Douglas Jackson - Claudius

CLAUDIUS

Douglas Jackson

Contents

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Epub ISBN 9781409084068

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First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Bantam Press an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright Douglas Jackson 2009

Douglas Jackson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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ISBNs 9780593060629 (cased) 9780593060636 (tpb)

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Douglas Jackson turned a lifelong fascination for Rome and the Romans into his first novel, Caligula . He was born in Jedburgh, in the Scottish borders, and now lives in Bridge of Allan. He is an assistant editor at the Scotsman .

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For Gregor

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my editor, Simon Thorogood, and the team at Transworld, and to Stan, my agent at Jenny Brown. Graham Websters excellent books The Roman Invasion of Britain and Rome against Caratacus provided the foundations for Claudiuss Britain, but shouldnt be blamed for any assumptions Ive made or liberties Ive taken in the search for a better novel. Id also like to say a special thanks to Blairdrummond Safari Park for allowing me to meet Toto, who gave me a true insight into the character Bersheba, the Emperors elephant.

Prologue

Britain AD 43

The scarlet of their tunics spread across the land like a bloodstain.

From his position on the crest of the hilltop he could see the tight, disciplined column moving steadily through the trees. He tried to gauge their numbers. Thousands certainly, perhaps as many as ten thousand. And these were only the advance guard.

His spies had given warning of their coming but he had travelled days beyond his own frontiers to see for himself. The legions of Rome. They had been here once before, when his father was still a boy and Julius Caesar led them across the sea, but they had soon left, laden with gold and hostages. Some primal instinct told him that this time they were here to stay. The warriors of Britain had long forgotten the legions power and their fearsome potential, but he had remembered the old tales and learned. Any refugee from Gaul knew he would receive a welcome among the Catuvellauni, and it was the way of the Catuvellauni chief to question such refugees, gently, about the threat that had driven them from their lands. Now he could see that threat with his own eyes and he felt an unfamiliar stirring low in his belly. So this was fear?

Lord? It is time.

He looked over his shoulder to where his escort waited, hidden below the skyline. Ballan was right. If they stayed longer they could be trapped by the auxiliary cavalry which undoubtedly accompanied this force. But his eyes were drawn back to the marching column and the occasional glint of sun on burnished armour. In the serene quiet of the morning he could hear the faint notes of horns. Even at this distance it sounded alien. Aggressive.

Lord? Caratacus? Ballans voice was louder and more urgent. He was pointing to a saddle between two hills about a mile away, where a dozen small specks had just come into view. Horsemen. Another few minutes and they would be cut off.

Go, he shouted, running down the slope and vaulting on to his pony. Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni, rode north to prepare his people for war.

I

Rufus felt soft lips caress his cheek, barely disturbing the three-day stubble. He had been asleep for only a few hours, except that the chill from the damp earth seeping into his bones meant it hadnt been real sleep, more a dozing just beneath the surface of waking. Not sleep, but at least rest, and he needed rest after a long day on the march. For a moment he resented the attention, but he had dreamed so long of a womans touch, a womans tenderness; of hair the colour of spun gold and the texture of silk... He opened his eyes and looked lovingly into two hairy nostrils.

Bersheba, he groaned, pushing away the long, sinuous trunk that nuzzled his face. It cant be time to feed you already. He turned over and pulled his cloak closer around him, but his tormentor returned, plucking insistently at the heavy cloth. He sighed and sat up. He might as well give in now.

She was standing over him, and he could just discern the faint out-line of her massive bulk against the first hint of dawn that painted the sky a cadaverous, purple-bruised grey, the faint light reflecting liquid brown eyes filled with timeless wisdom. Bersheba had been his charge for almost seven years now, first under the psychotic Caligula four terrible years he wished he could erase from his memory and latterly in the more benevolent service of his successor, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus. The Emperors elephant. And why, he asked himself for the hundredth time, are the Emperors elephant and her faithful slave stranded in this strange and dangerous land when the Emperor himself is a thousand long miles away in Rome?

He struggled to his feet and walked to the bullock cart to collect Bershebas feed and the little red apples she loved. Gaius and Britte were still asleep among the hay. He smiled down at his son and listened to the soft, regular breathing with a pleasure only a father could know. Gaius was tucked in close to the big slave girl who had been his wet nurse since his mothers death at the hands of the man the world believed was also Caligulas killer. Rufus was one of only two people left alive who knew the true story and that was the way he intended it to stay. In a few minutes Britte would rise and prepare the oats for their only proper meal between now and nightfall. Within the hour, they would harness the bullock cart and march another twelve miles.

It had been like this for a week. A relentless trudge across a rolling landscape of forest and downland as the soldiers of four legions sought to bring the tribes of Britain to battle. The whole army, forty thousand men from the furthest corners of the Empire, could sense their generals frustration. Aulus Plautius Silvanus had promised his Emperor a swift victory, but all he had to show for his efforts were a few burned-out huts and the heads of a dozen British warriors taken in the endless, futile skirmishes that hampered his progress. Rufus gave thanks he was positioned with the baggage train of the Second Augusta, in the centre of the miles-long Roman column, and unlikely to be involved in any fighting. He had warned Narcissus that Bersheba wasnt meant for war. Why had he trusted that scheming Greek?