Vespasian felt chilled by the old King’s evident fear. ‘What is it that disturbs you?’
Verica looked into Vespasian’s eyes; his gaze intense. ‘Some of these gods have a real power; a cold power that cannot be used for good.’
Vespasian grimaced. ‘In the hands of priests?’
‘In the hands of fanatical priests.’
‘My experience of priests hasn’t been good.’
‘No one’s experience of priests is ever good, unless you happen to be one. My advice to you is to kill them all otherwise Rome will never hold this land. The druids will always be able to rouse the people by putting the fear of the gods into them; they know that there is no place for them under Rome so they will have nothing to lose by being your most implacable enemy.’
Vespasian looked over to Cogidubnus leaning on the rail, watching the approach of the newly built wooden jetty. ‘Would your nephew agree with you?’
‘Ask him yourself, but yes, he would. He understands, as I do, that if we are going to bring our people into the modern world and share in all the prosperity that that entails then we have to look forward; the druids only ever look back.’
Vespasian contemplated this as the ship slowed, nearing the jetty. His experience of Rhoteces, the duplicitous Thracian priest, and Ahmose, the lying priest of Amun, as well as the selfserving Jew, Paulus, who had usurped the Jewish sect he had once persecuted and had begun moulding it into an unnatural religion based upon redemption in some theoretical afterlife, had left him fully aware of the power religion had to stir men into fighting, and how susceptible that power was to abuse. ‘We shall have a hard journey west, then.’
‘With the druids opposing you, yes, you will. But you will also find men like me out there who have no love for them and would rather be subject to Rome than to priests.’
‘I’d hope that given the choice all men would choose Rome over priests.’
Verica smiled. ‘Knowing their love of power, I think that the day the priests realise that will be the day that they start plotting to take over Rome.’
Vespasian shuddered at the thought as the trireme gently docked to an accompaniment of nautical orders and hurling ropes.
‘You’d better hurry, sir,’ Magnus’ voice shouted over the noise.
Vespasian looked up to see his friend climbing up the gangplank.
‘Why? What is it?’
‘It would seem that the Emperor is anxious to get his victory. Sabinus sent a message saying that Claudius’ reinforcements have just arrived at the Tamesis bridge in preparation for his arrival. He’s inspecting Gesoriacum and then he’s going on to Rutupiae and after that he’s sailing up the Tamesis; he’ll be at the bridge in two days.’
Vespasian and Sabinus snapped to attention as a fanfare rose from the imperial quinquereme upon whose deck stood over a hundred senators, resplendent in their purple-bordered togas. Festooned in purple and complete with an imperial tent at the stern, the vessel was docked at a jetty on the southern side of the newly constructed wooden bridge across the Tamesis. Aulus Plautius marched to the foot of the gangway and saluted as it was lowered. The fanfare broke off and, apart from cawing seagulls flitting on the light breeze, an expectant silence fell over the two Praetorian cohorts and the four from the VIII Legion and their auxiliaries formed up along the riverbank with Decimus Valerius Asiaticus at their head.
After a pause of imperial proportions the tent flaps were drawn back and a silhouetted figure stood in the entrance.
‘Imperator!’ cried a single voice from within the Praetorian ranks.
The cry was taken up by all present, soaring to the sky, scaring off the gulls, as the acclamation of ‘imperator’ was heard for the first time on the island of Britannia.
‘He hasn’t even seen a Briton and he’s already being lauded as a victor,’ Sabinus shouted in Vespasian’s ear.
‘And the men lauding him haven’t even done any of the fighting,’ Vespasian observed before joining his brother in the accolade.
As the chant grew, Claudius, complete with laurel victor’s crown and wearing full, imperial military uniform — purple cloak, goldinlaid bronze cuirass and greaves, a purple sash around his waist and with a purple-plumed, ornate helmet under his left arm — shambled forward, head twitching with excitement and right arm jerking as he acknowledged the crowd: a comic parody of an emperor.
Vespasian was relieved that he could shout, otherwise he feared that he would burst into unrestrained laughter at the sight of such an unmartial man in such military attire. A sideways glance at Sabinus, who caught his eye for an instant, confirmed that his brother was having the same thoughts. For once in perfect accord, the siblings feted their Emperor.
Narcissus and Pallas then appeared from the tent and walked hurriedly to catch Claudius up before he attempted to descend the gangway unaided. They each took an imperial elbow and guided their master down onto the jetty. Aulus Plautius brought his arm down from across his chest and, standing to attention, head and shoulders back, bellowed with the rest. Claudius approached him and, with much ceremony and saliva, embraced and kissed him.
The chant turned into cheers as the Emperor held the general in his arms for a few moments before turning to face the troops. Claudius gestured for silence as Plautius stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the drool on his cheeks.
‘S-s-soldiers of Rome,’ Claudius declaimed, once the cheering had died away, ‘my g-g-gallant general has asked for his E-E-Emperor’s assistance and advice in defeating the Britons.’ He paused and gestured to the senators. ‘The Senate of Rome begged me to heed his call, saying that General Plautius has g-g-g-got so far but has r-run into fierce opposition of the kind that only I, your Emperor, can overcome.’
The senators all nodded sagely, twisting their faces into expressions of theatrical relief. Vespasian cast his eyes along their number as Claudius stumbled on and was pleased to see the corpulent form of his uncle; Gaius shrugged as he caught his eye and carried on listening with exaggerated concentration to the Emperor.
‘So follow me, soldiers of Rome, f-f-follow me and I will lead you to a glorious victory, a victory that will be remembered for generations as the triumph of your Emperor Claudius over the barbarian hordes. I have come, I now see, I will c-c-conquer!’
Claudius turned to Narcissus, Pallas and the senators, who all laughed obligingly at this pathetic paraphrase; Vespasian noted that his uncle seemed to find it the pithiest line ever uttered. The legionaries once again cheered their Emperor, pleased, no doubt, to have an excuse not to have to make an overt display of enjoying Claudius’ feeble wit.
Vespasian and Sabinus joined in the cheering; only Plautius did not. He stood rigid, his neck bulging in anger, staring at the quinquereme.
Vespasian followed his gaze: at the entrance of the tent stood the copious figure of Sentius Saturninus, which did not surprise him; what did surprise him was the man standing behind him: Geta. Vespasian nudged Sabinus and indicated to the tent. ‘How in Mars’ name did he get here?’
‘Ah! So that’s where the little shit has got to,’ Sabinus muttered. ‘I should have guessed. Soon after you went south, Plautius sent for him; he never came, disappeared in fact. He must have heard about Plautius detaining Corvinus and his guilty conscience told him that he was liable to share the same fate.’
‘So he ran to the Emperor to put his side of the story first.’