Rome’s Fallen Eagle (45 page)

‘Take command, tribune,’ he shouted at Mucianus, at the head of the second cohort, as he sped past. ‘And keep the pace up. I need to report to the general.’

Galloping past the ranks and ranks of marching legionaries he eventually came to the legions’ six hundred pack-mules, one for each contubernium, and the wagons and artillery belonging to each century. Behind these rode the army’s command group, just ahead of the XIIII Gemina.

Vespasian slowed his horse and drew a deep breath as he approached Plautius. ‘General, I need to speak to you urgently and in private.’

‘He’s done what!’ Plautius exploded.

‘Carried on towards Camulodunum, sir.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

Vespasian pointed to the north. ‘Look at the horizon over there; what do you see?’

Plautius squinted. ‘I’m afraid that my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be; what is it, legate?’

‘Smoke, sir, a lot of it.’

‘That doesn’t mean that it’s Corvinus.’

‘Corvinus never stopped, he never intended to.’

‘But that’s miles from the ford; how did he get there so quickly? Your report last night said that he had built a camp on the north bank by the ford.’

‘That wasn’t true, sir.’

Plautius glared at Vespasian, outraged. ‘If you’re telling me that you knew about this all along and covered it up then that’s treason, legate.’

‘I know, sir; but if I had told you earlier then that could have been construed as treason as well.’

‘Vespasian, I fail to see how preventing Corvinus from going against the Emperor’s explicit orders can be seen as treason.’

‘Because they’re not the Emperor’s orders, they were given only in his name. The Emperor doesn’t rule, he’s just seen to be ruling; the real power is—’

‘Don’t patronise me! I know who the real power is, but it comes to the same thing: Narcissus speaks for the Emperor.’

‘No, sir, that’s not true; Narcissus speaks for himself but from within the Emperor’s shadow. In fact, he
is
his shadow. He uses Claudius in order to wield the power that he couldn’t be seen using in the full light of day and he guards him jealously in order to hang on to that power. But because the Emperor is a cuntstruck fool he doesn’t see – or won’t believe – the threat to his position from within his inner circle.’

‘The Empress?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But she’s nothing without him.’

‘Not so; she’s the mother of the Emperor’s son.’

‘But he’s too young to rule without a regent and no one would accept a woman in that position.’

‘Granted, but they would accept a man and a woman, the mother of the young Emperor and her brother.’

Plautius’ eyes widened in comprehension. ‘That woman being the mother of a true Caesar and the man being the conqueror of Camulodunum and the founder of the new province of Britannia; a couple who couldn’t start their own dynasty because they are siblings and therefore are no threat to the Emperor’s line but, rather, the guardians of it. Perfect, until something happens to the child, at which point the regents are secure enough in their positions for the Guard to continue in their support.’

‘Exactly, and we know that the imperial family are capable of anything; Claudius’ sister, Livilla, was already poisoning her son, Tiberius Gemellus, before she in turn was starved to death by her mother, Antonia. If anyone should realise what is possible it should be Claudius; but the fool can’t be made to listen.’

‘So therefore he must be made to see.’ Plautius touched his hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘Oh, I see it now. That bastard Narcissus manoeuvred me into giving Corvinus the opportunity to disobey the Emperor so that I would be the one to expose the plot to Claudius, along with the hard evidence to convince him that his brother-in-law and wife are moving against him. You did right not to tell me until Corvinus had made contact with the enemy, Vespasian, I would have stopped him before he damned himself.’

‘No, he would have killed you. In fact I believe that you would be dead now if Geta hadn’t got himself wounded.’

‘Geta!’

‘Yes, I think that he was meant to have you killed in a way that wouldn’t look suspicious.’

‘Like leading his cavalry into an impossible position just in front of me.’

‘That seems a little extreme, sir; after all, he nearly got himself killed doing that.’

‘Only through bad luck. I had that decurion brought to me after I saw Geta yesterday because I couldn’t believe that someone with Geta’s experience would have made such a stupid
mistake through “fired-up enthusiasm”, as he put it. The decurion told me that Geta wasn’t leading them, he was right in the middle of the unit as safe as he could be, which I found very strange. But now, looking back at it, think of the timing. I’d come up the hill to recall you, then, when I’m just a few hundred paces away Geta suddenly takes his men into a mass of retreating and pissed-off Britons knowing full well that I would try and save them because I’ve so few mounted troops. I charge in, taking you and your lads with me, and could well have been killed and no one would have suspected a thing. As it was I was so angry at the situation that nothing could stop me. We broke through to Geta’s men, as he knew we would, but, unfortunately for him, not before a stray spear dismounted him and he got trampled upon. The little arsehole deserves it; forty of his lads killed for nothing.’

‘That would explain it, I suppose.’

‘Too fucking right it explains it. I’ll have that bastard when he’s recovered. Why didn’t you tell me that they were going to try and kill me?’

‘Narcissus would have seen me dead.’

Plautius gave a mirthless smile. ‘Well, Narcissus will see us both dead if we don’t stop Corvinus now. How do you halt a rogue legion without bringing it to battle and causing the invasion to collapse?’

‘Narcissus has already thought of that; I can do it with just Paetus’ cavalry and my brother.’

Plautius looked at Vespasian quizzically. ‘Very well,’ he said after a few moments, ‘I suppose I have to trust you seeing as you seem to understand Narcissus’ mind. Take what you need – and hurry. I’ll be close behind you; I’ll try and get two legions across the river at low tide later this afternoon. Now that Corvinus has started hostilities in the north I’m forced to finish off what the treacherous little sod started; not to do so would be seen as weakness by the Britons. It may be that Claudius won’t have a battle left to fight after all.’

‘So long as he can be the first to enter Camulodunum, it might not be such a bad thing, general.’

‘No, it wouldn’t.’ Plautius paused for another moment of thought. ‘And Claudius will still get what he needs without the possibility of being exposed as an incompetent commander.’

‘I wonder if Narcissus has already thought of that too.’

‘Yes, the oily little freedman! I wonder.’

‘I’ve got orders not to let anyone across, sir.’ The centurion of the century of the VIIII Hispana stationed on the south bank of the Tamesis was adamant; he pulled his shoulders back into a more rigid attention as if to emphasise the point.

Vespasian leant down from his horse, placing his face close to the veteran’s. ‘I’m sure you have, centurion, but I have orders to cross; mine are from Aulus Plautius and yours are from Legate Corvinus. So tell me, which one has precedence?’

The centurion swallowed. ‘It would be the general, sir, but Corvinus told me that he was dead and that he was in command now and no one was to cross until Legate Geta arrives.’

‘Is that what he said? Well, I can assure you, centurion, that Plautius is very much alive, so alive, in fact, that he will personally execute you when he arrives here in three hours or so and finds us still debating who’s in charge of the army.’ He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘And what’s more, there’s a legate, a cavalry prefect and three hundred troopers who will testify to him that you obstructed me in obeying his orders.’

‘And a civilian,’ Magnus added.

‘Yes, and a civilian.’

Sabinus moved forward. ‘Centurion Quintillus, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, legate; it’s good to see you again, legate,’ Quintillus barked, attempting to force his body into an even more rigid state of attention.

‘And you, centurion. It would be a shame if this was to be our last meeting.’

‘It would, legate.’

‘So what’s it to be?’

Quintillus glanced nervously around, swallowing hard again. ‘Well, I suppose that in the circumstances I’d better let you cross.’

‘That was a very sensible decision.’

‘But you’ll have to wait at least a couple of hours for the tide to fall; it’s too high at the moment.’

Vespasian swung off his horse. ‘Not for these lads, it isn’t. Now, tell me, Quintillus, which way did the Ninth go?’

The centurion pointed to two small hills covered with a smattering of trees, next to each other on the far bank, over a quarter of a mile away. ‘They disappeared between them hills, heading northeast, sir. Be sure to go between them not over them; a local farmer told us that one of them, and I don’t know which, has a shrine on it sacred to a god called Lud and you wouldn’t want to piss him off, apparently.’

‘Thank you for the warning, centurion, I’ll be sure to mention to the general just how co-operative you’ve been. Right, Paetus, it’s time your lads got wet.’

‘I’m going to have to stop soon,’ Sabinus said through chattering teeth after they had travelled only three or four miles from the twin hills. ‘If I don’t I’ll pass out.’

Vespasian looked up at the sky; the sun was falling towards the horizon and beginning to deepen in colour. ‘All right, we’ll stop here; we won’t catch up with them tonight anyway. Paetus, have your men build a camp.’

The Batavians set to their task and by nightfall the camp’s three-foot-deep ditch was dug and its resulting embankment topped with a palisade of stakes interwoven with hazel plashing, making a defendable wall half as high again as the height of a man. By necessity it was small and cramped, there being just enough room for the three hundred troopers and their horses, who remained saddled in the event of an alarm; it was also cheerless as Vespasian had, for obvious reasons, forbidden the lighting of fires. The still damp Batavians shivered in their cloaks and many of them lay beneath their mounts for extra warmth, risking a gush of urine from above that would add to their misery.

‘Plautius should have reached the ford and be camping on this side of the river tonight,’ Vespasian said, rubbing Sabinus’ shoulders, trying to get some heat back into his brother’s blood-depleted
body. All around them men hunched against the cold, eating a cheerless supper and talking in hushed tones.

Magnus bit a chunk from a slice of salted pork. ‘What do you think he’ll do tomorrow?’

‘He’ll leave one legion north of the river and one on the south bank and then come after us with the remaining one,’ Sabinus suggested, ‘in case we’re not successful stopping Corvinus.’

‘You mean he’d attack the Ninth if they refused to stop?’

Vespasian shrugged. ‘He’d at least threaten to as a last resort, he’d have no option; he knows that his life is now at stake. If Narcissus can’t give Claudius the personal victory he’s promised, he’ll distance himself from it; Plautius will take the blame and will receive a nice polite note, in the Emperor’s name, requesting that he do the decent thing.’

Magnus chewed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘And I would guess that he won’t be the only one to get such a note.’

‘I think you’d be guessing correctly; Sabinus and I know too much. Our grandmother warned me about this, years ago; she told me not to get involved with the schemes of the powerful because ultimately all they want is more power and to get it they use people of our class as disposable tools. We’re very handy when things are going well, but an embarrassment when they don’t because we know too much. We therefore need to be discarded.’

‘She never said that to me,’ Sabinus said, aggrieved.

‘That’s because you never listened to her; you were too busy terrorising me and then you joined up and never went back. But I used to talk to her, or, more to the point, listen to her, and most of the things that she told me have begun to make complete sense as I’ve grown older. Magnus said it: in the Rome that you and I live in we can never rise to the top because those positions are reserved for one family; but we carry on our careers despite that because what would we do otherwise? Look forward to tasting next year’s wine? So we have no choice; there’re always going to be people more powerful than us and they’re always going to be using us and one day they’ll be the death of us. Unless we’re successful tomorrow, that day might be very soon and Plautius knows it.’

‘Perhaps I should do more listening in future.’

Vespasian smiled in the dark. ‘The day you start listening will be the day I ask for a loan.’

‘Sir,’ Paetus hissed, walking quickly towards them through the tangle of resting troopers. ‘I think that you should come and see this.’

‘What is it, prefect?’

‘A fire, some distance off; it’s just been lit.’

Vespasian followed Paetus to the northern defence. Looking out into the night he could see a point of flame that grew appreciably as he watched it. Then shadows appeared around it and a faint chanting drifted through the cold air. ‘Can you make them out, Paetus?’

‘Just, it’s very strange; they don’t seem to be wearing trousers like the Britons do; when they bother to dress at all, that is.’

Vespasian squinted; as he did so two of the figures lifted a small bundle into the air. ‘You’re right; they’re wearing robes almost down to their ankles. What are they?’

‘Shall I send some men to find out?’

‘Better not, it might be a trap; we’re safer staying in here.’

Magnus joined them peering at the group, which seemed to consist of half a dozen of the strangely garbed figures. The bundle was laid back onto the ground and the chanting stopped to be replaced by an infant’s wail. ‘I think we’re being cursed,’ he muttered darkly as a figure knelt down over the bundle. ‘I’ve heard stories about this lot, and none of them were good. I’d wager that you’d rather have that nice polite note from the Emperor asking you to relieve the world of the burden of your life than run into them.’ The wail was abruptly cut off; Magnus clutched his thumb between his fingers and spat. ‘They’re priests; they’re called druids.’