Claudius

XVIII

Claudius concentrated on his left leg. He could do it. If a man could rule Rome he could stop his left leg from twitching like some demented grasshopper. He chewed his lip. Was it slowing just a little?

‘Caesar?’

He looked up. It was his chamberlain. ‘Yes, Callistus?’

‘I think Senator Galba is seeking a reply.’

Galba? Of course. His mind had drifted during the man’s interminably dull monologue.

‘Perhaps Senator Galba might repeat his question, Caesar?’

‘Y-y-yes, I think that m-might be wise. C-continue, dear Galba. I was m-mesmerized b-by your eloquence.’ Pompous fool.

It was the not knowing that made it worse. He looked out over the receiving room; thirty avaricious, expectant faces, each one seeking some sort of advantage. Contracts for the great aqueduct system he had announced. A monopoly on the supply of grain from the east that would make a man rich overnight. Petitions for the advancement of their unworthy relatives. Until he received word from Narcissus he was as blind as any of these fawning parasites.

When the audience was completed he limped through the palace corridors and out into the sanctuary of the Palatine gardens. This was where he came to think, in the quiet shade of the plane trees, myrtles and cypresses, under the stern gaze of men whose fame was long forgotten, but whose images would live for ever in the marble statues that lined the paths. But not today. He hurried through the gardens and nodded to the doorkeeper who controlled access to the library. As he walked through the bronze-clad double doors into the cool of the interior he felt a guilty rush of pleasure. The atmosphere of this place always made him feel less anxious; he was soothed by the unmistakable scent of old leather and slow decay. From floor to ceiling the walls were lined with thousands of niches, each containing a tight-wrapped scroll in its leather case. Every book in the world, works in a hundred languages including some long dead, and, he guessed, barely a tenth of them opened, never mind read.

The librarian approached, pathetically grateful for his visit. Claudius named the book he had come to study, then took his seat at a desk beneath one of the vast windows that allowed the sunlight to slant into the building and gave the reader light to work until late in the afternoon. When the scrolls were placed before him, he unwrapped the first with studious care and pinned it flat.

Gaius Julius Caesar’s History of the Gallic Wars, Book V.

Lucius Domitius and Appius Claudius being consuls… An hour later, he sat lost in his thoughts, reliving what he had just read. It was the story of Caesar’s invasion of Britain ninety years before. A tale of desperate battles against savage barbarian tribes, of legions lured into cunningly devised ambushes, of epic heroism and glorious sacrifice. The history didn’t say it, but it was clear that Divine Julius had badly underestimated his enemy and that their hit-and-run tactics had rattled the legions quite badly. Overwhelming force had tipped the balance, of course, as overwhelming force always would. But still…

Caesar, naturally, pronounced it a victory. The truth was that it was the story of a failure. He had left within weeks, burdened by a few middle-ranking hostages, treasures which were quickly spent and promises that were never kept.

Claudius shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon, and searched again for the passage that had disturbed him more than the actual tales of war. Most of the inland inhabitants do not sow corn, but live on milk and flesh, and are clad with skins. All the Britons, indeed, dye themselves with wood, which occasions a bluish colour, and thereby have a more terrible appearance in fight. They wear their hair long, and have every part of their body shaved except their head and upper lip. At this very moment Plautius could be at the mercy of these terrible, blue-skinned barbarians, and where would that leave Narcissus’s vain-glorious plans? Where would it leave him? His mind made a circuit of the boundaries of the Empire: across the Rhine the same tribes who had destroyed Varus lying in wait, with a sense of growing pressure beyond; Africa, quiescent for the moment but never subdued; and to the east the Dacians stirring in their mountains and their forests. Each a threat that must be faced in time. Compared to them, Britain was an irrelevance. Yet only Britain could provide him with what he needed so desperately. And it was not gold, or pearls, or slaves.

A loud sniff disturbed his contemplation, and he looked up to find a small blond boy in a short linen tunic staring at him. Agrippina’s son, Lucius, who, for reasons no one understood, must be called Nero. He glared back, wondering who had allowed the child access to the library. Of course! The palace staff went in terror of his mother, who insisted he have the run of the place. Should he smile? He didn’t particularly like children, not even his own. In general, they tended to be dirty and to die of the most unlikely diseases at the most awkward times. Still, he supposed he should try. He bared his teeth, but the boy’s expression didn’t change beyond a flicker of unease. For the briefest moment, there was something about his pale, almost colourless eyes that stirred a memory in Claudius — a sort of barren emptiness, as if the person behind those eyes were incapable of emotion. Then it was gone. He realized it was the same imperious stare he received from the statues in the gardens. He’d only seen its like once before in a living, breathing human being. Caligula. Surely it couldn’t be? But there had been rumours about Gaius and his sisters. Tales of noisy night-time visits that were, perhaps, not — quite — brotherly. But no, he was doing the boy and his mother a disservice. Any child of a sire as habitually drunken and casually vicious as Domitius Ahenobarbus would have to learn to hide his true feelings, even by the age of six — or was it five? Some men dispense death casually, almost unthinkingly. Caligula had been one. But his had been a terror born of self-preservation. Nero’s father had enjoyed cruelty for cruelty’s sake. Inflicting pain on friend and foe alike simply because he could. The boy had been very young when Ahenobarbus met his deserved end, but such a beginning would cast its own shadow. The long silence continued until he felt an urgent need to break it. But what does one say to a five-year-old boy with a stare as vacant as an empty cistern and — he shuddered in disgust — an appetite for the fruit of his own nostrils? Eventually he could take no more.

‘Come, child,’ he said as gently as he was able. ‘Sit here beside me and I will read to you. It is a story of war and glory and victory.’ He shuffled along the bench, and, to his surprise, the boy rounded the desk and scrambled up beside him, close enough for Claudius to feel the soft plumpness of his body and the warmth of his presence. With the unexpected human contact, he felt something change. He realized that for the first time in many months he didn’t feel lonely. In a firm voice, he began to read: ‘They, advancing to the river with their cavalry and chariots from the higher ground, began to annoy our men and give battle…’

Caratacus stood on the hill overlooking the broad river and watched the last of the survivors straggle across the narrow bridge of rough planks. So few. He closed his eyes and tried to still the killing rage that seethed and boiled inside him. He must stay in control. He had sent Ballan south as soon as he received news of the defeat. The Iceni had still to return, but the scale of the setback was written clearly in the demeanour of beaten men streaming past him.

‘How many did he lose?’

‘Five thousand, dead or scattered. Mostly dead.’ Bodvoc’s voice was emotionless. Outwardly, he had returned from the battle of two days earlier the same man, but Caratacus detected a subtle change in the king of the Regni. Defeat had taken its toll even on him. Now he must defend a second river and his brash confidence had a brittle quality to it, as if it would take only one more blow to shatter it completely. ‘The Trinovantes and the Dobunni bore the brunt of the assault. Togodumnus believed the Romans would be stopped or at least slowed by the river, but they weren’t. I told him we should get out while we still had time — follow your instructions. He stood in his chariot howling them on, as if his presence alone could defeat them.’ He shrugged. ‘But of course it couldn’t.’

‘Adminius and his Cantiaci?’

Bodvoc stroked his moustache and looked at him a certain way. ‘Were they with us?’

‘Your Regni?’

‘Ran with the rest. Me with them.’

Caratacus would have put his arm round his old rival’s shoulder, but he knew it would shame Bodvoc. Instead, he said firmly: ‘Good. It means this time when you fight, you fight by my side. Sometimes it takes more courage to run than to stand and die. That’s a lesson most men learn if they stay alive.’

‘Not Togodumnus.’

‘No. Not Togodumnus. Should I kill him?’

Bodvoc looked up sharply. Surprised. In another man, yes, but Caratacus? ‘Your own brother?’

‘Why not? He is a fool. No, he is worse: a dangerous fool. Twice he’s failed me, and at a cost I cannot afford. When I fight here I need to be able to trust my commanders. We can beat the Romans once and for all, but only if every man knows his place in the line and holds it until he wins or dies.’

Bodvoc thought it over. At one time he would cheerfully have killed Togodumnus himself for his monumental folly, but now he was feeling old. ‘Put him and his Dobunni where they can’t do any harm.’ He changed the subject. ‘Will the Brigantes fight alongside us?’

Caratacus shook his head. She would stay in the north, and her warriors, the warriors he needed so badly if he were to win, would stay with her.

The sound of shouting drew their attention back to the bridge. A column of chariots rattled across the wooden planking, forcing tired men to step to the side, and hurling the unwary into the river. Togodumnus was in the front chariot, urging his driver to greater speed and screaming abuse at anyone who didn’t move out of the way quickly enough.

Bodvoc smiled humourlessly. ‘Do I hear a dog barking? I will leave you to discuss your battle plan with your brother.’ He walked off to where a guard held his pony as Togodumnus raced up the shallow slope in the chariot, swerving to a halt and leaping athletically from the fragile wood and leather structure in front of Caratacus.

‘I bring news, brother,’ he shouted, loud enough for anyone within thirty paces to hear. ‘The Romans are checked. They now know what it is to face the warriors of the Dobunni. They lick their wounds and bury their dead.’

Caratacus stared at his brother. ‘I asked you for three days, Lord Togodumnus, but you did not give me it,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you to avoid casualties, yet I hear Taranis now greets an army of our honoured dead at the doorway to the Otherworld. The only thing the Romans now know, Lord Togodumnus, is that they can slaughter your Dobunni warriors like sheep.’

Part of him hoped the insult would anger Togodumnus into challenging him. He was tired of his brother’s stupidity and plotting. It would be a relief to kill him. But he knew he wouldn’t, because spitting Togodumnus on the end of his sword now would leave the Dobunni leaderless, or, worse, half a dozen factions fighting for the dead king’s throne. He couldn’t afford that. ‘How many Romans did you kill?’

Togodumnus shrugged. ‘I didn’t stay to count them. Hundreds. Thousands. The river swept many away.’

‘And your own dead?’

Togodumnus looked away.

‘Five thousand?’

‘Fewer.’

‘How many fewer?’

‘Fewer.’

‘And the supplies I gave you and asked you to protect? The women and the children who followed you?’

‘They would only have slowed us down.’

‘Coward,’ Caratacus hissed in his brother’s face. And now he didn’t care if he provoked Togodumnus into a fight, would take pleasure in butchering him where he stood, because he could see the twisted bodies of the innocent lying among the sacks and the slaughtered animals, and the killing rage was back. ‘Coward,’ he repeated.

Togodumnus took a step away, his face white and his hand shaking as he reached for his sword hilt.

‘Lord?’ Caratacus heard the shout through the red cloud that filled his mind, but he ignored it. He wanted blood. He wanted Togodumnus dead and all the nameless warriors and helpless infants who had fallen because of his stupidity avenged.

‘Lord?’ He swept the sword — his battle sword, not the ceremonial toy he had worn to meet Cartimandua — from its scabbard and exulted at the sound of its metallic song. A hand grasped his shoulder, and he would have shrugged it off, but it was Bodvoc’s hand, and no man could break Bodvoc’s grip if the Regni king did not choose to allow it.

‘Caratacus, look.’

His vision cleared. He followed Bodvoc’s pointing finger past where Togodumnus was staring away to his right, beyond the mass of warriors who had gathered behind the low grass-clad hill overlooking the river.

And he knew he would not have to kill his brother.

Because Scarach had come.

‘Welcome, lord king.’

Scarach nodded his acknowledgement. He had been given the place of honour beside Caratacus, and took it as his due. A slave handed him a silver flagon and he studied its contents curiously. ‘Beer? Do we have no wine?’

Caratacus gestured to the slave, who returned a moment later with another flagon. Scarach put it to his lips and took a deep swallow. ‘That’s better. I like Roman wine. I’d like most things about the Romans if only they’d stay where they belong.’

‘Then let us send them back there.’

Scarach raised his cup in a salute. ‘To victory.’ He was a stout man, bordering on fat, but still powerful, and he was accompanied every-where by a bearded giant whose suspicious gaze swept the assembled gathering. ‘My boy Keryg. Don’t mind him. He’s a sullen bastard, but terribly handy with a sword or a spear, or even with his bare hands. I use him as my executioner. Very effective. Might even be a match for you, Bodvoc. Or have you given up fighting for shagging?’

Bodvoc laughed dutifully, and Caratacus gave him a grateful glance. It was time to get down to business.

‘He looks a mighty warrior. His father’s son. How many like him do you lead?’

‘Ten thousand.’ The figure brought a murmur of appreciation. ‘Ten thousand Durotriges, plus another five thousand Dumnonii, who are better off getting killed by the Romans than staying behind and plaguing my borders. Most will be here by tonight, the rest tomorrow.’

Fifteen thousand warriors, Caratacus calculated; fifteen thousand to add to the thirty-five thousand already gathered along the river. Fifteen thousand extra mouths to feed, but they would cope with that. They would have to. It was a mighty host. Together they would out-number Plautius’s whole army, perhaps outnumber the best Roman legionary troops by two to one. He would beat them, but the battle must be fought on his ground and his terms.

He looked up and saw Scarach staring at him in a significant way, and he realized he had missed something.

‘I said does our bargain still hold?’ the Durotrige war chief repeated. ‘The Dumnonii will only fight for pay.’

‘They will have their gold.’

‘And the rest?’

‘Our bargain holds.’

‘What bargain is this?’ Togodumnus was on his feet. ‘Was the council consulted?’

‘This is a bargain between myself and Lord Scarach.’ Caratacus looked to Scarach for support, but the Durotrige saw an opportunity for mischief that was not to be missed.

‘But surely Lord Togodumnus is a vital component of it?’ he said innocently.

Caratacus could feel every eye on him, and realized he had no choice. ‘I have pledged to provide a force of warriors to fight for Lord Scarach against the Irish sea folk who raid his coasts — once we have defeated the Romans.’

Scarach nodded his head in acknowledgement of the favour, but everyone in the room knew there was more to come.

‘I have further agreed to build and equip a fleet of ships to carry those warriors and a force provided by Lord Scarach to sweep the Irish coast, to wipe out the pirate bands and to take slaves.’ Scarach had driven a hard bargain. It would strip Caratacus’s treasury bare to find enough gold to build the ships. The only consolation was that once the Romans had gone he would annexe Adminius’s kingdom of the Cantiaci to help pay for the expedition.

‘How many men?’ Togodumnus demanded. ‘Whose men?’

‘Why, yours, Lord Togodumnus.’ Scarach smiled. ‘Five thousand of them. Are not the Dobunni the finest warriors in Britain?’

Togodumnus gave a strangled snarl and would have spoken again, but Bodvoc got to his feet. ‘Enough of this,’ he growled. ‘When do we fight?’

‘The Romans will be here in three days,’ Caratacus told him. ‘They will not attack immediately. I estimate another three days at most. Then we fight.’