line, Narcissus had said, safe among the headquarters troops. Bersheba would be a figurehead, nothing more. Now the figurehead was past the Roman artillery and ambling slowly behind the long, neat ranks of the assault force. The attack proceeded at a steady, deliberate pace made fearsome as much by its ordinariness as by its discipline. Unlike the savages who waited for them, these soldiers were not driven by hatred or revenge. They were professionals doing a job of work. They knew some of them would die, but, like killing, that was part of the job. The screams of defiance from the barbarians gained in volume as the attackers’ remorseless march brought them within bowshot of the archers ranged in front of the main British force.
A single flight of arrows darkened the sky and dropped towards the leading ranks, who hunched their shoulders like men caught in a shower of summer hail. Not a man faltered and Rufus wondered at the good fortune that had brought the soldiers through such a missile storm. Claudius saw the arrows fall and prayed to Mars to see him end this day safely. He had heard the phrase ‘death or glory’ often enough and had always sneered at the ridiculous sentiment it expressed. But now he was experiencing the reality and he felt nothing but exhilaration. It was madness, but a divine madness. He was brave. How he wished old Augustus were here to see him. Narcissus had been right. Eternal glory awaited the Emperor who personally led his troops to a victory. They could never take this away from him. He felt a lightning bolt streak across his left temple and thought for a moment he had been struck by an arrow. But there was no pain and no blood. The only difference between now and what had gone before was that he was different. He looked out upon the world from the swaying back of the elephant and experienced a clarity that was… yes… that was godlike. That set him apart from other men. He had always known the blood of gods ran in his veins, but had never thought to feel their power. His blood did not flow; it fizzed like the foaming torrent at the foot of a mighty waterfall. His heart didn’t beat, it thundered. And when he filled his lungs to breathe it was with the force of an ocean tempest. He laughed with the insanity of it. He was in a battle. This was what Divine Julius had felt; what had made Augustus great. It changed everything, for ever. Never again would he have to hide the true Claudius behind a mask. Never again would he have to play a part. He was no longer Claudius the actor. He was Claudius — the war god.
‘Onwards. Onwards to glory. Onwards to immortality. For Rome.’ The words erupted from his throat in a clarion call. The soldiers closest to Bersheba turned in disbelief. Not one of them had looked back since the opening of the attack. They had known their Emperor had come to witness the battle, but they had never expected him to share their danger. The closest of them pleaded with him to go back, not to risk his life, which was more precious than their own. But Claudius waved their pleas away. Something stirred in him, some long-forgotten memory of his brother Germanicus, father of Caligula, and the soldier’s soldier he had always sought to emulate as a young man. What would Germanicus have said? Yes!
‘Where the legions of Rome venture, their Emperor may venture too,’ he shouted, and his voice was carried far along the battle line on a fortunate gust of wind. ‘Did you really believe I would march with you only to shirk my duty when there is barbarian blood to spill and barbarian lands to conquer? I will rest when you rest and slake my thirst from your water skins when you slake yours. We will fight together and we will win or we will die together. Your enemy awaits you, there!’ He stood up in the shaking, precarious howdah and by some miracle kept his feet for long enough to point an imperious outstretched arm towards the waiting British warriors.
For a moment there was silence… then the cheering began.
Claudius. Imperator. Victory.
The whole Roman line swept forward in an entirely un-Roman fashion, driven not by discipline but by the same madness that infected their Emperor. They were gods, every one, and this was their day. The barbarians turned and ran.
XXXVII
The Army of Claudius fought three battles in the next five days, and won three great victories.
On each of those days the Emperor would awake with a divine knowledge of the intentions and whereabouts of the enemy and lead the legionary columns unerringly to the place of battle. No matter how disadvantageous the position, he would order an immediate attack and, taking to the back of the Emperor’s elephant, join his troops for the assault.
‘Plautius and the others are astonished at the transformation in our Caesar,’ Narcissus said as he sat with Rufus in his tent the night after the third victory. ‘They attempt to dissuade him from placing his life in danger, but it is as if the word Imperator has convinced him of his immortality. The men talk of him as a god.’ He laughed. ‘Gallus and his friends speak of witchcraft. You have been closer to him than anyone these last few days. What do you think?’
Rufus thought for a few moments. ‘I think he believes he is a god, and he has changed. If good fortune is the mark of a god, then he carries the mark. The men love him, because he is sparing with their lives. They already talk of these as bloodless battles, but that is foolish. How can it be a battle if it is bloodless? Yet there have been very few casualties. When Bersheba carried the Emperor on that first day I had the impression that the enemy were being slaughtered by the ballistae. But when they ran away there were only a dozen dead. Did you notice that most of the bolts fell short? The first flight of arrows they loosed against us should have killed or injured a hundred men. I saw three. Strange, don’t you think?’
Narcissus read the look Rufus gave him. Perhaps he had underestimated the boy? There was a decision to take here, but for once he was reluctant to take it. He didn’t like many people — had none he would call a friend — but he had come to like the keeper of the Emperor’s elephant more than most. They shared secrets that went back to Caligula’s assassination, and further. And he always seemed to find a use for him. Besides, the young man enjoyed Claudius’s confidence, and who else would look after the Emperor’s elephant?
‘Cogidubnus.’
The word filled the space between them and it grew until Rufus felt as if it were forcing him out of the leather-walled tent.
‘Cogidubnus leads the Britons we face. The same Britons we have faced in each of the three battles. Verica was the price of his co-operation. Now do you understand?’
Rufus shook his head. What the Greek was saying sounded like insanity.
Narcissus nodded. Very well, further explanation was deserved. ‘I have studied war, and the more I read the more I understood how much chance plays a part in it. Even the most carefully planned campaign contains an element of risk. When Emperor Claudius donned the purple he brought many qualities to that office, qualities which even I had not recognized in our many years together. It was apparent to those who worked closely with him that he could be a very great Emperor indeed. Yet it was equally apparent it would take a great deal of good fortune if he were to be allowed to give Rome the leadership it deserved after Caligula. His detractors in the Senate outnumbered his supporters, and those detractors saw none of his strengths but all of his weaknesses. We became aware of some of the plots and were able to circumvent them. But it was clear that it was only a matter of time before one of them succeeded.’
He took a long draught of well-watered wine before continuing. ‘To survive, Claudius needed the unequivocal support of the army. The only thing the army respects is strength. The most obvious way to show strength is to lead them to victory. Which brings us back to war — and chance. Throughout my studies one name stood out again and again, but I didn’t see its true potential until I stumbled upon Verica’s letter.’
‘Britain?’
‘Yes, Britain. The same Britain which Divine Julius invaded, but never conquered. The Britain which promised so much, but delivered so little. The Britain where the friends of Rome — like Verica — were ridiculed, driven out or murdered. Verica told of a Britain more divided than in Julius’s time. Not only were the tribes in constant conflict, but certain of the leaders were secretly pro-Roman. Adminius, of the Cantiaci, had traded with his Celtic brethren in Gaul and had travelled there, as far south as Lugdunum. He had witnessed the might of Rome, but more important he had seen the prosperity that peace with Rome could bring. He had tasted Roman wine, bathed in Roman spas. Now he wanted more: the public buildings, the games and the sumptuous villas that the kings of Gaul enjoyed as their right.’
So Narcissus had dispatched Verica back to his native land and the fragile mortar that bound the Celtic tribes first cracked, then crumbled away.
