Claudius

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 mudflats 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?