Claudius

XII

‘You seem distracted, husband. You should not let affairs of state burden you so.’

Claudius looked up from the plan he had been attempting to study and smiled benevolently at his wife. I am an actor, he thought, a player who shelters behind a dozen stage masks, or perhaps a coward hiding behind a dozen curtains. He seemed to have been hiding all his life. Hiding from small bullies who ridiculed his limp and his stutter and thought they would be doing Augustus a favour by drowning him in the latrine at the villa in Lugdunum. Hiding from Asinius, that disgusting brute, who had thought it a worthwhile experiment to determine whether a sound beating each day would cure a boy of the disorders that made his mother — his own mother — brand him a ‘monster’. Guardian, he called himself, and tutor. The man was a muleteer. Eventually he had hidden in taverns and places of the most ill repute, trying desperately to rid himself of the knowledge that he was worthless; hardly a human being at all.

Only much later did he discover that a man’s worth did not have to be measured by his prowess at the games or in the bedchamber, nor by the soundness of his limbs or the prettiness of his looks. It was the soundness of his mind that mattered. By then his nephew Gaius, called Caligula, had appointed him consul and given him the power that had been his right, but had been withheld from him all his life. For that alone he had Rome’s most reviled citizen to thank. Yet the elevation had placed him in deadly peril. In the palace of Caligula every man’s hand had been against him. He remembered Protogenes, he of the basilisk eyes and the coldest of hearts, and the way he had measured him an inch at a time, as if he was preparing a corpse for the tomb. So he had hidden again, this time behind a facade of drunkenness and senility, and endured the humiliations and contempt. And waited.

‘I am a l-l-little t-tired, my sweet. You have b-been k-keeping your C–C-Claudius up t-too late and his people suffer for it.’

She was too good for him, he knew that. But he could not let her go. He would not let her go. He smiled at her again, and this time the smile was not a lie, but the plain truth. He loved her.

She returned the smile with one of her own, her dark eyes glittering in the light of the perfumed oil lamps, and his heart fluttered and his stomach contracted as if he were some beardless boy in the thrall of his first real woman. Woman? She was a goddess. Valeria Messalina. The most wonderful thing that had happened to him in a life measured by the tidemarks of fear and pain and suppressed rage.

‘It is l-late. You should retire, my l-love. Your b-b-beauty shines at its b-b-brightest after a p-proper night’s rest.’

She rose from her place near the window in one graceful movement, stretched her arms and yawned. Then she came to him and stood by the couch where he was working.

‘Darling Claudius,’ she said, running her slim fingers through his thinning hair and caressing the nape of his neck. ‘You care for me so much.’ She bent close to kiss him on the cheek and the scent of her perfume made his head spin. He watched her walk from the room, the half-moons of her perfectly shaped buttocks shivering rhythmically beneath the azure silk of her gown. She half turned and smiled a farewell. She knew he was watching. Knew he liked to watch. Liked him watching.

When she had left the room he stared at the doorway for a long moment before giving a long, drawn-out sigh. I wonder who will share her bed tonight.

He shook his head to clear it of that melancholy thought and stared blankly at the plan again. It was the first inklings of his scheme to turn the swamp around the little harbour at Ostia into a port that would be a wonder of the world and the engine of Rome’s future prosperity. But he could not concentrate. What was it she had said? Distracted? Of course he was distracted. He should have heard something by now. What was Plautius thinking? The invasion of Britain. Narcissus had made it seem such a fine enterprise, assured him of the swift defeat of a rabble of disorganized natives and at the same time the fame of outmatching the deeds of his ancestors. The answer to all their problems. Why did it now feel like a leaden weight round his neck or the heavy blade of a headsman’s axe? He was by nature a cautious man. Yes, he needed a triumph, needed it the way a dying man needs his next breath, but now he could see that defeat, or even the wrong kind of victory, would be the end of him. Verica, that arrogant Celtic oaf, had given them the pretext for the invasion. Did he really believe the Emperor of Rome would gather an army from the four corners of the Empire so that he could wear a crown of tin and call himself the king of some barbarian hamlet? Yet Narcissus had seen his potential; had found the right lawyers who would declare his claim legitimate and his usurpers the enemy of Rome. Verica had promised them a mighty treasure in return: the mineral riches of the Durotriges and the Silures, pearls from the western shores, furs from the north, and slaves, thousands of slaves, from among the Catuvellauni he hated and feared. But why did Rome need to fight for such baubles when it had ready access to them, and more, through trade? No, plunder was not the objective. Not plunder. Glory.

He had provided Plautius with a great army, more men than the general would ever need to subdue the semi-civilized portion of the island they required for Narcissus’s subterfuge. Four legions — the unstoppable champions of an Empire. Surely Plautius must have defeated the British tribes by now? He was ready. Had been ready for weeks. It only required that single performance in the Senate, perhaps the most important performance of his life. He must stand up before his enemies and persuade them, against their better judgement, of the righteousness of his cause. Was the actor up to the challenge? Would the mask hold in place? He expected to feel the knife-twist of fear, but all he experienced was the warm glow of expectation.

‘Tell me again about Rome. Is it true a man would take an entire day to walk from one wall to the other? And that the buildings are like our mountains?’

Rufus tried to keep his eyes open. It had been like this for hour after relentless hour. Caratacus was insatiable in his quest for knowledge. The answer to one question would give birth to a dozen more, and they a dozen more in their turn. He felt as if his head had been squeezed until every crumb of information lay on the small table they had taken their meal upon what seemed like hours earlier. He nodded, although he suspected the Briton knew a great deal more about the imperial capital than he gave away. ‘It is true.’

‘And the hill where the Emperor has his palace? The Palatine?’ He ran the word Palatine around his mouth as if he were testing it for poison.

Rufus nodded again.

‘If he has all this, accepts tribute from so many great cities — Carthage, you said; I have heard of this Carthage — and is the overlord of so many peoples, what does he want with us poor Britons? Everything he would wish from us we would be happy to give him, for a reasonable price. Why does he send four of his mighty legions to lay Caratacus low?’ The warrior stared at Rufus from under low brows, and the young Roman realized he wouldn’t escape with a one-word answer.

‘He believes Prince Verica has been wronged and has guaranteed him the return of his kingdom,’ he said, repeating what Verica had told him. ‘If you would only agree to this, I am sure the legions would withdraw. I think the legates wish nothing more than a speedy return to Rome, and Aulus Plautius knows it.’ He tried to inject as much sincerity into his expression as he could manage, given that he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying.

‘Pah,’ Caratacus spat. ‘Verica! I would not make Verica the king of a dog kennel, and neither would your Claudius. I know this now. The man you have described to me is not a fool, and only a fool would believe Verica worthy of a throne. Your Emperor may be crippled in body, but he knows how to wield power, and to survive. There is more to this than Verica. Why did Claudius send this Aulus Plautius to do his fighting for him?’

Rufus frowned, trying to remember whether they had gone down this path before, but there had been so many different paths he couldn’t tell. He shook his head. ‘Emperor Claudius is a great man, but he is no warrior. I could not imagine him on campaign.’

‘Then why has the Emperor sent his elephant, his most treasured possession, on this perilous mission?’ the British king demanded triumphantly.

Rufus opened his mouth to reply. He’d been asking himself the same question for the last month and he was no nearer an answer now than when he started. Caratacus noticed the slight hesitation and gave him a calculating look. ‘Enough for now. I will think on it and we will discuss it further in the morning. I wish to know more about these invincible legions of yours. I have had a hut prepared for you and a sleeping mat. You will be guarded there, but it is for your own safety. Rome has no friends in this place.’ He called out and two burly warriors armed with long spears appeared in the doorway.

Rufus went to them, but before they left the hut, he turned to Caratacus. ‘Why did you burn those prisoners? You do not seem a cruel man.’

The king looked at him for several long seconds. ‘Do your people not send messengers to the gods?’

‘No, I do not believe so.’

‘My people do, and we have never needed the wisdom of the gods more than we do now.’

‘Am I to burn, then?’

Caratacus’s eyes were in shadow, so Rufus could not see the message in them. The long hesitation again. ‘We shall see.’

Rufus struggled to find sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes his mind filled with flames, and in the flames writhing, twisting shapes that might have been human. Instead he lay awake and used the time to go over his discussion with the king, attempting to divine some overall purpose or pattern to the remorseless probing. Initially, Caratacus had confined his questioning to Bersheba, her role in the campaign, and Rufus’s part in preparing her for it. On the first point, Rufus had been able to supply limited information, for beyond parading her for the morale of the troops there seemed no good reason for her being here. On the second, he cheerfully expounded on the intricacies of looking after his enormous charge, her habits and her moods, the gentle, almost motherly compassion that was her most dominant characteristic, and the deep intelligence that confounded any who witnessed it. Staring into the dark, he wondered how she was faring without him. Was Britte managing in his absence?

Later, the Catuvellauni had moved to the subject of the legions. What were their strengths; did they have any weaknesses? How had they defeated Togodumnus’s ambush force with such savage ease? Their tactics?

Rufus supplied what information he could, suppressing an unease that sometimes made him squirm in his seat. He knew he was guilty of betraying his comrades, but the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. He was a slave. No one was paying him to suffer and die for Rome. There would be no land or pension for Rufus, the elephant keeper, at the end of his service. He wanted only to get back to his family, and the only way to ensure that was to give Caratacus what he wanted.

When he was satisfied he knew as much as Rufus about the column’s forces, the Briton turned to the subject of Claudius. What kind of man was he? How long had he been in power? Did his people fear him? Love him? Respect him? Then he threw Rufus off balance by switching back to the legions. Did their short swords not make them vulnerable? After all, look at his own sword. He drew the blade of polished iron from its richly decorated bronze scabbard with a threatening metallic swish. This, he explained, was merely a decorative toy he wore on ceremonial occasions to impress uncultured brutes like Bodvoc. It had been made by a Gaulish craftsman who had visited Camulodunum five years before and was counted the finest in all Britain. But look, it easily outreached the little — what did he call them? Gladius? — the little gladius, it was heavier and had a fine edge; surely in open battle it must prevail?

Rufus wasn’t certain, but from what he had heard among the legionaries, the secret was in the amount of space allowed a man in a fight. He told Caratacus how the shield wall had held the attack on Bersheba and of the dreadful carnage the ‘little swords’ had wrought on the tribesmen.

Caratacus frowned. ‘Yes, I see it,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘My people are warriors. They fight as individuals, for that is where their power lies. Each man is confident in his own strength and in the war skills he has learned from childhood. He goes into battle knowing that with the gods’ aid he will overcome any enemy. But your Romans, they are soldiers. They fight as a unit, each man supporting the other. They have a discipline that I could never impose on my people. We are not like you.’

Always, though, he would come back to Claudius, and increasingly to his relationship with the invasion commander Aulus Plautius. What was the army’s prime objective? After all, if it was only to restore Verica to his undeserved throne, they could have camped around the Atrebates’ capital at Calleva, declared Verica king and dared any man to challenge him. Was there dispute between Plautius and the legates of the four legions? Who was the strongest of them? What of his character? Was Plautius operating independently or did he wait for instructions from Rome?

Eventually, Rufus fell into a dreamless sleep. But what seemed like only minutes later a rough hand shook his shoulder and a beer-soaked moustache was in his face. He raised his head, and winced. The wound behind his ear hurt more today than it had yesterday. The man pushed a bundle of clothing into his hands and Rufus discovered it was a remarkably clean pair of the patterned trews every Celt wore, and a rough woollen shirt, which he pulled over his head. He stood up to struggle into the trousers, which barely fitted him. Then he walked from the hut into a bright sunlight that sent pain flashing across the back of his eyes. When his vision cleared, he found himself at the centre of a circle of threatening barbarian faces. They were mostly old men, women and filthy, dishevelled children, but there were a few young warriors, and it was these who worried him most. They studied him with expressions of naked hatred.

The guard motioned him to where Caratacus and a small group of older tribesmen sat eating from wooden bowls at a crude bench. The British king rose to greet him, and offered a seat at his side. He was wearing a different cloak today, earth brown and of rough-woven cloth. The brooch that pinned it at his shoulder was the same, however, and Rufus could see now it was of remarkably fine workmanship; spun gold in the shape of a boar’s head, with a ruby, its inner light burning like fire, for the beast’s eye. His thoughts were interrupted when a bowl like the others was pushed in front of him and a large wooden spoon dropped into it with a splash that spattered his new clothing with thin gruel. Not daring to look at his tablemates, he picked up the spoon and stared at what was in the bowl. It made his stomach churn.

‘Not hungry?’ Caratacus asked politely. ‘Do not worry. We don’t poison our sacrifices.’

Given the choice between trusting his host or starving to death, Rufus decided he was hungry after all and spooned the unappetizing mess into his mouth. It was surprisingly good: boiled oats, sweetened with honey, but with a slightly tart taste that lingered on his tongue.

Caratacus said: ‘I have decided not to continue our conversation.’

The spoon froze halfway to Rufus’s mouth. He suddenly realized the smell he had thought was pork cooking for breakfast came from the smouldering heap of blackened nameless obscenity where the Wicker Man had previously stood.

‘It is time to return you to your son, and to your larger charge.’ Caratacus looked thoughtful for a second and then smiled. ‘You are right. I am not a cruel man. I wish you to take a message to your commander. Tell him Caratacus of the Catuvellauni sends his greetings. That he fears neither his elephant nor his army, but wishes peace between our two peoples. Tell him he can return to Rome with every man he brought to these shores, or with none. I will give him two days to comply. If he does not, I will harry him until he bleeds from a thousand wounds, and at the time and place of my choosing I will destroy him. Do you understand?’

Rufus nodded. But Caratacus ordered him to repeat the message until he was satisfied. ‘Good. Now, come. It is time.’

He led the way towards a group of four men who stood holding five of the small, hairy British ponies. Before they reached them, a young warrior stepped from the watching crowd and blocked their way. He stared coldly at Rufus, his whole posture radiating challenge, before drawing his sword very deliberately from its scabbard. Rufus instinctively reached for his knife but of course it had been taken from him. He laughed at his own stupidity and the warrior frowned at the unexpected sound. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Rufus realized that the longer the stand-off continued the more likely it was to end badly for him. He turned to Caratacus. ‘If he is going to kill me, tell him to get on with it. Better a clean death than the belly of the god. But I would have thought there is little honour in killing an unarmed man, even among your people?’

Caratacus laughed at the insult and translated Rufus’s words to the warrior, who stepped forward so his face was close enough for Rufus to smell his sour breath. The young man launched into a spittle-laced tirade which must have found favour among the watching tribesfolk because they roared their acclamation at regular intervals.

The king translated. ‘He says he is Dafyd, son of Cefn who fell in the battle of the valley when the great beast cast its spell over our warriors. Now he carries his father’s sword. He says you will not always have the king’s protection and that though you are a coward and a weakling he will hunt you down wherever you run, even if it is beyond the Great Sea. He will cut out your heart and sacrifice it to Taranis, your fingers will provide a necklace for his wife, and he will use your skull as a drinking bowl — once it has been properly cleansed of your filth. He makes this pledge before all the gods and asks them for aid in accomplishing it.’

Rufus took a step back and studied his opponent. Dafyd was a well-muscled young man of about his own age with a mesh tattoo covering one shoulder, but he sensed the Briton was less of a champion than he appeared. He had been in the arena often enough to know the signs. There was a tension in the way Dafyd stood that betrayed his anxiety, and his knuckles were a little too white where he gripped the sword hilt. Cupido, the gladiator, had taught Rufus enough moves with the sword to have confidence against most men. In any case, as he had already calculated, Caratacus had saved him from the belly of Taranis, and it was unlikely he would allow him to be butchered. He turned to the British king. ‘Give me one of the little Roman swords and I will be happy to provide him with his opportunity to accomplish it now.’

Caratacus smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘There will be a time, Rufus the elephant man, but it is not now.’ He pushed the glaring young warrior aside with what sounded like a warning, and led the way towards the waiting horsemen.

‘This is Ballan. He will escort you back to your people. Remember the message. I hunger for Roman blood, but I give your general one opportunity to make an honourable withdrawal. Farewell. I pray we will not meet again.’