Rufus smiled in the darkness. Verica could never keep his natural arrogance at bay for long, even when he was making an obvious effort. He decided it wouldn’t be out of place to do a little boasting of his own.
‘I have fought before. In Rome, my friend and I saved our Emperor from assassins.’ He saw Verica’s head come up in surprise. ‘It was during the procession for the Divine Drusilla, the Emperor’s sister. Cupido was an officer of the guard and Bersheba pulled the goddess’s golden statue. We saved Gaius Caligula from men sent to kill him.’ And later I killed him myself. He didn’t say it, but he couldn’t suppress the memory of that blood-soaked duel in the passageway.
‘You saved an Emperor, yet you are still a slave?’ Verica’s voice betrayed his doubt. ‘If you had done the same for me I would have freed you and given you gifts of great worth. Where is this friend now? He must have been a mighty warrior to be part of the Emperor’s guard.’
‘He is dead, killed by the man he protected.’
Verica grunted, as if Cupido’s death somehow made him less interesting. On another day, Rufus might have reacted to the slight, but tonight they were two comrades on the eve of a battle. Tomorrow, both of them might be dead. Apart from Narcissus, Verica was the closest thing he had to a friend, and tonight he needed the companionship of such a one. There was a shout from the shadows and Verica turned to go. Rufus felt a momentary pang of regret. ‘Prince Verica?’ The Atrebate hesitated. ‘I will pray to Mars to bring you through the battle safe, give you victory over your enemies and return your kingdom to you.’
There was a flash of white in the darkness and Rufus imagined Verica grinning. The shouted reply came amid the jingle of harness as he struggled to mount his horse. ‘I thank you, Rufus. Stay safe, and when we meet again tomorrow you will be a hero, and I will be a king.’
XXIV
A touch on his right arm made Rufus turn and he found the auxiliary officer, Frontinus, by his side. ‘Is it possible your beast can move quietly in the dark?’ he asked. ‘We must close on the enemy without being discovered. They may have spies on this side of the river. Silence will be essential to our success.’
Rufus thought for a moment. ‘That depends on what kind of country we are crossing. In heavy forest I wouldn’t give much for our chances of going undetected, but over open ground, and if I lead her rather than ride her, Bersheba can make less noise than an ant.’
The Batavian looked doubtful, but he nodded. ‘Very well, then. I will make space for you in the centre of the column, between the third and the fourth cohorts. I will guide you there.’
‘What are our duties to be?’ Rufus asked the question that had been tormenting him for most of the day. ‘No one has given me any instructions.’
The prefect shook his head. ‘The army never changes. General Vespasian, in his wisdom, has decided that our little force will be the left wing of the attack. It is a great honour, but one I fear we may not live to appreciate. Now, follow me, and make sure that thing doesn’t crush any of my men. I’ve few enough to do the job as it is. I will join you later if I can.’
The Batavians were ranked six abreast in their centuries and the line stretched away into the night. Facing west — upriver — away from the bulk of the Second Augusta. As Bersheba passed along the column, Rufus heard the murmurs of surprise and awe. Many of these men would have heard of the Emperor’s elephant, but few would have set eyes on her. Now she was here, joining them on whatever perilous mission they had embarked upon. Some of them would be encouraged by the massive grey presence among them; others would fear her, for that was always the way with Bersheba. Rufus saw that a few of the younger Batavians sported full beards and wore their hair long, in defiance of fashion and military practice, and these he noted also wore neck rings, made not of precious metals but of rough-smithed iron. Frontinus explained the puzzle while they walked. ‘They are the’ — he used a word of unashamed coarseness that approximated to virgin — ‘of our tribe, who have yet to kill a warrior in battle. Only when they dip their spears in another man’s blood will they cut their hair and cast away their childhood along with the torc they wear, which will be presented to Donar, the chief of our gods.’ As they passed each century of mail-clad soldiers, the prefect had a word for an individual officer or a soldier. Had Macrinus received the equipment he’d requested? How were Taurinus’s feet, had the blisters healed? Eventually they came to a gap in the ranks and Frontinus halted. ‘This is your position. Hold station on the unit in front. Do not lose them. I don’t want half my force to go missing on the way to the river. When we get where we need to be I’ll send word for you.’ With that, he marched off.
Rufus stood close to Bersheba, whispering reassuringly to her. Though his heart was racing, she was at her most placid. Night-time escapades like this were alien territory for both of them, but there was something in her nature that allowed her to accept, even to enjoy, the unusual. He slipped her one of the sweet apples he always carried and she gave a soft grunt of thanks as she crunched it. While they waited for the order to march, a man from the century ahead approached cautiously, carrying a length of rope. ‘My commander bids you take hold of this. The other end is tied to a man in the last section. It can be confusing in the dark, and this will ensure you stay in contact.’
Rufus thanked him. It meant one fewer problem to rattle round his head. The night was pitch dark and the rain dampened any noise; there was a fair chance he would have lost touch with the ranks ahead of him. The auxiliary centurion’s foresight proved he was in good hands. There was no command, but a short tug on the rope told him they were on the move. Walking silently through the darkness, he kept Bersheba at a steady pace, maintaining station on the shadowy silhouettes and the occasional glint of light on an armoured helmet in front. He tried to concentrate only on the moving backs, but his mind was inevitably drawn to the imponderable question of what lay ahead. They were part of the attack, yet their route was taking them away from the main body of the enemy. Frontinus had said they were making for the river, but what would happen when they got there? Could there be a ford the Britons had left unguarded? It seemed unlikely. Had the engineers constructed a fourth bridge? Less likely still, for the enemy would certainly be aware of it and their welcome on the far side would be a shower of spears. Nothing made sense. Eventually he gave up his pointless brooding and forced himself to focus on the ground beneath his feet and the men to his front.
Frontinus was as good as his word. Rufus had no way of measuring how long they had marched, but at one point he found the auxiliary commander keeping pace beside him. Rufus asked the question that had been gnawing at him. ‘You say we are to close on the enemy? How is that possible when the barrier of a mighty river separates us? Do you have a sorcerer who will lift us over its waters undetected?’
‘Not a sorcerer.’ Frontinus laughed. ‘River rats.’
‘River rats?’
‘That’s right. River rats and an elephant.’
Rufus must still have looked mystified.
The auxiliary commander explained: ‘It is what my men call themselves — river rats from the wetlands between the two great rivers of Germania. Water rules our life from the day we are born. When we take our first breath our father sacrifices to the water gods. One of the great trials of manhood among the Batavi is to swim the Rhenus, a river twice as wide as this rather pitiful thing we approach, and when we die our bodies are consigned to its waters. The rivers provide us with everything: fish and wildfowl for food, driftwood to build our huts, the beaver and otter pelts that clothe us. The only thing they cannot give is gold, and that is why we fight for the Romans. Every family of my tribe supplies a son of military age to serve, and when these men return home they come with bounty and plunder that gives them the pick of the women, and the Roman citizenship which guarantees an honoured place in our society and the patronage of Rome. We are attached to the Fourteenth Gemina, but for this operation General Vespasian has asked for our specialist skills.’
Frontinus’s face mirrored his pride in his men. Rufus realized that, for all his fine manners, he was a barbarian chieftain at heart. The men he commanded were the same warriors he would have led as part of his tribe, if the Empire had not enticed them into its service. There was no need to ask what the specialist skills were that Vespasian believed so important.
‘If your men are so good, why do you need me — and Bersheba?’
Frontinus turned to study Bersheba, who swung out her trunk to take his scent. Some men would have flinched in the face of that mighty implement, five feet of solid muscle that could smash a man to the ground, or lift him from it, but the Batavian commander smiled and allowed her to run her sensitive nostrils over his arm. ‘How deep a river could she cross?’
Rufus frowned. ‘That would depend. Eight feet if the current was not too strong.’
‘And if your life depended upon it?’
Rufus felt a thrill of alarm. ‘Ten,’ he said.
‘Eight will be enough. If the rain doesn’t get any heavier and if we ever find the crossing point.’
‘But what will she have to do? She is not a war elephant. She can’t fight the Britons for you.’
‘She won’t have to.’ Frontinus laughed again. ‘My river rats can cross the Tamesa even with their weapons and equipment.’ He saw the disbelief on Rufus’s face. No man could swim a broad river in full armour, not even if he had webbed feet. ‘Oh, there are ways, have no fear of that. But to achieve what General Vespasian asks of us we must land as a unit, and that is where Bersheba can help.’
By the time they reached the riverbank, there was activity all around them. The men closest to Rufus were working in small groups, each certain of his duty even in the sullen darkness.
Frontinus explained. ‘We constructed the rafts yesterday, and they were carried by the lead group, but the goatskins have to be inflated, tested and properly secured. Then the weapons, clothing and armour are covered by oilskin cloth and loaded. Everything goes on the rafts, everything but the men. They do what they do best. They swim. But tonight they won’t swim on their own. They’ll be towed by Bersheba. Even in a gentle current the rafts would drift downstream, and this current is far from gentle. By the time they reached the far bank my men would be scattered for miles and they’d walk straight out of the river on to the enemy spears. They would have no time to unpack their weapons. It would be a massacre. Worse, it would be a pointless massacre. We are soldiers, and happy enough to die, but none of us wants to be sacrificed in a useless cause. If Bersheba can tow six rafts and four times as many men, six crossings will secure us a bridge-head. We’ll put twenty ropes across and use them to relay the rest of the unit. We can have two thousand on the far side long before daylight.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we do the other thing we do best. We fight.’
While the preparations were going on around him, Rufus took the opportunity to study the river. What he saw knocked all the bravado from him. He estimated they were three miles above the place where Plautius’s main force faced Caratacus. The river was narrower here, but this was no gentle stream. It was a formidable barrier a good two hundred paces across, probably more. The surface was dark and dangerous, full of swirls and eddies that were a sure sign of broken ground on the river bed. That was the key. What was the bottom like where they planned to cross? If it was gravel, hard-packed and solid, he was confident Bersheba could do what he had boasted she could. She had forded deep rivers before, enjoyed nothing better than to frolic in the clean water. But what if the bottom were mud, or, worse, composed of large rocks with gaps between them like mantraps? She would lose her footing, might even break a leg. He reached up to stroke the yellowing lion’s tooth charm and sent up a silent prayer to Fortuna.
When he returned to Bersheba, Frontinus was already at her side. At the Batavian’s instructions he led the elephant through the small groups of soldiers making a final check of their rafts by the river, where the grassy sward shelved steeply into the water. Rufus had a momentary vision of Bersheba stumbling and throwing him into the depths. The fact that he had never learned to swim properly suddenly became very important.
Frontinus appeared beside him. ‘Six, you understand? You are certain she can tow them? Once you are out there it will be too late to turn back.’
Rufus nodded. These men were more important than his fears. ‘Six, and twenty-four men.’
‘Then truly she is the Emperor’s elephant. May the river gods protect you!’
Then Frontinus was gone, replaced by naked Batavian infantrymen who tied the cords of their rafts to Bersheba’s harness with practised fingers. The closest, Taurinus, the centurion whose feet had so concerned his commander, explained what would happen next. ‘Just take it slowly. We’ll carry the rafts down to the river at your pace. Once we’re in the water there’ll be a little confusion at first, there always is, but we’ll soon get it sorted out. Don’t worry about us. Just concentrate on getting this beast to the far side and we’ll be right behind you. When we reach the bank we’ll untie the rafts.’ The tall, heavily muscled soldier patted him on the shoulder. ‘Strength! Never thought I’d say that to a fucking Praetorian.’ He laughed and disappeared towards his men. Rufus climbed on to Bersheba’s knee and up her great slab of a flank.
When he was ready, Frontinus appeared beside the elephant, glancing worriedly back to where his men were completing their preparations. Eventually he was satisfied. ‘Go,’ he hissed.
Rufus urged Bersheba forward into the unknown.
XXV
The first lurch as she hit the slope almost pitched him straight into the river, but his hold on her harness was strong enough to keep him in his seat. Bersheba placed first one mighty pad and then the next into the water with barely a ripple, and Rufus breathed a sigh of relief. There was no steep drop off into the depths. The waters reached just above her knees.
Two more steps and they were on their way, the surface quickly rising until it reached her belly. Behind him, Rufus heard soft splashes and muffled gasps as the rafts and their escorts entered the river. Instantly, the cords tightened as the rafts were pulled downstream by the current. Rufus felt the elephant shift her weight to take the pressure and he heard the centurion cursing as he organized his men. He’d feared Bersheba might be disturbed by this unfamiliar task, but she accepted it in her usual unflustered fashion. When she had gone a dozen feet from the bank, the darkness folded around them like a cloak. At first, Rufus lost all sense of space and time in this impenetrable black prison, but the solid warmth of Bersheba beneath him helped steady his nerves. He could see nothing ahead, but, below him, the eternal, implacable flow of the water restored his sense of direction and he urged the elephant onward.
They were well into the crossing now and his sense of unease returned as the current grew stronger. The river rose until it reached Bersheba’s lower shoulders, forcing Rufus to bend his knees to keep his toes clear of the water. He grimaced as the force of the stream tugged at his sandals. They must have been a third of the way across when the elephant suddenly lurched to the right and Rufus cried out in alarm as the solid bulk beneath him took on a curious weightless quality. Bersheba had stumbled and lost her footing. He held his breath. If she didn’t regain it quickly they would be swept away. With one hand he grabbed for the lion’s tooth at his neck and he placed his destiny with the gods. If she had truly been out of her depth, they would have been doomed, but she had marched into a shallow depression in the river bottom, and her flailing feet quickly found the firm ground that allowed her to continue on her imperious way. Rufus bit his lip and breathed again.
With Bersheba steadied, he took the opportunity to look over his shoulder. It was clear the Batavians knew their business. The cords attaching the rafts to the elephant’s harness had been cut at different lengths, so a few feet separated each floating platform from the next, ensuring they didn’t become entangled. The rafts rode high in the water on their goatskin fl
oats, keeping weapons, armour and clothing well clear of the surface. Each raft had the swimmers stationed on its downstream side, kicking upstream. In this way they stayed in a more or less direct line behind the elephant, eliminating the drag and allowing her to use all her strength to force her way forward through the relentless current. They were past halfway now and, in front of him, he could just make out the faint line that marked the far bank: a deeper dark against the old lead of the rain-saturated sky. He peered into the night, struggling to distinguish between what he was truly seeing and the optical tricks his eyes were playing on him. Where was it?
‘We sent a patrol across two nights ago. It was a risk, but a risk worth taking,’ Frontinus had explained before they reached the river. ‘They identified a landing place where the bank has eroded and the bottom slopes up to a gravel beach. It is perfect for our purposes. Behind the landing is a stand of tall trees. That is where you will see the sign.’
The sign was a white flash cut into the bark of one of the trees about halfway up its trunk. It had sounded entirely plausible when the auxiliary commander explained it, but now, in this stygian tomb, it was laughable. The only flashes he could see were the ones caused by his over-tired eyes. It was impossible. Eventually he stopped looking and placed his faith in Bersheba. She felt her way forward, one impassive, lumbering step at a time, instinctively finding the safest route to the bank. Slowly, the waters retreated down her flank and her speed increased. Rufus began to distinguish individual objects. Driftwood piled high where it had been deposited by some long-ago flood. The almost feminine undulations of a giant sandbank. The distinctive out-line of a tight-packed stand of trees taller than anything around them. A pale flash in the surrounding gloom.
Frontinus’s Batavians went into action even before Bersheba placed a foot on dry land. The rafts were dragged from the shallows on to the shore. Two men from each raft swiftly stripped off the oilskin covers and retrieved clothing, weapons and armour. Meanwhile, the two other auxiliaries ran into the nearby trees and firmly secured the long ropes the rafts had also carried.
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