He felt a smile threatening at the memory, but was just able to suppress it. Now. Now was the time. He got to his feet, hitching the toga over his shoulder. His eyes ranged over the benches once more, acknowledging the powerful and the influential, ignoring the others. ‘Senators of Rome.’ He projected his voice so that it seemed to rattle from the marble columns of the house, and those in the front ranks of the crowd beyond the ropes outside the building could hear each word and pass it on to those behind. ‘Senators of Rome, I have called you here on a matter of the gravest importance. The honour — no, the very future of the Empire lies in the balance.’
A murmur of dismay ran through the white-clad ranks on the benches. He raised his hand for quiet.
‘General Aulus Plautius, whom all here know, and I tasked with the long overdue annexation of the peoples of Britain, reports a set-back. The British tribes, which he had supposed defeated, have united under the command of a new and resourceful leader, Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni. This Caratacus now gathers a mighty host to his standard, a host which threatens the very existence of General Plautius’s army. Four Roman legions — four, I say — are now held with the point of Caratacus’s spear at their throat, beyond reach of their supplies, without reserves, with no hope of succour, unless,’ he paused to let his words and their message be absorbed, ‘unless we, the conscience and the conviction of the Empire, give them hope.’
He stopped again and allowed his head to drop slightly. His voice seemed quieter, but somehow still reached every ear he intended it to reach.
‘I blame myself for placing Rome’s bravest and most honoured in such deadly peril. General Plautius asked for more troops — indeed, he outlined this very situation — but I — and you — denied them to him.’ He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his own foolishness, and with that one act included every man in the Senate House in his guilt. ‘Too expensive, we said. We need them in the east, we said.’ His voice rose in volume again, its power growing with each word. ‘What price do we put now on Roman blood, what price on Roman honour? Is there any price we would not pay, any gift we would not give, to turn defeat into victory?’
‘No!’ ‘None!’ ‘Anything!’ The words were repeated along the benches, taken up by one senator after another, and he knew he had them. Had them all.
‘Then I propose we send the Eighth legion to the aid of our beleaguered commander. I have already taken the liberty of alerting their legate at his base in Dacia, and they have begun a forced march through the Alpine passes.’
There was a murmur of assent, but one senator ventured his concern. ‘Will a single legion be proof against an enemy who have the measure of four already?’
Claudius allowed himself a grave smile. Thank you, Lucius Vitellius, for playing your part. You will have your reward.
‘Not just a single legion, Vitellius. The expedition will be accompanied by a force consisting of the Praetorian Guard and auxiliary cavalry, which is equal to a second legion.’
He waited until the full impact of his words was rewarded by a murmur of surprise. The Praetorian Guard was the elite of the Roman army, headquartered in Rome and the personal bodyguard of the Emperor. He never went anywhere without them, or they without him.
‘Yes, senators of Rome, I, an old man, will personally lead the relief force.’ He let his eyes range across the tiered benches. ‘But who will join me? You? You? Or you? Will you come to General Plautius’s aid and redeem the glory of Rome?’
What could they do, when the senator seated next to them was clamouring to be included? To gainsay him would be to admit cowardice or lack of patriotism. So one by one his enemies stood and clamoured with the rest. And, one by one, he swept them up.
‘Yes, you brave Marcus Vinicius. I accept your gracious offer. Valerius Asiaticus, you live up to your noble name. Lucius Sulpicius Galba, I am humbled by your sacrifice and will willingly serve beside you. Gallus, old friend, and now comrade.’
One after the other he netted them, the cunning and the ambitious, the plotters and the backstabbers, until every danger of consular or senatorial rank was safely in his basket. When it was done he studied his haul like a hunter weighing his bag at the end of a long day. Asiaticus and Vinicius had both married into the imperial family, and been involved in the plot to kill Caligula. But for the accident of Claudius’s discovery by the Praetorian Guard, Vinicius could have been sitting here in his stead, for he had been nominated by the plotters to replace the Emperor. Nobody had more reason for hate than he. Gallus was a fool, but he could not be left behind when he wore his contempt for the Emperor like a badge of honour and waved his ambition like a flag. Sulpicius Galba was more dangerous still, since he was the most able of them all, and kept his ambition hidden behind his patrician scowl. Yet he talked ceaselessly of what was needed to make Rome great again, and all knew that he believed what was needed was Lucius Sulpicius Galba.
It could not have gone better, and when he had them eating from his hand like caged lovebirds, he convinced them to appoint his most trusted ally, Lucius Vitellius, to govern in his stead during the campaign.
Yet, when it was over, elation had been replaced by a strange melancholy. Would there ever be another day like this? Would he ever reach these heights again? He knew he had only won a brief respite from the pressures ranged against him. To truly cement his position he needed a victory and a triumph.
So he had returned to the Palatine — to arm himself for war.
XXI
Why don’t they come?
‘Why don’t they attack?’
Caratacus kept his eyes on the far bank where the Romans waited, the tents of their geometrically precise encampments stretching as far as the horizon. It was the eighth day he had watched them. The sky above the camps was made hazy by the smoke from a thousand cooking fires. On the flatland beyond the river he could see squadrons of cavalry wheeling and manoeuvring as they’d done every evening for the past week. The Roman engineers had begun building three separate bridges within hours of their arrival. They were sited four hundred paces apart, which Plautius obviously believed was far enough to stretch the British forces but close enough for each bridgehead to support the other in case of need. But the work lacked urgency and each slim artery seemed to progress only a few feet a day, inching out as if the Romans were nervous of reaching the British bank. At this rate it could be weeks.
‘I don’t know, Bodvoc. Perhaps they are frightened of us.’
The Regni war chief didn’t smile. ‘We have supplies for only another few days.’
‘So do the Romans.’ It was true. His spies had reported a dwindling stream of wagons reaching the four great legionary encampments. But the Roman commander, Plautius, had cut his men’s rations by a quarter to eke out his food. Caratacus knew that if he did the same his army would melt away around him. He could almost feel the ripening harvest calling to the farmers among his vast force. There had already been desertions among the Dumnonii; it seemed greed for gold could not out-weigh the reality of Rome’s legions massed on the other side of the river.
‘Scarach grumbles. He says if the Romans do not attack us, we should attack them.’