Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  Three days later, a courier delivered the news to Governor Scapula. Caratacus had been captured, and a contingent of cavalry from Legio XIV was accompanying him to Camulodunum. Word spread quickly, soldiers breaking into celebration at the news. The war had ended for the time being. But, there was much to be done if western Britannia was to be fully absorbed into the Roman province.

  “I want arrangements made for our guests’ transfer to Rome as soon as possible,” Scapula said to Admiral Stoppello. “The emperor’s birthday falls on the Calends of August, and I think Caratacus will make a fine prize and birthday present for him.”

  “I’ll take him to Rome, personally,” the admiral replied. “Provided the weather cooperates, we should reach Ostia in two, maybe three weeks’ time.”

  “He’ll have just enough time to get over being seasick before being strangled for the amusement of the mob,” Paulinus added with morbid humour.

  “Feeling merciful, general?” one of Scapula’s aids asked.

  Paulinus shook his head. “No, just making an observation is all. Caratacus was a worthy adversary, but so was Vercingetorix. And we all know what happened to him.”

  “The Divine Julius was merciful enough to have him strangled in prison rather than before the people,” Scapula remarked. Though very much relieved to hear of Caratacus’ capture, the governor was feeling the strains of office in this ever-volatile province. He hoped to continue the subjugation of the western reaches during the next campaign season, though he knew that capturing Caratacus would not end the struggles with the Silures and Ordovices. He was further concerned by rumours of unrest among the Iceni and other tribes in the east. Despite the troubles he had taken in capturing Caratacus, in that moment Scapula did not want to deal with him. He would send their prize captive to Rome for the amusement of the mob, to be disposed of as the emperor saw fit.

  Chapter XX: Heart of the Empire

  Rome

  20 July 50 A.D.

  ***

  The voyage by sea had been long and insufferable for Caratacus and his family. They were confined to their cabin for the most part, only allowed on the aft deck when they needed to relieve themselves. Though not kept in chains, a pair of armed marines remained outside the bolted door to their cabin at all times. The only joy the newly deposed high king felt was in being reunited with his wife and daughter once more. At least a score of various captured nobles had been sent to Rome with them. They were kept below deck in a makeshift brig.

  The ship would stop in various ports along the way, and Caratacus would stare out the small window, wishing he could break down the door and escape with his family. He had no idea where they were, but he did not care. All that mattered now was keeping Eurgain and Sorcha safe. Yet, how safe could any of them be when they were prisoners of Rome? With great despair, they arrived in the port of Ostia nearly two months after his capture. As they were led out onto the deck, with nearly a hundred armed soldiers waiting for them, Caratacus caught his first glimpse of the distant imperial capital. He closed his eyes and breathed in the warm, humid sea air. He then accepted whatever the gods decreed for him. Whatever fate awaited him and his family, he would face it like a man and a king.

  Empress Agrippina was thrilled to hear that the barbarian king had come to Rome. She pleaded with her husband to be allowed to have a private audience with Caratacus prior to his addressing of the emperor and senate. While Claudius found this to be rather absurd, he knew it was not worth the pending argument if he were to refuse her. Besides, there was no harm in allowing his wife the pleasure of having a captive ruler prostrate himself before her. Caratacus was a dead man, after all. Like Vercingetorix before him, he would be paraded through the streets of Rome in chains, after which he would be strangled for the amusement of the mob. His wife and daughter would likely suffer a similar fate, unless some wealthy senator offered up enough coin to purchase them as his personal slaves. While it was possible someone with enough denarii would fancy having the daughter of a defeated king within his household, taking the fallen queen as a slave would likely prove more trouble than the novelty was worth.

  The empress found her husband in his study where he spent most of his evenings. Claudius had proven to be quite the scholar, even in his youth when most dismissed him as a half-wit. Rumour had it he was currently writing a history of the Julio-Claudians, as well as his autobiography. However, he kept a close hold on his current works and allowed no one to see his writings, not even his wife or most trusted advisors. As Agrippina let herself into the study, Claudius hurriedly covered up the scroll he’d been working on.

  “Hard at work, dear husband?” she asked in a sultry voice. The emperor may have married her for her mind, but he was still a man, and just as prone to the machinations of an attractive woman.

  “Y…yes,” he stammered. “What is it you w…want?”

  “Oh, can I not come visit my dear, dear husband, who I almost never see?” Agrippina sat on his lap and ran her fingers through his hair.

  Strangely enough, the fact that he was her uncle had never bothered her nor had the public revulsion at their union. She was the type who rarely had sex strictly for pleasure. Certainly, she enjoyed it in a purely physical sense, but she was no nymphomaniac like Messalina. For Agrippina, the real pleasure came from using her more exotic talents as the ultimate weapon of control, and she would use them on anyone, man or woman, it mattered not.

  Claudius appreciated her skills at love-making. He also knew that she rarely came on to him unless she wanted something in return. “Oh come now, y…you are only so giving of yourself when you w…want something.”

  “Dear husband, you know me too well.” The empress laughed, its tone was both playful and condescending, in equal measure. She continued to stroke his hair as she cut to the chase. “That barbarian king is to be granted an audience with the senate tomorrow.”

  “Yes. Caratacus asked to address the senate, and I have granted this out of respect for a w…worthy adversary.”

  “I want him first,” Agrippina said coldly. She slapped Claudius gently on the chest when he raised an eyebrow. “Not in that fashion, you silly fool!” She was then serious, her demeanour cold and determined. “I am Empress of Rome and the senate loathe and disrespect me. Let me have my audience with Caratacus first, in the foyer of the senate, before he comes before them. Give me this, and let those back-biting cowards see your fallen enemies prostrate themselves before me. I cannot serve you best as consort if I am not given proper deference and respect by the senate.”

  While Claudius disdained the thought of inflating his wife’s already profound ego, he knew she was right. If she was to best serve as consort of the empire, the senate would have to be humbled ever so slightly, that they may give proper respect to their empress. Having Caratacus offer supplication to Agrippina would make his point clear without causing disrespect among the senate.

  “Very well, my dear,” Claudius said, placing both arms around her waist. “B…before Caratacus offers his submission to emperor and senate, he shall first offer his respects to the Empress of Rome.” He stood and began to usher her into his bedroom down the hall. Claudius was not feeling particularly amorous this evening; however, he had just written some rather abrupt descriptions of both his wife and her son in his memoir, which he did not wish for her to see, for none of it was remotely flattering to either.

  There was an air about Caratacus of both defiance as well as acceptance for whatever fate the gods dealt him. In his heart, he knew he had fought well against the Romans, and surely his gods would reward his courage and loyalty to their people. On this day, he was dressed in a newer tunic with his tartan cloak over his left shoulder. He bathed that morning, with his hair and thick moustache covered in a greyish dye. His hair was spiked, like some sort of crown. Eurgain and Sorcha were both bathed and well-dressed in Roman style stolas. The queen detested being clothed in a manner similar to their enemies.

  “Why are we doing this?” Eurgain aske
d, as they waited to be escorted into the senate. “Let the Romans kill us and be done with it.”

  “No, my love,” Caratacus replied. “I want to look their emperor in the eye and let him know what sort of enemy he has faced these past seven years. I want him to lie awake at night, fearful his suppression of our people will lead to death of his beloved empire. Rome is a vast city of beauty I have not been able to comprehend, yet it is ruled by monsters. They can kill me if they wish, but I will not go quietly to my execution.”

  Eyes wet with tears, her face beaming with pride, Eurgain placed her hands on either side of her husband’s face and kissed him deeply. Though she longed to follow their son into the afterlife, they would do so on their terms and not the Romans’.

  They were escorted by a dozen heavily armed soldiers. They came into a foyer where a woman in resplendent robes sat atop a dais, a golden laurel crown atop her head.

  “The empress,” Eurgain whispered.

  Agrippina said nothing. She stared in amusement at the gathering of barbarian nobility.

  Caratacus was fluent in the Roman tongue, and he stepped forward and gave a respectful bow to the empress consort. “My lady,” he said. “Your beauty enhances that of your eternal city.”

  “Your repute for bravery and nobility precedes you,” Agrippina replied. “I am glad to see your reputation is well-founded.”

  Caratacus bowed once more before he and his entourage were escorted into the senate chamber proper. Every bench in the house was crammed with senators anxious to cast their eyes on the man who caused them such grief in Britannia. Their faces bore expressions that varied from curious to scowls of disgust. The guards halted the procession at the entrance for a brief moment so the porter could announce them.

  At the end of the hall sat Emperor Claudius and the two consuls. It was the first time Caratacus had seen the Emperor of Rome, and he was puzzled by what he saw. Claudius appeared to be a frail old man, scarcely the divinity the Romans professed. Like the empress, he wore a crown upon his head, made of actual laurel leaves rather than gold. His gold-lined purple robes were magnificent, and Caratacus could only guess their value. He jolted as the porter beat his staff on the ground three times in a loud echo across the marble floor.

  “Caratacus, son of Cunobeline, Prince of the Catuvellauni, and High King of the Silures and Ordovices!”

  A praetorian shoved him forward. The chamber was silent as a tomb as the high king, his family, and a handful of nobles made their way towards the raised steps where the emperor sat.

  “Kneel,” a guardsman said sternly, pointing to the floor.

  Caratacus nodded to his entourage, who reluctantly knelt with their heads bowed. Eurgain closed her eyes, disgusted at being humbled this way but she complied. Only Caratacus remained standing.

  “Caesar,” Caratacus began, speaking slowly and attempting to stifle his accent, while adding force to his words. “I stand before you as a humbled and defeated, yet worthy, enemy. You address me as a high king, yet if the degree of my nobility had been matched by moderation in success, I would have come to this city as a friend rather than a captive enemy. Nor would you have disdained to receive in peace one whose noble ancestors lorded over a great many nations. Therefore my present lot, humbling as it is for me, is so much more the magnificent triumph for you. I had horses, men, arms, and wealth. Does it really surprise you that I should be unwilling to lose these? You wish to rule over the world, yet what surprise that many will not accept your slavery? You take lands with the sword and by doing so I urge you to heed this warning. Be prepared to sleep with your sword, ever a watchful eye gazing into the night, for you shall need it!”

  Caratacus expected to be rebuked by this time, but there were no immediate responses from the emperor or assembled senators. Indeed, Flavius Vespasian and Aulus Plautius appeared to be grinning in appreciation. The host of senators seemed shocked by his stern and defiant tone, for they had expected him to prostrate himself before the emperor and beg for mercy.

  Caratacus softened his tone and continued, “If I were now being handed over as one who had immediately capitulated, or had I supplicated myself before you following the death of my noble brother, neither my fortune nor your glory would have achieved any brilliance at all. How noble is an enemy who refuses to fight for the freedom of his people? By standing against Rome, I am damned. Reprisal will be followed by oblivion.” He paused for effect, glancing around the room before fixing his gaze on the emperor. “On the other hand, if you preserve me, mortal enemy that I have been, I shall be an eternal example of your clemency. Perhaps, then, Rome will have demonstrated that she is a rightful and just ruler of the world.”

  He folded his arms, a sign that he was finished, his eyes still fixed on Claudius who appeared to have had no reaction at all to the speech. Had he fumbled the Latin words? Did it all come across as gibberish, or did the Romans simply not care at all about nobility and sacrifice? Were they truly the vile dogs he described them as?

  It was Vespasian and Plautius who answered those questions. They stood and started to slowly clap their hands together. The emperor at last smiled and gave a nod of approval before adding his own clapping to the growing applause. The terrified barbarian nobles at Caratacus’ feet, who’d been unable to understand a word of his speech, dared to look up in wonder. The entire Senate of Rome was on its feet, loudly and boisterously applauding the speech of the most dangerous enemy in recent memory. Claudius finally stood and raised a hand, silencing the host of senators.

  “Noble Caratacus,” he said, speaking slowly so as to stifle his natural stammer. “You come before us with dignity and grace worthy of your noble ancestors, and that of a true Britannic king. The power of Rome lies not with the sword but with civility and justice. Your words have moved me, as they have every member of this august assembly. And through our clemency will the greatness of both our people’s be realized.”

  The emperor slowly descended the steps. Caratacus towered over him and looked as if he could snap him like a twig. However, it was Claudius, not he who wielded power in Rome. The emperor gazed up at him for a moment before smiling to the prostrate Britannic nobles and waving for them to rise. All did so, their expressions showing a profound sense of bemusement.

  “We are free to go?” Caratacus asked hesitantly.

  “Sadly, we cannot allow you to return to Britannia,” Claudius answered. “But that does not mean you are slaves or prisoners. You will be my guests with a villa in Rome to call your new home.”

  For Centurion Primus Ordo Magnus Flavianus, his departure from the legions was a very quiet and private affair. Rather than having an elaborate ceremony, as was the norm for senior-ranking centurions, Magnus had simply taken his discharge and retirement orders from the legion’s aquilifer and shared a few words with General Paulinus. The evening prior he said his farewells to the men of his century. He left before dawn, having instructed Optio Caelius to assume command of the century until his replacement was appointed.

  By chance, he had received a reply back from Tiberius Valens just prior to his departure. Ana and young Titus had taken a ship that landed not at Camulodunum but at Aqua Sulis, where they were the guests of the mayoral magistrate, Aulus Cursor. The now former centurion primus ordo saddled his horse and made the journey from the legion’s camp to the home of Britannia’s legendary hot springs. It took him three days to make the trek, and for Magnus it felt like three lifetimes.

  He had only been to Aqua Sulis once before, soon after the initial invasion. While still very primitive, there were definite signs of ‘Romanization’. The River Abona brought much in the way of merchant traffic from the continent, and the docks were teaming with activity. Most of the roads were still dirt paths, but at least they were kept free of weeds and debris. Fosse Way, which connected the southwestern coast with many of the Roman towns leading into Catuvellauni and Brigantes, was the only paved road in the region.

  A military fort had been erected near the northeast
corner of the springs which were a series of pools locals used for bathing. The fort housed two cohorts of auxilia infantry as well as a small detachment of cavalry. Near the fort was the mayor’s residence; a magnificent villa that stood in stark contrast to the more austere buildings of the town. Aulus Cursor was rather ambitious when it came to his plans for Romanizing Aqua Sulis. Magnus noted, such assimilation of architecture and culture would take years, possibly decades.

  He dismounted near the gates of the villa where a pair of auxilia troopers were on duty. It was the first time in many years soldiers had not come to attention and saluted him.

  “Can we help you?” one of the men asked.

  Though the Norseman now wore a plain, brown tunic, he still kept his gladius strapped to his hip, and the troopers were both staring at its rather ornate scabbard.

  “Magnus Flavianus, recently retired centurion primus ordo of the Twentieth Legion and friend of Aulus Cursor. My wife and son are his guests.” It felt strange calling Ana as his wife. He wasn’t sure how else to refer to her.

  “Beg your pardon, sir,” the first trooper said, coming to attention. “You may enter.”

  Magnus almost saluted, then stopped himself and grinned.

  “Old habits die hard, sir,” the soldier said with an appreciative smile.

  The grounds of the mayor’s villa were still a work-in-progress, though they did have a very splendid garden, complete with well-groomed hedges and various shrubberies. He heard the excited cries of a child, and his face was beaming as he saw the little boy, not even a year old yet already able to walk, running through the gardens, laughing all the while.

  “Where are you?” His mother’s voice called playfully from the other end of a hedge.

  The boy hid behind a stone bench, then turned and ran straight into Magnus’ arms. He gave a startled shriek at first, but then giggled as he apprised the big Norseman who held him. His expression was one of curiosity and devoid of fear.