He had provided Plautius with a great army, more men than the general would ever need to subdue the semi-civilized portion of the island they required for Narcissus’s subterfuge. Four legions — the unstoppable champions of an Empire. Surely Plautius must have defeated the British tribes by now? He was ready. Had been ready for weeks. It only required that single performance in the Senate, perhaps the most important performance of his life. He must stand up before his enemies and persuade them, against their better judgement, of the righteousness of his cause. Was the actor up to the challenge? Would the mask hold in place? He expected to feel the knife-twist of fear, but all he experienced was the warm glow of expectation.
‘Tell me again about Rome. Is it true a man would take an entire day to walk from one wall to the other? And that the buildings are like our mountains?’
Rufus tried to keep his eyes open. It had been like this for hour after relentless hour. Caratacus was insatiable in his quest for knowledge. The answer to one question would give birth to a dozen more, and they a dozen more in their turn. He felt as if his head had been squeezed until every crumb of information lay on the small table they had taken their meal upon what seemed like hours earlier. He nodded, although he suspected the Briton knew a great deal more about the imperial capital than he gave away. ‘It is true.’
‘And the hill where the Emperor has his palace? The Palatine?’ He ran the word Palatine around his mouth as if he were testing it for poison.
Rufus nodded again.
‘If he has all this, accepts tribute from so many great cities — Carthage, you said; I have heard of this Carthage — and is the overlord of so many peoples, what does he want with us poor Britons? Everything he would wish from us we would be happy to give him, for a reasonable price. Why does he send four of his mighty legions to lay Caratacus low?’ The warrior stared at Rufus from under low brows, and the young Roman realized he wouldn’t escape with a one-word answer.
‘He believes Prince Verica has been wronged and has guaranteed him the return of his kingdom,’ he said, repeating what Verica had told him. ‘If you would only agree to this, I am sure the legions would withdraw. I think the legates wish nothing more than a speedy return to Rome, and Aulus Plautius knows it.’ He tried to inject as much sincerity into his expression as he could manage, given that he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying.
‘Pah,’ Caratacus spat. ‘Verica! I would not make Verica the king of a dog kennel, and neither would your Claudius. I know this now. The man you have described to me is not a fool, and only a fool would believe Verica worthy of a throne. Your Emperor may be crippled in body, but he knows how to wield power, and to survive. There is more to this than Verica. Why did Claudius send this Aulus Plautius to do his fighting for him?’
Rufus frowned, trying to remember whether they had gone down this path before, but there had been so many different paths he couldn’t tell. He shook his head. ‘Emperor Claudius is a great man, but he is no warrior. I could not imagine him on campaign.’
‘Then why has the Emperor sent his elephant, his most treasured possession, on this perilous mission?’ the British king demanded triumphantly.
Rufus opened his mouth to reply. He’d been asking himself the same question for the last month and he was no nearer an answer now than when he started. Caratacus noticed the slight hesitation and gave him a calculating look. ‘Enough for now. I will think on it and we will discuss it further in the morning. I wish to know more about these invincible legions of yours. I have had a hut prepared for you and a sleeping mat. You will be guarded there, but it is for your own safety. Rome has no friends in this place.’ He called out and two burly warriors armed with long spears appeared in the doorway.
Rufus went to them, but before they left the hut, he turned to Caratacus. ‘Why did you burn those prisoners? You do not seem a cruel man.’
The king looked at him for several long seconds. ‘Do your people not send messengers to the gods?’
‘No, I do not believe so.’
‘My people do, and we have never needed the wisdom of the gods more than we do now.’
‘Am I to burn, then?’
Caratacus’s eyes were in shadow, so Rufus could not see the message in them. The long hesitation again. ‘We shall see.’
Rufus struggled to find sleep. Whenever he closed his eyes his mind filled with flames, and in the flames writhing, twisting shapes that might have been human. Instead he lay awake and used the time to go over his discussion with the king, attempting to divine some overall purpose or pattern to the remorseless probing. Initially, Caratacus had confined his questioning to Bersheba, her role in the campaign, and Rufus’s part in preparing her for it. On the first point, Rufus had been able to supply limited information, for beyond parading her for the morale of the troops there seemed no good reason for her being here. On the second, he cheerfully expounded on the intricacies of looking after his enormous charge, her habits and her moods, the gentle, almost motherly compassion that was her most dominant characteristic, and the deep intelligence that confounded any who witnessed it. Staring into the dark, he wondered how she was faring without him. Was Britte managing in his absence?
Later, the Catuvellauni had moved to the subject of the legions. What were their strengths; did they have any weaknesses? How had they defeated Togodumnus’s ambush force with such savage ease? Their tactics?
Rufus supplied what information he could, suppressing an unease that sometimes made him squirm in his seat. He knew he was guilty of betraying his comrades, but the alternative was too terrible to contemplate. He was a slave. No one was paying him to suffer and die for Rome. There would be no land or pension for Rufus, the elephant keeper, at the end of his service. He wanted only to get back to his family, and the only way to ensure that was to give Caratacus what he wanted.
When he was satisfied he knew as much as Rufus about the column’s forces, the Briton turned to the subject of Claudius. What kind of man was he? How long had he been in power? Did his people fear him? Love him? Respect him? Then he threw Rufus off balance by switching back to the legions. Did their short swords not make them vulnerable? After all, look at his own sword. He drew the blade of polished iron from its richly decorated bronze scabbard with a threatening metallic swish. This, he explained, was merely a decorative toy he wore on ceremonial occasions to impress uncultured brutes like Bodvoc. It had been made by a Gaulish craftsman who had visited Camulodunum five years before and was counted the finest in all Britain. But look, it easily outreached the little — what did he call them? Gladius? — the little gladius, it was heavier and had a fine edge; surely in open battle it must prevail?
Rufus wasn’t certain, but from what he had heard among the legionaries, the secret was in the amount of space allowed a man in a fight. He told Caratacus how the shield wall had held the attack on Bersheba and of the dreadful carnage the ‘little swords’ had wrought on the tribesmen.
Caratacus frowned. ‘Yes, I see it,’ he said after a moment’s thought. ‘My people are warriors. They fight as individuals, for that is where their power lies. Each man is confident in his own strength and in the war skills he has learned from childhood. He goes into battle knowing that with the gods’ aid he will overcome any enemy. But your Romans, they are soldiers. They fight as a unit, each man supporting the other. They have a discipline that I could never impose on my people. We are not like you.’
Always, though, he would come back to Claudius, and increasingly to his relationship with the invasion commander Aulus Plautius. What was the army’s prime objective? After all, if it was only to restore Verica to his undeserved throne, they could have camped around the Atrebates’ capital at Calleva, declared Verica king and dared any man to challenge him. Was there dispute between Plautius and the legates of the four legions? Who was the strongest of them? What of his character? Was Plautius operating independently or did he wait for instructions from Rome?