Romans. And they were walking on water.
XXVII
Claudius had never liked tents. True, this was more of a silken palace, with its six separate rooms, wall hangings of golden cloth and a raised floor covered with soft rugs — even a small shrine where he could pray to his ancestors for the success of this enterprise — but it was still a tent. He had been brought up in real palaces. Monuments of stone and marble that gave a man a feeling of security and superiority. A tent could be blown away by a puff of wind, and no one, not even an Emperor, could do anything about it.
Still, he was better housed than the comitatus, the gaggle of consuls and senators who accompanied him and who had grumbled all the way from Rome; a thousand miles of whining and complaint. Most of them had served in the army at one time or another, but you would never have believed it. The food was ‘bad’, the accommodation ‘uncomfortable’, the latrine facilities ‘unacceptable’. When he had pointed out that they ate a hundred times better than the legionaries packed into the stinking transport ships bobbing a mile upwind, they had sniffed and replied that they were representatives of the Empire, and not mere plebeians who had been brought up to expect nothing more than slops and discomfort.
The fleet had landed on a wide beach on the south-east coast of the island and they had made their leisurely way here, a day’s march south of the main army encamped at the river. He had been nervous at first, there was no denying it. But his confidence had grown with every mile they advanced north and west through a landscape cleared of any threat. There had been no need to hurry; Narcissus had arranged everything. The legions of Plautius’s force would do their duty and — though they did not know it yet — their Emperor would arrive in the hour of their triumph, dispense the honours their valour had won them, and lead them onwards to the final conquest of Britain.
Nothing he had seen on the march had changed his attitude to the place he had decided should be Rome’s greatest conquest. It was a miserable country, with none of the grandeur even of Gaul, which was hardly memorable itself. Green, yes, verdant even, but poor. He had seen nothing but poverty. The people lived in mud hovels and worshipped gods who drank blood. Well, he would change that. He would give these people civilization whether they wanted it or not.
A small desk had been set up for him and his secretary had placed on its rosewood surface the papers he couldn’t escape even on campaign. It was after midnight, but the Empire wouldn’t run itself. Vitellius would keep those thieves and vagabonds in the senate as honest as they would ever be, but the important decisions would be made here. He signed the order which finally authorized a start on the harbour at Ostia. Picked up another from the pile. Hesitated. One scroll had been placed discreetly to one side. He knew what it was. Knew who had sent it. Didn’t want to open it, but knew he must. He reached for it and noticed his hand was shaking. The stiff parchment between his fingers felt somehow unclean. He knew it was his imagination, but the thought persisted as he unrolled it and pinned it to the desk. The trembling increased. It was worse than he had imagined. How could she think this would go undetected? Even if his own spies hadn’t been watching her, someone would have informed him. Agrippina had warned him of what was happening, but oh, Messalina, not in public, and not with him.
‘General Plautius is here, Caesar.’
He straightened and drove all thoughts of Valeria Messalina’s infidelity from his mind, unpinned the scroll and turned it face down on the desk. He would deal with it later. Plautius marched briskly into the tent with two of his aides. The invasion commander was burned brown by the sun, and the weathering of his skin emphasized the lines in his face and made him look more like a startled eagle than ever. His expression was cold, but his eyes held a message that made Claudius’s heart quicken.
‘Welcome, General.’ He waved a hand towards a pair of couches set by the wall of the tent. ‘You must be tired. Bring the general some wine.’
They sat in silence for several moments, each man taking the measure of the other. They were related, distantly, and Plautius had quietly supported Claudius through the years of trial under Caligula. In the interim he had excelled in his governorship of troublesome Pannonia. His reward was command of the invasion of Britain and an honoured place in history.
‘Are the barbarians defeated?’ Claudius already knew the answer, but some questions had to be asked.
Plautius shook his head. ‘Not yet, Caesar. But I can assure you victory will not be long delayed.’
‘Yet you are here, on the eve of battle, a battle which could be decisive — the outcome of which could be… fatal.’ To both of us. He didn’t say it. Didn’t need to. ‘Are you so confident?’
Plautius nodded, not arrogant — he was too astute for that — but assured. ‘My forces are disposed. My orders are given. My men are in good hands. And my enemy’s doom is certain. So, yes, I am confident. By the time you reach the river the battle will be won and, if the gods will it, I will present you with this Caratacus’s head.’
‘And it will be a great victory?’
‘A victory worthy of the Army of Claudius.’
‘And after?’
Plautius stared. He was giving this man the triumph which would place him beside Julius Caesar in the ranks of Roman heroes and still he wanted more? Yes, he thought, of course he wanted more. The more battles won, the more the glory, and the more glory, the more secure his position. And every Emperor craved security above all things.
‘Afterwards, you will lead us to more victories and your valour will rank above any Roman’s since Romulus made Rome the greatest city the world has ever known.’
‘Then a toast.’ Claudius raised his golden goblet. ‘To victory.’
‘To victory.’
Victory was far from Rufus’s mind. The only thing that concerned him, as he steered Bersheba through the darkness towards the encamped enemy, was survival. Each of Frontinus’s centuries was guided across the broken country north of the river by one of Adminius’s bands of Cantiaci warriors. The prefect was understandably wary of his new British allies, but the column made steady progress through the night and they halted two hours before dawn in a forest a mile from the crossing point. Frontinus called Rufus forward to a small clearing where his officers gathered for a conference at which Adminius did most of the talking. The Batavians created a tent wall around the clearing to mask the torches that lit the forest floor where the Cantiaci king used his sword to sketch out the enemy positions among the leaves.
‘Caratacus is here, in the centre.’ He circled a low mound close to the line of the river. ‘His forces are stretched to the east and west of his position, from the Atrebates and the Regni here at the farthest point downstream, to the Dobunni farthest upstream, here, less than two miles from us. I have selected a defensive position for you at this point,’ he jabbed with the sword, ‘where a line of cliffs runs down towards the river. There is a gap about three hundred paces wide. I was told this was the ground you would need.’
Frontinus nodded. He knew that if Adminius had chosen the wrong position they would all be dead before morning. ‘It will do.’
‘The cliffs can be climbed, but only with difficulty. Any attempt to flank you will take more time than Caratacus can afford.’