Claudius

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.