It was clear by now that the Second’s preparations for the river crossing were close to culmination. The camp was abuzz with activity. Carpenters worked ceaselessly to ensure the great wooden catapults and the ballistae that could punch a heavy four-foot arrow a quarter of a mile through the air were in good order and ready for action. Armourers sharpened swords by the dozen and met last-minute promises to mend the weak points in legionary plate armour or auxiliary chain mail that might cost a man his life. Vespasian stalked the camp with his aides like a lion marking its territory, reassuring, checking, and repeating his orders again and again to his junior commanders. There was only one word on every man’s lips. Tomorrow.
XXII
On the far side of the river Caratacus was back at his station on the low hill at the first hint of daylight. There was something different about the Roman camps, a new intensity of purpose that wasn’t particularly visible, but was there all the same. The cavalry went through the same routines, but their formations were more compact; tight and efficient. The riders carrying dispatches and orders between the four camps seemed more numerous, while beyond, in the great supply compounds, it was as if he could sense the increased activity of thousands of soldiers and slaves, even if he couldn’t see it with his eyes. Nuada joined him at noon and together they considered the dread sky and brooding atmosphere. He hadn’t forgotten the Druid’s part in Togodumnus’s folly and Ballan had returned from patrol three days previously hinting there might be more he didn’t know. But on this of all days he needed Nuada’s support.
‘I want you to make a sacrifice to discover the meaning of this strange weather,’ he ordered.
Nuada sniffed the air. ‘I don’t need to sacrifice anything to understand the weather. A child could read the signs. It means rain tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. The clouds are heavy with moisture, the sun heats them and the gods stir the mixture. The clouds will give birth to a storm in their own good time. In any case, we have no prisoners. Your brother couldn’t achieve even that.’
‘Not prisoners. A goat.’
The Druid spluttered. ‘A goat! What good is a goat? A goat won’t win you the support of the gods. We should line the riverbank with Wicker Men, fill their bellies with slaves and send their souls to Taranis. That will bring you the gods’ favour and put terror in the heart of your enemies.’
Caratacus smiled grimly. ‘If the gods do not favour us now, Nuada, then they have deserted us for ever, and you and your kind have failed this land of Britain. There are many mere children in our army and I have seen the fear in their eyes when they look at that sky. You will sacrifice a goat and the portents will be favourable, and perhaps their bellies will be filled with courage instead of beer.’
‘And what if the omens are not favourable?’
‘If the omens are bad, I will fulfil my promise to sacrifice a Druid to ensure the gods’ favour.’
‘Then I will choose the goat with the utmost care.’
‘That would be wise.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ Caratacus said quietly. ‘Tomorrow.’
If nothing else told him with certainty they would come tomorrow, the bridges did. Since dawn each of the three crossings had been an ants’ nest of activity, with Roman engineers scurrying back and forth along their length carrying the building materials which had now brought them close to halfway. This was the first time he had witnessed the true power of Roman ingenuity. A British bridge was a fragile, expendable affair of thin planks, supported by the closest available timber, jointed and held together by rope. It could — no, it was expected to — be swept away by the next flood. Romans built to last. They used small, tethered wooden boats which they must have carried in their long baggage trains to create the initial framework. When they were anchored in place, the legionaries swarmed over and among the pontoons, slipping in and out of the water like otters as they sited large baulks of timber cut days, perhaps even weeks, before for the bridge piles. These were then driven into the river bed by an ingenious weighted device like nothing he had ever seen. Even before the piles were properly set, engineers and carpenters were working among them, placing and testing the planks of each section. The result was a structure as sturdy as any he knew. Yet it was not the bridge that impressed him most, or was responsible for the chill that ate into him even on this thunder-hot summer’s afternoon. No, it was the way the men worked together, each knowing his place and his task, never obstructing or colliding. There were no screamed orders or wicked slaps of whips on idle backs. It was almost inhuman, this clinical control. For the first time he felt, low in his gut, the wolf-gnawing ache of doubt. Could his crude stratagems succeed against a people capable of all this?
Nuada was staring at him and he knew what he was thinking was written on his face. He forced a confident smile. ‘Don’t you have a goat to sacrifice?’
When he was alone, he went over the plan again in his mind.
The hill was the key. Here, in the centre, where the massed ranks of Plautius’s army would strike, the most fearsome warriors of the Catuvellauni, the Trinovantes and the Iceni, reinforced by Scarach’s Durotriges, would wait; the rock upon which the legions would break themselves.
On the far left, ready to fall on the Roman right flank, would stand the Atrebates of Epedos and Bodvoc’s battle-eager Regni. He had spent hours with the Regni king reinforcing the need for patience. Wait. Wait. Only when he was certain the Romans were exhausted and their line stretched thin as a butterfly’s wing along the river’s edge should he strike, but when he did strike it must be with the speed of a lightning bolt and the force of a hammer blow. There would be no second chance. When the warriors in the centre had sucked the power from the legions it was Bodvoc and Epedos who must destroy them. Utterly.
Togodumnus, naturally, had demanded this honour, but Caratacus knew his brother, and after the rout on the first river the kings and the chiefs of the army of Britain were no longer impressed with his bluster. He would hold the British right with his Dobunni and a coalition of the lesser tribes, convinced after hours of persuasion that it was the place of greatest danger. Here the ground was broken and wooded, less favourable for the attackers, but where Togodumnus would wait, ready to fall upon a routed enemy already defeated by the crushing flank attack.
Caratacus rubbed his forehead where it throbbed and bubbled as if his thoughts and his schemes were trying to escape from his head. There was so much to consider. So much at stake. Was there anything he had missed? He went over it again, was satisfied he had done all he could — apart from one nagging doubt.
‘Ballan.’
The squat Iceni horseman jogged up from where he had been waiting with his scouts on the rear slope of the hill. ‘Lord?’
‘About ten miles upstream, close to a place where the river passes below a ridge of yellow rock, there is a ford where a horseman might cross. Ride there and sweep for any signs of Roman cavalry. I think we would know by now if any major force had passed that way and got behind us, but I want to be certain.’
Ballan grinned. ‘I know that place. I sent Uda and his troop at first light. If he sees anything suspicious he will dispatch a courier and you will hear within the hour.’
Caratacus laughed. ‘So, an Iceni horse thief knows my mind before I know it myself. I am glad you are not with the Romans. And to the east? Do you perceive any threat from that direction?’
Ballan’s leathery forehead creased in a deep frown of concentration.
‘No ford there that I know of. A man might cross by boat when the tide and the current are right, but not an army. We’ve been patrolling the bank for a week and seen nothing suspicious. But something concerns you?’
‘Ships. The Romans came to this island on ships. Is it possible they could land a force far downstream in the flatlands that edge the estuary?’
Ballan considered for a moment before replying, running the soggy, creek-channelled landscape through his mind. ‘Possible. But not likely. Nothing but mud
flats down that way. A transport ship would have to beach a mile from the shore and a man in full armour would take a day to reach proper dry land, if he ever reached it at all. A commander would have to be a fool to attempt that way.’
Caratacus pursed his lips in thought. ‘Foolish, yes, but possible, you say?’
Ballan shrugged. He’d said his piece; let Caratacus do with it what he willed.
Finally the king decided. ‘Take a few men there and find the highest point. The country is flat as one of Medb’s corn-cakes and from any sort of height you should be able to see many miles of coast. Do not stay long. Either they are there or they are not. Probably not. But best to know for certain. A fool’s errand, I know, Ballan, but I must be certain.’
The Iceni nodded. ‘I will return before daylight, to stand by your side.’
Caratacus smiled. He had expected nothing less, but he couldn’t resist teasing the earnest tribesman. ‘Do you never rest, Ballan?’
Ballan gave him a look that fathers reserve for a naughty child. ‘I will get all the rest I need in the Otherworld.’
Alone again, the British war chief turned back to stare at the slick, black surface of the river. The closest of the three bridges — the one in the centre — was almost within a spear’s throw of the near bank. A group of Scarach’s young warriors had gathered close to the water’s edge and were noisily competing to see who would reach the Roman engineers first. Their spears were dropping yards short of the nearest pontoon, but if the bridge progressed at the present rate it could only be minutes before the builders were in danger. He knew he should stop them — those weapons would be needed tomorrow — but he remembered the way the blood boiled and fizzed through his body on the eve of his first battle. Let them have their sport.
As he watched, a small group of lightly armoured men jogged towards the point of the centre bridge. He opened his mouth to shout a warning, but he knew he was too far away and that any runner he sent would never reach the Durotriges in time. The Romans halted and knelt on the boards just behind the foremost engineers. Caratacus sighed. He knew what was coming. One of the young Britons ran up to the bank and launched a spear towards the hated enemy. It was a mighty throw, the best of the day, and splashed into the water just short of the bridge, but where the boy would normally have slid to a halt in the sand and watched the flight of his weapon, instead he pirouetted in a parody of a dance and flopped bonelessly to the ground. Leave him, Caratacus thought, leave him and run. But the lad’s comrades gathered around his body. The next perfectly flighted arrow took a second warrior in the throat, and was instantly followed by another, which lodged itself in the thigh muscle of a third and left him limping as he scurried away, leaving his two dead friends bleeding by the water’s edge.
There was no victory shout from the men on the bridge. The archers trotted back to the bank in a disciplined column, followed by the engineers. They had done enough for the day, but Caratacus knew they would be back at work at sundown and the bridge would reach the shallows at dawn. He breathed deeply, sucking in the thick, warm air, and tried to dispel the melancholy that enveloped him like a blanket. He stared at the still bodies lying amongst the brush between the flooded water meadow and the river. What was it Ballan had said? ‘I will get all the rest I need in the Otherworld.’ How many more would be resting in the Otherworld, and how many of them would have gone to their deaths cursing his folly… tomorrow?
XXIII
The rain slanted from the darkness and twinkled as it was caught in the flickering light from a hundred torches.
Rufus had still been awake when the messenger from Narcissus tapped him on the shoulder, taking care not to disturb Gaius, who slept dreamlessly at his side. He felt a pang of regret that he had no token he could leave, no message of reassurance in case he didn’t return. But the Greek’s orders had been clear. There was one thing he could do, though. He bent his head low over the russet curls and gently kissed the little boy’s forehead, producing a faint whimper that made his breath catch in his chest. He wished more than anything that he could stay; this was where he belonged, not out there in the dark unknown, his fate in the hands of men he hadn’t even met. But he could not let Narcissus down. He took Bersheba by the harness and led the elephant carefully through the baggage carts into the open. He had hidden the Praetorian uniform in the base of the wagon beside Narcissus’s great secret. Now he donned the black linen tunic and the sculpted armoured breastplate with its wolf symbol. On his head he placed the heavy metal helmet with its wide cheek pieces. When he had fastened his sword-belt, he slid the short, razor-edged gladius from its scabbard with a hiss that made the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was comfortably heavy in his hand and he couldn’t resist two or three practice cuts before he returned it to its sheath.
He expected the messenger to lead them towards the river where Plautius’s four legions must already be forming up in preparation for the dawn crossing. Instead, the man turned in the opposite direction, away from the three bridges which would carry the Roman army into the centre of the British battle line.
Rufus struggled to hide his confusion, but he knew better than to ask questions. He was in Narcissus’s world now; a world where the unexpected must be taken for granted and where nothing was ever quite as it appeared. It was full dark, but his escort was well versed in his business, for he never deviated from the path as they marched across the rough country south of the river. Only twice did he hesitate, and both times it was to stop and listen.
‘Did you hear anything?’
Rufus shrugged. ‘An owl. A rustle in a hedgerow. Just night sounds. Why?’
‘It’s nothing. A little nervous maybe. There’s word of British scouts this side of the river. Wouldn’t want you getting your throat cut.’
They continued for ten minutes before they topped a low rise and Rufus stopped so abruptly Bersheba almost walked over him. The grassy bowl below his feet stretched for perhaps four hundred paces in each direction and it was overflowing with the shadowy figures of men. Legionaries. The extent of the enormous mass of soldiers was defined by pinpricks of light from the torches which identified the pathfinders who would lead them through the night. It was a full legion, he realized. No, it was more than a legion. There must be five or six thousand men.
The messenger touched him on the shoulder and they made their way carefully down the rain-slick slope towards a group of mounted men waiting on the right. Vespasian’s aides looked as if they would prefer to be hooded against the relentless drizzle, but if their commander noticed the conditions he didn’t acknowledge them. The legate wore the gilt armour breastplate that signified his general’s rank and had his cloak thrown back from his shoulders so all could identify it. His face was a frown of concentration, but his expression softened when he saw Bersheba.
‘So, our secret weapon. I hope you are right, Master Narcissus.’
Rufus blinked and turned to find the Greek standing behind him, with Verica, his eyes bright with excitement, by his side. The young Atrebate studied the black and silver of Rufus’s Praetorian uniform with interest and nodded his approval.
‘Oh, I don’t believe either the Emperor’s elephant or his handler will let you down, General. They have been of great service in the past — and will be again in the future,’ Narcissus replied.
Vespasian gave a thin, tight-lipped smile. ‘If they survive. And who but the gods can say if any of us will survive this night?’ The Roman general shouted a name that Rufus couldn’t quite identify, and an officer marched briskly out of the darkness. ‘This is Justinius Frontinus, prefect commanding our Batavian auxiliaries, and tonight he commands the Emperor’s elephant. What say you, Frontinus? Will the beast do?’
Frontinus, an earnest young man with prematurely ash-grey hair, looked Bersheba up and down, giving Rufus an opportunity to gather his thoughts. Will she do for what? He had expected to be part of a battle — had prepared for it — but what madness had Narcissus trapped them in this time?
‘Oh, I think it will do, sir. If it is as strong as it looks.’
‘Well, elephant keeper?’ Vespasian demanded. ‘Is the beast as strong as it looks?’
‘Stronger.’ Rufus tried to think of some feat of Bersheba’s that would make his point more forcefully, but the legate had heard enough.
‘Then she will do indeed. I had hoped to have her beside me in my battle line, but she has other duties tonight.’ An orderly spoke quietly in his ear and he nodded. ‘It is time. Do your duty, young man, and your Emperor will reward you; fail him and your only reward will be death. But I do not think you or the elephant will fail him. If you survive, visit me tomorrow and I will give you my own reward, insignificant though it is. Perhaps when we next meet we will have made history.’
In the darkness around him, Rufus felt the mass of troops begin to move off and Vespasian and his retinue turned their horses to keep pace with them. They were heading east. Downstream, away from where Caratacus’s army waited. He expected the order to follow, but Frontinus stood and watched them go. Narcissus strode off, calling for his horse.
‘So, tonight you will be given the opportunity to prove yourself in battle, you and your elephant,’ Verica said. Whenever he’d spoken to Rufus in the past it had always been in the patronizing tones of a social and physical superior, but here, standing in the soft rain with the muffled sound of gently clinking armour all around them, there was a new respect in his voice. ‘Do not fear. It is not so terrible. Keep your guard up and always stay on the move. I have watched you; you are strong and you fight well. I think you will survive this night. I have fought a dozen battles, but I will never forget the first. It is what makes a man a man.’
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