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?’
IV
Early the next evening the column camped on the edge of a forest, with the flank of the earthen fort protected by the sweeping bend of a wide, slow-moving river. When the ditch was dug and the guards were set, Rufus unshackled Bersheba and led her to an area of shallows a hundred yards downstream from the legion’s watering point. His body was chafed where his clothing had rubbed against skin caked in the salt sweat of an interminable, stifling hot day. When Bersheba waddled out into the stream with a trumpet of pleasure, he pulled his tunic off and followed her, settling languorously into the clear water until it reached his haunches.
He watched as Bersheba filled her trunk and curled the delicate tip to her mouth, gulping down gallons of water at a time. When she had drunk her fill she bent at the knees and flopped down, creating a wave that almost swept Rufus away, then rolled, scrubbing her back on the big pebbles of the river bottom. Her obvious delight made him laugh, and when she rose to her feet with all the grace of a queen finishing her morning bath, he called out to her. ‘Thank you, great Bersheba, monarch of all elephants, for as you frolic you save me work. You were so heavy with dust I feared I would have to wash you down with a bucket.’
Bersheba replied with a playful jet of water from her trunk that took him full in the chest with so much force that he lost his balance and ended submerged. He came up spluttering and it was a few moments before he noticed a vague figure through the damp curtain of his hair.
‘Narcissus assured me there would be fifty elephants. War elephants.’
Rufus swept the hair from his eyes and splashed to the bank where Verica stood. Bersheba remained in midstream spraying her wide back with river water over each shoulder in turn. Sometimes, when the fine droplets caught in the sun, she gave the illusion of blowing smoke from her trunk.
‘Narcissus often exaggerates,’ he said, as he carefully dried himself with his tunic. ‘Rome doesn’t fight with elephants, it fights with men; well-trained, well-armed and well-disciplined men. Legions.’ He and Narcissus had once discussed Bersheba’s potential as a weapon, a role which, fortunately, she had never been called on to carry out, and now he quoted the Greek’s words. ‘Elephants have never been part of the Roman order of battle. They are too ill-disciplined. They can be as dangerous to their friends as to their enemies.’
Verica eyed Bersheba doubtfully. Rufus guessed that he and the Briton were around the same age, in their early twenties, but where he was athletically slim, the Atrebate prince had a stocky warrior’s physique, and the ends of his long blond moustache flopped below the level of his chin.
‘I have heard stories of great victories. There was a general, Scipio, who fought with elephants?’
‘Borrowed elephants.’
Verica blinked. ‘Borrowed elephants?’
‘Yes. He borrowed them from a prince of the Indus, where they thrive, who loaned him little brown men to drive them and archers trained to fire from their backs.’ He didn’t know if it was true, but it sounded plausible. He had discovered that if he spoke confidently on the subject of elephants, however unlikely the claim, he was accepted as an expert. He had a vague memory of Narcissus spinning him a similar tale.
Verica looked at Bersheba wistfully. ‘I wish we had more elephants. It will take more than men to defeat Caratacus.’
‘You haven’t seen the legions fight,’ Rufus assured him, with more confidence than he felt. ‘Anyway, where is Narcissus? Shouldn’t you be with him?’
‘He is with the general,’ Verica said. ‘They are discussing the ti
metable for the return of my kingdom.’
Rufus thought this was unlikely, but decided it wasn’t worth arguing about. ‘I saw you once, in Rome. The first time you set eyes on Bersheba, you fell over.’
Verica gave him a look of irritation. ‘I wouldn’t have noticed you, a mere slave. I was a guest of the Emperor.’
The words ‘mere slave’ were meant to wound, but Rufus ignored the insult. It was true. He had been sold into slavery when he was six years old, by his father, a Spanish colonist who couldn’t feed a family of five from a few square yards of parched Mauritanian earth that produced more rocks than grain. He had been brought to Italy in the belly of a packed galley and counted himself fortunate that he had been bought by the family of Cerialis, a baker, and more fortunate still when he had passed into the ownership of the animal trainer Cornelius Aurius Fronto. The old man had sensed a talent in him he wasn’t aware he had: a talent to train animals for the arena. It had given him fame, of a kind, and it had led him inexorably into the clutches of Caligula. So, yes, he was a ‘mere slave’, but that didn’t make him any less of a man.
Verica mistook Rufus’s silence for disbelief. ‘It is true. I was in exile in Gaul when Narcissus heard of my plight. He summoned me to Rome to put my case to the Emperor. When I convinced them of the justice of my cause, Emperor Claudius vowed to create a mighty army to help me regain what was mine.’ The Briton’s voice held a faint hint of doubt, as if he didn’t quite believe the outcome himself, and Rufus decided this new, charitable Narcissus must be some kind of benign twin to the ruthless schemer he knew so well.
‘You are fortunate, then. But I am curious. How did you come to be in Gaul?’
‘When my father died I was proclaimed chief of my tribe, the Atrebates. We hold lands between here and the coast. Soon after I took the throne, the Catuvellauni, our neighbours to the north, demanded a cut in the taxes levied on their goods passing through my country. They are a warlike people and their king, Caratacus, is very powerful, so I agreed to a modest reduction. A week later I received a similar demand from the Dobunni, who are ruled by Caratacus’s brother Togodumnus. When I refused, they turned my cousin Etor against me. Of course, I had to kill him, but the Catuvellauni and the Dobunni joined together and invaded my land. If I had not fled when I did, they would have taken my head.’ Verica spoke matter-of-factly, as if losing a kingdom was an everyday occurrence. ‘Soon I will have my throne restored, and with Rome’s support, and Caratacus and Togodumnus gone, I will rule the south. Already my enemies fear my coming.’
Rufus remembered Narcissus’s reference to ‘poor Verica’. He suspected this guileless young man would have to bathe in British blood before Plautius handed him the kingdom he assumed was his by right. The Celtic noble’s hopes, based as they were on courage, honesty and trust, had as much chance of being fulfilled as Bersheba had of joining the long skeins of snowy-white swans which occasionally flew over the column in the early morning.
V
The fire burned bright in the centre of the meeting house as Nuada carried out the ceremonies of cleansing and called on Esus to ensure the success of their enterprise. Caratacus, in the place of honour directly opposite the doorway, allowed his glance to wander round the circle of seated men. There were twenty in total, kings and princes all, but only a dozen of them mattered. It was more than he expected, but fewer than he had hoped. They represented the tribes of southern Britain; the dam which must hold back the legions of Rome. But if any part of that dam should fail…
They had gathered at a temporary camp on the southern border of Caratacus’s lands, from where his warriors could cover all the likely river crossings the Romans might use. He knew each man in the hut by sight or by reputation, had drunk with some of them and taken land and cattle from others, sometimes both on the same night. A few of them liked him, some of them hated him, but they all respected him.
He had placed Togodumnus at his right hand so all should know the rift between them was healed. Antedios, king of the Iceni, sat to his left, his chest torn by an occasional cawing cough. He was an old man now, but in his youth he had been the most fearsome of Iceni champions and his people would still follow him. Closer to the doorway Bodvoc, the Regni chief, was a warrior king in the prime of his life, massively muscled and with a fortune in gold at his neck and on his upper arms. He grinned fiercely and raised his cup in salute when he noticed Caratacus looking at him. Bodvoc could be trusted to fight. Epedos, whose claim to the Atrebate throne Caratacus had supported when the feckless Verica had proved incapable of holding what he had, would not meet his eyes. Why? It was something he must find out later. Adminius, king of the Cantiaci, was studying him with frank distaste, but that was to be expected; born of the same father, but to different mothers, they had clashed in the past and would clash again. There were others, the Parisii, the Coritani, the Cornovii, whose support he must have, but who could be counted on to follow where the strong led. She was not here. Why had she not come at his summons?
‘I see no Silure or Ordovice representatives, brother. I was certain they were part of your grand design.’
Togodumnus, as always, had found a way to irritate him, the buzzing insect never far from his ear. ‘They do not feel the threat as we do,’ he replied, keeping his voice emotionless. ‘But they know it exists. The time will come when we have common cause, but it is not yet.’
‘What is to stop them from raiding the border villages when my warriors are off fighting your Romans? Is that not the Silure way, to stab you in the back when you least expect it? We should combine now,’ Togodumnus raised his voice so the others could hear, ‘combine now and destroy the power of the Silures so that when we advance on the invaders there is no threat to our rear.’
Bodvoc growled his assent, which did not surprise Caratacus. Bodvoc would fight anyone. The others looked to him, awaiting his reply, but it was Adminius who intervened.
‘Why should we fight at all?’ he asked.
His words had the same effect on the gathering as red-hot coals dropped into a pail of water. The tensions which had been held in check just below the surface erupted in an explosion of spluttered fury and demands to speak. Caratacus cursed beneath his breath. He had lost them. No. He had never had them. Like a fool, he had allowed Togodumnus to sow the seeds of disruption. He had to do something. But before he could get to his feet there was a sharp crack as Nuada rapped his staff against the centre post of the meeting hut.
‘We should fight for the gods,’ the Druid growled, pinning Adminius with a glare that dared him to speak, and gave Caratacus a moment to step into the void. The Catuvellauni king knew he had only one opportunity, and when he spoke it was with all the power of a lifetime preparing for just such a day. His voice was strong, but devoid of any harshness, and it seemed to fill the roundhouse with its resonance. Its message was that he bore none here ill-will, not even those who opposed him. That he spoke because it was his right. That they should listen because he had won their respect a hundred times over.
‘We should fight because we are warriors, the protectors of our people. We should fight because if we do not fight we will be enslaved. We have all lived through the plagues that ravaged this land. All felt the sorrow of a loved one lost. Unless we fight we will feel that sorrow a hundred times over — no, a thousand — and we will condemn our children and our children’s children to suffer it also. Do not mistake me: this is a plague more deadly than any we have faced. A human plague that will strip the land of Britain clean and condemn its people to death or slavery. These Romans have not come here for a season, but for a lifetime — perhaps many lifetimes. Nuada is right. We should fight for the gods, for only by fighting for the gods will we deserve the help of the gods. But the gods have their own battle to win, the battle against the gods who watch over the Romans. So it will be men, men with iron in their souls and blades of iron in their hands, who will defeat the red scourge.
‘You are all here because you know that if each of us stand
s alone we will be crushed into the dust the way a dung beetle is crushed beneath a wayward foot. We all have courage.’ He waved a hand to acknowledge them as warriors who, each in his own way, had proved their worth many times. ‘But courage alone will not be enough. Nuada, whom you know by reputation, has sent a messenger to the gods and the message he received in return is that only united will we prevail. My brother, who sits at my right hand, witnessed it, and he and I have put aside our grievances to meet this greater threat. Come, brother.’ He took a startled Togodumnus by the arm and raised him to his feet. ‘Give me the embrace of friendship.’
Togodumnus’s face was frozen somewhere between a dead man’s grin and a wolf’s snarl, but he allowed himself to be taken into his brother’s arms. ‘You take unity too far, brother, and push my patience further still,’ he said through gritted teeth into Caratacus’s ear.
Claudius r-2 Page 3