Claudius and his aides waited in front of the tent, surrounded by a double guard of Praetorians. At first, Rufus found it difficult to believe this was the same man he had known for four years. The drooling, hunched cripple was gone, replaced by a grim-faced, straight-backed figure who looked every inch a soldier, from the simple legionary’s sandals on his feet to the scarlet-plumed general’s helmet that fitted him like a crown. But this was no ordinary soldier. Beneath the purple cloak that fell from his shoulders he wore a sculpted breastplate of gleaming gold that set him above every other man on the field. The display had a message for all who looked upon it: Rome is here this day, and I am Rome.
Narcissus moved unobtrusively away, and Rufus, sweating not only because of the heat inside his heavy tunic and armour, manoeuvred Bersheba carefully towards the steps set up to help the Emperor mount the elephant. Claudius climbed gingerly into the howdah on Bersheba’s back and Rufus glanced back at the man seated three feet behind him. The Emperor stared into his eyes from beneath the brim of his polished helmet and nodded to indicate he was ready to move. He was struggling to suppress a smile.
Rufus would never forget that slow, deliberate advance towards the front of the Roman battle line. To a man they cheered their Emperor; forty thousand throats opening in unison to hail as Imperator the ruler who had come to fight and, if necessary, die with them. A few years earlier he had been a figure of contempt; now, as he sat straight and proud in his golden armour upon Bersheba’s broad back, he came as close as he would ever do to fulfilling his destiny — to becoming a god.
They had been reluctant to fight for him. Some had come close to mutinying against him. But he had bribed them with gold and with the promise of land, and he had sent them to victory. They knew their enemy now. Knew they had the beating of these barbarians and the Druid priests who sacrificed Roman prisoners to their greedy alien deities. And now he was here, on the soil of Britain, to see them win and to share their glory. They shouted themselves hoarse.
‘Claudius!’
A few feet behind Rufus in the swaying howdah, Claudius felt the power grow in him. It was like the day in the senate, but multiplied a hundred — no, a thousandfold. Imperator. He had never thought to hear the word coupled with his name. But there could be no doubt. Wave after wave of cheers washed over and around him, caressed him like the warm waters of a temperate sea and lifted him until it was as if he were floating far above everyone and everything around him. He wanted to laugh, but kept his face grim. The sternest part of the task was still to come. Would he have the courage to face the enemy and prevail? They were close to the front line now, among the foremost cohorts who would lead the attack, and he could see Plautius frown as he studied the barbarians a quarter of a mile away.
They were spread along the crest of the slope on the far side of the shallow valley that separated the two armies. A vast warrior host that formed a solid wall of defiance. An uncountable swarm of screaming, bare-chested warriors, each more desperate than the next to bathe his spear in Roman blood. To the front were their kings, their arm and neck rings of twisted gold glinting in the sunlight, and beside them the naked champions who would lead their charge. They were too far away to identify individuals, but Rufus could imagine them: huge men, made even taller by long hair formed into bleached spikes by lime wash. The legions who had fought them in the river battles believed they were drugged, so great was their strength and endurance.
He brought Bersheba as close to Plautius as he dared. The invasion commander stood with his scarlet cloak flapping gently in the slight breeze, surrounded by his aides and messengers, the glittering eagles of the legions held aloft by the aquilifers, each identified by the animal-skin headdress that distinguished him from his comrades.
Plautius didn’t say a word. He looked up at the Emperor and their eyes locked. Claudius raised his right hand before dropping it in a sharp, chopping motion. All along the line came the distinctive solid ‘thunk’ as the ballistae hurled their instruments of death towards the barbarian horde across the valley. The big machines, with their catapult-driven bows, fired artillery bolts as long as a man’s arm at a velocity that made them all but invisible to the eye. They called the five-foot arrows ‘shield splitters’ and now those fearsome missiles were being soaked up by the mass of living flesh in front of the trees five hundred paces distant. Volley after volley arced its way into their ranks and Rufus couldn’t believe any man could endure the terror of waiting for the next strike. But the barbarians did not flinch. It was as if the heavy bolts were plunging into a bottomless swamp. Rufus saw the frown on Plautius’s face deepen as he realized his heavy weapons were failing him. He turned to his closest aide and murmured an order which the man passed on to the cornicen behind him. The harsh, spiralling tones of the attack call echoed across the field, raising hairs on the neck of everyone who heard them.
It was time for the legions.
And Bersheba.
‘Forward.’ The order came from within two feet of him, but Rufus couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He turned to stare at Claudius, hoping he’d misheard. But the Emperor waved a bejewelled hand impatiently towards the enemy. ‘I said forward. But not too quickly. We don’t want to reach the barbarians before the troops.’
Automatically, Rufus gave Bersheba the signal to advance, but his brain was turning somersaults and his stomach seemed to be somewhere close to his knees. This wasn’t meant to happen! You’ll be in the centre of the line, Narcissus had said, safe among the headquarters troops. Bersheba would be a figurehead, nothing more. Now the figurehead was past the Roman artillery and ambling slowly behind the long, neat ranks of the assault force. The attack proceeded at a steady, deliberate pace made fearsome as much by its ordinariness as by its discipline. Unlike the savages who waited for them, these soldiers were not driven by hatred or revenge. They were professionals doing a job of work. They knew some of them would die, but, like killing, that was part of the job. The screams of defiance from the barbarians gained in volume as the attackers’ remorseless march brought them within bowshot of the archers ranged in front of the main British force.
A single flight of arrows darkened the sky and dropped towards the leading ranks, who hunched their shoulders like men caught in a shower of summer hail. Not a man faltered and Rufus wondered at the good fortune that had brought the soldiers through such a missile storm. Claudius saw the arrows fall and prayed to Mars to see him end this day safely. He had heard the phrase ‘death or glory’ often enough and had always sneered at the ridiculous sentiment it expressed. But now he was experiencing the reality and he felt nothing but exhilaration. It was madness, but a divine madness. He was brave. How he wished old Augustus were here to see him. Narcissus had been right. Eternal glory awaited the Emperor who personally led his troops to a victory. They could never take this away from him. He felt a lightning bolt streak across his left temple and thought for a moment he had been struck by an arrow. But there was no pain and no blood. The only difference between now and what had gone before was that he was different. He looked out upon the world from the swaying back of the elephant and experienced a clarity that was… yes… that was godlike. That set him apart from other men. He had always known the blood of gods ran in his veins, but had never thought to feel their power. His blood did not flow; it fizzed like the foaming torrent at the foot of a mighty waterfall. His heart didn’t beat, it thundered. And when he filled his lungs to breathe it was with the force of an ocean tempest. He laughed with the insanity of it. He was in a battle. This was what Divine Julius had felt; what had made Augustus great. It changed everything, for ever. Never again would he have to hide the true Claudius behind a mask. Never again would he have to play a part. He was no longer Claudius the actor. He was Claudius — the war god.