Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER XIX

‘What do you mean you can’t warn Plautius?’ Magnus asked, struggling to make sense of what he had just been told.

Sabinus shifted slightly in his campbed, lifting his head and grimacing with pain. ‘My brother’s right, Magnus, Narcissus made us promise that whatever happens we must not go to Plautius.’

‘But why? He could stop Corvinus now; the Ninth are less than a day’s march ahead of us.’

Vespasian held a cup of steaming wine to his brother’s lips and Sabinus sipped from it gratefully. ‘He doesn’t want Corvinus stopped; he knew that this would happen because he set it up. He wants Plautius to see for himself Corvinus’ treachery; that way he’ll have solid evidence to present to Claudius when he arrives, not mere suspicions. Claudius doesn’t believe his freedmen’s warnings about Messalina and her brother but he might just believe the evidence of his own eyes if Plautius presents it to him.’

Magnus looked around the dimly lit tent, evidently exasperated. ‘So what will you do?’

‘Do? Why, nothing for the time being. Narcissus asked us to keep Plautius alive and not to let Corvinus and Geta go too far. We thought that he meant not to let them go further than the Tamesis but he didn’t; he meant not to let them go too far north of the Tamesis. In other words stop them once they’ve damned themselves but before they get all the way to Camulodunum.’

‘Well, Geta’s not going anywhere in a hurry; he’s lucky to be alive according to one of the orderlies, who’s a mate of mine. He says Geta’s put himself out of commission for the foreseeable future, so that’s half the threat gone.’

‘And, more to the point, that’s something that Corvinus won’t know because he was too far away to see Geta being taken from the field. So if Geta was the one who was meant to deal with Plautius whilst Corvinus goes north, it won’t be happening soon.’

Sabinus lay back down with a sigh. ‘True, but Priscus, his thick-stripe, is now in command of the Twentieth, and who knows where his sympathies lie.’

Vespasian placed the cup down, next to the only oil lamp in the tent, on the rough bedside table. ‘We’ve got to keep an eye on Plautius, somehow. Meanwhile we’ll march west tomorrow. The Second Augusta will be the vanguard because I’m the only legate on my feet at the moment, so it’ll be my cavalry scouting.’

Magnus chuckled. ‘And Paetus will only see what he’s told to see.’

‘Something like that.’

‘And how will you stop Corvinus?’

‘That’s where Narcissus’ forward thinking sometimes just leaves me breathless with admiration.’

The severely wounded had been despatched back to Rutupiae in a long train of wagons, disappearing east through the smoky haze issuing from the scores of pyres disposing of the fallen. The battlefield had been partially cleared by the Dobunni but many bodies still remained lying out in the sun and the tribesmen laboured amongst the dead, piling the corpses of their former allies onto the pyres under the supervision of just two auxiliary cohorts; Budvoc had been true to his word and his men worked willingly.

Vespasian turned away from the sombre sight and rode towards his legion, formed up in column on the hill, ready to begin the march west. Apart from a visit to Sabinus the previous evening and a couple of periods of brief but sound sleep, his time had been taken up with the aftermath of battle. He had received the lists of casualties from each cohort and had been relieved by their comparative lightness: just under three hundred dead and twice as many wounded, of which almost a hundred would never serve again. Dead or severely wounded centurions, optiones and standard-bearers had to be replaced and promotions were made under guidance from the surviving officers of each cohort. Finally, the few centuries that had been badly mauled were temporarily disbanded and the survivors used to bring others up to a respectable strength. All this had been achieved in haste on the day after the battle so as to bring the legion and, more importantly, its chain of command, back up to battle readiness.

And battle there would be; Vespasian was sure of it. As Plautius had predicted, the bulk of the Britons had crossed the Tamesis, despite the best endeavours of the fleet, which had massacred thousands in the water. The auxiliaries had tried to follow them through the marsh tracks to the river, but without local knowledge they found it all but impossible and many foundered, sucked into the slime, weighed down by their chain mail. A couple of Batavian cohorts did manage to find a way through and foolishly swam across, only to be repulsed with heavy losses by a few thousand tribesmen who had rallied on the north bank, despite receiving artillery support from the ballistae mounted on the bows of the fleet’s triremes.

Vespasian reached the front of the column. He raised his arm in the air and, with a slight flourish, swiped it down; a deep horn sounded, the signal was relayed and the II Augusta moved forward. Before them, two auxiliary cohorts scouted ahead in open order with two more on either flank; behind followed the XX and XIIII Legions, both without their legates — although Sabinus had been pronounced fit enough to travel in a covered wagon. Geta, however, although conscious, was very weak from loss of blood and had been despatched to the hospital tents at Rutupiae, along with the other wounded.

As he rode, Vespasian contemplated Narcissus’ skill in engineering a situation whereby from a safe distance back in Gaul he could force an enemy to expose himself for what he was and thereby set in train a sequence of events that might well topple an empress. Again, he knew that he was being used as a small piece in a bigger game; but it was ever thus in the murky world of imperial politics whose fringes he felt he would be always destined to inhabit — unless, of course, he retired to his estates. But, then, would he be happy to live out his life quietly as he had once wanted? A life in which his only excitement would be, as Sabinus had described it so disparagingly, to see if this year’s wine would be better than the last. He thought back to that conversation two years previously in Germania: at the time he had genuinely considered retirement as a way of avoiding being caught up in imperial politics, but now he realised that his brother had been right, he would be bored. Now that he had commanded a legion in battle and received the praise of his commanding officer for his conduct; now that he knew he was capable of such command and that there would be more battles ahead from which to learn, how could he possibly retire to a farm and watch the changing of the seasons? He looked back at the legion at whose head he was riding and exalted in the pride that he felt. There would be no retirement — at least not yet — he would continue his career and the price would be his involvement with politics.

He consoled himself with the fact that this time his role was more crucial in that he now had to judge how long it should be before he reported to Plautius what he was sure his scouts would be telling him in just a few hours. He knew that it was imperative for Corvinus to have enough time to damn himself completely in Plautius’ eyes; it was not so much that he cared about Narcissus’ power struggle with Messalina — although he realised that in the choice of the two evils he was better off with Narcissus winning that struggle — it was the chance of revenge for Corvinus’ abduction of Clementina and deliverance of her to Caligula for violent and repeated rape. He smiled coldly, his eyes set with satisfaction, as he contemplated the sweet sensation of delivering vengeance upon a man who had so wronged his family.

‘You’re looking pleased with yourself,’ Magnus said, pulling his horse up next to him. ‘Did you have a particularly good shit before we left?’

‘I did, as a matter of fact. Where’ve you been? I was looking for you earlier to tell you all about it.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to have missed out on that treat; but don’t worry, I’ve been down to see Sabinus and he made up for it by easing one out in his wagon whilst I was there. More to the point, I saw my orderly mate again and he told me that he had overheard a mightily displeased Plautius ask Geta to explain to him why he made the elementary mistake of letting his unit probe too deeply into the routing enemy and allowing forty of his precious cavalry to go absent without leave across the Styx.’

Magnus paused; Vespasian waited for a moment and then looked at him. ‘Well, go on then, tell me what he said.’

‘He didn’t really have a reason, he just said that he’d been fired up with enthusiasm and it would never happen again.’

‘Did Plautius accept that?’

‘Apparently; he shouted at Geta for a short while, until the doctor advised against it for medical reasons, and then he left, seemingly satisfied with the explanation, and with no more than a warning about not being a reckless arsehole in his army again and a vague threat concerning his testicles, a weighty hammer and an anvil.’

‘It doesn’t make sense. Whatever you might think about Geta, he’s got a reputation as being an excellent soldier; just take the Mauretanian campaign, for example — from all accounts his conduct was exemplary. He’s not the sort of person to make a stupid mistake like that.’

‘We all do, now and again.’

‘If you’re alluding to my failure to advance quickly enough on Cantiacum, it’s not the same; I’m not nearly as experienced as Geta and yet I know not to lose my head and go chasing off into the heart of a horde of very angry Britons with just my legion’s cavalry.’

‘Fair point; but there was a time when you might have lost your head.’

‘I’m over that now.’

‘Thank the gods; I always thought that that would be how you’d get yourself killed. But I agree, Geta wouldn’t do that. Anyway, who gives a fuck? He’s done it now and pissed off Plautius into the bargain.’

‘You’re right, I suppose, it’s just a pity he didn’t get himself killed along with all the other poor sods he did for. How’s Sabinus?’

‘Oh, he’s much better, the wound’s healing up like a Vestal’s gash; the doctor says he can ride tomorrow, so he’ll be fine for your little chat with Corvinus.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Vespasian replied, looking ahead to where Paetus was riding towards him. ‘Here it comes.’

‘Here comes what?’

‘Decision time.’

‘My patrol has just returned from the Tamesis crossing, sir,’ Paetus reported as he slowed his mount.

‘And apart from a century on either bank there was no sign of the Ninth?’

The young prefect looked momentarily astonished. ‘How did you know, sir?’

‘That doesn’t matter; send that patrol out again, I don’t want that to be public knowledge.’

‘But Plautius-’

‘Will be told when the time is right; I’ll take the responsibility for it, Paetus, you’ve just got to trust me. As far as you’re concerned the Ninth is making itself nice and comfy on the northern bank of the Tamesis and if you say otherwise to anyone I think that you’ll find yourself on the wrong side of Narcissus.’

Paetus raised his eyebrows. ‘I’d rather not find myself on any side of Narcissus, sir. I’ll report back when I’ve got news that the Ninth have finished building their camp.’

‘Thank you, prefect, I’ll be very interested to know just how long it takes them.’

Paetus grinned and saluted.

Magnus looked dubious as Paetus rode away. ‘This is a very dangerous game that Narcissus has got you playing, sir. When Plautius finds out it won’t just be Geta’s testicles that will be feeling the weight of the general’s hammer, if you take my meaning?’

‘I’m rather hoping that it’ll be Corvinus’ balls that’ll receive Plautius’ kind attentions.’

‘There’s room for more than one pair on the general’s anvil.’

*

The inevitable delay of one day after the battle forced Plautius to drive his army on as fast as possible and the march west was an arduous affair for the weary legionaries. The going, however, was easy, over gently undulating farmland that, with the VIIII Hispana so close behind, Caratacus had mainly left untouched. It was through fields of ripening wheat and barley or arable land that the column made its way and not a landscape blackened and destroyed by a retreating army intent upon denying its pursuer the ability to forage.

The morning of the second day saw them descending a hill into a basin through which the Tamesis, now just a mile to the north, wound in a ponderous, looping fashion, forcing the part of the fleet shadowing their advance to row harder in order to keep pace with the column.

In the distance, five miles or so to the west, Vespasian could see the ships that had supported Corvinus’ advance, bobbing at anchor at what he guessed must be the Tamesis ford. He knew that his hoodwinking of Plautius could not go undetected for much longer. A smudge on the horizon, well to the north of the river, caught his eye and he pulled his horse to one side, allowing the men of the first cohort to tramp past, as he scrutinised it carefully. After a few moments’ deliberation, chewing on his bottom lip, he turned his mount and headed back down the column.

‘Take command, tribune,’ he shouted at Mucianus, at the head of the second cohort, as he sped past. ‘And keep the pace up. I need to report to the general.’

Galloping past the ranks and ranks of marching legionaries he eventually came to the legions’ six hundred pack-mules, one for each contubernium, and the wagons and artillery belonging to each century. Behind these rode the army’s command group, just ahead of the XIIII Gemina.

Vespasian slowed his horse and drew a deep breath as he approached Plautius. ‘General, I need to speak to you urgently and in private.’

‘He’s done what!’ Plautius exploded.

‘Carried on towards Camulodunum, sir.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

Vespasian pointed to the north. ‘Look at the horizon over there; what do you see?’

Plautius squinted. ‘I’m afraid that my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be; what is it, legate?’

‘Smoke, sir, a lot of it.’

‘That doesn’t mean that it’s Corvinus.’

‘Corvinus never stopped, he never intended to.’

‘But that’s miles from the ford; how did he get there so quickly? Your report last night said that he had built a camp on the north bank by the ford.’

‘That wasn’t true, sir.’

Plautius glared at Vespasian, outraged. ‘If you’re telling me that you knew about this all along and covered it up then that’s treason, legate.’

‘I know, sir; but if I had told you earlier then that could have been construed as treason as well.’

‘Vespasian, I fail to see how preventing Corvinus from going against the Emperor’s explicit orders can be seen as treason.’

‘Because they’re not the Emperor’s orders, they were given only in his name. The Emperor doesn’t rule, he’s just seen to be ruling; the real power is-’

‘Don’t patronise me! I know who the real power is, but it comes to the same thing: Narcissus speaks for the Emperor.’

‘No, sir, that’s not true; Narcissus speaks for himself but from within the Emperor’s shadow. In fact, he is his shadow. He uses Claudius in order to wield the power that he couldn’t be seen using in the full light of day and he guards him jealously in order to hang on to that power. But because the Emperor is a cuntstruck fool he doesn’t see — or won’t believe — the threat to his position from within his inner circle.’

‘The Empress?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But she’s nothing without him.’

‘Not so; she’s the mother of the Emperor’s son.’

‘But he’s too young to rule without a regent and no one would accept a woman in that position.’

‘Granted, but they would accept a man and a woman, the mother of the young Emperor and her brother.’

Plautius’ eyes widened in comprehension. ‘That woman being the mother of a true Caesar and the man being the conqueror of Camulodunum and the founder of the new province of Britannia; a couple who couldn’t start their own dynasty because they are siblings and therefore are no threat to the Emperor’s line but, rather, the guardians of it. Perfect, until something happens to the child, at which point the regents are secure enough in their positions for the Guard to continue in their support.’

‘Exactly, and we know that the imperial family are capable of anything; Claudius’ sister, Livilla, was already poisoning her son, Tiberius Gemellus, before she in turn was starved to death by her mother, Antonia. If anyone should realise what is possible it should be Claudius; but the fool can’t be made to listen.’

‘So therefore he must be made to see.’ Plautius touched his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘Oh, I see it now. That bastard Narcissus manoeuvred me into giving Corvinus the opportunity to disobey the Emperor so that I would be the one to expose the plot to Claudius, along with the hard evidence to convince him that his brother-in-law and wife are moving against him. You did right not to tell me until Corvinus had made contact with the enemy, Vespasian, I would have stopped him before he damned himself.’

‘No, he would have killed you. In fact I believe that you would be dead now if Geta hadn’t got himself wounded.’

‘Geta!’

‘Yes, I think that he was meant to have you killed in a way that wouldn’t look suspicious.’

‘Like leading his cavalry into an impossible position just in front of me.’

‘That seems a little extreme, sir; after all, he nearly got himself killed doing that.’

‘Only through bad luck. I had that decurion brought to me after I saw Geta yesterday because I couldn’t believe that someone with Geta’s experience would have made such a stupid mistake through “fired-up enthusiasm”, as he put it. The decurion told me that Geta wasn’t leading them, he was right in the middle of the unit as safe as he could be, which I found very strange. But now, looking back at it, think of the timing. I’d come up the hill to recall you, then, when I’m just a few hundred paces away Geta suddenly takes his men into a mass of retreating and pissed-off Britons knowing full well that I would try and save them because I’ve so few mounted troops. I charge in, taking you and your lads with me, and could well have been killed and no one would have suspected a thing. As it was I was so angry at the situation that nothing could stop me. We broke through to Geta’s men, as he knew we would, but, unfortunately for him, not before a stray spear dismounted him and he got trampled upon. The little arsehole deserves it; forty of his lads killed for nothing.’

‘That would explain it, I suppose.’

‘Too fucking right it explains it. I’ll have that bastard when he’s recovered. Why didn’t you tell me that they were going to try and kill me?’

‘Narcissus would have seen me dead.’

Plautius gave a mirthless smile. ‘Well, Narcissus will see us both dead if we don’t stop Corvinus now. How do you halt a rogue legion without bringing it to battle and causing the invasion to collapse?’

‘Narcissus has already thought of that; I can do it with just Paetus’ cavalry and my brother.’

Plautius looked at Vespasian quizzically. ‘Very well,’ he said after a few moments, ‘I suppose I have to trust you seeing as you seem to understand Narcissus’ mind. Take what you need — and hurry. I’ll be close behind you; I’ll try and get two legions across the river at low tide later this afternoon. Now that Corvinus has started hostilities in the north I’m forced to finish off what the treacherous little sod started; not to do so would be seen as weakness by the Britons. It may be that Claudius won’t have a battle left to fight after all.’

‘So long as he can be the first to enter Camulodunum, it might not be such a bad thing, general.’

‘No, it wouldn’t.’ Plautius paused for another moment of thought. ‘And Claudius will still get what he needs without the possibility of being exposed as an incompetent commander.’

‘I wonder if Narcissus has already thought of that too.’

‘Yes, the oily little freedman! I wonder.’

‘I’ve got orders not to let anyone across, sir.’ The centurion of the century of the VIIII Hispana stationed on the south bank of the Tamesis was adamant; he pulled his shoulders back into a more rigid attention as if to emphasise the point.

Vespasian leant down from his horse, placing his face close to the veteran’s. ‘I’m sure you have, centurion, but I have orders to cross; mine are from Aulus Plautius and yours are from Legate Corvinus. So tell me, which one has precedence?’

The centurion swallowed. ‘It would be the general, sir, but Corvinus told me that he was dead and that he was in command now and no one was to cross until Legate Geta arrives.’

‘Is that what he said? Well, I can assure you, centurion, that Plautius is very much alive, so alive, in fact, that he will personally execute you when he arrives here in three hours or so and finds us still debating who’s in charge of the army.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘And what’s more, there’s a legate, a cavalry prefect and three hundred troopers who will testify to him that you obstructed me in obeying his orders.’

‘And a civilian,’ Magnus added.

‘Yes, and a civilian.’

Sabinus moved forward. ‘Centurion Quintillus, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, legate; it’s good to see you again, legate,’ Quintillus barked, attempting to force his body into an even more rigid state of attention.

‘And you, centurion. It would be a shame if this was to be our last meeting.’

‘It would, legate.’

‘So what’s it to be?’

Quintillus glanced nervously around, swallowing hard again. ‘Well, I suppose that in the circumstances I’d better let you cross.’

‘That was a very sensible decision.’

‘But you’ll have to wait at least a couple of hours for the tide to fall; it’s too high at the moment.’

Vespasian swung off his horse. ‘Not for these lads, it isn’t. Now, tell me, Quintillus, which way did the Ninth go?’

The centurion pointed to two small hills covered with a smattering of trees, next to each other on the far bank, over a quarter of a mile away. ‘They disappeared between them hills, heading northeast, sir. Be sure to go between them not over them; a local farmer told us that one of them, and I don’t know which, has a shrine on it sacred to a god called Lud and you wouldn’t want to piss him off, apparently.’

‘Thank you for the warning, centurion, I’ll be sure to mention to the general just how co-operative you’ve been. Right, Paetus, it’s time your lads got wet.’

‘I’m going to have to stop soon,’ Sabinus said through chattering teeth after they had travelled only three or four miles from the twin hills. ‘If I don’t I’ll pass out.’

Vespasian looked up at the sky; the sun was falling towards the horizon and beginning to deepen in colour. ‘All right, we’ll stop here; we won’t catch up with them tonight anyway. Paetus, have your men build a camp.’

The Batavians set to their task and by nightfall the camp’s three-foot-deep ditch was dug and its resulting embankment topped with a palisade of stakes interwoven with hazel plashing, making a defendable wall half as high again as the height of a man. By necessity it was small and cramped, there being just enough room for the three hundred troopers and their horses, who remained saddled in the event of an alarm; it was also cheerless as Vespasian had, for obvious reasons, forbidden the lighting of fires. The still damp Batavians shivered in their cloaks and many of them lay beneath their mounts for extra warmth, risking a gush of urine from above that would add to their misery.

‘Plautius should have reached the ford and be camping on this side of the river tonight,’ Vespasian said, rubbing Sabinus’ shoulders, trying to get some heat back into his brother’s blood-depleted body. All around them men hunched against the cold, eating a cheerless supper and talking in hushed tones.

Magnus bit a chunk from a slice of salted pork. ‘What do you think he’ll do tomorrow?’

‘He’ll leave one legion north of the river and one on the south bank and then come after us with the remaining one,’ Sabinus suggested, ‘in case we’re not successful stopping Corvinus.’

‘You mean he’d attack the Ninth if they refused to stop?’

Vespasian shrugged. ‘He’d at least threaten to as a last resort, he’d have no option; he knows that his life is now at stake. If Narcissus can’t give Claudius the personal victory he’s promised, he’ll distance himself from it; Plautius will take the blame and will receive a nice polite note, in the Emperor’s name, requesting that he do the decent thing.’

Magnus chewed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘And I would guess that he won’t be the only one to get such a note.’

‘I think you’d be guessing correctly; Sabinus and I know too much. Our grandmother warned me about this, years ago; she told me not to get involved with the schemes of the powerful because ultimately all they want is more power and to get it they use people of our class as disposable tools. We’re very handy when things are going well, but an embarrassment when they don’t because we know too much. We therefore need to be discarded.’

‘She never said that to me,’ Sabinus said, aggrieved.

‘That’s because you never listened to her; you were too busy terrorising me and then you joined up and never went back. But I used to talk to her, or, more to the point, listen to her, and most of the things that she told me have begun to make complete sense as I’ve grown older. Magnus said it: in the Rome that you and I live in we can never rise to the top because those positions are reserved for one family; but we carry on our careers despite that because what would we do otherwise? Look forward to tasting next year’s wine? So we have no choice; there’re always going to be people more powerful than us and they’re always going to be using us and one day they’ll be the death of us. Unless we’re successful tomorrow, that day might be very soon and Plautius knows it.’

‘Perhaps I should do more listening in future.’

Vespasian smiled in the dark. ‘The day you start listening will be the day I ask for a loan.’

‘Sir,’ Paetus hissed, walking quickly towards them through the tangle of resting troopers. ‘I think that you should come and see this.’

‘What is it, prefect?’

‘A fire, some distance off; it’s just been lit.’

Vespasian followed Paetus to the northern defence. Looking out into the night he could see a point of flame that grew appreciably as he watched it. Then shadows appeared around it and a faint chanting drifted through the cold air. ‘Can you make them out, Paetus?’

‘Just, it’s very strange; they don’t seem to be wearing trousers like the Britons do; when they bother to dress at all, that is.’

Vespasian squinted; as he did so two of the figures lifted a small bundle into the air. ‘You’re right; they’re wearing robes almost down to their ankles. What are they?’

‘Shall I send some men to find out?’

‘Better not, it might be a trap; we’re safer staying in here.’

Magnus joined them peering at the group, which seemed to consist of half a dozen of the strangely garbed figures. The bundle was laid back onto the ground and the chanting stopped to be replaced by an infant’s wail. ‘I think we’re being cursed,’ he muttered darkly as a figure knelt down over the bundle. ‘I’ve heard stories about this lot, and none of them were good. I’d wager that you’d rather have that nice polite note from the Emperor asking you to relieve the world of the burden of your life than run into them.’ The wail was abruptly cut off; Magnus clutched his thumb between his fingers and spat. ‘They’re priests; they’re called druids.’

Vespasian felt his throat dry as the acrid fumes from the still smouldering burnt-out village rasped into his lungs. It was not the first such sight that they had come across but it was certainly the largest since leaving the camp at dawn two hours before and riding past the gutted remains of the tiny infant. He surveyed the dismal scene of charred bodies and timber for a few moments and then turned to Sabinus. ‘This must be what caused the smoke I saw yesterday, it’s big enough.’

‘Then the Ninth can’t be too far off.’

Vespasian pointed to the half-burnt body of a young girl. ‘Corvinus isn’t going to make matters easier by doing this. It’s one thing to beat an army and kill as many fighting men as possible, but murdering women and children for no reason other than you’ve come across their village isn’t going to induce that beaten army to surrender. They’ll be bent on revenge.’

‘If you beat them often enough they’ll surrender because they fear you.’

‘Yes, but if they hate you as well then how long will they submit before rebelling? As Plautius said, we’ve come here to stay; incidents like this will just cause resentment that we’ll pay for in Roman lives later.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it; a few lives here and there aren’t going to make much difference in the long term. There’s a lot of hard fighting ahead before we completely subdue this island and many more children are going to go the way of that little girl, and you and I will be responsible for our fair share of them. We need to keep going whilst I’ve still got the energy.’ Sabinus flicked his reins and moved off, leaving Vespasian to contemplate the dead child.

Magnus joined him. ‘He’s right, we should get going, sir. Forget about her, she was lucky to reach the age she did. At least she had the chance to know that she was alive unlike that baby them druids sacrificed last night.’

‘I suppose you’re right, Magnus.’

‘Of course I’m right. It don’t do to dwell on death: too morbid. It comes to all of us and the timing is in the hands of the gods.’

‘And in the hands of their priests, evidently,’ Vespasian retorted, urging his horse forward and signalling to Paetus to move his men out.

Vespasian led the column on at a canter, northeast across flat semi-wooded land, following the trail of the VIIII Hispana, passing burnt-out farmsteads and villages, each one adding to his growing sense of urgency; now that Corvinus had damned himself he had to be stopped before he did irreparable damage to the chances of an honourable surrender.

As the sun climbed towards its zenith, rising through a blue sky punctuated by scudding, high clouds, the column crested the first low hill they had encountered and Vespasian, Sabinus and Paetus simultaneously drew up their mounts.

‘Shit!’ Sabinus exclaimed. ‘He’s fighting Claudius’ battle for him.’

Vespasian punched his thigh hard, causing his horse to step nervously. ‘Narcissus will have me for this, I’ve totally mistimed it.’

A mile or so before them, the VIIII Hispana and its auxiliary cohorts were engaged with an enemy force of at least twice their number. The legion’s line was broad and thin with only two cohorts held in reserve in front of the gates of the marching camp in which they had spent the night. The left flank seemed to be anchored to marshy ground to the north, preventing any attempt by the Britons to move around it in any great numbers; but the right flank was hard-pressed and had buckled round in order to prevent an outflanking move by combined chariotry and cavalry.

‘What are your orders, legate?’ Paetus asked, controlling his frisky mount with a couple of sharp tugs of the reins.

‘Sir,’ Magnus shouted. ‘Look behind us.’

Vespasian glanced over his shoulder; from this vantage point he could see for some distance over the Tamesis basin. Less than three miles away was a fast-moving column. ‘Cavalry! That must be Plautius’ forward ala riding ahead of the legion. Paetus, send a messenger down to them and order them, in my name, to hurry. And send one to Plautius to tell him what’s happening.’

‘Yes, sir! And what do we do?’

‘What we have to: charge the Britons threatening Corvinus’ right flank and hope that we can hold until that ala arrives. Form line!’

Within moments the riders had been despatched and the shrill blare of the lituus filled the air as the column, bridles jangling, horses snorting and decurions shouting, changed formation into a four-deep line.

Vespasian pulled his brother to one side. ‘I don’t care what you say, Sabinus, but there is no way that you’ll be fit enough for this.’

Sabinus went to protest but Vespasian cut him off. ‘You go down and get into the camp, and see if you can find anything of interest in Corvinus’ praetorium. That would be much more useful than getting yourself killed because you’re too weak to punch a sword hard.’

Sabinus grasped his brother’s forearm. ‘Just this once I’ll listen to you and take your advice, brother.’

‘You’re going to have to ask for a loan now, sir,’ Magnus chuckled as Sabinus rode off, ‘Sabinus just listened to someone.’

‘Well, you go with him and make sure he doesn’t do it again, I wouldn’t want to ask for two loans in the same day. You’ll be of much more help with him than getting in everyone’s way complaining about fighting on horseback.’

‘I can’t argue with that,’ Magnus affirmed, following in Sabinus’ path.

The line was formed and Vespasian took his place between Ansigar and Paetus, drawing his sword, glancing at the young cavalry prefect and giving a brief, business-like nod.

‘The First Batavian Ala will advance!’ Paetus roared, sweeping his spatha from its scabbard and raising it in the air.

The lituus sounded and the three hundred surviving Batavian troopers kicked their horses forward, holding their reins in their shielded hands and brandishing javelins in the air with their right.

Down the hill they came, breaking first into a trot and then a canter at Paetus’ signal; the thunder of hooves drowned out the clamour of the battle before them as they pounded across the ground towards the legion’s threatened right flank. As they closed the distance, Paetus ordered the charge; the troopers roared the battle cry of the Batavians, deep and guttural, and urged their willing steeds on. Vespasian’s calves gripped the sweating flanks of his mount, feeling its huge chest rise and fall, sucking in vast gulps of air as it drove its legs forward over the rough grass, head stretched forward, ears back, the muscles and ligaments in its powerful neck straining beneath tight skin.

A force of a few score British cavalry and some chariots broke away from the hard-fought melee that had infiltrated the Roman line and turned to face the newcomers to the field; but it was not enough. Many of them went down to the hissing volley of sleek javelins that broke their already ragged formation and panicked more than a few of their mounts.

With the enemy’s cohesion gone, most of the Batavians’ horses willingly carried the charge home, crashing through the large gaps in the Britons’ unsteady line, with only a few shying at the last, unwilling to charge straight into a fellow beast, even though they were of smaller stature.

Slicing his spatha in a sideways cut, Vespasian severed the sword arm and opened the naked chest of a young mounted warrior, almost half his age, sending him howling to the ground in a spew of blood as his mount bolted in terror. Vespasian’s horse and those of his comrades slowed suddenly of their own accord as they penetrated deep into the Britons’ formation, turning the combat into a static affair. Many troopers wheeled their mounts on the spot, hacking at any enemy brave enough to attempt to hold his ground, clearing the areas around them with bloody efficiency before moving on towards fresh foes. Working with Paetus and Ansigar’s turma, Vespasian cleaved a path towards the rear of the Britons still engaged with the extreme right auxiliary cohort of the Roman line.

The auxiliaries, with weight of man and beast pressing against them greatly reduced, roared their war cry and renewed their bloody endeavours. Punching their swords up into the eyes of the stocky ponies and hacking at the dangling legs of their riders, they forced them back from within their formation and gradually began to lock shields again, cohering the unit together once more into an effective fighting force determined to avenge the dead comrades beneath their feet.

With the blades of the vengeful auxiliaries before them and the honed iron of the new, terrifying force bearing down upon their defenceless backs, the Britons wavered for a few moments and then, as if by immediate mutual consent, broke. Chariots and cavalry turned and fled back towards the bulk of their army around the corner of the buckled flank. Vespasian and Paetus led the Batavians in a haphazard pursuit, slashing at the backs of the enemy and the rumps of their horses. With only a few javelins flung by chariot-mounted warriors to harm them, the Batavians took to their merciless task with relish, shedding as much blood as possible without venturing too far and risking engulfment by the horde of foot warriors that were still very much of a mind to break the Roman will. Behind them the auxiliaries followed, led by their centurions and pushed forward by the long poles of the optiones to their rear, arcing back round to straighten the line.

‘Halt!’ Vespasian cried as their quarry diverted around the flank of the main body of foot warriors, who began to turn and face the Batavians.

‘Fall back and rally!’ Paetus shouted, knowing that they were too disorganised to risk an encounter with infantry.

The lituus blew and the Batavians retired, melting around the side of the oncoming auxiliaries who continued at a brisk jog, shield to shield, increasing in pace as they closed with the enemy until, in an act of brave opportunism, they swung round and crashed into the Britons’ flank.

Vespasian surveyed the scene as the decurions dressed the Batavians’ ranks a hundred paces behind the auxiliaries. The VIIII Hispana held as the Britons attacked and then retreated, only to charge again, repeatedly. This was not the mindless shoving and heaving in a press of bodies in an attempt to break through by sheer weight of flesh, this was hand-to-hand combat in waves; flowing forward, with long swords flashing and spears jabbing, making contact and then disengaging and pulling back as if sucked by an undertow before surging forward again. The effect rippled up and down the line, so that there was always contact at various points, in a strangely fluid motion; except where the auxiliaries had pinned the flank. Here the Britons were forced against the shields of the rightmost legionary cohort and the legionaries were thankful for it. Their unseen blades were working bloody death in the press of front rank warriors, who shrieked in gutted agony as the moist coils of their intestines slopped to the churned ground to be stamped upon by hobnailed boots as the legionaries pressed home their advantage.

Caught on the anvil of the legion by the heavy blow from the auxiliaries hammering into their flank, panic began to spread through the massed tribesmen and the tone of their cacophony changed, rising in pitch, becoming shriller and more terrified.

The legionaries pressed on whilst the auxiliaries continued to squeeze and the warriors fell in droves, unable to pull back from the cruel blades. And yet they held, as if the will of their gods forced them to stand and die on the sacred earth of their homeland; their screams and death-shouts rising to the sky in homage to the deities that watched over them but could not, ultimately, protect them.

And then came a new sound: a low groan of despair. Vespasian looked to his left; along the crest of the hill, mounted figures were arriving. More and more appeared, ranging along the entire length of the crest. As their number increased so did the hopes of the Britons lessen, for they knew that behind this second, larger unit of mounted troops would surely be another legion of Rome and the blare of its horns would herald their certain deaths.

Sensing the growing hopelessness in their opponents, the legionaries went on the offensive, urged on by their centurions, attempting to maintain contact all along the line, engaging the enemy on their own terms and increasing their kill rate. The Britons, forced back and suffering dreadful casualties, wavered. Then, as the second mounted force to appear on the hill that day advanced, they began to break and run; the tide had turned.

Away they flowed to escape the relentless blades of the legion, leaving their many dead and wounded behind them, sprinting east for their lives.

Vespasian turned to Paetus. ‘Join up with this new ala and pursue for a mile or so; kill as many as you can.’

‘My pleasure, sir. Won’t you be joining us?’

‘No, Paetus; I’m going to find Sabinus and then together we’ll confront Corvinus. If we’re dead when you get back you must ride to Plautius and tell him that we’ve failed.’

Paetus saluted as Vespasian turned his horse and rode towards the camp.

Riding at speed behind the ranks of cheering cohorts, Vespasian quickly reached the southern gate of the marching camp and then followed the deserted Via Principalis to the praetorium at the camp’s heart. Dismounting, he tethered his horse and then passed through the unguarded entrance.

‘You took your time, brother,’ Sabinus said from the depths of the tent.

‘There was the small matter of an army of Britons to defeat. Where are the guards?’

‘They wouldn’t co-operate so Magnus and I were forced to relieve them of their weapons. They’ll be fine, apart from having sore heads.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Very much so; it’s in the sleeping quarters with Magnus.’

Vespasian followed his brother through an entrance at the rear of the tent to see Magnus sitting by a figure lying prone on the bed. As his eyes got used to the dim light he could make out long grey hair and a drooping black moustache. ‘Verica! What’s he doing in here?’

‘It’s not of his own accord,’ Magnus informed him, ‘he was unconscious and tied up when we found him; he only started to come to just before you arrived.’

The old King slowly opened his eyes and groggily focused on Vespasian, then said: ‘They came to surrender.’

‘Who did?’

‘The Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes. They arrived this morning and Corvinus formed the legion up in front of the camp; their leaders came forward to speak with him under a branch of truce and I translated for them. They said that they had come to lay down their arms; once Togodumnus died they had no chieftain in the east who was still willing to resist the invasion and they would therefore submit to Rome. Corvinus sneered at them for being weak and said that he wanted to win Camulodunum, not have it given to him; he had them executed in front of their men. I protested and he knocked me cold when the Britons charged — when they saw what Corvinus had done they abandoned all thoughts of surrender. That’s all I know.’

‘Well, he’s had his victory, and a bloody one at that; the road to Camulodunum is open.’

Verica looked bitter as he eased himself up to sit. ‘It was open this morning and not awash with blood.’

‘Will they still be willing to surrender?’

‘Yes, they’re truly beaten now; but resentment for this will run deep and many of the warriors will go west and join Caratacus; Rome will have a long hard war against him.’

Sabinus shrugged. ‘We were always going to have a hard fight against him; a few thousand more warriors won’t make that much difference.’

Vespasian shook his head. ‘It’s not so much that; it’s the fact that the news will spread that we don’t accept surrender. The tribes will think that they have no choice but to fight to the death; Corvinus has just cost us many Roman lives.’

‘When those guards are found I want the skin off their backs, primus pilus,’ a voice growled, entering the tent.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘In the meantime a cup of wine to celebrate a good morning’s work, gentlemen?’

‘Thank you, legate,’ three voices replied.

The brothers looked at each other. ‘Time for our chat with Corvinus,’ Vespasian whispered. ‘Magnus, stay here and only come out if there’s a fight.’

Magnus nodded as the brothers walked through to the main part of the tent.

‘Bumpkin! And the cuckold!’ Corvinus exclaimed, outraged. ‘How dare you come into my praetorium uninvited!’

‘How dare you ignore the Emperor’s orders!’ Vespasian strode to within a pace of Corvinus. ‘And how dare you not accept the surrender of two tribes when it was freely offered!’

Corvinus’ nostrils flared; his three officers tensed and put their hands on the hilts of their swords. ‘What honour or glory would I have had in taking their surrender when my legion hasn’t seen any part of the fighting so far? But then you wouldn’t understand that, would you, coming from a grubby little family whose taste for glory has never been whetted because it has conspicuously failed to achieve any honour.’

‘Whereas you consider it honourable to steal the glory that the Emperor has reserved for himself?’

‘The Emperor’s a fool!’

‘Whatever the Emperor is, he’s also your brother-in-law; and the people surrounding him know full well how you intend to use that position and what you plan to do with his stolen glory.’

Corvinus’ dark eyes narrowed. ‘Supposition. No one can prove that I was not acting in Claudius’ best interests.’

‘That would be the case if Plautius were dead, but he’s not.’ Vespasian enjoyed the look of surprise that Corvinus did his best to conceal. ‘When you said goodbye to him with such finality, thinking never to see him again, what you didn’t know was that your friend Geta was lying only fifty paces away. He’d tried to lure Plautius to his death by sacrificing his cavalry but the general survived; no doubt Geta would have tried to murder him some other way had he not been severely wounded and sent back to Rutupiae. We’ll never know; but what is certain is that warrant that you hold from the Emperor giving you command of the invasion in the event of Plautius’ death is no more than an unexercised warrant. You’re not in command, Corvinus, therefore you have committed treason and Plautius has sent us to take you into custody.’

Corvinus went to draw his sword from its scabbard. Vespasian’s left hand clamped around his wrist, arresting the motion, whilst his right swept his pugio from his belt and pricked it under Corvinus’ chin, forcing his head back. Corvinus’ three officers were not so impeded and three glinting blades flashed up to threaten Vespasian’s throat.

‘I would consider your positions, gentlemen,’ Sabinus advised, walking forward, his gaze falling on two of the three men; behind him Magnus rushed from the sleeping area, his sword drawn. From outside came the good-humoured clamour of a victorious legion returning to camp. ‘Vibianus, I’m pleased to see that you’re still primus pilus, and Laurentinus, I imagine that you’re on your last few months of service and the Ninth will be needing a new prefect of the camp soon.’ He looked at the youngest of the three. ‘Scaevola, I’m sure you feel you owe loyalty to Corvinus for making you his thick-stripe tribune but I would advise you to put that aside for the moment and listen.’ The young tribune’s eyes flicked nervously over to Sabinus for an instant and then back to Vespasian; his sword stayed firm as did those of his fellows. ‘Plautius will be here very soon with at least one legion. You three have only two choices: try to kill us and then carry on being a party to your legate’s treason or hand Corvinus over to us. Choose the first option and you will find yourselves leading your legion against fellow Romans, as Plautius will have no option but to use force to ensure that the Emperor’s orders are obeyed. But choose the second and you’ll receive the thanks of a grateful emperor.’

Scaevola pressed his blade harder against Vespasian’s throat. ‘Why should I trust you?’

‘You’ve got no reason to; but Vibianus and Laurentius, you know me and you know the pride that I have in the Ninth Hispana, my first legion when I was a military tribune and my first as a legate. Do you think that I would want to see this legion disgraced? You both served under me for a couple of years; did I ever do anything that would make you doubt my word? Narcissus has set this up to expose Corvinus’ treachery; but at the same time he made me legate of the Fourteenth so that there would be somebody whom you trust to reason with you, someone whom you know has your best interests and those of this legion at heart. Believe me, gentlemen, your new legate has lied to you and has put your lives in danger.’

Vibianus and Laurentius looked across Corvinus into each other’s eyes; after a moment they both gave the slightest of nods. Their swords slowly moved from Vespasian’s throat and pulled back to Corvinus’.

Scaevola’s face tightened with indecision and sweat formed on his battle-grimed forehead.

‘They’ll be in here, sir,’ Paetus shouted, bursting through the entrance, causing the young tribune to start; his sword jerked and Vespasian pulled his head back, blood trickling from a straight cut on his throat.

‘What the fuck am I going to tell the Emperor and Narcissus?’ Plautius roared, storming in after Paetus. ‘You said that you’d stop this treacherous shit before he did too much damage.’

Vespasian looked down in horror at the blood on the sword blade; as he did Scaevola’s hand released the hilt and it clattered to the wooden floor. Over Corvinus’ shoulder Scaevola’s eyes glazed and blood seeped from between his lips. Vibianus and Laurentius held a rigid Corvinus motionless with their swords pressed to his throat; Scaevola slid to the floor with a knife protruding from the back of his neck.

Vespasian checked the wound to his throat and found to his immense relief that it was superficial; he moved his hand down and eased Corvinus’ weapon from its scabbard and chucked it away. ‘I’m sorry, general, we arrived too late.’

‘Too fucking right you did.’ Plautius marched over to Corvinus and, without hesitation, slammed his fist into the centre of his face, crushing his nose and sending him collapsing onto Scaevola’s body. ‘That feels much better.’ He stared furiously, neck ligaments bulging, at Vibianus and Laurentius. ‘Get that dung heap out of my sight and keep him secured until the Emperor arrives to sentence him to death.’

‘Yes, sir!’ they replied, simultaneously snapping to attention.

‘Which one of you killed the tribune?’

‘I did, sir!’ Vibianus barked.

‘Put yourself on a charge, primus pilus.’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Charge dismissed; now fuck off out of here.’

Vibianus and Laurentius crashed salutes and hurried from the tent dragging Corvinus with them. Vespasian nodded his thanks to Vibianus as they left.

Plautius turned his malevolent gaze onto the two brothers.

‘I saw what happened; I was with the cavalry on the hill. It seems that we have them beaten; they’ll probably ask for terms tomorrow.’

‘They tried to surrender this morning but Corvinus had the envoys murdered,’ Verica said, hobbling out of the sleeping area.

Plautius looked in shock at the old King and then slumped down onto a folding stool and wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘What a fuck-up this is and none of it will be Narcissus’ fault. What’s Claudius going to do now when he gets here apart from have Corvinus executed and march into an already occupied town?’

‘Don’t occupy it, then,’ Vespasian suggested. ‘If it surrenders tomorrow that doesn’t mean we have to march in immediately.’

Plautius paused, frowning, and then broke into a grin. ‘Of course, the fool has never been to war, he won’t know what it looks like. We could just dress up a few prisoners, like Caligula did when he pretended to invade Germania, kill them as we march into the town and then have Claudius take its surrender and he’ll feel that he’s done something glorious. He’ll be happy, Narcissus won’t be able to complain and, more to the point, I’ll be in the clear. I’ll send for him to leave Rome right away.’

‘What do we do in the meantime, sir?’

‘I’ll despatch envoys from the Britons who’ve already come over to us to all the tribes and ascertain which chieftains will be willing to pledge themselves to the fool. Sabinus, I want prisoners for Claudius’ triumphant entry into Camulodunum; take your legion west for a month making our presence fully known and then return here with some captives. The Ninth will now remain here where I can keep an eye on them. I’ve left the Twentieth building a bridge across the Tamesis and securing the southern bank from Caratacus. The Second I’ve left the other side of the river ready to head south. So, Vespasian, it now falls to you and not Corvinus to take Verica back to his capital and then secure the Isle of Vectis so that there’s no threat in your rear next season when you start to push west along the coast; do it by negotiation with the King if you can — we need to preserve our troops. But if that fails then invade.

‘I expect Claudius to arrive soon after the calends of September. I want you back here by then with Vectis secure, Verica in place and your legion established as the main force in the south of Britannia.’