Before they left, Frontinus approached him. ‘I will ensure Bersheba is kept safe. But I believe you should reconsider accompanying this man. You have served well today, and served enough. Be sure Vespasian will know of your valour.’
Rufus shook his head wearily and tried to explain. ‘I don’t have any choice, Frontinus. Narcissus is right: Verica and I are the only people who can identify Caratacus. Whether he is dead or alive could make a difference to what Plautius… what the Emperor decides to do next. It could save lives, and I’ve seen enough lives spent today.’
On the way to the bridgehead they passed the newly constructed marching camp of the Twentieth legion. Not even a battle could spare a legionary from the back-breaking effort of building a secure base for the night, but Rufus noticed there were many fewer men working on it than there would normally be; a testament to the casualties the Britons had inflicted.
As they travelled, Rufus and Verica swapped stories about the events of the previous twenty-four hours. It was apparent that Narcissus had already heard the Atrebate’s tale a dozen times, but he was interested in Rufus’s stand alongside the Batavians.
‘Frontinus and his men are to be honoured for the river crossing, and you may include yourself in their renown. You did well, Rufus, you and Bersheba, and be sure the Emperor will know of your actions. The Batavians would have been relieved sooner if our crossing had gone to plan, but the Britons surprised us. They always seem to surprise us.’
He told how, even though they had been unnerved by Vespasian’s appearance on their flank, a combination of Regni and Iceni warriors had reacted with a speed and suicidal courage that had set the Roman forces back on their heels.
‘They died where they stood and they won their leaders enough time to bring up reinforcements who should have been pinned in place by Plautius’s attack. The bridge crossing was poorly executed and not pushed with the kind of drive the Emperor would have expected. But Vespasian did not panic. He hoarded his resources until the very moment they were required. It was also King Verica’s moment.’ He nodded acknowledgement to the Atrebate.
Rufus thought there was something odd in the way Narcissus kept repeating ‘King’ Verica, but the recipient of the title didn’t appear to mind and he interrupted hurriedly, keen to offer his own version of events. It was as if he were composing a song that would be sung in his hall at Calleva. ‘Three times they came, and three times we held them. The massed ranks of the Regni, the Iceni and the Durotriges; a solid wall of warriors half a mile wide and a hundred paces deep, and every one a champion.’ Narcissus shot the Atrebate a sideways glance. He had seen the bodies of twelve-year-old boys among the dead. Brave fools, perhaps. Heroes even. But not champions. By the time the excitable Verica was done there would probably be fifty thousand of them. Still, the boy must be allowed his hour of glory. ‘That was when the tribune Gnaius Hosidius Geta approached me. “Prince Verica,” he said. “Your valour is hailed throughout the army of Claudius. Accompany me on a mission of the utmost peril.” So I attached my riders to the cavalry who screened the flanking march of the fourth and fifth cohorts. By now the enemy had stopped to draw breath before the final assault which would annihilate Vespasian and the Second. They were arrayed before us, all unawares, like a covey of partridges before a hungry fox, and like a fox we fell upon them.’
Narcissus interrupted. ‘The idiot should be dead.’
‘Who? Verica?’
‘No, Geta. A sensible commander would have made a demonstration and retired. Instead, he sent his men against an enemy who outnumbered them ten to one. Verica saved him when he persuaded the prefect commanding the auxiliary cavalry to charge with the infantry. And Vespasian, of course. He took full advantage of Geta’s suicidal folly and attacked the Britons just when they thought he was finished. They’d taken heavy casualties themselves and that charge broke them.’
‘They ran like chickens, and we slaughtered them.’ Verica drew his sword and slashed the air around him. ‘And now I am a king again.’
‘They were your people,’ Rufus pointed out quietly. ‘Not your tribe, but your people.’
The young Atrebate shrugged. ‘I told you once before, there was always going to be a price to pay. I will ensure it was worth paying.’
By the time they reached the foot of the low hill above the river where the rearguard of the Catuvellauni had made their last stand it was full dark, and shadowy figures moved among the fallen warriors.
‘Where there is carrion, you will always find vultures,’ Narcissus complained. He hailed a decurion who was passing with a section of men from the Twentieth. ‘Clear this looter scum away and bring me torches. Quickly now. We are on imperial business.’
When the decurion had completed his task Narcissus led the way among the anonymous dead. ‘Don’t fear, they are all harmless. The Twentieth made sure of them hours ago, and if any survived the looters will have seen to them.’
The flickering torches cast an unearthly light across the battlefield, illuminating slack-jawed faces deformed by the manner of their owners’ passing and reflecting dull eyes that would never see again. Rufus was struck by the commonwealth of death. A few hours earlier these men had been divided by riches and status and strength, but now they were all equal. There were no chiefs giving orders, or nobility to pass them on. No bards to sing of valour, or Druids to commit their deeds to memory. These were shadows of men, and he did not fear them, for today he had also walked in the shadows and he felt only a brotherhood with them.
Of one thing he was quickly certain: they would never find Caratacus’s body here. More of the dead faces were hidden by darkness than not and Narcissus hurried among them, giving the occasional corpse a cursory glance and often not even bothering to turn over those of obvious rank. Rufus thought it extremely unlike the Greek, who was normally fastidious to the point of obsession, but he left it to Verica to complain.
‘How can I identify him when you don’t give me the chance to look at them?’ the young Briton demanded. ‘Wait, here’s one who’s the right build.’
Narcissus ignored him and kept moving until he reached the rear slope of the hill, where he stood with his torch raised. ‘This is where the survivors withdrew. If he isn’t on the hill, he will be down here.’
Rufus exchanged a puzzled glance with Verica. Was it any more likely the British leader had died among the trampled bushes and spindly rowans than with the main body of his men? Narcissus edged his way carefully down the darkened slope and Verica made a face as he and Rufus followed.
Down here, the bodies were less numerous and Narcissus’s interest in the individuals suddenly revived. Now he was at his most painstaking, turning the likeliest corpses over and putting his torch close to their blank-eyed faces. They passed close by the rowan coppice where, although Rufus could not know it, Ballan had earlier rescued the raped girl. Surprisingly, one of the two Roman legionaries who had been butchered by Caratacus’s bodyguard still lived, though a sword had taken a slice from his skull, along with an ear and part of his right shoulder. To ensure he would never rape again, one of the guards had thoughtfully removed his manhood and at the same time ripped open his belly, tearing a terrible ragged gash that left his bowels exposed. He knew none of this. All he knew was pain. Thrice he had regained consciousness during that interminable day of agony and thirst. Thrice he had prayed he was dead and in the halls of his gods. Thrice he was disappointed. Now he lay, more dead than alive, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. But he was sure he could hear voices, and the suffocating blanket of his torment was pierced by a single reality. Voices meant people. People meant a merciful end to his suffering. He tried to cry out, but his tongue filled his mouth like a gag. He wanted to weep, but even that privilege was denied him. He dozed for a while, if such a living death could be called dozing, and when next he woke the voices had been replaced by another sound. A gentle snuffling and a rustling of leaves. It came closer and he felt something touch his face; whiskers and a cold nose. He was transported
back to his childhood and the faintly reassuring memory of some animal, perhaps a pet dog, licking his face. The snuffling went away and he sensed the animal inspecting his lower body. Now his puzzlement turned to concern.
Without warning, the dog fox and his vixen began a vicious, snarling skirmish for possession of the dying soldier’s entrails, ripping the long strings of offal clear of his belly cavity. From somewhere deep inside, he found the strength to scream.
Rufus half turned at the sound, instinctively reaching for his sword. He was about five or six paces behind Verica, who cheerfully ignored the agonized cry and walked on, reciting his plans for rebuilding his capital. The young Atrebate’s path took him a yard closer to the stand of rowans and Rufus noticed a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. It was almost pretty, a spark arcing from a winter fire; a singing half-circle of torchlight reflected on polished metal. Verica’s blond hair twitched and his head spun six inches upwards from his shoulders and dropped with a sharp thud at Rufus’s feet. For a long moment the boy’s body stood upright as if it wasn’t sure it was actually dead; then a dark fountain of heartblood erupted from the severed neck and it toppled forward on to its chest with an audible thump.
Rufus’s sword was still midway out of its scabbard, but he allowed it to stay exactly where it was. ‘Do not make a move or a sound. Your life depends upon it.’ Narcissus’s voice was very quiet and very persuasive, but not as persuasive as the dagger point that pricked at Rufus’s throat. Very carefully, he allowed the sword to slide back home.
Two Britons stepped from the shadows into the torchlight. The first of them, a hulking dark-haired brute with eyes set too close together and a face fixed in a permanent sneer, wiped his bloody sword clean on the cloak of the decapitated torso, and stooped to pick up Verica’s head by the long blond hair he had been so proud of. He inspected the dead prince’s face, which wore a look of surprised indignation as if he were annoyed that his speech had been interrupted. When the warrior was satisfied he had the correct victim he delivered the head to the second man, who was tall and slim and wore his nobility like a badge of honour. He had sharp, almost fox-like features and a severe expression that might or might not have been his natural demeanour. The intricately worked gold torc at his throat would have kept a family of equestrians for a year.
Narcissus withdrew the knife from Rufus’s neck. ‘May I introduce Epedos, now undisputed and unchallenged king of the Atrebates?’ The noble nodded gravely at the sound of his name. ‘And this, lest I miss my guess, is Gavan, his bodyguard, or perhaps his executioner.’ The brute’s sneer turned into an evil gap-toothed grin. Narcissus added something in the sing-song language of the Britons, and Epedos replied in the same tongue.
‘King Epedos and his people have lately become allies of the Emperor and friends of Rome. He tells me he has decided to take a Roman name, Tiberius Claudius Cogidubnus, in honour of his meeting with the Emperor.’ Narcissus smiled. ‘He is certain of great rewards for his remarkable diplomatic gifts and his even more finely honed sense of timing.’
Epedos/Cogidubnus stared at Rufus. When he spoke again, the melodic rhythms of his native tongue took on a harder edge and Gavan’s grin grew broader.
‘The king believes we should kill you,’ Narcissus explained, before replying with a similarly jagged-edged burst of incomprehensible syllables. Rufus tensed and allowed his fingers to drop towards the hilt of his sword, which drew a barking laugh from the bodyguard. Narcissus laid a hand on Rufus’s arm. ‘I have said no.’
With a last suspicious look, the warrior and the king of the Atrebates withdrew into the cover of the trees, still carrying Verica’s severed head. Rufus allowed his shoulders to slump. ‘Why?’
‘Why did I bring you here? It’s quite simple. Verica was becoming suspicious. He would never have accompanied me into a darkened battleground alone. He only agreed when I told him you would be with us. He thought you were his friend, you see.’
Rufus resisted the urge to vomit. ‘No. I meant why did he have to die? Epedos was not the only… friend of Rome.’ He heard the Greek’s feet shuffling among the fallen leaves and turned round. Was Narcissus feeling guilty? No, he was kicking piles of leaves together to camouflage Verica’s headless corpse.
‘There was always a price for our commitment to Verica, he understood that. He told you himself he was prepared to sacrifice anything for what he wanted. The truth is that Verica had become an embarrassment. Rome needs strong allies. He would never have been able to hold his kingdom against men like Epedos and Adminius. Better a dead hero than a live problem — and what is another body on a battlefield? In any case, King Cogidubnus insisted.’
Rufus took a deep breath. Just for a moment Verica’s laughter filled his ears, the arrogant, smiling face taunted him, and he felt a compelling need to kill Narcissus. It didn’t last, as he knew it wouldn’t. He would fight for his life — give his life even — for his son. But he was no executioner. Somehow that knowledge made him feel cleaner. He turned, and he could see in Narcissus’s face that he knew.
The Greek waved a languid hand and two more dark figures separated themselves from the shelter of the rowans. Each held a short bow with a notched arrow at the ready and Rufus recognized one of them as Hanno, the Syrian archer who had saved him from Dafyd. The little man grinned, showing white teeth against the brown of his skin.
‘I never like to take chances,’ Narcissus said enigmatically. ‘We have work to do, you and I — and the Emperor’s elephant. Tomorrow we will honour the living and the dead. The following day we will fight another battle.’
He turned away, and the two Syrians trotted close behind, leaving Rufus alone with Verica’s body. He said a silent prayer to whichever gods would listen, to carry the Briton’s spirit to the Otherworld. When he was done, he walked into the night with his mind in shadow and his heart filled with dread. He was to fight another battle. Bersheba’s battle.
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.
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