Douglas Jackson: Claudius

‘Do you deny it is your ambition?’

‘I do not deny that Britain has never needed a strong leader more than at this moment.’ He looked to each of the seated figures in turn. ‘Who will unite our tribes and lead them to victory? You, Epedos? You, Antedios? Bodvoc?’

The big man grinned and shook his head. ‘Not me. I have enough enemies already.’

Caratacus continued relentlessly. ‘You? You? You?’ As he challenged each man in turn he felt Togodumnus fidgeting in the seat at his side and willed him to stay where he was. At last, he came to Adminius. ‘And you, Adminius. Will you lead the warriors of Britain in this time of their greatest trial?’

Adminius stared at his half-brother. Was this a trap? Caratacus was offering him what he had always coveted. He had dreamed of uniting the tribes and leading them forward into a new prosperity, longed for the admiration and respect his people would give the king who brought the bright light of civilization into their lives. Then he looked at those who shared the room with him, savage men who ruled by the strength of their swords and the ruthlessness that rid them of rival and enemy. Saw the wolfish, mocking faces waiting for him to speak. And knew his dream was just that. A dream. He shook his head, and everyone in the hut recognized his defeat.

Caratacus accepted his triumph for what it was. He had forced the wild dog back into its lair. Now it was time to throw him a bone. ‘You are correct, Adminius: the Cantiaci understand the Roman way better than anyone else in this room. The Cantiaci will be my eyes and ears in the south. Do you accept this task?’

Adminius nodded his assent, not trusting himself to speak.

‘Then this is the way it will be. Togodumnus, you will…’

It took two hours of hard bargaining before he had his way, but that was to be expected. He was dealing with proud men not in the habit of accepting orders, even from other kings. Epedos had been easier to persuade than he expected, willing to accept his tribe’s role in slowing the Roman advance and avoiding casualties. Caratacus knew the Atrebate leader would have difficulty restraining his men. The British approach to war was victory or death. To order a warrior to attack his enemy then vanish into the trees was like asking a bear to pin down its prey but not tear out its throat. It went against every instinct.

After everyone had gone, he sat with Nuada close to the fire, discussing what was said, and, perhaps more important, what was not said.

‘There are not enough of them, not nearly enough. To stop the Romans we need every warrior south of the Tyne. The Silures and the Ordovici I can understand refusing my invitation, they have no reason to love us, but the Durotriges? Does Scarach believe he can sit behind the walls of that giant fortress of his until they go away? And the Coreltauvi? Do they think the Romans will ignore them because a wall of Catuvellauni dead lies between?’

‘And the Brigantes,’ Nuada said quietly. The Brigantes were the most numerous of the British tribes and held the mountainous north. With the Brigantes at his side Caratacus would have swooped on the Roman columns with the confidence of a hunting eagle.

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged, ‘the Brigantes. Why did she not heed my summons?’

Nuada ignored the question, although he knew the answer well enough. ‘Will Adminius fight?’

‘No,’ Caratacus said decisively. ‘But even though I would give my right hand for the warriors he leads, it suits my purpose. Better to have him watching us bleed from the nearest hill than in the middle of my battle line less than a spear’s throw from my back. However, Adminius is not the only one with doubts. I had a sense of men hiding behind their smiles.’

‘Our scouts tell of groups of warriors riding hard by night,’ Nuada said. ‘Of meetings held where they would not be held by honest men. Wherever these men go the clay that binds us weakens and crumbles a little more.’

‘Then tell our scouts to bring me the heads of these spies, or better still bring me one alive so we can discuss the nature of their meetings and who attended them.’

‘The goddess Epona has been kind to them. The horses they mount are speedier and hardier than our British ponies. They allow our scouts to come close, then harness the wind to sweep them beyond our reach.’

‘Then we must ambush them,’ Caratacus said patiently, as if to an elderly relative. ‘Find some hidden place and set a trap.’

Nuada raised one eyebrow, but otherwise showed no offence. ‘It appears they know the tracks and the forest ways as well as any of our people,’ he replied, with equal patience. ‘Almost as if they were our people.’

A shadow fell over Caratacus’s face. It was not unexpected, but when he thought of his countrymen collaborating with the invaders he could feel the hot coals of a fire smouldering in his belly.

‘Adminius?’ Nuada said.

‘I don’t think so. Not yet. He cannot openly oppose us until he has convinced his tribe we cannot win. He can question what we do, but he dare not act. It is not our enemies I fear, but our friends.’

Nuada opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak a travel-stained figure burst into the meeting room.

‘Lord, forgive me,’ the man gasped, going down on one knee. Caratacus recognized Ballan, his chief scout, but he had never seen the man so agitated.

‘What is it, Ballan?’ he demanded, struggling to keep his voice calm. ‘What brings you to me in such haste that you feel the need to break every convention of the meeting house? Are the Romans upon us?’

‘No, lord.’ Ballan looked up self-consciously. ‘They are still thirty miles beyond the river.’

‘Then we may lie safe in our beds?’

‘But, lord…’

‘Yes?’

‘They have bent a monster to their will.’

Caratacus made the sign and despite himself he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He asked the question, but he did not want to hear the answer. ‘What kind of monster have the Romans bent to their will?’

‘A dragon, lord — a mighty dragon that breathes smoke and fire.’

The Senate was well attended when Lucius Arruntius Scribonianus was condemned. Claudius counted no fewer than nine former consuls from his elevated position above the throng, not to mention the cream of those of senatorial rank, though a few were missing who would normally have been there to witness the spectacle.

He looked down at the shrunken figure who had been dragged before him. What changes six months in prison could impose upon a man, even a proud man like Scribonianus. Claudius had seen men broken in body by torture, but he had never seen anyone quite so broken within. He remembered Scribonianus as a solid, almost portly figure, swelled by his own vision of his importance. Now his features were sunken, the ravages he had suffered written plain on the stark bones of his face. The governor of Illyricum; he had come so close, so dangerously close. With three legions he could have swept down from that place where Strabo said, curiously, that the natives lived in caves beneath their dung heaps, and taken Rome in a day. Only the Praetorian Guard would have stood between Scribonianus and the purple, and Claudius doubted they would have stood for long against twenty thousand veterans.

He realized he’d slumped lower in his seat as his thoughts wandered, and he straightened, attempting, no doubt in vain, to make his features look more imperial. It should not be so difficult; he did, after all, have the blood of Augustus running through his veins. Concentrate. By now Seneca had abandoned wit for bile, and was excoriating Scribonianus as a traitor and a coward. You could always depend on Seneca to frolic at the feet of power like some faithful puppy, ready to beg or roll over at the first sign of a sweetmeat, or cringe if he was shown the whip. He had become a little too familiar of late. Perhaps Valeria Messalina was right and it was time to send him back to Corsica?