Claudius shivered, despite the warmth of the afternoon, and searched again for the passage that had disturbed him more than the actual tales of war. Most of the inland inhabitants do not sow corn, but live on milk and flesh, and are clad with skins. All the Britons, indeed, dye themselves with wood, which occasions a bluish colour, and thereby have a more terrible appearance in fight. They wear their hair long, and have every part of their body shaved except their head and upper lip. At this very moment Plautius could be at the mercy of these terrible, blue- skinned barbarians, and where would that leave Narcissus’s vain-glorious plans? Where would it leave him? His mind made a circuit of the boundaries of the Empire: across the Rhine the same tribes who had destroyed Varus lying in wait, with a sense of growing pressure beyond; Africa, quiescent for the moment but never subdued; and to the east the Dacians stirring in their mountains and their forests. Each a threat that must be faced in time. Compared to them, Britain was an irrelevance. Yet only Britain could provide him with what he needed so desperately. And it was not gold, or pearls, or slaves.
A loud sniff disturbed his contemplation, and he looked up to find a small blond boy in a short linen tunic staring at him. Agrippina’s son, Lucius, who, for reasons no one understood, must be called Nero. He glared back, wondering who had allowed the child access to the library. Of course! The palace staff went in terror of his mother, who insisted he have the run of the place. Should he smile? He didn’t particularly like children, not even his own. In general, they tended to be dirty and to die of the most unlikely diseases at the most awkward times. Still, he supposed he should try. He bared his teeth, but the boy’s expression didn’t change beyond a flicker of unease. For the briefest moment, there was something about his pale, almost colourless eyes that stirred a memory in Claudius — a sort of barren emptiness, as if the person behind those eyes were incapable of emotion. Then it was gone. He realized it was the same imperious stare he received from the statues in the gardens. He’d only seen its like once before in a living, breathing human being. Caligula. Surely it couldn’t be? But there had been rumours about Gaius and his sisters. Tales of noisy night-time visits that were, perhaps, not — quite — brotherly. But no, he was doing the boy and his mother a disservice. Any child of a sire as habitually drunken and casually vicious as Domitius Ahenobarbus would have to learn to hide his true feelings, even by the age of six — or was it five? Some men dispense death casually, almost unthinkingly. Caligula had been one. But his had been a terror born of self- preservation. Nero’s father had enjoyed cruelty for cruelty’s sake. Inflicting pain on friend and foe alike simply because he could. The boy had been very young when Ahenobarbus met his deserved end, but such a beginning would cast its own shadow. The long silence continued until he felt an urgent need to break it. But what does one say to a five-year-old boy with a stare as vacant as an empty cistern and — he shuddered in disgust — an appetite for the fruit of his own nostrils? Eventually he could take no more.
‘Come, child,’ he said as gently as he was able. ‘Sit here beside me and I will read to you. It is a story of war and glory and victory.’ He shuffled along the bench, and, to his surprise, the boy rounded the desk and scrambled up beside him, close enough for Claudius to feel the soft plumpness of his body and the warmth of his presence. With the unexpected human contact, he felt something change. He realized that for the first time in many months he didn’t feel lonely. In a firm voice, he began to read: ‘They, advancing to the river with their cavalry and chariots from the higher ground, began to annoy our men and give battle…’
Caratacus stood on the hill overlooking the broad river and watched the last of the survivors straggle across the narrow bridge of rough planks. So few. He closed his eyes and tried to still the killing rage that seethed and boiled inside him. He must stay in control. He had sent Ballan south as soon as he received news of the defeat. The Iceni had still to return, but the scale of the setback was written clearly in the demeanour of beaten men streaming past him.
‘How many did he lose?’
‘Five thousand, dead or scattered. Mostly dead.’ Bodvoc’s voice was emotionless. Outwardly, he had returned from the battle of two days earlier the same man, but Caratacus detected a subtle change in the king of the Regni. Defeat had taken its toll even on him. Now he must defend a second river and his brash confidence had a brittle quality to it, as if it would take only one more blow to shatter it completely. ‘The Trinovantes and the Dobunni bore the brunt of the assault. Togodumnus believed the Romans would be stopped or at least slowed by the river, but they weren’t. I told him we should get out while we still had time — follow your instructions. He stood in his chariot howling them on, as if his presence alone could defeat them.’ He shrugged. ‘But of course it couldn’t.’
‘Adminius and his Cantiaci?’
Bodvoc stroked his moustache and looked at him a certain way. ‘Were they with us?’
‘Your Regni?’
‘Ran with the rest. Me with them.’
Caratacus would have put his arm round his old rival’s shoulder, but he knew it would shame Bodvoc. Instead, he said firmly: ‘Good. It means this time when you fight, you fight by my side. Sometimes it takes more courage to run than to stand and die. That’s a lesson most men learn if they stay alive.’
‘Not Togodumnus.’
‘No. Not Togodumnus. Should I kill him?’
Bodvoc looked up sharply. Surprised. In another man, yes, but Caratacus? ‘Your own brother?’
‘Why not? He is a fool. No, he is worse: a dangerous fool. Twice he’s failed me, and at a cost I cannot afford. When I fight here I need to be able to trust my commanders. We can beat the Romans once and for all, but only if every man knows his place in the line and holds it until he wins or dies.’
Bodvoc thought it over. At one time he would cheerfully have killed Togodumnus himself for his monumental folly, but now he was feeling old. ‘Put him and his Dobunni where they can’t do any harm.’ He changed the subject. ‘Will the Brigantes fight alongside us?’
Caratacus shook his head. She would stay in the north, and her warriors, the warriors he needed so badly if he were to win, would stay with her.
The sound of shouting drew their attention back to the bridge. A column of chariots rattled across the wooden planking, forcing tired men to step to the side, and hurling the unwary into the river. Togodumnus was in the front chariot, urging his driver to greater speed and screaming abuse at anyone who didn’t move out of the way quickly enough.
Bodvoc smiled humourlessly. ‘Do I hear a dog barking? I will leave you to discuss your battle plan with your brother.’ He walked off to where a guard held his pony as Togodumnus raced up the shallow slope in the chariot, swerving to a halt and leaping athletically from the fragile wood and leather structure in front of Caratacus.
‘I bring news, brother,’ he shouted, loud enough for anyone within thirty paces to hear. ‘The Romans are checked. They now know what it is to face the warriors of the Dobunni. They lick their wounds and bury their dead.’
Caratacus stared at his brother. ‘I asked you for three days, Lord Togodumnus, but you did not give me it,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you to avoid casualties, yet I hear Taranis now greets an army of our honoured dead at the doorway to the Otherworld. The only thing the Romans now know, Lord Togodumnus, is that they can slaughter your Dobunni warriors like sheep.’
Part of him hoped the insult would anger Togodumnus into challenging him. He was tired of his brother’s stupidity and plotting. It would be a relief to kill him. But he knew he wouldn’t, because spitting Togodumnus on the end of his sword now would leave the Dobunni leaderless, or, worse, half a dozen factions fighting for the dead king’s throne. He couldn’t afford that. ‘How many Romans did you kill?’
Togodumnus shrugged. ‘I didn’t stay to count them. Hundreds. Thousands. The river swept many away.’
‘And your own dead?’
Togodumnus looked away.
‘Five thousand?’
‘Fewer.’
‘How many fewer?’
‘Fewer.’
‘And the supplies I gave you and asked you to protect? The women and the children who followed you?’
‘They would only have slowed us down.’
‘Coward,’ Caratacus hissed in his brother’s face. And now he didn’t care if he provoked Togodumnus into a fight, would take pleasure in butchering him where he stood, because he could see the twisted bodies of the innocent lying among the sacks and the slaughtered animals, and the killing rage was back. ‘Coward,’ he repeated.
Togodumnus took a step away, his face white and his hand shaking as he reached for his sword hilt.
