It took the whole tribe — men, women and children — an entire season to build. A wide ditch backed by an earthen bank five times the height of a man was constructed across the western approach to the settlement. It was three miles long and linked the river which formed the southern boundary of the site with an area of impenetrable marshland, and, when the marsh ended in firm ground, carried on to intersect with the line of a second river in the north. When it was complete, nature and man had combined to create an unbroken barrier that separated the Trinovantes from their enemies to the west and the south. In the coming years they would add others, stronger still. When danger threatened, the tribe streamed in from the surrounding countryside to seek sanctuary behind walls that would be lined with warriors prepared to die to hold them.
This was what faced the Romans.
At noon the following day Plautius had his army drawn up just beyond bowshot of a single gateway in the long grassy mound that split the land straight as a sword blade as far as the eye could see. The legions were in battle formation, with the cavalry on the flanks holding their nervous mounts in check and the auxiliary units in reserve to the rear. Rufus took pride of place in the centre, astride Bersheba, her ceremonial armour gleaming and the howdah on her back ready for the Emperor.
The ranks stirred as a single tall figure rose from behind the rampart to stand at its peak, to be joined by others, until dozens, then hundreds and finally thousands, lined the crest. A faint rattle ran through the legionary lines as the soldiers automatically tightened their grip on their weapons and their muscles bunched in anticipation of what was to come. But there was something unnatural about these enemies. Where was the screaming and posturing of the earlier battles? Where was the menacing clatter of spear on shield? Instead, they stood in silence, staring down at the legions in frank curiosity.
Finally, the great gate opened, and the legionaries tensed anew as a single chariot drawn by two chestnut-brown native horses hurtled from within the walls. It careered in a tight circle, the bare-chested driver parading his skills as the finely muscled warrior who was his passenger stood casually erect beside him. The golden torc round the warrior’s neck showed his high rank and his long blond moustache flowed in the breeze as he studiously ignored the enemy who waited only yards away. The charioteer skidded to a halt in the broad meadow midway between the legions and the wall — and waited. Within seconds the first chariot was followed by a second, then another, and another, until twenty of the two-wheeled vehicles formed a guard of honour leading towards the gate.
Behind him, Rufus heard Narcissus say quietly: ‘Great Caesar, I give you Camulodunum.’
XXXIX
The preparations for the surrender of Britain began immediately, but it would take time to bring together the men — and the woman — who would give Claudius the total victory he had bought at so high a price. Narcissus could rightly have taken his place in the Emperor’s retinue with a dozen aides at his beck and call, but the Greek set up his tent among the staff of the Twentieth legion, where the comings and goings of his British messengers invited less comment. There were other reasons for his choice of quarters.
‘I would be safer dining with Caratacus himself than the political peacocks who have followed my master here,’ he complained when Rufus visited him that night. ‘With him, at least, I would know where the knife had come from and I could drink my wine without wondering if it had been flavoured with hemlock.’
The legions had created a great tented camp close to one of Camulodunum’s enormous ramparts and the engineers of the Twentieth were busy preparing the ground for the permanent fortress they were to build on a rise a mile to the east above the river’s bend. In many ways the British capital was a disappointment to the men who had fought so hard to reach it. They thanked their soldiers’ gods that the Emperor had at least spared them the last battle, but they had expected a mighty fortress, or a city worthy of a king and therefore worthy of their efforts, where they could reap the traditional soldiers’ rewards of women and wine. But all they found was a piece of the island much like any other. A gently rumpled blanket of greens and browns that faded away into the shimmering, hazy blue of the middle distance, the skyline above pierced by the smoke of an occasional cooking fire. The only settlement worthy of the name was on the hill beside the bend in the river where the barbarian craftsmen had their homes and workshops. Otherwise the landscape was populated by small, scattered groups of roundhouses, each accommodating a few families who lived side by side with their cattle, hogs and sheep amid well-maintained fields protected by hedges and banks and connected by paths and droveways.
Only Narcissus seemed satisfied. ‘A capital is not just a place where kings and princes dispense their rule,’ he explained. ‘It is a symbol; a symbol of power. Claudius now has that symbol in his grasp. He came here to conquer Britain. As far as Rome is concerned, Camulodunum is Britain. If he has this, he needs nothing else. Oh, he will get the rest in time: gold from the west, whatever the northern wilderness has to provide; even Caratacus. But that is the future. Camulodunum and the surrender of ten of this country’s rulers will guarantee his immortality.’
They began to straggle in over the next day. Adminius was the first to arrive, heralded by the raucous blare of a British war horn, full of his own importance and eager to ensure his service against the Dobunni was not forgotten. The principles for the gathering had been set by Narcissus, with each delegation limited to fifty in number, including advisers, priests and warriors. Rufus noticed without surprise that the king of the Cantiaci had dispensed with religious or political counsel and that the band which followed his chariot along the colour-splashed avenue of legionary standards and banners to the camp consisted entirely of his tribe’s champions, their shields freshly painted and their weapons polished silver bright.
Cogidubnus made them wait. He lingered for a day before he made his entrance, as relaxed with his new Roman name as he was with the promises he had already prised from Narcissus: the guarantee of his kingship and the subsidies and trading rights that would make him the richest man in the new province. His bodyguard numbered less than thirty, and, as Rufus watched them ride in, he saw with a shock that Verica’s murderer, Gavan, was at their head. The black-browed warrior grinned and raised a fist in mock salute as he rode past, but his compatriots were as alert as cats and their eyes never strayed far from the royal contingents who had preceded them. Including Adminius, these now numbered eight. Bodvoc was there, but the strength that had made him so formidable had been gnawed away by the parasitic doubt that breeds deep in the heart of the defeated. Rufus saw Cogidubnus staring with the hungry eyes of a winter-starved wolf and wondered how long it would be before the Regni found a new ruler.
Only one other war band drew Rufus’s attention. They trotted in an hour before Cogidubnus, every man well horsed on one of the little British ponies and with sword and spear at the ready. Something about the way they sat their ponies placed a single word in his head. Iceni. These were Ballan’s people. Their queen was stationed half a length behind her much older husband, who must be King Prasutagus, heir to dead Antedios. Rufus studied her as she rode past. She wasn’t beautiful; even if the fierce expression she wore ever softened, her features were too strong to be described as pretty. A heavy brow and a nose that might have been Roman. But striking? Yes. Her tangled mane of russet hair and the queenly way she held herself caught the eye the way a more beautiful woman never could.
Nine kings and one queen. But not the queen Narcissus had expected or wished for.
As the sun rose towards its noonday peak the Greek visited each of the British compounds in turn to present the Emperor’s compliments and pass on his instructions for the following day. Everything had been prepared. The Twentieth had constructed hut circles in the Celtic style so that the vanquished should at least have familiar surroundings as they came to terms with their new status. They had felt the power of the legions; now they would discover the benevolence of their n
ew ruler before they were introduced to the realities he imposed. Cogidubnus would have his Roman citizenship and his subsidies, but he would still be subject to Roman taxes. Prasutagus would be free to trade the horses for which his tribe was justly famed, but his far-spread lands would be shackled by Roman roads and his every movement studied by Roman watchtowers. The minor tribes would pick the crumbs like little brown sparrows from the Emperor’s table, but they too would have a price to pay. To each of the kings, Narcissus presented a suitable gift from his Emperor — a matched set of drinking cups fashioned from gold and fixed with precious stones; a king’s ransom — and each courteously accepted it in his own way. But for two.
The first surprised him. Prasutagus of the Iceni seemed an amenable man and a pragmatist who was aware of the new reality. But when he saw the first glint of gold as the goblets were unpackaged the king frowned and the hand he reached out was quickly withdrawn as the leather curtain that split the hut behind him was pulled back. Narcissus glanced up to find two unsettling green eyes staring at him from beneath a tangled crown of red hair.
‘We will take your gold, Roman, but do not think you can buy us with it,’ Boudicca of the Iceni announced dismissively. When he left the hut the Greek realized he had learned something. He thought he had seen it in every form, but now he knew the true meaning of hatred.
The second was Adminius. The Atrebate chief’s face lit up when he recognized the quality of Claudius’s offering, but, with an effort that was blatantly obvious to an experienced dissembler like Narcissus, he quickly replaced it with a look of pained disappointment. ‘I had expected more for my services than a few pots and pans,’ the Briton sniffed. ‘Surely the man who killed Togodumnus should have Togodumnus’s lands and Togodumnus’s possessions. It is our way. Our tradition.’
During the time he had spent with Verica, Narcissus had absorbed every piece of information he could glean about British ways and traditions, and he knew with certainty they were not Adminius’s way. He also knew that Adminius hadn’t killed Togodumnus. But the Briton was a king, and kings must be humoured. ‘I apologize for the poor quality of the Emperor’s gift,’ he said in a voice heavy with irony that was wasted on the Cantiaci. ‘Perhaps we can find some other thing among his treasures to replace it?’
Adminius saw the glittering trophies before him fading to be replaced by some obscure, unwanted relic. ‘No, no. That will not be necessary. I am happy to accept the Emperor’s bounty, but…’ Narcissus pursed his lips. With men like Adminius there was always a but. ‘When Togodumnus died… when I killed him… he wore a token of our father’s favour. It is of no great significance, but I value it for my family’s sake. In the heat of battle and with my enemies around me I had not the time to recover it from him, but now..’ He shrugged. ‘I had thought to claim it as my reward.’
Narcissus almost laughed. The words ‘of no great significance’ dripped from Adminius’s lips honeyed with sincerity, but he had never heard a more naked lie. What could Cunobelin have given Togodumnus that ambitious Adminius coveted enough to risk pleading for its return? And what value would another place on it?
‘Tell me more about this… token?’
The Greek remained a further twenty minutes with Adminius, and, when he left the Cantiaci king, altered his planned route to visit the compound of the Atrebates, where any spy — and Narcissus was not the only spy among the legions — would have noted that he spent almost twice as long as he did with any of the other British rulers. When he completed his tour he returned to his tent. And waited.
He’d hoped that Cartimandua would arrive with her retinue as they had agreed, but his dealings with the queen of the Brigantes had taught him that nothing was straightforward as long as there was an advantage to be gained from it. In a way she reminded him of himself, and that gave him a respect for her that didn’t extend to her fellow barbarians. So when the rider was brought to his tent bearing greetings from his queen, he welcomed him with the courtesy he would extend to an imperial envoy. The messenger was a grizzled warrior with a nose horribly split by an old sword cut. Narcissus had met the man before — indeed had trusted his life to him on the long ride north to the meeting that had driven the wedge between Cartimandua and Caratacus — so was happy to dispense with the guards who normally attended such meetings.
‘Please, sit.’ He smiled. ‘I had expected your lady, Queen Cartimandua, but I see she has been delayed. Not some ailment, I pray? If so, I will see that she is attended by the Emperor’s physician himself.’ The messenger shook his head and Narcissus smiled again. The offer had been a double-edged sword. Cartimandua’s illness would have to be grave indeed before he entrusted her to Scribonius Largus.
The envoy cleared his throat and repeated the message he had obviously learned by rote. ‘Should the queen of a free people take her place alongside a rabble of the defeated and the cowed? The Atrebates and the Regni, the Cantiaci and the Iceni may have bent the knee before Roman swords, but not the Brigantes, who are a proud nation and happy to contest that pride with any. If we are to be a bulwark between the wild savages of the north and the west and the civilizing influence you bring’ — there was an edge to the words ‘civilizing influence’ that made them an insult, but Narcissus chose not to notice — ‘then we should be recognized as an ally and given an ally’s place — and an ally’s rewards.’ So there it was. He had misjudged her. The guarantees of military aid and the promises of an annual tribute he had given were not enough. She was like all the rest of these people: greedy, avaricious and duplicitous. But the envoy was not finished. ‘If the lady Cartimandua is to come here to accept the Roman peace, she must have something to set her apart, something of great value, from the Emperor’s own hands.’
Narcissus closed his eyes; he was wearying of this island and these barbarians, but he felt a flare of relief. This, at least, could be straight-forward. Cogidubnus had been remarkably forthcoming when he had discovered Adminius’s interest in the ‘insignificant token’, particularly when Narcissus hinted that he would be happy to return it to the Cantiaci ruler. Something of great value? Why not, if it would bind her to the Roman cause? Was it even possible that Cartimandua had heard of the brooch; was aware of its potential?
‘Your lady will have her gift, and it will set her apart from all men on this island, you have my promise.’
‘From the Emperor’s own hands?’
‘From the Emperor’s own hands,’ Narcissus confirmed. ‘A thing of great worth and great beauty that was precious to the rebel Caratacus.’
Mention of the Catuvellauni king’s name made the envoy’s eyes widen and the Greek realized he might have underestimated the value of this thing that every Briton wanted to own.
When Cartimandua’s messenger had left, he settled down to work on the final details of the following day’s ceremony. He had only been writing for a few minutes when he heard a warning challenge from outside the tent. The flap opened to allow a burly figure to enter. He looked up. So his informant had been correct. How many surprises could a single day hold?
XL
They were gone. At first Rufus was puzzled, but puzzlement was quickly replaced by concern, and then by outright fear. He looked out over the sea of tents, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gaius’s red hair, but saw nothing he recognized. He called out, praying they were close, but his only reward was blank stares from the other slaves. ‘Has anyone seen my son?’ he asked. ‘Has anyone seen Gaius? Or Britte, the German woman?’
Eventually he found an ox driver with the information he needed. ‘The big lass? She went off with the boy out thataway.’ He pointed towards a distant wood about a mile beyond the fortress wall. ‘Maybe she’s got a boyfriend?’ He sniggered, making Rufus want to smash his teeth into his throat.
He set off at a trot towards the distant shadow of the forest. There was no sign of the pair between the fort and the trees. Gaius he could lose among the tall grass, but not Britte, who would have stood out like a harvester’s cart in
a hayfield. Why would they leave the safety of the encampment? Britte knew the dangers well enough. This was a conquered land but there were many in it whose spirits remained unbroken. The indignities they had suffered were more than enough to prompt them to seek easy revenge from a Roman slave girl or a Roman child. The thought made him increase his speed.
He was halfway to the trees when the sharp sound of hoofbeats on the hard-packed earth made him turn. A faint prickle on the back of his neck told him he wouldn’t like what he found. He was right. Five of them, Britons dressed in rough shirts and trews; hard men with warrior-scarred knuckles and blank, compassion-free expressions. All but one. Gavan was in the centre, wearing the same sneering grin he’d worn when he’d just sliced Verica’s head from his shoulders. Hand never leaving the hilt of his sword, Cogidubnus’s executioner slid from his pony and walked forward until Rufus was close enough to smell the rank odour of his unwashed body. He stared into Gavan’s eyes and there was no mistaking the menace there. His mind swiftly went through his options. Running wasn’t one of them. The ponies would cut him off before he got a dozen yards. He was unarmed. No, he was almost unarmed. He reached for the little blade he used to trim Bersheba’s feet. Gavan laughed and drew his sword. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, with the speed of a lightning strike, Gavan feinted left, making Rufus jump back, which brought another guffaw of laughter from the big man. Rufus watched him, reading his face for the sign that would betray his next move. He was content for the Briton to play all day if he wanted. At least he wasn’t killing him.
The oldest of the horsed warriors shouted something to the man on the ground. Advice on the etiquette of execution? A polite suggestion to hurry the murder along so they could go back to their women and their beer? Whatever it was it had its effect. Gavan hefted the sword in both hands and spat out a string of words in the British tongue. Rufus tightened his grip on the knife. He recognized a single word in the long sequence: Togodumnus. At the same time Gavan reached up and touched the simple brooch that held his cloak at the neck. The brooch! Rufus cursed; the golden brooch he’d thought he’d hidden so well. Cogidubnus had learned of it and now Cogidubnus wanted it. Had he taken Gaius and Britte as hostages for its return?
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