A large dais occupied the center of the town, normally used by the town crier as well as traveling merchants. Claudius and his legates dismounted here, with the emperor being helped up the short steps. He did his best to hide his cursed limp; no doubt cognizant of the Catuvellaunis’ puzzlement at how so frail a figure could command the mightiest army in the world. Plautius had taken the young man who translated for Vespasian with them onto the dais. The elders of the kingdom stood at the base, just in front of the mass of people gathered to see the Roman emperor.
“People of Catuvellauni,” Plautius began. He spoke slowly, pausing periodically so as to allow the young man time to translate. “Behold your emperor, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus!”
The gathered crowd remained silent, unable as a whole to fathom the true meaning of the words as they were translated for them. The young man struggled with Claudius’ full name, but soon got it spelled out.
Plautius continued, “Kneel in subjugation and show your obedience to Caesar and to Rome!”
The young man looked at him and swallowed hard. He dreaded the words, and even more so what would happen should the people fail to head the command. Plautius would normally have considered such a humiliating spectacle to be excessive; however, given that the Catuvellauni had as recently as two days prior been fighting a war against Rome, a sign of utter dominance was required.
The young man’s eyes were closed hard as he shouted Plautius’ command. The elders looked at each other and, knowing they had little choice, each went down onto a knee, heads bowed before the stand. Whether this was done in respect or simply because they could not bear to look upon the Romans, it did not matter. A few uncertain words were whispered amongst the crowd, but soon they followed the lead of their elders and all knelt before the dais.
Were Claudius a lesser man, like his nephew Gaius Caligula had been, the spectacle would have swelled his ego and given him extreme delusions of grandeur. As it was, he found the experience to be very humbling and almost embarrassing. Feeling that the show of subjugation was complete, he stepped forward, placing a hand on Plautius’ shoulder, who took a step back in deference.
“Newest subjects of the Roman Empire,” Claudius said. Ironically, he found that when he spoke loudly, his stutter often disappeared. “Let us never draw another weapon against each other. Never again will I ask you to kneel before me. Now rise and begin a new era as friends of Rome!”
Their young translator appeared relieved to say these words, and the people of Catuvellauni uneasily rose to their feet. Most were baffled by the spectacle, though they were relieved that the fighting was now over. Those diehards who would fight the Roman occupation to the death had already fled with Caratacus. The people who remained simply wished to go about their lives in peace. Though they would mourn the loss of their fathers, brothers, and sons who had been slain in the battle, as well as the more numerous who were maimed and in many cases crippled, there was, overall, a sense of relief amongst the Catuvellauni.
That evening, Claudius called a meeting with the elders of the kingdom. They were invited to a great feast at the Principia, and rather than being paraded as conquered subjects, the emperor saw to it that they were treated as welcome guests. The young translator, whose name they learned was Tristan, was in attendance as well. Plautius had decided to keep him on as his interpreter, as he spoke the dialects of most of the Britannic tribes. The need to translate kept the pace of conversation slow, but Claudius was pleased with how receptive the elders were.
“Welcome, friends,” he said as soon as all were seated.
The Catuvellauni were unaccustomed to lounging on Roman couches, though they did their best to give a good appearance.
“I must tell you that while you will now answer to a Roman governor, rather than your former king, I have no desire to replace you with Roman magistrates as leaders of your people.”
“We appreciate your magnanimity,” one of the elders replied.
“You know your people best and how to govern them,” the emperor continued. “Rome will not interfere with the daily rule here. Tribute will remain mostly the same as it once was, but know that you will now benefit from Roman trade and infrastructure.”
“And over time, I suppose we will all become Roman,” another elder spoke up.
Claudius raised an eyebrow as this was translated for him. “Do you find this disagreeable?” he asked, the elders knowing it was a loaded question.
“Those who would continue to fight against Rome have already fled,” the first elder said quickly. “Our people simply wish to be left in peace.”
“And they shall,” Claudius replied.
“You must understand, there are many benefits to falling under the rule of Rome,” Plautius added. “Our soldiers will now defend your lands, and an attack on you will be an attack on Rome.”
“Some may say that you are no longer free,” Claudius spoke up. “But then were you before? Tell me, is the fear of starvation from a bad crop season, or the constant infighting and fear of being conquered by a neighboring kingdom that may not be as magnanimous as we are, is that really living free?”
There was an uncomfortable pause, as none of the elders dared reply.
“In time you will see the doles of being Roman subjects,” Plautius added. “In the very least, know that your children and grandchildren will live a better life with greater opportunities than they had before.”
In one of the Roman camps outside the town, Magnus was having a celebration of his own with Achillia. As a centurion primus ordo, his tent was one of the largest in the camp and, as such, he’d had no qualms about having Achillia essentially move in with him. Each had their armor, weapons, and kit laid out on sturdy racks with all of their personal belongings stored in packs. The Syrian-Roman woman kept little in the way of personal effects, as she preferred to travel light.
“By Odin, I am relieved that the major fighting is done,” Magnus said with a sigh as he took a cup of wine and fell back onto his large camp bed.
Achillia curled up next to him, trying not to spill her own chalice on him. “There will always be fighting to do,” she said. “But for now, I agree that this is a time for celebration.”
“In more ways than one,” the Norseman said with a broad smile, placing his hand on her stomach. Achillia blushed for a moment, but then saw that Magnus had become serious. “I don’t want you going into battle anymore, at least not for the time being.”
“Well, like you said, my love,” Achillia replied, “the fighting appears to be over.”
Chapter Endnotes:
1 — River Thames
2 — Colchester, England
Chapter XX I: Triumph Interrupted
Camulodunum, Britannia
August, 43 A.D.
After just sixteen days in Britannia, Emperor Claudius began his journey back to Rome, where he would inform the senate of the army’s triumph. Though while Caratacus and his followers had gone into hiding in the west, there was still trouble stirring. Barely two days after the emperor’s departure, a messenger from one of the cavalry regiments patrolling the southwest arrived. Plautius was holding a meeting with his senior commanders to decide the dispersing of the legions and auxiliary regiments throughout the newly-won lands when the trooper arrived.