‘It was never my intention that Verica should die.’ He stared hard into the flames of the torch outside the tent and just for a moment Rufus believed him. ‘If he had proved capable of ruling, or even capable of discretion, he might have lived. But I had to be certain of victory, and Epedos was my guarantee. Only he had the will to oppose Caratacus. Only he had the strength to persuade his warriors to withdraw from the battle line at the crucial moment. Only he had the power to use the gifts I gave him to build a new army, an army that would posture, but not fight. Verica was the price he asked, so Verica had to die.’
He gave a sad, almost boyish smile that reminded Rufus of the one Cupido had used to disguise the reality of his life in the arena.
‘It all went to plan until the first battle after the Tamesa. Claudius was meant to awe the Britons by the magnificence of his presence on mighty Bersheba, the Emperor’s elephant, safe within our own lines. Instead, he convinced himself he was a warrior. When I heard him order you forward I came close to fainting away and I swear by Jupiter that Plautius almost had a seizure. It would only have taken a single arrow to destroy everything. All my fine plans brought to nothing by the divine madness of the man they were devised to serve.’
‘So the invasion is just one giant deceit?’ Rufus’s voice betrayed his indignation. ‘Thousands of lives placed at risk — my life and Gaius’s, and Bersheba’s — so you could have the satisfaction of engineering a victory and a triumph for a man who deserves neither.’
‘Not deceit, diplomacy. Thousands of lives, perhaps hundreds of thousands, placed at risk not for one man, but for the security of the Empire; for the security of a million lives and more. Would you rather Vinicius sat in place of Claudius on the Palatine, or that Gallus or Galba wore the purple of Caesar? I would not have done it if I didn’t believe the Emperor was capable of something those others were not. Of combining prosperity and peace. Of making Rome truly great again instead of the giant beast decaying from its very heart that we both know it is.’
Rufus could barely believe what he was hearing. ‘You call this peace — a land filled with ghosts? If you truly believe so, you are as blind as poor Verica. It is barely a week since we walked among countless dead men who fell defending what was theirs. But at least they died for something that was worth fighting for. Can you say that of the legionaries of the Second Augusta, or the Batavian river rats?’
Narcissus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do not talk to me of sacrifice. I have dedicated my life to Rome.’ Rufus snorted in disbelief and the Greek gave him a dangerous look. ‘Those men died for Rome, just as I would die for her. Just,’ his voice went cold, ‘as you would die for her, elephant man, the moment I decided the time was right. Never forget that I hold your life in my hand, not once, but twice, and the lives of Aemilia in Rome and your children too.’
Rufus had felt the anger rising in him, the way a flame grows in a well-kindled fire, and with the threat to his family a red curtain blurred his vision. His hand swooped on the sword at his belt and drew it clear of its scabbard. ‘Then take it if you can, Greek,’ he said, his breath rasping in his chest. ‘But before I die I will ensure you will never be a danger to anyone again.’
Narcissus came to his feet, his face pale with fury, and for a second Rufus thought he would reach for the sword hanging from the tent pole at his side. His grip tightened on the gladius.
‘Guard!’
Rufus didn’t bother to turn. He tensed to launch himself at Narcissus before the man could reach him.
‘Guard? My friend requires more wine. Bring another jug of the Falernian.’
The tent flap fell back and Narcissus let out a long sigh and closed his eyes. ‘I apologize for the threat to your family. I allowed anger to cloud my reason.’ He shook his head. ‘It has never happened to me before. There is so much at stake and I am so very tired. I am no soldier, Rufus. I want nothing more than to return to Rome and to serve my Emperor. Sit… please.’
Rufus hesitated for a second. He knew how dangerous Narcissus could be. But there was something about the Greek he hadn’t noticed earlier. He looked worn, worn threadbare as the old cloak a rich man passes down to his slave. He sheathed the sword and took his place again on the rickety camp stool.
‘Believe me, Rufus, that Emperor must be Claudius,’ Narcissus continued. ‘You saw what happened in the days after Caligula’s death. The Empire was on the very cusp of a civil war that could have destroyed her. Without Claudius there might be no Rome. Earlier you accused me of engineering a triumph and a victory for a man who deserved neither. Think back. When you and he joined the attack on the Britons was he not brave? He did not have to march with his legions, he chose to. Can you, who faced the enemy beside him, say there was no danger? All it needed was a single bow, bent double with the strength of fear, to fire its arrow a few yards further than intended and Rome would have been left without an Emperor. Men died in that battle, Rufus. They died unintentionally, but that does not make them any less dead. Tell me now that Claudius does not deserve his triumph.’
Rufus remembered the moment the sky was turned black by arrows and the thrill he had felt when the Emperor had stood high on Bersheba’s back and urged his legionaries on to victory, to immortality. Engineered or not, there were no guarantees on a battlefield. He shook his head wearily. ‘No, I cannot deny it.’
Narcissus stroked his nose, the way he did when he had some unpleasant information to impart. ‘The Emperor has one final task for Bersheba. At Camulodunum.’
XXXVIII
The tip of Bersheba’s trunk swept over Rufus’s body in swift, desperate little circles, stopping here or there to pluck at some interesting part of his clothing that might contain what she sought. Eventually, she gave up her search with a tiny groan of frustration and fixed him with a dewy, walnut-brown eye that filled him with guilt.
It had been days since he’d run out of the sweet, moist-fleshed apples and he had been so busy doing Narcissus’s bidding that he had never been able to find time to seek out a new supply. What made it worse was that she had never deserved them more. The Emperor’s elephant was cheered wherever she went in the Army of Claudius. The bravest would touch her wrinkled skin for luck as she passed, and when they went into battle they knew that with Bersheba at their sides they had Fortuna’s favour.
The legions had trudged eastwards from the site of the Emperor’s last victory, until they were a day’s march from the final piece in the complicated jigsaw that would give Claudius his place in history: the fortress named for Camulos, the British war god. Camulodunum had been the capital of the Trinovantes until Cunobelin of the Catuvellauni had claimed it for his own. Now it was the capital of Cunobelin’s son, Caratacus, but he was far away in the west, with Vespasian’s Second legion on his heels and a ragtag army of fugitives at his back. Every day spawned a rumour that the British king had been taken and there was word of a great siege at a place called Mai-den.
Rufus smiled to himself. He had more important things to concern him than the fate of kings or the fall of mighty fortresses. Where would a slave find a reliable source of sweet apples in a land stripped bare by the quartermasters of four legions? He reached into the bullock cart, now free of Bersheba’s golden armour, which had taken its rightful place among Claudius’s imperial treasures, and found the cloth bag that normally contained the elephant’s favourite treat. He picked it up. Strange. It was unexpectedly heavy. He grinned. Maybe he had missed an apple after all.
But, when he fumbled inside, what he found in his hand was more valuable than any fruit. It was a brooch and, judging by its weight, a brooch of pure gold. It was round — slightly less than the diameter of his clenched fist — and the workmanship was as fine as he had ever seen. In the centre was the partially complete emblem of a charging boar, with a fiery red stone for its eye. The stone flashed and glittered in the sunlight as he turned the brooch to study it. On the outer circumference of the metalwork were what he assumed to be words, but in a script that was indecipherable to him: short vertical and horizontal strokes in columns and groups, occasionally joined as if some wading bird with wide-spread toes had walked across them. It was beautiful, and undoubtedly worth a fortune. He felt a thrill run through him. Suddenly freedom wasn’t the slow death he had feared. With the money he could get for this in Rome he could set himself up in business — even rent a small house. He knew a goldsmith out by the Appian Gate who wouldn’t cheat him too much. But where had it come from? He cast his mind over the past few days. His first thought was that the brooch might be a reward from the Emperor, or more likely Narcissus, for his services over the past weeks. But the reward he had already been promised was his freedom, and Gaius’s.