iron.
When Agrippina had learned to read she had come to doubt the truth of the family tales she had grown up hearing. How could such ancient histories have any truth if they had never been written down? But the stories were told and retold to audiences who knew them as well as the teller, and in their very telling the truth of these stories was preserved, from generation to generation. Thus she had grown up with the true deep history of her nation. Britain was an ancient place, soaked by deep culture. And when Braint had without conscious thought picked up a stone and shaped it into a tool, she was echoing a tradition that was far older than Rome.
But now the Romans were here, their army like an iron axe cutting through the trunk of an ancient tree. Whatever the outcome of the next few days, nothing would be the same, ever again-and Agrippina was here to see it. This wider perspective awed her, even as her lust for revenge still burned.
The sun was going down, the air cooling, and there had been no activity on the gleaming new road for some time.
'Come on, let's get back to the camp.' Braint stretched, and winced as the pain of her wound cut in once more. Agrippina helped her to her feet.
In the gathering twilight the two of them made their way through deserted farms towards Caratacus's camp.
XI
With Vespasian, Narcissus rode away from the dusty chaos of the soldiers' camp-building near the river bank. On the afternoon of this hot day, Narcissus was sweating as heavily as the horse beneath him. But as always it was a relief to get away from the army for a while; after another day on the march tens of thousands of men and their animals produced a tremendous stink.
They headed up to a scrap of higher ground, a ridge. Narcissus's horse picked its way cautiously over chalky earth littered with flints, which Narcissus inspected curiously. He had seen almost identical terrain throughout northern Gaul. It was as if, he mused, Gaul and Britain were in reality a single landscape, severed by a strip of Ocean as a surgeon's blade amputates a limb. It was an intriguing notion, but he had no idea how such huge changes in the structure of the earth could have come about. Perhaps Britain was a relic of Atlantis, he mused, or a bit of builder's debris left over from primordial days when giants constructed the earth.
From the ridge they looked west, to the river, and the soldiers who swarmed near its bank. An overnight fortress had been set out above the ford, constructed in a few hours despite the men's usual grumbling after a day of laden marching-but soldiers always complained, Vespasian said. The fort's rectangular formation was marked out by a ditch and a low bank topped by a palisade of wooden stakes, hastily lopped from a scrap of woodland nearby. In the interior the legionaries' leather tents were being set up in their usual rows. Already cooking smells curled up from a dozen fires, and the digging of latrines was itself a minor industry.
And when Narcissus looked further west, across the shining body of the river, he could see another force massed on the opposite bank. They were the Britons, here to oppose the Roman advance. The Britons, lacking any of the obvious discipline of the Roman troops, looked more like an urban mob, Narcissus thought idly, transplanted from Milan or Rome. Some of them seemed to be enacting some kind of ritual at the edge of the water. Narcissus could swear that they were breaking cups and plates, even weapons, and dumping the remains in the water. Was the barbarian mind really so bewildered that it imagined it was a good idea to smash your weapons and dump them in the river on the eve of battle?
But, disorganised and incomprehensible as they were, there were tens of thousands of them, Narcissus saw uneasily, perhaps even outnumbering the Roman forces. And at the rear of the crowd congregated by the river he saw horses drawing small, rapid, two-wheeled carts to and fro. They were the famous chariots of which Caesar had written so eloquently, rehearsing for war.
Vespasian showed no sign of unease. Indeed the legate seemed rather to be enjoying the spectacle. Vespasian pointed east, back the way they had come. 'You can see the native track we've been following,' he said.
The track had run parallel to the south bank of the estuary of the Tamesis, following a roughly straight line- not paved or properly constructed like a Roman road, but obviously ancient, heavily rutted and clearly useful. The army had made a thorough mess of its surface, leaving a band of churned earth that stretched off into the afternoon mist. But somewhere back there teams of road-builders laboured; the next force that came this way would make much faster progress.
'But,' Narcissus said, 'the track has led us to this fording place across the river.'
'Quite,' Vespasian said. 'The scouts say that the river here is an eighth of a mile wide. Not far downstream it widens-look, you can see-to perhaps twice that width. Further upstream it deepens quickly. So this ford is by far the easiest place to cross, and the British know it. This is the first significant obstacle we've faced since Rutupiae, the first pinch point where our formation is constrained. And so this is where the Britons have gathered to greet us. No doubt they intend to slaughter us one by one as we struggle across the ford.'
'But,' Narcissus said, 'the Britons know the land as we do not. Why make a stand at all? They could hide, harry us, try to starve us out.'
Narcissus shrugged. 'They've made some rather half-hearted attempts to do just that. But there doesn't seem a great deal of competence over there, secretary. We suspected as much from the moment we landed unopposed.'
'Unopposed save for a foolish boy who thought we were his friends,' Narcissus said, a little wistfully. 'Well, I imagine you have no intention of falling into the rather pathetic trap the Britons have set for you. What, then?'
Vespasian eyed him, almost mischievously. 'But that would spoil the fun! Do you really want to know how the plot will unfold even before the actors take the stage?'
Narcissus grumpily turned his horse's head, and led the way down towards the lower ground. 'Suit yourself. In the meantime I'm going to spend the rest of the day with Phoebus.' This was the most senior of the surgeons Aulus Plautius had brought with him-and, like most of the army's best doctors, he was Greek, like Narcissus. 'While you crack barbarian skulls, I may get some civilised conversation for a change. And perhaps I'll help stitch a few wounds or bathe a few broken heads. For I'm quite sure that for all your complacency, Vespasian, the Britons' iron blades will do some damage before this is over.'
Vespasian followed, apparently not offended. 'Yes, but we will prevail. Remember, Narcissus, that to these Britons all this is new. Even their leaders, the buzzing Catuvellaunian princes we hear so much about, have never engaged in a set-piece battle. We have been waging wars for centuries. We have preserved the wisdom of great generals like Scipio and Marius, Pompey and Caesar himself-we do not forget our victories, or our mistakes.'
'You are nothing if not systematic,' Narcissus said grudgingly.
Vespasian said, 'You're a hard man to amuse. Secretary, this may be the most significant engagement of the first phase of our campaign. It's hard to imagine the Britons raising such a force again, once we've scattered them. This is the battle of Britain! Aulus Plautius himself insists it is important for you to understand how this battle unfolds: you have the ear of the Emperor after all. Just watch, listen, remember-and tell Claudius what a good job we did for him today.'
XII
Nectovelin stalked through the Catuvellaunian camp on the bank of the Cantiaci River, with Agrippina and Cunedda at his side. The three of them were looking for Caratacus and Togodumnus. Nectovelin hoped to find out what, if any, strategy the princes had in mind. They weren't having much luck. The place was in chaos.
The warriors themselves looked imposing enough. Both Nectovelin and Cunedda, dressed for the fight themselves, wore armour: sword belts, chain mail, leather trousers, iron helmets, and big rectangular shields. Nectovelin's shield was especially handsome, with bronze inlays of angry boars over hardened wood, and it bore the scars of multiple axe blows. Cunedda was tense, though, fingering the hilt of his sword. He had no experience of
