‘That was when you went?’ demanded Caenis triumphantly.
Narcissus confirmed at last, ‘That was when I went across.’
‘What was it like?’
‘Densely populated farmland with some forest in between. Wattle huts, mostly round, surrounded by tiny square fields with built-up boundary banks. Cattle, dogs everywhere, the best corn outside Africa.’
‘And the blue men?’
‘Extraordinary!’ Narcissus exclaimed.
‘Are the women blue?’
‘No. And really, not many of the men. The women,’ Narcissus thought it appropriate to tell her, ‘were very tall, tawny as lions, and apparently more outspoken and single-minded even than you. Thank the gods we couldn’t understand them! The ones we met were of course mostly princesses and queens.’
‘I suppose,’ Caenis glowered, ‘commanding officers abroad may have to have a lot of dealings with fierce barbarian queens?’
‘Not,’ commented Narcissus, ‘if they have any sense!’
From what he had been telling her she gathered that the eastern sector of the country was by now subdued. One of the chieftains was believed to have died of wounds after the Battle of the Medway, though his brother Caratacus escaped into the west. Claudius had entered the Catuvellaunian citadel at Camulodunum, which he inaugurated as the Roman provincial capital.
‘Useless,’ Narcissus moaned. ‘Too far east. Have to change it when we can. Still, he enjoyed himself.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘Sixteen days.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Various kings surrendered and were laden with loans and gifts. Aulus Plautius was named first provincial governor. We sailed home. I left my man pottering round Gaul on his own.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘No, woman,’ Narcissus rebuked her. ‘That is by no means it.’
He reckoned it would take them fifty years. Aulus Plautius would start now, planting a network of military forts, gravelling roads, opening the ironworks in the south-east. Wine, oil, glass, perishable goods, would all go north in massive quantities; hides, hunting dogs, jet, oysters, grain, start trickling south. The legions – the Twentieth, Ninth and Fourteenth – would establish bases in the east, the north, the middle west. But so far they had barely scratched a toehold, that was clear. In the south the Second Legion faced a major task.
Narcissus asked dourly, ‘I suppose you want to hear about your man?’
‘Is there,’ Caenis enquired innocently, ‘anything to hear?’
She must know, since she knew Vespasian, there would be.
‘With that one –’ Narcissus stretched – ‘it is entirely up to him.’
She said baldly, ‘I always told him that.’
‘This is between the two of us.’ Narcissus loved his secrecy. It usually meant what he had to say would be astounding half the world within a week. ‘My man really takes to him. Sent him into the south on his own – a free hand. He reports to the governor but his orders come direct from Claudius. There’s an odd friendly king, Cogidumnus, on the coast, who for some reason has offered the Second Augusta a safe base. From there they can have the run of the south-west: the most ferocious tribes; dozens of hillforts bristling with nasty-tempered settlers slinging stones; some of the most fabulous defensive earthworks in the world. Somewhere in all that lot is more iron, plus the silver, the copper, the tin, and possibly the gold. The south-west, you realise, is where Rome really wants to be. The Second Augusta, in the command of your man, will be there for three years. I think we can assume that if he manages this, Vespasian will be made.’
‘Will he manage?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I hope he does,’ taunted Caenis, with her occasional abrupt habit of not thinking before she spoke. ‘The old skinflint owes me ten thousand sesterces!’
It was Narcissus who blushed now. Vespasian was notorious for never having any money, but this glimpse of his bedroom habits was too startling to be believed.
‘I had hoped,’ returned the freedman tartly, ‘I had taught you never to lend!’ He was looking faintly worried as he tried to make her out. Since he had known her as a girl, someone, perhaps even Vespasian himself, had turned this one into a tease. ‘I should have found him myself in the end, you know, Caenis; he was always on my list.’
‘Does that mean you agree with me?’
‘Oh, he’s outstanding,’ said Narcissus tersely. Then, unable to resist his nagging anxiety, ‘I’ll give you ten thousand; it seems fair, and that tight-fisted miser will never pay you back.’ Curious, when she did not answer he felt compelled to insist, ‘You’ll laugh if he does.’
Caenis laughed now. ‘“Never lend if you need repayment; never give where you want a return.” Now who told me that? Oh Narcissus, believe me, if ever he does repay me there is no question about it – I shall cry!’
XXII
By the time the last squadrons of auxiliary soldiers had left the Field of Mars, the magistrates were just approaching the Capitol. The long procession snaked through the Flaminian Circus, and entered the city through the Triumphal Gate, which was opened especially for the day. Following the Via Triumphalis, it wound past the theatres in the Ninth District to give as many folk as possible a decent view, made a complete circuit to the right around the Palatine, included the Circus Maximus, turned left at the Caelian Hill, took the Sacred Way into the Forum, passed along the southern side, then ascended Capitol Hill by the steep approach of the Clivus Capitolinus, up to the Temple of Jupiter at the heart of the Citadel. So Rome saw the army; the army saw most of Rome.
Everything moved at a dismal crawl. The whole city was at a standstill. The noise was incredible. The spectacle took the best part of a day.
Vespasian said, years afterwards in the procession he shared with Titus for the capture of Jerusalem, that asking for a Triumph (it was customary to ask) was the act of an old fool.
There had already been the expected Triumph for Britain, when Claudius came home. The Senate could only vote one Triumph for any campaign. Strictly speaking, this later event was an Ovation for his returning commander-in-chief: a secondary thing. No one cared; everyone called it a Triumph just the same.
Earlier, in the real Triumph, the Emperor had done himself proud. He adopted the name Britannicus for himself and for his infant son. The senators who had gone with him to Britain were honoured in suitable ways, while collars and crowns and headless spears for valour were handed out among the army like beechnuts at a wedding; Messalina rode in a special covered carriage right into the Citadel; there was all the pomp and racket that a conqueror might expect. All the provincial governors had been invited home to witness their new Emperor’s status and power.
So Caenis had seen Antonia’s ridiculous son received by Senate and people in triumph. His appearance was the high spot of a memorable day. Claudius came, in his circular chariot drawn by pure white steeds, as the military victor to beg the city’s welcome home, and as a religious representative interceding for that city with its gods as chief priest for the day. He wore a flowered tunic and toga all of purple, richly decorated with patterns and deep borders of gold. In one hand the staff of Jupiter, an ivory sceptre with a gold eagle at its head; in the other a symbolic laurel bough. Upon his head a laurel wreath; held above him by a public slave, the solid weight of the Etruscan chaplet of oak leaves and ribbons in pure gold, brought to him from the statue of Capitoline Jove, the Crown of Triumph that was too heavy for a mortal man to wear. In the chariot rode his infant children, Octavia and Britannicus.
But that was all three years ago. Everyone had said at the time how disappointing it was that most of the army needed to stay behind in the new province to contain the dangerous British tribes, and that although Hosidius Geta came home for the Triumph, it was the general, and some of the other commanders, that they really wanted to see.
Well; the great names were here today.
Rome could take anot
her holiday. Claudius, who was a fair man, wanted this to be his general’s day. Aulus Plautius would have in his own right the procession, the acclaim, the sacred ceremonies at the fulfilment of his vows, all the honours and all the feasts. The Emperor trotted out in person to congratulate him and as they rode back into Rome together, Claudius surrendered to Aulus Plautius the place of honour on the right. The name of that dignified, diffident, subsequently scarce-remembered man was hailed by his soldiers and by the populace all along the route, acclaimed over and over to the skies.
But even before the street-sweepers had sluiced the pavements clean at dawn, while the shopkeepers were still garlanding their porticos with flowers, another name resounded through Rome.
‘Io Triumphe!’ cried the people and the soldiers. ‘Hail Claudius! Hail Plautius!’ and ‘Hail Vespasian!’
Veronica had managed to hire a balcony that overlooked the processional route. It cost so much Caenis felt churlish for wanting to refuse her invitation. So she went, and took the picnic: some cold Lucanian salami, bread, stuffed eggs and pickled fish. She was not sure whether this choice made her a sentimentalist, or stupid, or ludicrously brave.
It was bound to be a long hot day. There were eight of them to a balcony that would comfortably seat three. Elbows kept knocking the plant pots down into the crowd below. Veronica regimented everyone endlessly. She had allocated them all broad-brimmed hats against the sun, and parsley-crowns for when they grew tired of keeping on their hats. She had brought deep baskets of rosebuds for hurling at the parade, and to complete the chaos vast quantities of jugs of wine. ‘Just be grateful,’ cried Veronica, who was a hostess of the most considerate kind, ‘the price for the balcony includes the lavatory downstairs!’
The city was in turmoil long before there was anything to see. People had to arrive early in order to squeeze through the streets. This meant standing or sitting about getting sillier and louder, while far away Aulus Plautius was still reviewing his troops. The pickpockets were putting in gallant work.
At the Field of Mars further honours were announced, this time by Plautius himself. There were batons for the legionary commanders, more headless spears for soldiers who were valiant in battle, coronets for every man who saved a colleague’s life, harness-medals for the cavalry, armlets for some and a bounty in cash for everyone. The legions and their individual cohorts all adopted commemorative standard-discs. And then there was a special award, one which Hosidius Geta had already won (most unusual since neither man had been a consul yet): the granting of full triumphal honours – the right to wear his triumphal wreath at festivals and to have his statue in bronze erected in the Forum of Augustus – to Flavius Vespasianus for his masterly campaign in the south-west.
All this delayed the march off for hours.
The procession marshalled in traditional form. This saved the need to issue programmes and helped the sculptors to record things accurately after the event. Caenis knew the procedure by heart; the order of a Triumph had always been a favourite subject for dictation tests. It was:
First: The Civic Escort
Caenis popularly pointed out this was a good time to eat the picnic, while everyone was bored. With reasonable tolerance for sickness, bad manners and the distant funerals of rich provincial aunts, most of the knights and many representatives of the people turned up: it took some time getting them all past.
Second: Flutes
Very pleasant. In the first Triumph there had been trumpets at this point; some of the trumpets had gone out of tune in the heat. It needed a good ear to notice, but Caenis had winced. Flutes were much more amenable.
Third: The Spoils of War
While this lengthy part of the parade was going by people in the crowd had a chance to give sticky melon slices to their children and soothe the babies who were suffering from heatstroke.
Born aloft by stout lads in laurel wreaths came yet more trophies seized in battle: armour, weapons, dragonesque embossed shields, wonderful light wicker chariots – followed by treasure: huge twisted golden torques and enamelled harnesses and gear – then representations of places where the army had fought: models and pictures of fortresses, towns and islands, living statues of weed-shrouded river gods, all with their outlandish names painted on boards: Camulodunum, Caesaromagus, Durnovaria, Vectis Insula, and the warlike tribes too: The Catuvellauni, the Trinovantes, and Vespasian’s wild opponents in the west: the Dubonni, Durotriges, Belgae and Dumnonii, against whom he fought his thirty battles and from whom he wrested twenty savage hilltop settlements.
This strange stuff left people so confused and argumentative that Veronica made them all change stools.
Fourth: The White Ram Prepared for Sacrifice
With gilded horns, trailing garlands and scarlet ribbons, the magnificent beast was escorted by a string of priests all bearing implements and sacred vessels, with strong wafts of incense, and accompanied by cymbals, triangles and flutes. Veronica’s party had by then drunk most of their wine, but the lull while the religious throng intoned its way past provided a good opportunity to open up what remained.
Fifth: The Principal Captives
No one knew the names of these British captives since Togodumnus was dead and Caratacus still remained at large. Still, captives there were, and some were duly tattooed with vigorous patterns in blue woad. They had long limbs, white skin, light hair, and pale eyes in blue or grey. Among the sky-scraping buildings, the forests of statues and the roar of thousands of Romans in raucous holiday mood, they looked apprehensive and bemused. Veronica threw them a few stuffed dates, but they only shied away.
Sixth: The Commander-in-Chiefs Escort of Lictors
Smarter than ever, though today without the axes they normally carried among their official bundles of staves. All in red. A splendid show.
Seventh: Lyre Players and Dancers
Exulting over the vanquished enemy. Extremely tiring to do, but fun to watch.
Eighth: The Victorious General
Aulus Plautius, a surprisingly small man, looking worried by the capering of his huge white horse; he wore magisterial robes and a heavy myrtle wreath. He was extremely popular. At his side:
Ninth: The Emperor Claudius Britannicus
Caenis by now had a splitting headache.
Tenth: –
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ Caenis murmured in apology, as she clambered over knees and baskets with the embarrassment and relief a woman feels after she has brought herself to the point of saying what she has been too shy to mention for three-quarters of an hour. ‘I just can’t wait any longer. It must be the excitement. Tell me what I miss. Veronica, where’s this famous lavatory of yours?’
Tenth: The Chief Officers of the Conquering Legions
Caenis took her time.
Even so, she badly misjudged it.
When she finally returned the noise was at its height. The spectators, swaying fearlessly on scaffolds, could hardly contain themselves as before the legions in full dress parade filled the streets, one by one drawn in chariots at their head they came: the four famous legates who commanded them.
The cheers had become frantic. People were scrambling up pillars to try to find a better view. The air was thick with flung flowers. Everyone was on their feet. Veronica, scarlet-faced with exertion, was jumping up and down in hysteria. She was clapping her hands and flinging violets and roses, then olives from the picnic, as every new legate passed.
Caenis, returning, was manhandled joyously by the others in their group back over wine-jars and fallen chairs to her previous place at the front. Veronica mouthed something; Caenis grappled in the picnic case for tasty morsels to calm everybody down. While she was away the legates of the legio XIV Gemina, the legio IX Hispana, and the legio XX Valeria, had all come by at a snail-pace crawl. Now away at the Capitol, Aulus Plautius, supported by the Emperor, began the last long climb up the Gemonian Steps, which by tradition he had to do on his knees; behind them the whole tail of the procession suddenly clogged up
, faltered, swayed, and juddered temporarily to a halt.
A standard-bearer in his fanged bearskin who was forced to stop, planted the tripod feet of a legionary eagle on the tufa pavement where they skidded awkwardly; the silver-winged eagle lurched as he adjusted his aching fingers on the handle grip. Attached to the pole, which was garlanded with greenery, were two triangular emblem plates: Pegasus and Capricorn, which had been the symbol of the Emperor Augustus; above them was displayed the legion’s number and name. Behind the standard that must always mark his position for his men, the legate of the legio II Augusta came to a standstill, rocking gently on his heels as he rested his hands on the front rim of his ceremonial chariot.
‘Vespasian!’ the crowds roared, bursting their lungs at this marvellous stroke of luck. The Hero of Britain, Flavius Vespasianus, folded his arms while he waited, and nodded absently to the crowd. The Hero of Britain: twelve feet away from Caenis, immediately below.
Hoarse with anguished adulation, Veronica clutched her throat.
‘Io Triumphe! My darling, will you look at him – the Hero! Your lovely Sabine friend!’
Caenis had never seen her Sabine friend in uniform before.
He gleamed with bronze and glittered with buckles and medals in chased enamelware. Four honorary batons were tucked under one great arm. Much of him was hidden beneath breastplate and greaves and the heavy scarlet swirls of his commanding officer’s cloak. His hair looked thinner and the strong distinctive neck was invisible beneath the knotted wisp of a regulation scarf, but nothing could disguise the crank of that nose or the glorious upward angle of his chin. The wreath that he should have been wearing with such pride had dipped casually over one ear.
Someone had thrown a froth of rose petals that were clinging to his shoulder-clasp. He was brushing them off; they drifted languidly as far as the hem of his woollen cloak. All around him was ecstasy; trumpet blasts; cheers and screams. He stayed utterly himself. He glanced back at his officers, turning up his eyes to heaven at the delay while he gave the young men behind, who were grinning back, an amiable frown. He thrust out his lower lip. He reached for his chin with the back of his hand as if he wanted to stifle a yawn. Caenis smiled. Anyone who knew him could recognise that the Hero of Britain was seriously bored.
The Course of Honour Page 17