‘Other imperatives.’ Narcissus dropped the words into the silence.
‘If the blood of a single legionary of the Second is spilled unnecessarily as a result of your “other imperatives”, spy, I shall give his comrades the pleasure of watching you die slowly on a cross.’ Vespasian’s words were threatening, but his voice was more controlled now. ‘What other imperative can there be but the destruction of the barbarian forces and the bringing of civilization to this benighted land?’
‘The imperial imperative,’ Narcissus said simply.
The four legates turned from Narcissus to Plautius, who sat back in his padded chair, thinking deeply. He looked up to find them watching him.
‘I have dispatched a message to the Emperor Claudius in Rome calling for reinforcements. The message states that, defying all nature, the British tribes have united against us and have forced us to a halt. It further states that other British forces are active in our rear and threaten our lines of supply. It is my belief that the Emperor will act upon this communication and send another legion to our aid.’
For a moment there was a puzzled calm, before the full impact of his words came home to the four officers. They all started to speak at once.
‘But… none of this is true,’ spluttered the legate of the Ninth, an elderly politician forced on campaign by his wife’s ambition to be the spouse of a consul.
‘We have the barbarians at our mercy,’ Sabinus pointed out. ‘Our supply chain may be stretched, but I have heard nothing of any attacks.’
The legate of the Twentieth shook his head. ‘No, this cannot be. We require no aid. Victory is certain.’
‘There is more to this than is at first apparent.’ Vespasian stared at Narcissus. ‘It will take weeks for another legion to reach Britain from Rome, if a legion is available in Italy. More likely the Eighth will need to march from Dacia. By the time this unnecessary reinforcement arrives we won’t have to attack the Britons, they will have died of old age.’
‘The Eighth legion will join us in ten days,’ Plautius said steadily.
‘Pah! A legion cannot fly. It would take five of those days to reach us from the coast and that at a forced march.’ Vespasian’s voice was thick with disbelief. ‘I mean no disrespect to you, Commander, but what you say is impossible.’
‘You mean you think I have gone mad.’ Plautius smiled his eagle’s smile. ‘Yet what I say is true. The Eighth will land at Rutupiae on the Kalends of July and we will not attack until after that auspicious day.’
‘But how?’ Vespasian shook his head in confusion. ‘I do not understand.’
‘Because I sent the message requesting reinforcements several weeks ago.’
‘But that was…’
‘A few days after we landed on the soil of Britain,’ Plautius confirmed. ‘As soon as I could be reasonably certain of our progress and success.’
‘This is madness.’
‘Not madness, my dear Legate.’ Plautius nodded towards Narcissus who stood by the doorway, his face expressionless. ‘Politics.’
‘We will attack Caratacus on the day the Army of Plautius becomes the Army of Claudius,’ the Greek said quietly.
‘The Emperor…?’
‘That is correct, gentlemen. The Emperor will assume command of the army in ten days. You have ten days to prepare your forces. Ten days to ensure your Emperor the triumph he needs to be proclaimed Imperator and to enshrine his and your places in history.’
Now they all saw it. Victory. A triumph. Imperator. Conspiracy was what won an Emperor his throne, but these… these were the currency that allowed him to keep it.
They were interrupted by a commotion at the doorway, where a rotund, richly dressed Celt swept in as if the pavilion belonged to him, with two large bodyguards at his back. The small man stared contemptuously around the room until his eyes fell upon Narcissus.
The Greek smiled a welcome. ‘May I introduce Adminius, king of the Cantiaci, and half-brother of the British leader Caratacus. He has a multitude of reasons to hate his brother and I believe he has news which may be of interest to you.’
XX
Four days after the meeting by the river, Claudius lay beneath a bright awning on the wide deck of his galley and tried to ignore the interminable creaking of planks and ropes. It was well past the fourth hour after dawn, but all he could see was grey. Grey sky, grey mist, grey sea. All the same dull, uniform grey. How he yearned for the familiar multihued contrasts of the Mare Nostrum; the deep blue and the aquamarine of the waters and the stark, glistening white of the sands. The journey had been long and tedious, but the captain assured him they would soon reach the shores of Britain. He felt a faint thrill of apprehension. What awaited him there? It had all seemed so simple when Narcissus had explained it, but weeks of interminable boredom had given him ample opportunity to explore every avenue of failure. There were so many, and each of them seemed inevitably to lead to his death. He tried to suppress the habitual tingle of panic. Whatever the next few days brought, he must retain that spirit of absolute confidence with which he had set out for the Senate that day five weeks ago; the day when he had truly become an Emperor.
He remembered each detail as if it were cast in stone. Messalina had been visiting her artistic friends, but his niece Agrippina had been there with the boy, Nero, when the messenger arrived. Sweet Agrippina was so attentive these days, always with some new tonic that calmed his nerves or helped him sleep. There were two messages. The first, from Plautius, bore its dread news of obstruction, failure and potential defeat. Callistus presented it with grave ceremony; the chamberlain already knew its contents, which would soon reach the ears of the palace servants and from there, inevitably, the streets, where rumour of disaster would spread like flame within a summer-dry thicket. The second was from Narcissus and was in a simple coded cipher which had been developed for just such confidential correspondence. This told the true situation, which filled Claudius’s heart with hope.
‘Callistus, prepare my chair and call an emergency session of the Senate.’
He had kept his face suitably grim as he made the short journey from the Palatine to the forum. As his bearers reached the foot of the Clivus Palatinus he could see that a crowd had already gathered among the marble columns and the gleaming temples along the Via Sacra. The steps of the Domus Publica and the frontage of the House of the Vestals nearby were packed with staring, wide-eyed faces. Of course the mob would be aware of some impending crisis, but he ignored every shouted call for information. Instead, he admired the perfect proportions of the temple of Divine Julius and paid a silent tribute at the little shrine to Venus Cloacina. Then he was there, in that hallowed place. The Senate House.
Why was it only here that he truly felt like an Emperor; when he was faced by his rivals, his enemies and his detractors? Look at them, dewy-eyed and solemn, yet every one of them exulting in his discomfort. Each ready to take what advantage they could from his dilemma. Why, Galba was even snivelling like a child, no doubt lamenting the greatest military disaster since Varus lost his legions among the swamps of the Teutoberg forest. Well, let him snivel. It was difficult to keep from feeling smug. No. The mask must not slip. This was his time. Remember. The performance.
He looked out over the rows of tiered benches and felt the power rising in him, his brain taking on the icy sharpness of the surgeon’s scalpel. He kept his face immobile, and as the seconds stretched into minutes the fat backsides filled with aristocratic blood began to fidget on the worn white marble. Let them wait. The gods had given him a gift to offset the disabilities and the humiliations they had heaped upon him at the moment of his birth, but they had hidden it well. Only Augustus, that most prescient of Emperors, had recognized it. Had seen that, while Claudius dribbled and stuttered like the most ill-starred lunatic when confronted on equal terms by anything born of mortal woman, he was still capable of charming, seducing and convincing when he spoke to an audience. What had the old man written to his grandmother? Oh yes. The pompous, growling voice filled his head as if he were mimicking it. ‘Confound me, dear Livia, if I am not surprised that your grandson could please me with his declaiming. How in the world anyone who is so unclear in his conversation can speak with such clarity and propriety when he declaims is more than I can see.’