‘And you know who that will be, I suppose.’
Pallas raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘If Claudius is lucky and lives for ten years, then yes, and you would do well to follow my lead when you return to Rome because I intend to pick the winning chariot in this race. I’m telling you this as a friend: when Messalina dies watch whom I cultivate and you’ll understand.’
‘You’re as mysterious as ever, Pallas.’
‘I learnt from my late mistress Antonia that it doesn’t do to be too open with your plans.’ A huge cheer erupted from the Roman formation, which quickly transformed into a chant of ‘imperator’. ‘Well, that was quickly done, come gentlemen, it’s time to join our glorious Emperor on his victorious entry into Camulodunum.’
The legionaries of the XIIII Gemina stood to rigid attention, lining the sun-hardened-mud main street of Camulodunum, keeping the local population back as Claudius entered their town.
Although not big by Roman standards, Camulodunum was the largest settlement in the south of the island and even boasted a scattering of brick-built public buildings. Its few thousand inhabitants lived mainly in round huts in family groupings and, similar to Mattium in Germania, there did not seem to be much thought put into civic planning away from the main street and marketplace.
Surrounded by a sturdy palisade, three times the height of a man, almost a mile in circumference and protected on its northern side by a navigable river — its lucrative trade route to the Northern Sea and on to the Rhenus — it would have been a formidable town to take by storm and Vespasian, riding behind Claudius, felt a certain relief that they had not been obliged to.
The local populace gasped in awe as Claudius entered their town; two massive beasts, the likes of which had never been seen before in Britannia, pulled their new master’s chariot. Large and lumbering and draped in purple cloth, with huge ears, long swaying proboscises and fearsome tusks sheathed in gold, the elephants impressed the people of Camulodunum more than the display of military might that followed behind them.
The legionaries of the XIIII Gemina hailed their Emperor as he passed with yet another chant of ‘imperator’, drowning out the townsfolk’s rumble of astonishment at the contrast between the magnificent animals and the malformed man whom they drew. No amount of purple or gold could make Claudius look imperial; standing unsteadily in the chariot as it bumped along the rough street, with one hand grasping its side whilst the other was held aloft, palm out, acknowledging his ovation, he struggled but failed to control all the tics that afflicted his twisted body.
Immediately behind the imperial chariot rode Narcissus and Pallas between Aulus Plautius and Sentius Saturninus, both of whom smouldered with indignation at being publicly accompanied by freedmen. Vespasian and his fellow legates followed behind them in icy silence. Then came the senators, walking with sombre dignity, ignoring the stares and the pointing that their attire elicited as the people of Camulodunum caught, what was for many, their first sight of a toga. Finally, in marched the Praetorian cohorts followed by the senior cohort of both the XX Legion and the VIIII Hispana, joining in the chant of their comrades lining the way.
Vespasian glanced to his left at Corvinus; his face was set in the same expression that he had worn for the last two days since Claudius’ mock victory: smug, self-satisfied.
‘Worried are you, bumpkin?’ Corvinus sneered, catching Vespasian’s look.
‘Why should I be? I was just protecting the Emperor’s interests.’
‘The Emperor’s interests? Bollocks. Since when was Narcissus the Emperor? I know exactly what you were doing; and I know exactly how to prevent you from meddling again next time our paths cross.’
‘Thankfully that won’t be for a while, Corvinus; you’ll be in the north and I’ll be in the south.’
‘Wrong, bumpkin, I’ll be in Rome. I’ve got what I need from this campaign and have no desire to carry on commanding the Ninth when my officers are so untrustworthy, so I’ve had a quiet chat with my dear brother-in-law, a couple of quiet chats, actually; he’s agreed that I should return to Rome to look after his business in the Senate and be close to the family. Talking of family, in that second chat I had with Claudius I made a suggestion — as a concerned uncle, you understand — about the future wellbeing of his son. I think you’ll find it very amusing.’
‘Nothing that you do amuses me.’
‘We’ll see, bumpkin, we’ll see.’
Vespasian turned away and edged his horse closer to Sabinus. Up ahead the imperial chariot had reached the marketplace, again lined with legionaries. The mahouts steered their charges to one side, revealing, at the far end, eleven British Kings and chieftains, amongst them, Verica and Cogidubnus, kneeling in submission in front of an empty curule chair; their swords lay on the ground before them.
Pallas and Narcissus dismounted and hurried over to their master as the mahouts brought the elephants to a halt; helping him down, they guided him to the chair.
‘Follow me, gentlemen,’ Plautius ordered, swinging off his horse and handing the reins to a waiting slave. He walked over to stand behind Claudius, facing the men who were about to pay homage to the physical embodiment of Rome’s power.
Vespasian took his place beside Plautius with Sentius and the other legates; the senators gathered behind them as the Praetorian cohorts marched in and filled the remainder of the marketplace, leaving the legionary cohorts backed up along the road.
A hush fell.
Vespasian stood, waiting for something to happen; eventually Narcissus cleared his throat, meaningfully, looking at Claudius.
‘Ah, y-y-yes,’ Claudius spluttered, sitting as upright as he could in the backless chair, ‘of course. Who speaks for the Britons?’
Verica raised his head. ‘Every man here speaks only for himself and his tribe but our words are the same: we accept Rome and we bow to her Emperor.’
‘C-c-come forward and receive Rome’s friendship.’
One by one the Britons came forward, shuffling on their knees, their swords held out before them resting on the palms of their hands. Claudius bade each in turn to rise and confirmed him in his position of king of his tribe or chieftain of a sub-tribe under Rome.
Vespasian read the shame on each face. The ceremony was a public humiliation of these proud men. Cogidubnus caught his eye, as he rose to his feet before the Emperor, with a look of bemused disbelief at the form that the power of Rome took. Vespasian inclined his head fractionally and the King of Vectis, shaking his, backed away and returned to his place.
Verica was the last to subject himself to the ordeal; once he had submitted there was a stir amongst the Praetorians off to the left. Claudius struggled to his feet, helped by Pallas and Narcissus, and turned to face the senators as a Praetorian centurion approached him holding an imperial Eagle.
Claudius gave a lopsided smile and taking the shaft held it aloft for the senators to see. ‘Members of the Senate, do you know what Eagle this is?’
There were mutters but no replies.
‘This is the E-E-Eagle that none of you would have seen for thirty-four years. This is the Eagle that just three months ago I presented to my loyal troops in gratitude for the suffering that they were willing to undertake in coming to this island. This, Conscript Fathers, is the Eagle of the Seventeenth. I, Claudius, have raised the last fallen Eagle of Rome and I ask you to return to Rome with me and place this Eagle where it belongs: in the Temple of Mars.’
The senators burst into loud and enthusiastic cheering and applause.