‘It is a small price to pay, brother.’ Caratacus turned back to the circle of kings, and when he spoke the power in his voice grew with every word. ‘I do not ask you to do as my brother and I have done, but I do ask you to forget your grievances; to set aside the blood feuds and the border disputes that have long sapped our strength, and combine with me in one great battle against the enemy. Together we will destroy them, and the vanquished will take the tales of our valour back to their villages and their towns and their cities, and their stories will ring down the generations and ensure no Roman returns to these shores for a thousand years.’
Bodvoc started it. Each man in the circle had his war shield with its personal crest laid out on a frame in front of him. The Regni leader thumped a giant fist against the leather-covered ash in a rhythmic, measured drumming that was taken up by each king in turn. Caratacus saw Epedos hesitate before joining in the rhythm and taking up the chant that now rattled the wooden rafters of the hut. ‘War! War! War! War! War!’
Caratacus waited until they were hypnotized by the steady beat of flesh upon wood, their blood was racing through their veins and the savagery of their shouts was mirrored in their eyes before he raised a hand for silence. He opened his mouth to give orders for the muster. In his mind he had already chosen the sites for the stores of food that would sustain a great army until the harvest. Knew even where he would bring the Romans to battle if the gods favoured him.
‘Am I to be denied my say?’ Adminius demanded.
‘We do not need the words of a coward and a Roman-lover.’ Togodumnus was on his feet, his face flushed with the honeyed ale he had consumed and the battle-rage Bodvoc had inspired. ‘If you want to lick this Claudius’s boots, take your little tribe and go. Leave the fighting to real warriors.’
Adminius rose and would have walked out, but Epedos laid a hand on his arm. ‘Adminius is a king, as we are kings. He is my neighbour, and we have had our differences, but I say he should speak.’
The last thing Caratacus wanted was to allow Adminius to speak, but Epedos was central to his plans. He put a hand on Togodumnus’s shoulder and forced him down. ‘This is a gathering of friends. You are of my blood, Adminius, but even if it were not so you would have your say, though I fear it will not be what we want to hear.’ He gave way to his half-brother with a bow.
Adminius acknowledged the courtesy with a curt nod and rose to his feet. He was smaller in stature than Caratacus and Togodumnus, but with a girth and a pair of greedy eyes that told their own story. Yet his fine clothing and the gold torc at his throat marked him as his brothers’ equal, and when he spoke it was with a ponderous sense of his own dignity. He looked slowly round the room.
‘So we are all friends?’ He paused and took in the puzzled stares which answered him. ‘That will be why Bodvoc here encourages his warriors to steal my grain and take my young maidens for concubines.’ Bodvoc’s face split in a grin of acknowledgement. The Regni chief’s passion for auburn-haired Cantiaci girls was a byword in both tribes. ‘And why the king of the Atrebates allows my friend ’ — Adminius’s voice was slick with sarcasm — ‘Togodumnus to cross his land to raid my northern estates for plunder to repay some disputed debt that we have both long forgotten. And why you, my brother, do not have the will to stop the Trinovante nobles, over whom you claim kingship, from causing havoc with the river trade on the Tamesa that is the lifeblood of my people.’
Caratacus didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Everyone in the room knew it was all true.
Adminius continued: ‘King Caratacus is correct. One thing we can learn from the Romans is unity.’ He paused again to allow his words to sink in to drink-addled skulls. ‘But it is not the only thing.’
Togodumnus gave a growl and would have risen to his feet again if Caratacus hadn’t held him down.
‘It was the Cantiaci and our Atrebate allies,’ he bowed to Epedos, ‘who bore the brunt of the fighting when the Romans came before-’
‘And who’ve forgotten how to fight now.’ Bodvoc belched. ‘Or you’d still have a few more of your pretty wenches.’
Adminius ignored the laughter and continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted. ‘It is we, the Cantiaci, who control trade with Gaul, who provide you with your wine, and the pretty pots and precious oils your wives covet. Therefore it is we who are best placed to understand the Romans, who have had lordship over Gaul for a hundred years and who have brought that land prosperity-’
He was interrupted for a second time by Bodvoc’s growl. ‘If you call prosperity a boot across your throat and six inches of iron in your gullet, then, yes, they have brought prosperity. But I for one can do without that kind of prosperity. Give me a warm hut and a warmer woman any day.’
‘The kings of Gaul no longer live in huts,’ Adminius countered. ‘I have travelled there and I have seen their great palaces, the fine houses of their nobles, and their temples.’
‘Temples for Roman gods.’
‘No, lord king. Not Roman gods. Celtic gods. The Romans are pleased to allow the Gauls to worship their own gods if they wish. Of course, some see benefit in worshipping Mars alongside our own Teutates, Venus alongside Epona, goddess of the horses, but that is their choice. There is no coercion.’
Old Antedios coughed. ‘Yet we hear of Druids abused and imprisoned, even executed.’
Adminius smiled indulgently. ‘Not all Druids are of the calibre of Nuada. Perhaps the Druids as a society have placed themselves above the kings they profess to advise? Even above the gods they profess to serve. Does any of us here not know of priests who have overstepped their position?’
There was a low murmur of assent from Epedos, and even Bodvoc nodded. Caratacus sent an almost imperceptible signal to Nuada, who had listened to the insult to his sect with a face that could have been carved from granite. When the priest spoke, his words dripped with a contempt that stung Adminius more than any blow. He pointed his bear claw at the Cantiaci chieftain and the men on either side of Adminius shifted instinctively away.
‘Before you were born, Adminius, the Druids of Britain were all that stood between this island and a maelstrom of blood and madness. Every petty king and chief of a dozen men or two dozen sheep fought the others for land, or for water, or for gold. No man could till his field without a weapon to hand; no woman was safe, even in her own hut. It was the Druids who wrought order from this chaos, who found the strong men capable of ruling, and who taught them how to rule. Men like your grandfather Tasciovanus, and your father Cunobelin, whose legacy you appear to hold so cheap. It is Druids who preserve the history of our tribes in song and story, Druids who bind the gods to the people, Druids who decipher the skies, without which the crops would fail. Who provide healing in time of plague and counsel in time of strife. Without the civilizing influence of the Druids, Adminius, you would still be living like a cockroach in the cave your ancestors inhabited.’
He paused and looked slowly round the men in the hut until his gaze fell again on the king of the Cantiaci. ‘When I look upon Adminius I see a man driven by the desire not for peace, but for advancement. A man who twists the words and deeds of other men to suit his own purposes, and sees only that which he wants to see. Yes, the kings of Gaul have palaces of stone, but it is the stone we chain to a slave’s neck to prevent him from escaping. Yes, they drink Roman wine, but that wine poisons their minds and influences their decisions in favour of their Roman overlords. The Roman gold that flows into their treasure chests only serves to divide them from their people. Is that the Britain you wish to inhabit, Adminius? A Britain where no man is his own lord and where the only freedom lies in death?’
Adminius shrugged, as if the question were beneath him. ‘I merely point out that Rome is an opportunity as well as the threat you all perceive. It is a poor king who pushes his people towards a war he cannot win, when a few words would lose him nothing but his over-bearing pride and gain him an ally with the power to extend his rule over all Britain.’
No
one in the room had any doubt that the words were directed at Caratacus, who smiled for the first time. ‘Is this the titbit you have come to offer me, Adminius?’ he said softly. ‘Is this the song your Roman friends have taught you to sing?’
‘Do you deny it is your ambition?’
‘I do not deny that Britain has never needed a strong leader more than at this moment.’ He looked to each of the seated figures in turn. ‘Who will unite our tribes and lead them to victory? You, Epedos? You, Antedios? Bodvoc?’
The big man grinned and shook his head. ‘Not me. I have enough enemies already.’
Caratacus continued relentlessly. ‘You? You? You?’ As he challenged each man in turn he felt Togodumnus fidgeting in the seat at his side and willed him to stay where he was. At last, he came to Adminius. ‘And you, Adminius. Will you lead the warriors of Britain in this time of their greatest trial?’
Adminius stared at his half-brother. Was this a trap? Caratacus was offering him what he had always coveted. He had dreamed of uniting the tribes and leading them forward into a new prosperity, longed for the admiration and respect his people would give the king who brought the bright light of civilization into their lives. Then he looked at those who shared the room with him, savage men who ruled by the strength of their swords and the ruthlessness that rid them of rival and enemy. Saw the wolfish, mocking faces waiting for him to speak. And knew his dream was just that. A dream. He shook his head, and everyone in the hut recognized his defeat.
Caratacus accepted his triumph for what it was. He had forced the wild dog back into its lair. Now it was time to throw him a bone. ‘You are correct, Adminius: the Cantiaci understand the Roman way better than anyone else in this room. The Cantiaci will be my eyes and ears in the south. Do you accept this task?’
Adminius nodded his assent, not trusting himself to speak.
‘Then this is the way it will be. Togodumnus, you will…’
It took two hours of hard bargaining before he had his way, but that was to be expected. He was dealing with proud men not in the habit of accepting orders, even from other kings. Epedos had been easier to persuade than he expected, willing to accept his tribe’s role in slowing the Roman advance and avoiding casualties. Caratacus knew the Atrebate leader would have difficulty restraining his men. The British approach to war was victory or death. To order a warrior to attack his enemy then vanish into the trees was like asking a bear to pin down its prey but not tear out its throat. It went against every instinct.
After everyone had gone, he sat with Nuada close to the fire, discussing what was said, and, perhaps more important, what was not said.
‘There are not enough of them, not nearly enough. To stop the Romans we need every warrior south of the Tyne. The Silures and the Ordovici I can understand refusing my invitation, they have no reason to love us, but the Durotriges? Does Scarach believe he can sit behind the walls of that giant fortress of his until they go away? And the Coreltauvi? Do they think the Romans will ignore them because a wall of Catuvellauni dead lies between?’
‘And the Brigantes,’ Nuada said quietly. The Brigantes were the most numerous of the British tribes and held the mountainous north. With the Brigantes at his side Caratacus would have swooped on the Roman columns with the confidence of a hunting eagle.
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged, ‘the Brigantes. Why did she not heed my summons?’
Nuada ignored the question, although he knew the answer well enough. ‘Will Adminius fight?’
‘No,’ Caratacus said decisively. ‘But even though I would give my right hand for the warriors he leads, it suits my purpose. Better to have him watching us bleed from the nearest hill than in the middle of my battle line less than a spear’s throw from my back. However, Adminius is not the only one with doubts. I had a sense of men hiding behind their smiles.’
‘Our scouts tell of groups of warriors riding hard by night,’ Nuada said. ‘Of meetings held where they would not be held by honest men. Wherever these men go the clay that binds us weakens and crumbles a little more.’
‘Then tell our scouts to bring me the heads of these spies, or better still bring me one alive so we can discuss the nature of their meetings and who attended them.’
‘The goddess Epona has been kind to them. The horses they mount are speedier and hardier than our British ponies. They allow our scouts to come close, then harness the wind to sweep them beyond our reach.’
‘Then we must ambush them,’ Caratacus said patiently, as if to an elderly relative. ‘Find some hidden place and set a trap.’
Nuada raised one eyebrow, but otherwise showed no offence. ‘It appears they know the tracks and the forest ways as well as any of our people,’ he replied, with equal patience. ‘Almost as if they were our people.’
A shadow fell over Caratacus’s face. It was not unexpected, but when he thought of his countrymen collaborating with the invaders he could feel the hot coals of a fire smouldering in his belly.
‘Adminius?’ Nuada said.
‘I don’t think so. Not yet. He cannot openly oppose us until he has convinced his tribe we cannot win. He can question what we do, but he dare not act. It is not our enemies I fear, but our friends.’
Nuada opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak a travel-stained figure burst into the meeting room.
‘Lord, forgive me,’ the man gasped, going down on one knee. Caratacus recognized Ballan, his chief scout, but he had never seen the man so agitated.
‘What is it, Ballan?’ he demanded, struggling to keep his voice calm. ‘What brings you to me in such haste that you feel the need to break every convention of the meeting house? Are the Romans upon us?’
‘No, lord.’ Ballan looked up self-consciously. ‘They are still thirty miles beyond the river.’
‘Then we may lie safe in our beds?’
‘But, lord…’
‘Yes?’
‘They have bent a monster to their will.’
Caratacus made the sign and despite himself he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He asked the question, but he did not want to hear the answer. ‘What kind of monster have the Romans bent to their will?’
‘A dragon, lord — a mighty dragon that breathes smoke and fire.’
VI
The Senate was well attended when Lucius Arruntius Scribonianus was condemned. Claudius counted no fewer than nine former consuls from his elevated position above the throng, not to mention the cream of those of senatorial rank, though a few were missing who would normally have been there to witness the spectacle.
He looked down at the shrunken figure who had been dragged before him. What changes six months in prison could impose upon a man, even a proud man like Scribonianus. Claudius had seen men broken in body by torture, but he had never seen anyone quite so broken within. He remembered Scribonianus as a solid, almost portly figure, swelled by his own vision of his importance. Now his features were sunken, the ravages he had suffered written plain on the stark bones of his face. The governor of Illyricum; he had come so close, so dangerously close. With three legions he could have swept down from that place where Strabo said, curiously, that the natives lived in caves beneath their dung heaps, and taken Rome in a day. Only the Praetorian Guard would have stood between Scribonianus and the purple, and Claudius doubted they would have stood for long against twenty thousand veterans.
He realized he’d slumped lower in his seat as his thoughts wandered, and he straightened, attempting, no doubt in vain, to make his features look more imperial. It should not be so difficult; he did, after all, have the blood of Augustus running through his veins. Concentrate. By now Seneca had abandoned wit for bile, and was excoriating Scribonianus as a traitor and a coward. You could always depend on Seneca to frolic at the feet of power like some faithful puppy, ready to beg or roll over at the first sign of a sweetmeat, or cringe if he was shown the whip. He had become a little too familiar of late. Perhaps Valeria Messalina was right and it was time to send him back to Cors
ica?
He wished they would get on with it. Scribonianus looked as if he was going to die of his own accord. Three legions had joined him in the revolt, their officers seduced by promises of loot and advancement. But he had waited too long. Dilly-dallied nervously in his Dalmatian fastness until they sensed his lack of resolve. Still, they might have followed him, but for Narcissus. Claudius smiled to himself. He was always amazed by the brilliant and ruthless intellect hidden behind that benign, almost childlike face. The Greek’s spies had brought word of the revolt almost before it had begun.
Clever Narcissus, who always knew which to bribe and which to threaten. Within a week of his clandestine arrival in Illyricum, the legate of each legion was persuaded his interests lay in supporting the Emperor. Scribonianus was hunted down in a shepherd’s hut as he attempted to flee to the mountains. Since then he had spent each day being peeled of information, one painful layer at a time; friends, relatives, casual acquaintances, fellow conspirators, he had eventually implicated them all. The soldiers, naturally, were safe from punishment. No point in throwing rocks at a hornets’ nest. Those without influence — including, of course, the innocent but expendable — would die forgotten in the mines. But Scribonianus had not acted without allies in Rome, and that accounted for the gaps on the senatorial benches. Claudius was surprised how much the rebellion had unnerved him, yet now his enemies were unmasked he felt more confident; he would be able to face them one by one. They awaited his pleasure. Did that make him strong, he wondered. His grandfather Augustus had been a strong ruler. Tiberius too, in his own way. Gaius Caligula, that poor, insecure boy, had mistaken brutality for strength, fear for loyalty, and had paid the price.
The lictors were gathering now, a dozen for an Emperor, each carrying the fasces, the bundle of wooden rods that marked their master’s imperium and his right to dispense justice. Behind them came his curtained litter, borne by six sturdy African slaves. It was not far to the execution ground, but he never walked when he could be carried. He had been born with one leg slightly shorter than the other. It was something he had learned to live with, but it gave him a clumsy, rolling gait which had always attracted ridicule and was, he thought, unbecoming in an Emperor.
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