Claudius

XXXVI

‘The enemy are destroyed?’

‘They are, Caesar.’ Narcissus noticed a bloom in Claudius’s cheeks that had never been apparent in Rome. Campaigning — and victory — obviously agreed with him. Even his habitual stutter had gone. The Emperor sat upright in a cushioned chair in the private quarters of his tented palace.

‘And this Caratacus? Dead?’

‘It can only be a matter of time, Caesar. He flees as a hare before the hounds, but General Vespasian and the Second are close on his scent. You will have his head within the week.’

Claudius nodded as if it were his right. It had not been a joyful reunion, but meetings between the two men had never been joyful. Businesslike, yes. That was what characterized their relationship, even before he had given Narcissus his freedom. In the dangerous years with Caligula, and before, Claudius had depended on Narcissus’s wiles to keep him alive and the Greek had been so successful that he had placed his master on the throne of the world’s greatest Empire. Now the Emperor needed him even more — to keep him there. He had always admired Narcissus’s enormous intellect — even when it was accompanied by an enormous conceit — but he had never been comfortable with it. What was going on behind those hypnotic, azure eyes? What schemes was that fertile mind concocting that he wasn’t aware of? Yet, if he needed Narcissus, did the Greek not need him too? Imperial patronage could be a profitable commodity and none had used it with more aptitude. Narcissus had grown so rich that he now depended on Claudius’s protection to keep his enemies at a safe distance and to retain the fortune that had been won at the cost of so much effort. Claudius swept the thought from his head. He was being ungrateful. Narcissus had given him his victory. The barbarians were routed and their army slaughtered. The bodies strewn across the river-side battlefield were already beginning to rot beneath the summer sun. The stink of decaying flesh had been thick in the air when he crossed the centre bridge at the head of the Eighth legion, and they had set up camp well upwind to the north of where the wreckage of the barbarian roundhouses still smouldered.

Victory. It should have been enough. But for Narcissus there was never enough. On this occasion, however, he was right. The Emperor allowed his expression to soften. ‘You have made the arrangements for the next phase of the campaign?’

The bald Greek smiled. ‘The venue is chosen. The stage is set. All that is required is that the players know their parts.’ He knew the statement was evidence of conceit, arrogance even, but it was he, and no one else, who had directed this piece of theatre, and none other could have achieved it. Claudius caught his mood.

‘Then let the play begin.’

It was time. ‘The Emperor will require his elephant at dawn,’ Narcissus announced. ‘You know what to do. This is your day, Rufus, yours and Bersheba’s. Garb her in her armour of gold. It is time these barbarians witnessed the Emperor’s elephant in her true splendour.’

Its presence in the bottom of the cart hidden beneath Bersheba’s hay had gnawed at Rufus every hour of every day since they had left Rome. It was an enormous responsibility, a vast treasure in any man’s currency; an Emperor’s ransom. Of course it should have been guarded. That was the first question he had put to Narcissus when the Greek had supervised the carpenters who cut the hidden compartment in the base of the cart. But the imperial aide had already made his decision. ‘Once its presence was known it would take a full legion to guard a prize of this magnitude, and our legions have more pressing duties. It would also send out a certain signal — one which I have good reason for not wanting to send.’

Rufus completed his preparations as the first smear of dawn dusted the horizon and consigned the fading stars to oblivion amidst a dense blanket of misty blue. Narcissus had at last allocated an honour guard of Praetorians, and their help proved invaluable. First Rufus had fitted the great headdress with the perforated eye coverings that gave Bersheba the look of a bug-eyed Babylonian monster. A lethal golden sting in the shape of a two-foot spike jutted from her forehead. Even her foot-long tusks were tipped with gold. The great mantle, which would have covered the floor of a small house, would have been too heavy to move without help. Not as heavy as pure gold, it had to be admitted, but heavy enough. The elephant armour had been manufactured from silver and each piece then plated with a thin layer of gold, but the effect was the same. Under Britte’s eagle eye the vast metal blanket and the intricately carved wooden howdah that would seat the Emperor were hoisted on to Bersheba’s back and buckled firmly into place.

When he had pulled the final strap tight and polished the last immaculate leaf of burnished gold, Rufus stepped back and examined her. With a perfection of timing that only the gods could have decreed, the sun cut through the shredding curtain of the morning mist and caught each scale of that immense golden carapace, reflecting its glory a thousand fold. She looked majestic. Terrifying.

As they marched to their position in the line a buzz of excitement ran through the legionary ranks at the sight of the armoured giant their Emperor had brought to fight alongside them. Here was the glory of Rome. Here in this fearsome gold-encrusted killer of men was combined the raw power and the prosperity of a civilization the barbarians could never match in a thousand lifetimes. The veterans among them knew her for what she was, an ungovernable, unreliable ally in the heat of the fight, but even they looked upon Bersheba and saw victory.

A sharp blast from the long funnel-shaped trumpets carried by the cornicens of the leading legion was taken up by others along the column. It was followed immediately by barked orders from tribunes to centurions and from centurions to decurions, and finally they were moving. To war.

Three hours later, the horns signalled the halt, and the legions began to disperse into their battle formations. For Rufus it was like being at the centre of someone else’s dream. The cohorts and centuries ahead and around him flowed in tight columns to left and right, the muted thunder of thousands of marching feet pounding the dry earth and the metal of their equipment clashing to the same hypnotic rhythm. In the distance, he saw sunlight glinting on polished metal as troops of auxiliary cavalry scoured clumps of trees and bushes for the inevitable scouts and ambush parties of the enemy. The precise, choreographed movements brought back a half-forgotten memory of the machine that had crushed the grain so long ago in Cerialis’s bakery. Mechanical and relentless; not quite human.

As suddenly as it began, the noise was replaced by a silence as shocking in its way as any unexpected fanfare. Rufus knew he could see only a fraction of the field of battle — that assigned to the Eighth — which he assumed was on the far right of the army. The legion’s ten cohorts were in a staggered formation, with six cohorts in the first line followed by two further lines of two cohorts each. The individual cohorts were tight-packed formations of six centuries, nominally four hundred and eighty men, but sickness and administrative absences would have whittled them down to less than four hundred. Only the first cohort, the long-serving elite of the legion, had more: eight full-strength centuries.

Every man knew his place and his job, in attack or in defence. Hundreds of hours of muscle-tearing training and hundreds more amid the tumult and madness of battle had made them what they were. In tight formation, if they stood squarely behind the shoulder-high protection of those brilliantly painted shields, no enemy of equal force could move them. Well aimed — and it was always so — the first cast of javelins from the front-rank cohorts could kill or disable a thousand attackers and it would be followed by a second in the time it took a man to draw back his throwing arm. Only against overwhelming numbers were they vulnerable, when the enemy could overlap their flanks and surround them. But even in that dire situation, when another army would panic and be destroyed, the legions had an answer. The testudo. In a well-practised manoeuvre they would lock shields over and around the century like the shell of a gigantic tortoise and cut themselves clear with the razor-edged, needle-pointed gladius each man carried.

The Eighth, alone among the Army of Claudius, had not yet fought a battle on British soil. They had heard the stories of their enemy’s exploits — of tattooed giants who took a dozen wounds and still fought like madmen — but if they knew fear, they did not show it. Even from his position hundreds of yards away Rufus could feel their stillness. They stood, row upon red-tunicked row behind their tribunes, trumpeters and standard-bearers, waiting grimly for the order that would send them forward against the barbarians.

But when the order came, it was for Rufus, and it was Narcissus who brought it.

‘Time to stop dreaming and start working.’ The Greek was on foot and had been watching him as he watched the legions. ‘Follow me and I will lead you to the Emperor, but be sure Bersheba takes care where she treads. I do not want to be the first casualty of this fight.’

They threaded their way through the baggage carts and the auxiliary units held in reserve, and Narcissus explained the situation facing the Roman army. ‘The barbarian chiefs have taken up a strong position on the far side of that shallow valley yonder, with the wood at their backs and boggy ground to their left and right. That is clever, Rufus, because it means it is impossible for the general to use his cavalry to attack them from the flanks, where they are most vulnerable. There will be no Tamesa tricks today.’

He stopped, arms flapping as he almost backed into a hulking, stony-faced auxiliary officer, and mumbled an apology before continuing.

‘Emperor Claudius will gamble all on a direct, frontal attack with the heavy infantry of his legions. First, he will use the power of our artillery to strike fear into the enemy, then he will send in his most secret weapon, his mighty elephant and her fearless-’ Narcissus ducked his head to avoid a roundhouse swing of Bersheba’s trunk. ‘I know, great Bersheba. I should not joke at a time like this, but I am nervous, as you should be, for this is your hour. No, then. Not his mighty elephant and her fearless handler. Once the barbarians have felt the power of our ballistae the legions will advance. It will not be easy; the enemy have the slope. The soft going on either side will funnel our soldiers on to the ground held by the greatest of their champions. It will be bloody work, but the Emperor’s priests have sacrificed a fine white bull to Jupiter and it is their view that we will prevail. He is keeping the auxiliaries in reserve, for this is to be Rome’s day. They will only join the attack if the legions are hard-pressed or cover the retreat if — Mars aid us — the barbarian warriors and their gods prove the stronger.’

By now they were approaching the mound where the Emperor’s tented palace had been raised. To its left, Rufus was puzzled to see what appeared to be a reviewing platform. He asked Narcissus what it was.

‘That,’ the Greek sniffed, ‘is reserved for those who wish to enjoy the spectacle but care not to smell the blood or hear the cries of the wounded. No doubt Senator Galba will have reserved a position in the front row, with his fellow giants of the Senate, Asiaticus and Gallus, at his shoulder. Watch them scuttle off like hermit crabs on an open beach at the first sign of danger. Yet they are already heroes. The Emperor has decreed that every man among them should be awarded the triumphal regalia, for if they are rewarded, must not he be rewarded tenfold?’ Rufus detected a note of resentment. It seemed one faithful servant who had been risking his neck for his Emperor had not yet received his reward. He hoped Verica was looking down on them. He would appreciate the irony.

Claudius and his aides waited in front of the tent, surrounded by a double guard of Praetorians. At first, Rufus found it difficult to believe this was the same man he had known for four years. The drooling, hunched cripple was gone, replaced by a grim-faced, straight-backed figure who looked every inch a soldier, from the simple legionary’s sandals on his feet to the scarlet-plumed general’s helmet that fitted him like a crown. But this was no ordinary soldier. Beneath the purple cloak that fell from his shoulders he wore a sculpted breastplate of gleaming gold that set him above every other man on the field. The display had a message for all who looked upon it: Rome is here this day, and I am Rome.

Narcissus moved unobtrusively away, and Rufus, sweating not only because of the heat inside his heavy tunic and armour, manoeuvred Bersheba carefully towards the steps set up to help the Emperor mount the elephant. Claudius climbed gingerly into the howdah on Bersheba’s back and Rufus glanced back at the man seated three feet behind him. The Emperor stared into his eyes from beneath the brim of his polished helmet and nodded to indicate he was ready to move. He was struggling to suppress a smile.

Rufus would never forget that slow, deliberate advance towards the front of the Roman battle line. To a man they cheered their Emperor; forty thousand throats opening in unison to hail as Imperator the ruler who had come to fight and, if necessary, die with them. A few years earlier he had been a figure of contempt; now, as he sat straight and proud in his golden armour upon Bersheba’s broad back, he came as close as he would ever do to fulfilling his destiny — to becoming a god.

They had been reluctant to fight for him. Some had come close to mutinying against him. But he had bribed them with gold and with the promise of land, and he had sent them to victory. They knew their enemy now. Knew they had the beating of these barbarians and the Druid priests who sacrificed Roman prisoners to their greedy alien deities. And now he was here, on the soil of Britain, to see them win and to share their glory. They shouted themselves hoarse.

‘Claudius!’

A few feet behind Rufus in the swaying howdah, Claudius felt the power grow in him. It was like the day in the senate, but multiplied a hundred — no, a thousandfold. Imperator. He had never thought to hear the word coupled with his name. But there could be no doubt. Wave after wave of cheers washed over and around him, caressed him like the warm waters of a temperate sea and lifted him until it was as if he were floating far above everyone and everything around him. He wanted to laugh, but kept his face grim. The sternest part of the task was still to come. Would he have the courage to face the enemy and prevail? They were close to the front line now, among the foremost cohorts who would lead the attack, and he could see Plautius frown as he studied the barbarians a quarter of a mile away.

They were spread along the crest of the slope on the far side of the shallow valley that separated the two armies. A vast warrior host that formed a solid wall of defiance. An uncountable swarm of screaming, bare-chested warriors, each more desperate than the next to bathe his spear in Roman blood. To the front were their kings, their arm and neck rings of twisted gold glinting in the sunlight, and beside them the naked champions who would lead their charge. They were too far away to identify individuals, but Rufus could imagine them: huge men, made even taller by long hair formed into bleached spikes by lime wash. The legions who had fought them in the river battles believed they were drugged, so great was their strength and endurance.

He brought Bersheba as close to Plautius as he dared. The invasion commander stood with his scarlet cloak flapping gently in the slight breeze, surrounded by his aides and messengers, the glittering eagles of the legions held aloft by the aquilifers, each identified by the animal-skin headdress that distinguished him from his comrades.

Plautius didn’t say a word. He looked up at the Emperor and their eyes locked. Claudius raised his right hand before dropping it in a sharp, chopping motion. All along the line came the distinctive solid ‘thunk’ as the ballistae hurled their instruments of death towards the barbarian horde across the valley. The big machines, with their catapult-driven bows, fired artillery bolts as long as a man’s arm at a velocity that made them all but invisible to the eye. They called the five-foot arrows ‘shield splitters’ and now those fearsome missiles were being soaked up by the mass of living flesh in front of the trees five hundred paces distant. Volley after volley arced its way into their ranks and Rufus couldn’t believe any man could endure the terror of waiting for the next strike. But the barbarians did not flinch. It was as if the heavy bolts were plunging into a bottomless swamp. Rufus saw the frown on Plautius’s face deepen as he realized his heavy weapons were failing him. He turned to his closest aide and murmured an order which the man passed on to the cornicen behind him. The harsh, spiralling tones of the attack call echoed across the field, raising hairs on the neck of everyone who heard them.

It was time for the legions.

And Bersheba.

‘Forward.’ The order came from within two feet of him, but Rufus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He turned to stare at Claudius, hoping he’d misheard. But the Emperor waved a bejewelled hand impatiently towards the enemy. ‘I said forward. But not too quickly. We don’t want to reach the barbarians before the troops.’

Automatically, Rufus gave Bersheba the signal to advance, but his brain was turning somersaults and his stomach seemed to be somewhere close to his knees. This wasn’t meant to happen! You’ll be in the centre of the line, Narcissus had said, safe among the headquarters troops. Bersheba would be a figurehead, nothing more. Now the figurehead was past the Roman artillery and ambling slowly behind the long, neat ranks of the assault force. The attack proceeded at a steady, deliberate pace made fearsome as much by its ordinariness as by its discipline. Unlike the savages who waited for them, these soldiers were not driven by hatred or revenge. They were professionals doing a job of work. They knew some of them would die, but, like killing, that was part of the job. The screams of defiance from the barbarians gained in volume as the attackers’ remorseless march brought them within bowshot of the archers ranged in front of the main British force.

A single flight of arrows darkened the sky and dropped towards the leading ranks, who hunched their shoulders like men caught in a shower of summer hail. Not a man faltered and Rufus wondered at the good fortune that had brought the soldiers through such a missile storm. Claudius saw the arrows fall and prayed to Mars to see him end this day safely. He had heard the phrase ‘death or glory’ often enough and had always sneered at the ridiculous sentiment it expressed. But now he was experiencing the reality and he felt nothing but exhilaration. It was madness, but a divine madness. He was brave. How he wished old Augustus were here to see him. Narcissus had been right. Eternal glory awaited the Emperor who personally led his troops to a victory. They could never take this away from him. He felt a lightning bolt streak across his left temple and thought for a moment he had been struck by an arrow. But there was no pain and no blood. The only difference between now and what had gone before was that he was different. He looked out upon the world from the swaying back of the elephant and experienced a clarity that was… yes… that was godlike. That set him apart from other men. He had always known the blood of gods ran in his veins, but had never thought to feel their power. His blood did not flow; it fizzed like the foaming torrent at the foot of a mighty waterfall. His heart didn’t beat, it thundered. And when he filled his lungs to breathe it was with the force of an ocean tempest. He laughed with the insanity of it. He was in a battle. This was what Divine Julius had felt; what had made Augustus great. It changed everything, for ever. Never again would he have to hide the true Claudius behind a mask. Never again would he have to play a part. He was no longer Claudius the actor. He was Claudius — the war god.

‘Onwards. Onwards to glory. Onwards to immortality. For Rome.’ The words erupted from his throat in a clarion call. The soldiers closest to Bersheba turned in disbelief. Not one of them had looked back since the opening of the attack. They had known their Emperor had come to witness the battle, but they had never expected him to share their danger. The closest of them pleaded with him to go back, not to risk his life, which was more precious than their own. But Claudius waved their pleas away. Something stirred in him, some long-forgotten memory of his brother Germanicus, father of Caligula, and the soldier’s soldier he had always sought to emulate as a young man. What would Germanicus have said? Yes!

‘Where the legions of Rome venture, their Emperor may venture too,’ he shouted, and his voice was carried far along the battle line on a fortunate gust of wind. ‘Did you really believe I would march with you only to shirk my duty when there is barbarian blood to spill and barbarian lands to conquer? I will rest when you rest and slake my thirst from your water skins when you slake yours. We will fight together and we will win or we will die together. Your enemy awaits you, there!’ He stood up in the shaking, precarious howdah and by some miracle kept his feet for long enough to point an imperious outstretched arm towards the waiting British warriors.

For a moment there was silence… then the cheering began.

Claudius. Imperator. Victory.

The whole Roman line swept forward in an entirely un-Roman fashion, driven not by discipline but by the same madness that infected their Emperor. They were gods, every one, and this was their day. The barbarians turned and ran.