community on this whole blighted island as this place, though this was just a marching camp and just hours old. You could say what you liked about Roman soldiers, and Narcissus wouldn't have wanted one as a neighbour, but they knew their business.
And the camp was proof that the Romans were serious, that they were here to see through this great project, here to stay. Everybody was here to further his own ambition, of course, from Vespasian and himself down to the lowliest auxiliary. Even the Emperor, already wending his own slow way from Rome, was out for what he could get. But the sum of all their individual ambitions was a dream of empire.
Vespasian brought Narcissus to a tent of his own. A legionary was stationed outside, a brute of a man who seemed suspicious of Narcissus himself. The interior of the leather tent, lugged across the Ocean on the back of some other hairy soldier, was musty, and smelled vaguely of the sea. But it contained a pallet, a bowl of dried meat and fruit, pouches of water and wine, and a small oil lantern that burned fitfully. Vespasian offered Narcissus company, but the secretary declined. It would soon be dawn, and he felt he needed time for sleep and reflection.
At last alone, Narcissus loosened his tunic and lay down on the pallet. He felt tension in his body-the clenched fists, the trembling in his gut. Resorting to a mental discipline taught him in his slave days by a captive brought from beyond the Indus, he allowed his consciousness to float around his body, soothing the tension in each finger, each toe, each muscle.
He tried to focus his mind on the needs of the coming day. He had no doubt that the subjugation of Britain would take months, years perhaps. But in the morning, when Aulus Plautius's exuberant legates refined their plans for the first stage of their campaign, he had to be sharp. These first few hours were crucial to the realisation of the Emperor's schemes-and his own.
It was Caesar who had first brought Britain into the consciousness of the Roman world, but of course Caesar had had his own ambitions to pursue. It was a time when the mechanisms of the Republic were creaking under the pressure of Rome's great expansion of territory, and the Roman world was torn apart by the mutual antipathy of strong men. The invasion of Britain, a place of mystery across the terrifying Ocean, would add hugely to Caesar's lustre.
Caesar struck at Britain twice, penetrating deep inland. But his over-extended supply lines were always vulnerable. And, as every superstitious soldier in Aulus Plautius's four legions knew very well, Caesar's ambitions had foundered when the Ocean's moody weather damaged his ships. After his second withdrawal, Caesar planned to return once again. But in the next campaigning season rebellions in Gaul occupied his energies, and after that he was distracted by the turmoil that overwhelmed the Republic in its final days-turmoil that cost Caesar his own life.
Not that Caesar's achievements were insignificant. He had greatly increased the Romans' knowledge of Britain. He polarised the British, especially those in the south, as pro- or anti-Rome, a division which suited Rome's diplomats and traders very well.
Under the first emperors, however, Britain's isolation continued. Augustus, conservative, consolidating and reforming, did not have ambitions that stretched so far-and the loss of three of his legions in a dark German forest did nothing to spur him on. In the reigns of Augustus's successors peaceful contact between the empire and Britain was assisted by the calming, pragmatic policies of Cunobelin, a local king the Romans called Cymbelinus. Even in these times, however, tentative plans for the invasion of Britain had been drawn up. Caligula, though unstable, was certainly no fool, and nor were his generals. He had got as far a building a harbour with a lighthouse at Gesoriacum for the purpose.
But now Cunobelin and Caligula were dead, and a new generation on both sides of the Ocean had new ambitions.
It was only two years ago, in the chaos following the murder of Caligula, that Claudius had been raised to the throne by the Praetorian Guard, bodyguards of the Emperor. Since then, despite proving a surprisingly competent ruler and a fast learner, Claudius had faced opposition from the army, the Senate, equestrians and citizens alike. Military power was the key, as always, and what Claudius needed above all was a military triumph-and all the better if he could be seen to outdo even the exploits of Caesar himself. The predatory antics of the Catuvellaunian princes in Britain gave him the perfect pretext.
As for Narcissus, he would survive only so long as he served his Emperor's ambitions, even while furthering his own.
Narcissus had been born a slave. With time, relying on his wits and his charm, he had made himself so invaluable to a succession of masters that he had been able to work his way into the households of the emperors themselves-and in Claudius, first emperor since Augustus able to recognise a sharp intellect as the most valuable weapon of all, he had found a true patron. It was Claudius who had freed him. Under Claudius, though his title was merely correspondence secretary, epistula, Narcissus had been able to use his position between Emperor and subjects to accrue power. He had amassed wealth of his own. He had even become a player in the most dangerous game of all, the domestic politics of the Emperor's household, allying himself with Claudius's latest wife, Messalina, in the endless intrigues of the court.
In Rome Narcissus was a powerful man, then. But now fate had brought him across the Ocean, beyond civilisation altogether. And, worse than that, it had cast him alone among soldiers.
He hated being with soldiers. There was a brutal clarity in their gaze, and he knew that when they looked at him they saw, not the freedman, not the powerful ally of the Emperor, but the former slave. Of course the officers had a duty of protection-and Vespasian especially, who owed Narcissus many favours. But Narcissus knew that in the end he had only himself to rely on-only himself, and the sharp wit which had kept him alive, and raised him so far.
Alone in the alien dark he pressed his eyes tight shut. Even a little sleep would serve him well in the complex hours to come.
VII
It took two long, sleepless days and nights of hard riding for Agrippina, Nectovelin and Cunedda to return to Camulodunum. Agrippina rode the patient old gelding, constantly aware that Mandubracius's warm body was no longer at her back.
She saw nothing of the journey. All she saw, over and again, was the scene on the beach: the laughing men, the glinting sword, the slow fall of the torch to the sea. It was like a line of Latin poetry, perfect and self-contained, echoing in her head.
Cunedda rode silently. He had no words; he clearly had no idea how to deal with the situation, which had so suddenly overwhelmed his and Agrippina's dreams of the future. She realised that by turning inwards she was hurting him. But she wanted to avoid speaking to him, thinking about him, touching him, for fear of harming him, and herself.
As for Nectovelin, he rode locked in a grim silence of his own, as unreadable as a lump of flint.
On exhausted horses, they came into Camulodunum on the evening of the second day. As they followed a well-beaten track down a shallow slope, Agrippina saw the town spread across the lowland before her, following the bank of its river. It sprawled for miles, a splash of green and brown in which the conical forms of houses stood proud, smoke seeping from their thatched roofs into the gathering gloom. The three of them worked their way through ditches and ramparts, and when they reached the first houses they dismounted and walked their horses along muddy alleys, stepping over chickens and children. There was a strong scent of wood smoke, of animal dung, of food cooking, and the sharp tang of hot metal.
This was the capital of the Catuvellaunians, who had taken it from the Trinovantes in Cunobelin's subtle conquest some decades ago. It was surely one of the most significant clusters of population in the south-east, indeed in the whole of Britain. There was industry here, smiths and leather-workers, potters and carpenters. Why, there was even a mint here, for Cunobelin, growing rich on his trade with Roman Gaul, had gone so far as to issue his own currency. Agrippina, coming from the more sparsely populated lands of the Brigantians in the north, had been mightily impressed with the place the first time she saw it.
But now she saw Camulodunum as if through the eyes of an invading legionary. There was no sense of
