Narcissus clapped his hands together. 'A paragon of elegance and clarity, Caesar!'
'Yes, I thought so.' Claudius tipped his head back in order to look down his nose at Plautius. 'Well, General?'
'Caesar, I am a mere soldier, and lack the necessary refinement to judge the aesthetic merit of another's loquacity.'
Claudius and Narcissus regarded him silently, one with a look of benign incomprehension, the other with close scrutiny as he looked for any trace of irony in the general's features.
'Well yes, quite!' Claudius nodded. 'It's a good thing to be aware of one's d-d-deficiencies.'
'You speak truly, as ever, Caesar.' Plautius bowed his head and Claudius limped off towards his tent, with Narcissus scurrying along to one side. Then the general turned to his officers. 'Vespasian!'
'Yes, sir.'
'You'd better deal with our tribal guests.'
'Yes, sir.'
'See that they're made comfortable and are well looked after. But keep them under close guard. Nothing too obtrusive but just enough to let them know we're watching closely. Can't afford to have them wandering around if there's anything to this rumour about an attempt on the Emperor's life.'
'Yes, sir.' Vespasian saluted and left. His charges were at the headquarters tent. As he entered he was immediately aware of a marked division in the tribal representatives, between those who rose to greet him with a weary acceptance of the inevitable and those who remained squatting on the ground, glaling at him with bitter hostility. To one side, trying to be dignified without looking smug at having sided with the victors, sat Adminius. A huge man turned towards the legate and looked him over with the distastefully obvious air of a man examining an inferior. He approached Vespasian, arm raised, and greeted the legate formally. When he began to speak, Vespasian quickly indicated that Adminius should translate.
'Venutius begs to inform you that he and the others here had the privilege of viewing the battle as guests of Caratacus. He says he still finds it a little difficult to follow the logic of your tactics in the battle, and would be most grateful if you would talk them through with him.'
'Another time. I'm rather busy at the moment.' Vespasian responded coldly. 'And tell him thay whatever the tactics, rhe outcome was inevitable. It always is when ill-disiplined natives attempt to best an army of professional soldiers. What matters is we won and that this island will eventually become a Roman province. Nothing else concerns me right now. Tell him I'll look forward to seeing him and thoses others, when they bow before Caesar and pledge their loyalty to him at the banquet tomorrow night.'
As Adminius translated, Vespasian cast his eyes over the tribal representatives and was struck by the sneering expression on the face of the youngest of them. Hatred burned in the young man's eyes, and his gaze was unfaltering as Vespasian looked at him. For a moment the legate considered staring him out, but then decided it would be a waste of time and turned to leave. A small smile of satisfaction played on the young Briton's lips. Vespasian cocked a finger at Adminius and ducked through the tent flap.
'Who was the youngster?'
'Bellonius,' replied Adminius. 'Son of the ruler of a small northern tribe. His father's dying and sent his son to represent him. Not the wisest choice, I think.'
'Why?'
'You saw him. Not hiding much behind that expression.'
'Dangerous?'
Adminius considered the young Briton a moment before responding. 'No more so than any teenager who has been exposed to Caratacus' propaganda. '
'And Venutius?'
'Him?' Adminius laughed. 'He was once a great warrior. But he's getting on. Spends all his time talking about the old days. Bit of an old fool really.'
'You think so?' Vespasian raised an eyebrow as he recalled the shrewdness in the man's grey eyes when he had stood before him and assessed his character.
Vespasian could not help thinking there was more to Venutius than Adminius gave him credit for.
Chapter Fifty
The legions camped outside Camulodullum were in high spirits. Despite being caked in mud and exhausted by advancing so quickly after a pitched battle, there was a palpable sense of celebration in the air. A decisive victory had been won and Caratacus and the remnants of the British army were in full flight towards those tribes still loyal to the confederation resisting Rome. The tribal representatives who had been awaiting the outcome of the last battle had hurried to Camulodunum to swear allegiance to Rome. The danger of being opposed by almost every tribe on the island had passed now that the most powerful of the native tribes had been soundly beaten by the legions. Until next year's campaigning, the Roman army would be free to consolidate its gains unopposed. Caratacus' capital had opened its gates to the Emperor, and the following day's festivities would mark the end of this year's bloody campaigning. Of course, the conquest of the island was far from complete but in the prevailing mood of celebration few men spoke of it.
The Trinovantes had saved themselves from having their capital sacked, to the disappointment of some hardened veterans, but there were already ample spoils of war in the form of the thousands of Britons taken prisoner, who would be sold into slavery. Each legionary stood to gain a substantial sum of money as his share of the booty realised from the sale of prisoners. But there was even more to follow.
'Word has it that the Emperor is going to pay us a donative!' Macro grinned as he dropped down onto the grass outside his tent, eyes glinting at the prospect of a large handout of money from the imperial treasury. 'Why?' asked Cato.
'Because it's a good way of keeping us sweet. Why do you think?
Besides, we deserve it. And he's managed to persuade the Trinovantes to hand over a supply of booze so we can celebrate in style after tomorrow's ceremonies. I know it's only that crap Celt beer they insist on brewing – like that stuff we had to drink in Gaul- but whatever it is, it still gets you pissed without too much effort. Then we're going to see some sights!' The centurion's eyes glazed over as be recalled previous drinking binges he had enjoyed with comrades in the past.
Cato could not help feeling a little nervous about the prospect. His body had a low tolerance for alcohol, and the slightest excess left his head reeling and made him curse the day that men first fermented their drink He inevitably threw up and continued spewing until the pit of his stomach felt raw and the muscles were strained by the effort. Then sleep came uneasily and he would wake with a dry mouth and a foul taste on his tongue, head pounding. If what he had heard about the local brew was accurate, the after effects would be even more unpleasant. But short of volunteering for provost duties, there would be no way of avoiding the drinking session.
'Is it wise to be drinking with Caratacus nearby?' he asked.
'Don't worry about him. It'll be a long time before he can cause us any more trouble. Besides, one of the legions will be on duty at the time. Just pray it isn't ours.'
'Yes, sir,' Cato said quietly.
'Relax, lad! The worst is over. The enemy's on the run, we've a party lined up and the weather's improved.' Macro lay back in the grass, tucked his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. 'Life is good, so enjoy it.'
Cato would like to have shared the mood of the centurion and the other legionaries but he could not feel content. Not while he was tormented by the spectre of Vitellius seducing Lavinia. The Emperor's entourage had joined the army at midday, and was busy making camp in the corner of the fortifications allotted to it by General Plautius. Knowing that Lavinia was near quickened Cato's pulse, but at the same time he was filled with dread at the prospect of encountering her again. This time she would be sure to tell him what he most feared, that she no longer wanted to see him. The thought tormented him so much that at last Cato could bear it no longer, and the need to know overwhelmed the fear of finding out.