Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (36 page)

The truth was, having to command the entire legion was wearing Artorius thin. Despite his decades in the ranks, most of the duties required
of a commanding general were completely foreign to him. The styles of leadership and command responsibilities were completely different for a legate as opposed to a centurion. And for the last few months, Artorius had found himself in the unenviable position of having to do both. As he walked back to his tent, exhaustion finally getting the best of him, he hoped that sooner rather than later Rome would send a competent legate to take command of the legion.

Neither Roman nor Catuvellauni could sleep that night.
While Camulodunum was well-fortified, Caratacus could see in the faces of his war chiefs that their will to fight had mostly left them after the river battles and the death of Togodumnus. The hall was surprisingly vacant as many of their leaders, who despite surviving the battle, had refused his summons.

“I know most of you are feeling like the Romans have won,” he said candidly. Some of the men looked down or away, as if ashamed. “Well
, aren’t you?”

“What can we do?” one of the leaders
asked. “The emperor himself has arrived with reinforcements! You can hear the calls of those wretched beasts with the giant tusks.”

“We could not stop them at the rivers,” another spoke up. “And now that our friends have abandoned us, what would you have us do?”

Caratacus stood and glared at the men. “I would have you make your stand here and now! Not all of our allies have abandoned the fight. The Durotriges are regrouping in the southwest, and the Silures need only see that we are still willing to make a stand against the invaders, and they will send a host of warriors to our aid.” He paused and let his words sink in, knowing they were mostly futile. When he spoke again, he surprised his men. “Very well, I release all of you from your oaths. If none of you have the stomach to defend your lands, so be it. Surrender to the Romans tomorrow, to live as their slaves and be done with it.”

Though the wagon carried what personal effects they had, the real reason Caratacus wanted it was for his wife, Dylis, who was eight months pregnant with their second child and unable to ride a horse. Their young son rode next to her. Not everyone had deserted Caratacus either; nearly a dozen noblemen were accompanying him, as well as nearly a thousand warriors and their families.

“We are with you, my king!” a warrior said determinedly.

Caratacus’ heart was heavy as he made ready to lead these people into exile. And while the Silures were willing to accommodate them, there would be no rest for any of them. Most of these people were farmers and general laborers, and now they would have to fight in order to survive.

“This is not the end,” Dylis said, taking her husband’s hand. “We will return once the Romans are vanquished
, and you will be rightfully restored as king!”

The following morning, the Romans made ready to march on Camulodunum. Onagers and the heavy siege ballistae were arrayed in a long line facing the southern wall of the stronghold. The emperor’s war elephants, supported by Achillia’s archers, created a vanguard in front of the men of the Second Legion, who had been selected to either accept the Catuvellauni surrender or lead the attack. Claudius himself rode a horse next to Plautius and the other legates, flanked by a mounted detachment of Praetorian Guardsmen.

Vespasian had elected to carry the emperor’s demands personally to the Catuvellauni. He rather audaciously rode his horse at a slow canter towards the gate of the city. It was half opened and as he approached, a group of older men came out to meet him. They were dressed better than the usual unwashed barbarian, their gold and silver trimmed robes denoting their noble status. The eldest of the men stepped forward and started to speak in his native tongue. Though Alaric had taken to serving as his interpreter, Vespasian had elected to ride forward alone, and so a younger man who accompanied the group of elders translated.

“My lords bid you welcome to the lands of the Catuvellauni
. We look forward to our meeting with the emperor of Rome.”

“Where is Caratacus, your king?” Vespasian asked.

The young man did not translate for the elders, but simply answered the question himself. “He is gone, along with many of his followers. Please know that the Catuvellauni now desire peace between our peoples. Our dead are many, and there is great mourning throughout the lands.”

“The emperor’s terms are simple,” Vespasian replied sternly, “total surrender and absolute obedience to Rome. Reparations will also be made for the losses incurred during this war, and the Catuvellauni will subjugate themselves to the Roman governor. Certain border territories will also be ceded to King Cogidubnus of Atrebates. Rome promises to be a fair and just ruler with your people enjoying the benefits of all imperial subjects. Know that your only other option is utter annihilation.”

The young man swallowed hard and translated as best he could. The elder’s face appeared sad, but unsurprised
, by the demands. After all, what could they expect after having taken up arms against Rome? They had stood against the invaders and lost. Without another word, the elder closed his eyes and nodded.

“Open your gates,” Vespasian ordered, “and make ready to receive your emperor!” He then signaled back to Plautius.

A sounding of numerous trumpets followed, with drums beating a cadence as the first wave of legionary cohorts marched into the town. They were soon followed by the praetorians, then the emperor, Plautius, the accompanying senators, and their entourage. Cursor followed with the Indus’ Horse regiment, several more cohorts of legionaries taking up the remainder of the column. Their presence was simply a show of strength, and as soon as they marched through the town, they would disperse back to their camp to await further orders.

For the people of the Catuvellauni capitol, this was their first time seeing the feared Roman soldiers up close. Many were slightly shorter than they, but being encased in their gleaming armor, even the most slender appeared much larger. And whatever their natural body types, every legionary was more muscular, especially in the legs, due to the constant marching in full armor and kit that combined weighed in excess of sixty pounds. They also marched in step to the cadence of the drummers, their unifo
rmly painted shields and mostly identical armor giving the appearance of a single entity rather than a mass of individual soldiers. The armor and weaponry of even a single legionary was more costly than any but the richest war chief or king could afford, giving emphasis on the professional nature of the Roman Army, as well as the empire’s immense wealth.

A large dais occupied the center of the town, normally used by the town crier as well as traveling merchants.
Claudius and his legates dismounted here, with the emperor being helped up the short steps. He did his best to hide his cursed limp; no doubt cognizant of the Catuvellaunis’ puzzlement at how so frail a figure could command the mightiest army in the world. Plautius had taken the young man who translated for Vespasian with them onto the dais. The elders of the kingdom stood at the base, just in front of the mass of people gathered to see the Roman emperor.

“People of Catuvellauni,”
Plautius began. He spoke slowly, pausing periodically so as to allow the young man time to translate.
“Behold your emperor, Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus!”

The gathered crowd remained silent, unable as a whole to fathom the true meaning of the words as they were translated for them. The young man struggled with Claudius’ full name, but soon got it spelled out.

Plautius continued,
“Kneel in subjugation and show your obedience to Caesar and to Rome!”

The young man looked at him and swallowed hard. He dreaded the words, and even more so what would happen should the people fail to head the command. Plautius would normally have considered such a humiliating spectacle to be excessive; however, given that the Catuvellauni had as recently as two days prior been fighting a war against Rome, a sign of utter dominance was required.

The young man’s eyes were closed hard as he shouted Plautius’ command. The elders looked at each other and, knowing they had little choice, each went down onto a knee, heads bowed before the stand. Whether this was done in respect or simply because they could not bear to look upon the Romans, it did not matter. A few uncertain words were whispered amongst the crowd, but soon they followed the lead of their elders and all knelt before the dais.

Were Claudius a lesser man, like his nephew Gaius Caligula had been, the spectacle would have swelled his ego and given him extreme delusions of grandeur. As it was, he found the experience to be very humbling and almost embarrassing. Feeling that the show of subjugation was complete, he stepped forward, placing a hand on Plautius’ shoulder, who took a step back in deference.

“Newest subjects of the Roman Empire,”
Claudius said. Ironically, he found that when he spoke loudly, his stutter often disappeared.
“Let us never draw another weapon against each other. Never again will I ask you to kneel before me. Now rise and begin a new era as friends of Rome!”

Their young translator appeared relieved to say these words, and the people of Catuvellauni uneasily rose to their feet.
Most were baffled by the spectacle, though they were relieved that the fighting was now over. Those diehards who would fight the Roman occupation to the death had already fled with Caratacus. The people who remained simply wished to go about their lives in peace. Though they would mourn the loss of their fathers, brothers, and sons who had been slain in the battle, as well as the more numerous who were maimed and in many cases crippled, there was, overall, a sense of relief amongst the Catuvellauni.

That evening, Claudius called a meeting with the elders of the kingdom. They were invited to a great feast at the Principia, and rather than being paraded as conquered subjects, the emperor saw to it that they were treated as welcome guests. The young translator, whose name they learned was Tristan,
was in attendance as well. Plautius had decided to keep him on as his interpreter, as he spoke the dialects of most of the Britannic tribes. The need to translate kept the pace of conversation slow, but Claudius was pleased with how receptive the elders were.

“Welcome, friends,” he said as soon as all were seated.

The Catuvellauni were unaccustomed to lounging on Roman couches, though they did their best to give a good appearance.