by James Mace
Your brother,
Tiberius Valens
“Ever more reason to not allow Caratacus to spill your guts, old friend,” Tyranus said, with a friendly slap on the shoulder.
Magnus grunted in reply, took a deep breath, and tried to take in what had happened. He’d given up any hope of children since Achillia’s death, and it was utterly surreal that he now had a son. He then decided, no matter what happened this coming campaign season, he was finished with the legions. The old centurion knew he’d stayed in the ranks far too long. He would help his legion attempt to settle its score with Caratacus and move on.
He returned to his tent and began to write a reply letter to Valens. Merchant ships only made their way to the Northlands three or four times a year, so it could be spring or even summer before the message reached his brother-in-law. It mattered not. He still had one more campaign season, and he knew the letter would eventually reach Ana. She would know he was ready to leave the life of the legions behind. In his letter, Magnus asked Valens to implore Ana to join him in Britannia, and from there they would begin their life anew.
“Provided I survive,” Magnus said, with a sudden feeling of foreboding. Over the years, he had seen the fates be both generous and cruel, in equal measure. Would Ana arrive in Britannia a year from now, only to find the father of her child had been slain in battle?
In Rome, the revelation that Scapula had claimed a sizeable gold mine in the mountainous reaches of western Britannia helped stem the growing criticism of his inability to bring the war against Caratacus to a decisive conclusion. Aulus Plautius, who led the imperial armies during the initial conquest and served as the first governor of Britannia, had been quick to defend his successor.
“The province is mostly volatile and untamed,” he said, during a dinner party. The former commander-in-chief, who’d been lauded with Triumphal Regalia following the initial conquest, was hosting several honoured guests, including one of his former legates, Flavius Vespasian. Also in attendance was the emperor’s freedman, Narcissus, whom both Plautius and Vespasian viewed as a personal friend.
“I do not envy Scapula,” the former legate remarked.
“The senate is filled with fat, pompous old fools who know nothing about conquering a new province,” Plautius continued. “They give great speeches, but when the time comes for men to bleed, they are nowhere to be found.”
“To be fair,” Vespasian spoke up, “would you really want to trust the leading of our legions in battle to the majority of our senatorial colleagues?”
“Well stated,” Narcissus remarked. He then decided to change the subject. “I hear, general, that the emperor has viewed you favourably regarding the consulship. It won’t be for the coming year, unfortunately, but for the next year…”
“You flatter me,” Vespasian replied, as he bit off a chunk of roasted chicken. “But I know the emperor. He awarded me Triumphal Regalia for our victories in Britannia, but he sees little use for me outside of being a soldier. If he is seriously considering nominating me for a future consulship, it is because his most trusted freedman has put the idea in his head. After all, I still believe it was you who convinced Claudius to give me command of the Second Legion during the invasion.”
“An astute observation,” Narcissus conceded, glancing away as Vespasian grinned at him knowingly. The former legate was a gruff soldier with a penchant for coarse language and crude humour. And he was far more intelligent and observant than he often let on. “Well,” the freedman added, shrugging indifferently. “Consider it a birthday present.”
“Yes, happy birthday, old man!” Plautius said, holding his wine chalice up in salute. “And how many is this for you?”
“Forty,” Vespasian replied, feigning a glum demeanour. “I will be forty in three days.”
“Well, time for you to start sporting some grey hairs, then!” Plautius, rapidly feeling the effects of wine, excused himself to go mingle with some of his other guests.
“Time for the truth, old friend,” Vespasian said, once their host was out of earshot. “You influenced my promotion to legate, because you knew I could win battles. But why would you possibly want me as one of the upcoming consuls? What’s in it for Narcissus?”
“Safety in numbers, I suppose,” the freedman confessed.
“Safety?” Vespasian asked, confused. “You are the emperor’s most trusted advisor; the ‘Right Hand of Caesar’, as many say.”
“I was, perhaps,” Narcissus observed. He took another long pull off his wine.
Vespasian could see that he was clearly vexed.
“But I have always had friends within the inner circle. You don’t think I brought down Messalina alone, do you?”
“I figured Pallas was involved.”
“Of course he was! He wasn’t one of Messalina’s little fuck toys, so she couldn’t control him. However, you may be surprised to know that Pallas and Agrippina are lovers.”
“Hardly surprised,” Vespasian scoffed. “He’s been ploughing her hedge for years. Anyone with their eyes half-open could see that. But unlike Messalina, I don’t think Claudius gives a damn who Agrippina spreads her legs for. With her being his niece and all, the thought of them shagging is rather revolting. This marriage has certainly been anything but popular among the masses. But what of it?”
“Agrippina is far more dangerous than you realize,” Narcissus asserted. “Messalina was vindictive, but she was a fool and fairly easy to outwit. Claudius’ blind love for her was the only weapon she had. Believe me when I say that Agrippina is twice as malicious as Messalina. She is also far more shrewd and intelligent, which makes her a lethal enemy.”
“Yes, I did hear the emperor say he married her for her mind and not her heart,” the former legate conceded.
“Her mind is what makes her frightening. I’ll grant you, she advises our emperor well on most matters. And this gives her a far stronger hold on him than foolish love ever could.”
“Personally, I find her insufferable,” Vespasian remarked. “Mind you, she is attractive. Yet all I could ever see myself doing is shoving my cock in her mouth so she’ll shut up.”
This brought a much needed laugh from Narcissus.
“Anyway, what does all this have to do with you?”
“Everything and nothing. If Agrippina convinces the emperor my services are no longer needed, so be it. I am at his disposal and would not object if compelled to take an early retirement. However, the rise of Agrippina has much to do with the emperor’s son.”
“Ah.” Vespasian was suddenly understanding of the freedman’s dilemma. He sat upright on his couch, hands folded in his lap. “Agrippina’s son, Lucius, is the elder by three years. If Claudius adopts him, he will usurp Britannicus in the imperial succession.”
“Treasonous harlot his mother may have been, but Britannicus is still the emperor’s rightful son and heir,” Narcissus stressed. He rolled onto his side and leaned in closer to his friend. “Did you know that insufferable brat, Lucius, has demanded he be allowed to change his name to Nero?”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Vespasian grumbled. “Not only does the name mean ‘strong’, but by taking the name as the emperor’s revered father, Drusus Nero, it would solidify his claim to the throne. It also strengthens the emperor’s political alliances with Agrippina’s supporters. But Lucius Domitius Ahenobarbus is no Nero. To allow him to take the name is a disgrace to all who earned it before him.”
“It’s not just the succession or what that brat chooses to call himself that worries me,” Narcissus remarked. “It is the safety of the emperor’s children. Claudius is not a young man and has never been in good health. Should he die before Britannicus comes of age, what will happen to him? And what of the emperor’s daughters? I suspect Agrippina will try to convince him to marry her son to Octavia as soon as she’s of legal age. Poor girl. I also suspect the empress views Lady Antonia as a political threat.”
“Antonia is married to Faustus Sulla and not e
ven living within the imperial household,” Vespasian observed. “If anything, she is out of the way.”
“She is very intelligent and extremely protective of her father. She proved a valuable source of information on the comings and goings of Messalina. I have little doubt that Agrippina knows this.”
“You go too far now, old friend,” Vespasian said, gently rebuking. “I understand your concerns for Britannicus and Octavia, but to think the empress will act against Antonia is downright paranoia.”
“If you were in my position, would you not be a bit paranoid?”
“Probably,” Vespasian conceded, before taking another drink of wine.
They could hear Plautius laughing boisterously down the hall and decided to quickly end their conversation.
“What would you have me do?”
“There is nothing you can do,” Narcissus replied grimly. “For your own sake, stay clear of Empress Agrippina. You are one of Rome’s greatest generals, but I know you struggle to keep your tongue in check.”
“Don’t worry, old friend,” Vespasian said with a laugh, patting him on the shoulder. “I won’t call Agrippina an insufferable twat unless seriously provoked!”
With the return of their host, thoughts turned to more sordid affairs. Plautius revealed he had acquired a bevy of dancers for their entertainment, as well as other pleasures should they feel especially indulgent. And while Flavius Vespasian was never one to turn down a healthy, vigorous shag, he found his mind was now miles away from Rome. There was little he could do for Narcissus except offer a friendly ear. The former legate’s concerns now centred on a land he had done his best to help tame. He, like his former commander-in-chief, knew Britannia was anything but conquered.
Chapter XVII: Hard as Iron
Roman Camp at Viroconium, east of the River Sabrina
May 50 A.D.
***
Saturnalia, the winter solstice, and New Year came and went. The new consuls were a pair of rather unassuming senators named Antistius Vetus and Marcus Suillius. What intrigued Scapula and his legates, and indeed most of the army, was hearing that the emperor intended to share the consulship the following year with none other than the former legate of Legio II, Flavius Vespasian. But with the coming of spring, every Roman soldier in Britannia had more pressing matters than the intricacies of imperial politics.
There had been skirmishes on an almost daily basis since the frosts lifted. Their enemies only occasionally ventured across the Sabrina; however, they proved extremely aggressive, constantly ambushing any forays launched by Scapula’s army. It was becoming apparent that Caratacus was hoping to draw the Romans into a decisive battle.
“Time to give him what he wants,” General Paetus mused, during a meeting of senior officers.
A company of scouts had been dispatched, accompanied by Caratacus’ brother, Amminus. A handful of supposed deserters told of the high king building a great stronghold at a place called Caer Caradoc. Amminus and the scouts return later that afternoon would confirm this. And while every other patrol across the river had been met with savage opposition, the hundred or so horsemen were left completely unmolested.
“Caratacus wants to be found,” Paulinus surmised.
Amminus nodded in sombre confirmation.
“He may not have built a full-fledged fortress, but my brother was wise in his choice of ground,” the Britannic prince reported. “There is only one way in. It’s not too steep, but the ground is slippery with mud and smooth rocks. They’ve built a stone wall at the crest of a ridge.”
A cavalry decurion added, “It’s difficult to see because the forest is so damn thick, but it’s definitely there.”
“And there is no way around this?” Scapula asked.
Amminus shook his head slowly. “Not unless you want to send your forces ten miles up or down river. Even then, good luck navigating your way back to the battlefield. And the spurs of the hills are so heavily forested you won’t be able to utilize your battle formations.”
Paulinus stroked his chin for a moment. “If there is only one practicable way in, then it stands to reason there is only one way out.”
“Yes,” Amminus said, having come to the same conclusion as the legate. “Caratacus means to fight us here. There will be no retreat this time.”
“All the same, we should get our light auxilia troops into the woods to surround the flanks of the stronghold,” General Paetus pointed out. “They may intend to fight us, but once they break, we cannot allow the survivors to slip away.”
Governor Scapula nodded. “Agreed. I am tired of chasing these people all over this damned isle.”
“And I think my brother is tired of running from you,” Amminus added. “Your tactics of burning villages and crops are forcing him to finally face us in battle. The Silures and Ordovices know their hit-and-run tactics are not sufficient. Doubtless many of their people starved this past winter, and Caratacus’ fragile alliance will shatter if he does not give the people a major victory. I also heard rumour that his son, my dear nephew Jago, was killed during one of the ambushes last summer.”
“A little personal vendetta will help compel him to fight,” Scapula remarked with a dismissive shrug.
The corner of Amminus’ mouth twitched at the governor’s callousness, but he remained silent.
“How wide is the path leading up to the stronghold?” Paulinus asked the lead scout.
“About fifty feet, sir.”
“That’s pretty damn narrow,” Paetus grumbled. “Even if the lead cohort attacks in close column, that’s only enough spacing for fifteen soldiers in each rank.”
“The ground on either side is thick with brush and undergrowth, but it is not impassable,” the decurion spoke up. “It would be slower going, and formations would not be as tight, but it could be managed.”
There were a few moments of silence. The senior officers contemplated their plan of attack.
Paulinus spoke up first. “Governor, I’ll take the Twentieth up the middle. We’ll attack in close order and undermine their defences. General Paetus and the Ninth Legion can assault on the wings.”
Commander Julianus added, “Sir, I’ll take my cavalry and several cohorts of auxilia infantry and move north to blockade any attempts at escape. The river veers westward a few miles from here, and there are a number of fording sites they could try to make use of.”
Scapula nodded. “Have your men form a screen line along the hills overlooking the river. The Cornovii have promised to assist, but their warriors are neither well-trained nor particularly reliable. You have the rest of the day to get into position. The legions will attack at dawn.”
It baffled Seisyll. Despite the terrible suffering their people endured through the previous winter, the Silures still preferred to fight a harassment war against Rome. His own Ordovices warriors were anxious to spill the blood of the invaders and had heeded his call in droves to come to Caer Caradoc. Only King Orin and five thousand men, mostly his personal guard, had come. This alone spoke volumes of the limited control he and Caratacus had over the fiercely independent Silures.
“My people’s commitment has been four times that of Orin,” Seisyll complained to the high king. “Even the Deceangli have sent nearly as many warriors as our friend, Orin.”
“Orin himself stands with us,” Caratacus said diplomatically. He was also flustered that only a fraction of the Silures fighters had come, but he knew nothing would be accomplished by squabbling between his two client kings.
“I don’t doubt Orin’s courage or his commitment to casting the Romans from our lands. But I do want your assurance that my people will be duly rewarded for the loyalty and courage they have shown.”
“For their loyalty, and yours, you have my gratitude. As for your courage, you will have a chance to prove that soon, my friend.”
Dawn came. With the quiet anticipation of the coming battle, the soldiers of the Twentieth Legion donned their armour, while centurions and their subordinate office
rs briefed the plans for the assault.
“Not very imaginative, is it?” Optio Caelius asked, with a trace of foreboding sarcasm.
“Caratacus has denied us any real chance of being creative here,” Magnus reasoned. “Besides, there is a time and place for everything… even raw, brute force.”
“And, of course, we in the First Cohort get the privilege of leading the assault.”
“Would you rather we let some of the babies in the other cohorts, who’ve scarcely learned to shave, take the credit for breaking Caratacus? Or worse, lose the battle for us because they ran when it got rough?”
Caelius grinned appreciatively at his centurion’s assessment. “I suppose it’s time our men earn their incentive pay.”
“Magnus!”
The Norseman turned to see Master Centurion Tyranus.
“You and Furius will take the lead. I will be immediately behind you. Once your centuries breach the defences, my lads will push through and create a break in their lines. The remaining centuries will be covering our flanks. Our intent is to rupture the walls and make enough space for the rest of the legion to form their battle lines.”
“An ambitious plan,” Magnus noted.
Tyranus smirked grimly. “Overly optimistic, probably, but it’s what I put forth to General Paulinus. Most likely, this whole thing will turn into a bloody cluster-fuck before the day is done.”
“Let’s just hope it’s Caratacus’ men who do most of the bleeding,” Magnus thought out loud.
The fleet-footed leader of Caratacus’ scouts rushed to his high king and fell to one knee. “The Romans are coming, my king. One of their legions is clawing its way through the brush on either side of the road. The other is simply attacking straight at us.”
“Harry them with missiles, but do not fall into a decisive engagement with them,” Caratacus ordered. He turned to his horn blower. “Rally our warriors.” The low, ominous blasts sounded and he took a deep breath. “And so the battle begins,” he said softly.