on his orders. Moments later the Greek sensed a mass movement all around as the legionaries deployed into battle formation. He cast his mind back to the map on the wall of Plautius’s gilded pavilion. It meant the tribes of the British left flank were on the far side of the hill; an extended line stretching a mile up the riverbank to the point where Caratacus would have positioned himself in the centre of his army opposite the three bridges that were the bait in the Roman trap. Beyond the Catuvellauni leader, another mile of warriors waited in the darkness for Plautius’s attack, and beyond them were Frontinus and his Batavians.

Caratacus would undoubtedly have ordered flank guards to patrol beyond the limit of his formations, but the vanguard of the Second Augusta had encountered none. Narcissus allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Vespasian had been unsure that his stratagem would succeed, but the pieces were falling into place just as he had predicted.

Verica raised a hand. ‘I must join my men. We fight alongside the Gauls today. If . . .’

Narcissus smiled and patted him on the shoulder in a way that was almost fatherly. ‘No ifs. We will meet again tonight and you will be a king once more.’

Verica nodded solemnly and rode off into the darkness. The Greek watched him until he disappeared before giving a deep sigh. Shaking his head, he dismounted and led his horse towards Vespasian’s command post, where an aide took the animal’s reins and ushered him forward.

‘So, spy, it seems your trickery has not failed us.’

It was still too dark to make out the general’s features, but Narcissus could imagine the brutish face with its etched lines and permanent frown, the gimlet eyes boring into him. He knew Vespasian didn’t like him, but was neither daunted nor offended by it. He had Claudius’s protection, and, besides, even straightforward, upright and honourable soldiers like the general were sometimes required to dirty their hands in the foul waters of the clandestine world. It might be distasteful, but it saved lives.

‘I never doubted it, General.’ Not quite true, but it struck the right note somewhere between arrogance and outright disrespect. He could almost feel the legate’s hackles rise. There was a long silence and the sound of shuffling feet as the headquarters staff waited for the inevitable reaction to this insubordination. Instead, Narcissus was surprised when a solid figure detached itself from the group and took him by the arm.

‘Come.’ Vespasian led the way upwards through the trees towards the barren crest of the hill. When they were just short of it, the Roman general surprised him once more by removing his helmet, dropping to the ground and crawling forward on his stomach. Vespasian must have sensed his reaction, because he turned and when he whispered there was a smile in his voice. ‘An old soldier, but a soldier still, Master Narcissus. I would not be the first general to lose a battle because he was so anxious to see his enemy he allowed himself to be silhouetted against the skyline. On your knees, man.’

Narcissus obeyed and a few seconds later they lay on the hilltop, peering into the darkness. At first it was just that, a black curtain that cloaked everything, but very slowly his eyes adjusted and he was able to pick out the line where solid land met the night sky, a few almost invisible stars hanging motionless in the murk above, and, to his left, a very faint strip of dull silver that he realized must be the river. Somewhere out there in the darkness, if the gods had been kind and the British patrols were asleep, the Batavians would be ready to strike. But where were they?

Narcissus hardly dared breathe as the minutes passed with infuriating slowness.

‘There!’ A sharp-eyed young aide saw it first, just a tiny pinprick of light that quickly flared into something bigger, then another, and another. It was the signal Vespasian had been waiting for. He wriggled backwards down the slope until he was certain he wouldn’t be seen, then stood up as the others followed suit. Replacing his helmet with exaggerated ceremony, he turned to the senior tribune.

‘Order the men forward. And remember, every man beyond this ridge is an enemy of Rome and will be treated accordingly.’

Narcissus stood at the general’s shoulder as the long lines of Roman soldiers moved past them and disappeared over the brow of the hill. There was no urgency in the movement, only discipline and precision; the same discipline and precision that had carried these men and their forebears to the ends of the earth and defeated every foe; the discipline and precision that had won Rome the greatest Empire the world had ever seen.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and Vespasian’s strong voice in his ear.

‘You have shown you can scheme, spy. Now we will see if you can fight.’