Claudius r-2

by Douglas Jackson

  Narcissus read the look Rufus gave him. Perhaps he had underestimated the boy? There was a decision to take here, but for once he was reluctant to take it. He didn’t like many people — had none he would call a friend — but he had come to like the keeper of the Emperor’s elephant more than most. They shared secrets that went back to Caligula’s assassination, and further. And he always seemed to find a use for him. Besides, the young man enjoyed Claudius’s confidence, and who else would look after the Emperor’s elephant?

  ‘Cogidubnus.’

  The word filled the space between them and it grew until Rufus felt as if it were forcing him out of the leather-walled tent.

  ‘Cogidubnus leads the Britons we face. The same Britons we have faced in each of the three battles. Verica was the price of his co-operation. Now do you understand?’

  Rufus shook his head. What the Greek was saying sounded like insanity.

  Narcissus nodded. Very well, further explanation was deserved. ‘I have studied war, and the more I read the more I understood how much chance plays a part in it. Even the most carefully planned campaign contains an element of risk. When Emperor Claudius donned the purple he brought many qualities to that office, qualities which even I had not recognized in our many years together. It was apparent to those who worked closely with him that he could be a very great Emperor indeed. Yet it was equally apparent it would take a great deal of good fortune if he were to be allowed to give Rome the leadership it deserved after Caligula. His detractors in the Senate outnumbered his supporters, and those detractors saw none of his strengths but all of his weaknesses. We became aware of some of the plots and were able to circumvent them. But it was clear that it was only a matter of time before one of them succeeded.’

  He took a long draught of well-watered wine before continuing. ‘To survive, Claudius needed the unequivocal support of the army. The only thing the army respects is strength. The most obvious way to show strength is to lead them to victory. Which brings us back to war — and chance. Throughout my studies one name stood out again and again, but I didn’t see its true potential until I stumbled upon Verica’s letter.’

  ‘Britain?’

  ‘Yes, Britain. The same Britain which Divine Julius invaded, but never conquered. The Britain which promised so much, but delivered so little. The Britain where the friends of Rome — like Verica — were ridiculed, driven out or murdered. Verica told of a Britain more divided than in Julius’s time. Not only were the tribes in constant conflict, but certain of the leaders were secretly pro-Roman. Adminius, of the Cantiaci, had traded with his Celtic brethren in Gaul and had travelled there, as far south as Lugdunum. He had witnessed the might of Rome, but more important he had seen the prosperity that peace with Rome could bring. He had tasted Roman wine, bathed in Roman spas. Now he wanted more: the public buildings, the games and the sumptuous villas that the kings of Gaul enjoyed as their right.’

  So Narcissus had dispatched Verica back to his native land and the fragile mortar that bound the Celtic tribes first cracked, then crumbled away.

  ‘He returned with secret documents that pledged the true allegiance of the coastal tribes to Rome. The Cantiaci, the Atrebates and the Belgae would make a show when it was required of them — they could not entirely dismiss the wrath of Caratacus and Togodumnus — but they would not fight. Verica also brought news of those who would provide the key to Britain: the Druids.’

  Rufus flinched. ‘I have been closer to Druids than I ever wish to be again. I have no love for them, but I do not think they would be easy to corrupt.’

  Narcissus made a gentle tutting sound. ‘Corruption is such an ugly word. I do not corrupt. I impress. I seduce. I convince. I persuade. I may occasionally purchase and I sometimes even suborn, but I never corrupt. The reason? Those who are corrupted once will undoubtedly be corrupted again, and who is to know who will be the corrupter? But to return to the point: the Druids. They are the cement that binds the peoples of this island. As a group, they are revered — it is still a great honour for a young man of good family to be taken in and trained by them in their dark ways — but Verica’s chatterings unwittingly revealed their weakness to me. They believed themselves to be above kings and princes. They were arrogant. They were overbearing. They were disliked, even hated, by those who were jealous of their power. And now I had the names of the jealous and the names of the slighted. With names I was able to unearth further weaknesses and so I was able to separate the priests from the kings, and destroy their influence among those who mattered.

  ‘It was never my intention that Verica should die.’ He stared hard into the flames of the torch outside the tent and just for a moment Rufus believed him. ‘If he had proved capable of ruling, or even capable of discretion, he might have lived. But I had to be certain of victory, and Epedos was my guarantee. Only he had the will to oppose Caratacus. Only he had the strength to persuade his warriors to withdraw from the battle line at the crucial moment. Only he had the power to use the gifts I gave him to build a new army, an army that would posture, but not fight. Verica was the price he asked, so Verica had to die.’

  He gave a sad, almost boyish smile that reminded Rufus of the one Cupido had used to disguise the reality of his life in the arena.

  ‘It all went to plan until the first battle after the Tamesa. Claudius was meant to awe the Britons by the magnificence of his presence on mighty Bersheba, the Emperor’s elephant, safe within our own lines. Instead, he convinced himself he was a warrior. When I heard him order you forward I came close to fainting away and I swear by Jupiter that Plautius almost had a seizure. It would only have taken a single arrow to destroy everything. All my fine plans brought to nothing by the divine madness of the man they were devised to serve.’

  ‘So the invasion is just one giant deceit?’ Rufus’s voice betrayed his indignation. ‘Thousands of lives placed at risk — my life and Gaius’s, and Bersheba’s — so you could have the satisfaction of engineering a victory and a triumph for a man who deserves neither.’

  ‘Not deceit, diplomacy. Thousands of lives, perhaps hundreds of thousands, placed at risk not for one man, but for the security of the Empire; for the security of a million lives and more. Would you rather Vinicius sat in place of Claudius on the Palatine, or that Gallus or Galba wore the purple of Caesar? I would not have done it if I didn’t believe the Emperor was capable of something those others were not. Of combining prosperity and peace. Of making Rome truly great again instead of the giant beast decaying from its very heart that we both know it is.’

  Rufus could barely believe what he was hearing. ‘You call this peace — a land filled with ghosts? If you truly believe so, you are as blind as poor Verica. It is barely a week since we walked among countless dead men who fell defending what was theirs. But at least they died for something that was worth fighting for. Can you say that of the legionaries of the Second Augusta, or the Batavian river rats?’

  Narcissus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not talk to me of sacrifice. I have dedicated my life to Rome.’ Rufus snorted in disbelief and the Greek gave him a dangerous look. ‘Those men died for Rome, just as I would die for her. Just,’ his voice went cold, ‘as you would die for her, elephant man, the moment I decided the time was right. Never forget that I hold your life in my hand, not once, but twice, and the lives of Aemilia in Rome and your children too.’

  Rufus had felt the anger rising in him, the way a flame grows in a well-kindled fire, and with the threat to his family a red curtain blurred his vision. His hand swooped on the sword at his belt and drew it clear of its scabbard. ‘Then take it if you can, Greek,’ he said, his breath rasping in his chest. ‘But before I die I will ensure you will never be a danger to anyone again.’

  Narcissus came to his feet, his face pale with fury, and for a second Rufus thought he would reach for the sword hanging from the tent pole at his side. His grip tightened on the gladius.

  ‘Guard!’

  Rufus didn’t bother to turn. He tensed to launc
h himself at Narcissus before the man could reach him.

  ‘Guard? My friend requires more wine. Bring another jug of the Falernian.’

  The tent flap fell back and Narcissus let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. ‘I apologize for the threat to your family. I allowed anger to cloud my reason.’ He shook his head. ‘It has never happened to me before. There is so much at stake and I am so very tired. I am no soldier, Rufus. I want nothing more than to return to Rome and to serve my Emperor. Sit… please.’

  Rufus hesitated for a second. He knew how dangerous Narcissus could be. But there was something about the Greek he hadn’t noticed earlier. He looked worn, worn threadbare as the old cloak a rich man passes down to his slave. He sheathed the sword and took his place again on the rickety camp stool.

  ‘Believe me, Rufus, that Emperor must be Claudius,’ Narcissus continued. ‘You saw what happened in the days after Caligula’s death. The Empire was on the very cusp of a civil war that could have destroyed her. Without Claudius there might be no Rome. Earlier you accused me of engineering a triumph and a victory for a man who deserved neither. Think back. When you and he joined the attack on the Britons was he not brave? He did not have to march with his legions, he chose to. Can you, who faced the enemy beside him, say there was no danger? All it needed was a single bow, bent double with the strength of fear, to fire its arrow a few yards further than intended and Rome would have been left without an Emperor. Men died in that battle, Rufus. They died unintentionally, but that does not make them any less dead. Tell me now that Claudius does not deserve his triumph.’

  Rufus remembered the moment the sky was turned black by arrows and the thrill he had felt when the Emperor had stood high on Bersheba’s back and urged his legionaries on to victory, to immortality. Engineered or not, there were no guarantees on a battlefield. He shook his head wearily. ‘No, I cannot deny it.’

  Narcissus stroked his nose, the way he did when he had some unpleasant information to impart. ‘The Emperor has one final task for Bersheba. At Camulodunum.’

  XXXVIII

  The tip of Bersheba’s trunk swept over Rufus’s body in swift, desperate little circles, stopping here or there to pluck at some interesting part of his clothing that might contain what she sought. Eventually, she gave up her search with a tiny groan of frustration and fixed him with a dewy, walnut-brown eye that filled him with guilt.

  It had been days since he’d run out of the sweet, moist-fleshed apples and he had been so busy doing Narcissus’s bidding that he had never been able to find time to seek out a new supply. What made it worse was that she had never deserved them more. The Emperor’s elephant was cheered wherever she went in the Army of Claudius. The bravest would touch her wrinkled skin for luck as she passed, and when they went into battle they knew that with Bersheba at their sides they had Fortuna’s favour.

  The legions had trudged eastwards from the site of the Emperor’s last victory, until they were a day’s march from the final piece in the complicated jigsaw that would give Claudius his place in history: the fortress named for Camulos, the British war god. Camulodunum had been the capital of the Trinovantes until Cunobelin of the Catuvellauni had claimed it for his own. Now it was the capital of Cunobelin’s son, Caratacus, but he was far away in the west, with Vespasian’s Second legion on his heels and a ragtag army of fugitives at his back. Every day spawned a rumour that the British king had been taken and there was word of a great siege at a place called Mai-den.

  Rufus smiled to himself. He had more important things to concern him than the fate of kings or the fall of mighty fortresses. Where would a slave find a reliable source of sweet apples in a land stripped bare by the quartermasters of four legions? He reached into the bullock cart, now free of Bersheba’s golden armour, which had taken its rightful place among Claudius’s imperial treasures, and found the cloth bag that normally contained the elephant’s favourite treat. He picked it up. Strange. It was unexpectedly heavy. He grinned. Maybe he had missed an apple after all.

  But, when he fumbled inside, what he found in his hand was more valuable than any fruit. It was a brooch and, judging by its weight, a brooch of pure gold. It was round — slightly less than the diameter of his clenched fist — and the workmanship was as fine as he had ever seen. In the centre was the partially complete emblem of a charging boar, with a fiery red stone for its eye. The stone flashed and glittered in the sunlight as he turned the brooch to study it. On the outer circumference of the metalwork were what he assumed to be words, but in a script that was indecipherable to him: short vertical and horizontal strokes in columns and groups, occasionally joined as if some wading bird with wide-spread toes had walked across them. It was beautiful, and undoubtedly worth a fortune. He felt a thrill run through him. Suddenly freedom wasn’t the slow death he had feared. With the money he could get for this in Rome he could set himself up in business — even rent a small house. He knew a goldsmith out by the Appian Gate who wouldn’t cheat him too much. But where had it come from? He cast his mind over the past few days. His first thought was that the brooch might be a reward from the Emperor, or more likely Narcissus, for his services over the past weeks. But the reward he had already been promised was his freedom, and Gaius’s.

  And it would be unlike the Greek to have slipped such a great prize amongst his belongings with so little ceremony. The Narcissus he knew would have made an occasion of its presentation, and ensured that Rufus was bound all the closer to him. So, not Narcissus. Who then?

  A vague memory stirred, like the reflection of a cloud drifting across a faraway lake; a scene played out behind a veil of exhaustion at the end of a death-weary day of awful carnage and limitless fear. He saw a corpse covered by a green cloak and another man crouching over it, then rising, triumph written over a face that had aged ten years in an afternoon, ivory teeth shining in a dusty mask. Frontinus. In his hand he held the heavy golden torc of a British chieftain. A wonderful object made up of five thick woven strands of gold. At each end of the torc was a ram’s head the size of a small plum, and between them a golden chain that had secured it round the dead man’s neck.

  ‘This will buy me a fine wife and a fine position in Rome when my service is done. I will be able to represent my people there and perhaps even influence the Senate on their behalf. See how heavy it is. But wait.’ The Batavian prefect gave a little half-shrug, half-smile, that made him look very young. ‘You killed this man, who is Togodumnus, brother of Caratacus. The reward must be yours. Here.’

  Frontinus had held out the torc, but Rufus could see he was offering it out of politeness. He couldn’t take it. ‘No. If anyone deserves a reward it is you, who held the line with your courage and your presence. Keep it and use it well.’

  Frontinus’s face had broken into a wide grin. ‘Then at least you must have something. This,’ he held up one of the smaller arm rings Togodumnus had worn, ‘or this…’ But Rufus had already waved a weary hand and turned away. All he truly wanted was rest.

  Now he looked down at the brooch in his hand. It was the one Togodumnus had worn at his throat. Frontinus must have waited until he was distracted and placed it in the bag. And there was something else about it, something familiar…

  ‘That is a pretty trinket.’

  Rufus hurriedly replaced the brooch in the cloth bag and looked up to find Narcissus studying him. ‘It’s nothing. Just a piece of rubbish I picked up on the field.’

  The Greek’s smile didn’t waver. But Rufus was certain he didn’t believe the lie. Narcissus was a man who knew the value of everything down to the last sesterce. Claudius’s aide shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but I suspect it will be most helpful once you have your freedom.’

  That word again, that twisted his heart with both terror and hope.

  ‘You will have your freedom, Rufus, and soon. I have spoken to the Emperor. Once we have captured Camulodunum, you will take the Emperor’s name, Tiberius, and you will be a freedman, just as I am, with a freedman’s rights and a freedman’
s liberties.’

  Rufus sucked in his breath. Words like ‘rights’ and ‘liberties’ were not ones a slave heard often, unless it was someone else’s rights and someone else’s liberties. He struggled to place the words into a context that meant something in his regimented, sharply defined world. And failed. It would come, but first there was a reality to face. ‘Is Camulodunum truly as mighty as they say?’

  Narcissus’s fathomless blue eyes met his for a moment. ‘No place is strong enough to hold against a Roman legion. But I think you will find that Camulodunum is like no other fortress.’

  It was unique in Britain, and perhaps the whole world. A hundred years before, or more, a beleaguered Trinovante king had demanded of his closest counsellors how he could protect his people and their cattle in a land with so few natural advantages. The Trinovantes were many, but their warriors were few. Their neighbours, the Catuvellauni, were strong and took what they wanted. It was the way of Britain. If the king could not stop them, he would be a king no more. The advisers deliberated and discussed, they wandered the land and looked, and looked again, but all they could see was woods, and rivers and bottomless swamps. Men could take refuge in the woods or escape down the rivers to the sea, but the king already knew that. The advisers were ready to give up. But one of them, not a warrior, but a thinker, looked at the landscape in a different way and found an answer.

  The walls of Camulodunum.