“Where is the stone temple?”
“To the north. A short ride,” Tosutigus answered. “It is deserted,” he added.
“Take me there,” Vespasian ordered.
The short journey that the little party made – for Vespasian took with him only Tosutigus and the two outriders – decided the young chief’s fate. By the time they set out from the dune, the Celt had already discovered the hard-faced Roman’s identity, and he was eager to impress him.
Tosutigus rode his finest horse, a chestnut. He was proud of his horses: they were not large, but sturdy animals with broad heads who did well on the wild terrain of the island. To Vespasian, who had seen the fleetest and most elegant horses that Persia or Africa could send to Rome, they seemed clumsy, heavy-boned creatures; but Tosutigus could not know this. Following the old custom of his people he had mixed the leaves of the she-yew tree with the horse’s bait to make his coat shine; and mounted on this fine animal, with bridle and bit decorated in gold, he cut a splendid figure. Beside him the Roman rode on a quiet grey; the animal was stolid, and the commander wore no ornaments, but the hilt of his short sword tapped against his bronze breastplate as they went along.
A damp breeze had blown up and grey clouds were now passing over the landscape. The flocks of small brown sheep, most of which it had not been possible to bring within the dune, were grazing untended on the chalk ridges. On the slopes, the patchworks of little cornfields were empty, and the few farmsteads the riders passed, with their round thatched buildings and wattle enclosures were silent.
But deserted as the scene was, Tosutigus gazed round the rolling landscape with pride.
“It’s good country,” he remarked.
Vespasian nodded thoughtfully. It was, and he had already decided how he could use this rich and empty land.
“This place is yours?”
“My family has always held it,” the Celt answered, indicating the whole landscape with a sweep of his hand. “The high ground is ours, and the land to the south-west, towards the Durotriges. Our house is in the valley,” he added.
The family’s house in normal times was not the dune but a modest and comfortable place a few miles to the north: it consisted of a large enclosure similar to the farmsteads they were passing, though on a grander scale. Inside were two circular thatched houses, each thirty feet in diameter, in which the family lived, a dozen stores and outhouses, and the small shrine to the god Nodens at which the family worshipped. Since leaving the windy dune as a residence two generations before, the family had been content with their farm stead and its fine views over the valley and river below – a modest style of life typical of many of the Celtic nobles on the island at the time.
They passed numerous barrows, all overgrown with short, coarse turf and the Roman glanced at them with careless interest.
“These were the tombs of my ancestors,” Tosutigus told him. He hoped that this Roman legate understood that he was a figure of some consequence in the land, but he was not sure that he did.
When they reached Stonehenge, Vespasian surveyed the huge, crumbling stone circle with curiosity. It was obvious that this temple was not in regular use.
“Do the Druids come here?”
Tosutigus shook his head.
“It was used in my father’s time, but not much even then. The Druids left.”
“Human sacrifice?”
The young chief hesitated. He was well aware of the Roman view of this practice, and although he was loyal to Nodens and the other Celtic gods, he had been revolted by many of the Druids’ ancient customs himself. The truth was that ten years before, after a poor harvest, a party of Druids had sacrificed a child at the henge, but there had been no sacrifices since.
“There used to be,” he answered.
The Roman’s face registered disgust.
“The Druids are mostly further north,” Tosutigus explained, “or in the lands of the Durotriges. They don’t use the henges much; they use clearings in the woods.” This was the truth and he hoped it would satisfy Vespasian.
“If any Druids come here, you will send them to me in chains,” Vespasian ordered.
“As you wish.”
Tosutigus had no particular love for the Druids and he knew that once the Romans ruled the island, they would be exterminated anyway. The Druids were irrelevant to his purposes. He glanced at the cold young legate to see if he had succeeded in making a favourable impression, but the Roman’s expressionless face gave nothing away.
In fact, from the first moment when Tosutigus had come down from the dune, Vespasian had seen him for exactly what he was: a young provincial chief – hopeful, ambitious, and obviously without any real power. Vespasian understood power better than most men then living, and he could see at once that Tosutigus had nothing to bargain with except a minor fort which he had already given up. But it amused him to watch this young chief on his fine horse trying to impress him with his floundering and ungrammatical Latin and as they made their way back towards the dune, he suddenly turned to him and asked abruptly:
“And what do you want from Rome, Tosutigus?”
The young man was taken by surprise. He had not expected such a direct approach but be recovered himself quickly. Was not this exactly the chance that he had waited for so many months? It obviously was, and he had his answer ready.
“I want to be a client ruler, Vespasian, and a Roman citizen.” He might have added, “and a senator too,” for it was known that client kings under the empire had sometimes been given this honour and had strutted in the streets of Rome in their heavy-bordered togas and been treated as equals by the greatest men of the empire. He could think of nothing he would like more.
“You want to be a client king?” Vespasian looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and wondered: how vain and ambitious was this foolish young fellow? “What else do you want?” he asked.
Thinking that he had impressed him, Tosutigus went on eagerly:
“Let me have the harbour which the Durotriges stole from my family; I know how to run it profitably.” This claim was in fact true; but it was of no particular interest to the legate, who could see that the Celt was bursting to ask for more. Without letting Tosutigus see that his questions were little more than grim teasing he asked with apparent seriousness:
“And what else?”
Tosutigus paused.
For many months he had pondered his grand design; he had even prepared his approach to the governor on the subject; and now, lured on by what he took to be the legate’s interest in him – this legate who was about to destroy the powerful Durotriges and who certainly must have the ear of the governor, he threw aside his usual caution. This, he thought to himself, is my moment: it has come sooner than I expected. His hope had been to approach the governor himself with his plan, if he could only get the opportunity; but it seemed to him now that he must seek to win over this commander of the legion which was about to destroy the Durotriges, for Vespasian was probably his only way to the governor.
Slowly he drew out of his tunic a parchment scroll. It was a letter, addressed to governor Aulus Plautius, and it was the result of endless nights of secret composition. This was his plan to make Sarum great again.
The letter was not yet sealed.
“Read it,” he said proudly.
Vespasian read, with grim amusement, and then astonishment. Before him, couched in a Latin and handwriting that would have made any Roman schoolboy burst out laughing, was the mind of Tosutigus – his grand plan for the reorganisation of the south-west of the island, for his personal benefit. Stripped of its fervent expressions of devotion and absurd flattery it said: Tosutigus is loyal to Rome: give him the entire land of the Durotriges to rule over and you will never repent of your choice.
“The Durotriges hate the Romans,” Tosutigus explained excitedly. “They will fight to the death, but even when you have conquered them, none of their own chiefs will ever be loyal and you’ll have nothing but trouble. You will eithe
r have to garrison the whole territory, which is expensive, or kill them all, and leave behind you a desert. But I am a Celt,” he went on. “I understand these Durotriges and their ways, and furthermore I am loyal to Rome. I could hold their lands as your client – or some of their lands, at least,” he added hopefully.
So that was it. Even Vespasian was surprised by the ambition of this foolish fellow’s dream: there was even a certain logic to it, he acknowledged. But it was wholly impractical – from start to finish a young man’s plan. If the Durotriges were too proud to submit to Rome, there was even less chance that they would accept as their king this obscure young chief who had already betrayed his fort. The idea was absurd.
In his heart of hearts, Tosutigus knew it himself; but it was a gamble worth a try. The Roman invaders, he reasoned, knowing little of the country, might be attracted by the prospect of an easy solution to the problem of governing the area – for he did not realise the thoroughness and relentless attention to detail of the imperial administration; and besides, how else was he to revenge his family for the years of indignity under Durotrigan domination, and restore Sarum to its ancient glory?
Vespasian saw all this clearly, but his face remained impassive.
“I will convey your letter to the governor,” he replied gravely.
For he had already decided how to make use of the foolish young Celt at his side, and now he craftily introduced the subject that was really on his mind.
“If you want to be a client king, you will not only need to please the governor,” he said. “You must show your loyalty to the emperor himself. Claudius is impressed by action, not words.”
Tosutigus waited expectantly. It seemed to him that his negotiations were going better than he had dared to hope.
Vespasian knew very well what Claudius wanted from his new province. Before leaving the island, the lame emperor had made his wishes clear: “Gentlemen,” he had remarked to Aulus Plautius and the legates in the governor’s tent, “remember that I expect this conquest to be profitable to me personally.” No ambitious commander would be so unwise to forget such a hint, and when Vespasian saw the rolling lands of this insignificant young chief, he also saw his opportunity.
“You must make a friend of the emperor, and impress him,” he assured his companion earnestly.
Tosutigus fell into the trap at once.
“How?”
Vespasian pretended astonishment.
“Make him a present of course – land. You have plenty, but he has less of his own than you suppose.”
Tosutigus frowned. This was not the way he had intended the conversation to go. He knew that in other parts of the island before the conquest began, Celtic chiefs had made gifts to the Roman emperor and in return had received both honours and lucrative contracts. But he was reluctant to part with any portion of a patrimony that had already shrunk in recent generations.
“How much would I need to give?” he asked doubtfully.
“He would not want the estates where your own home is – keep them,” Vespasian replied. “But this land on the high ground, and the land you have to the south west, towards the territory of the Durotriges: give him that.”
“But . . .” Tosutigus was dismayed. “That is three fourths of all my land!”
Vespasian’s look was stony.
“You have just asked him to make you a king. It’s a small price to pay for what you want.”
But, Tosutigus thought, I may not get what I want; and then I will have given all my land to an emperor I shall probably never see.
“And if I refuse?”
Vespasian’s face was a mask.
“Perhaps you would lose it anyway,” he remarked pleasantly.
The threat was obvious. If the Roman decided to take the land anyway, there was nothing he could do. The Durotriges would not make any trouble on his behalf, because he had broken his vow and given up the dune. The Belgae to the east cared nothing for him; the Atrebates had forgotten his existence. Faced with reality, and with Vespasian’s naked power, he realised as a sudden cold sweat broke over his body, the incredible folly of his plan and the weakness of his position. He had no options; he was defenceless. He had even opened the gates of the fort, the only bargaining weapon that he had.
But in this assessment too, Tosutigus was wrong; Vespasian did not in the least want to conquer Sarum. For if this land were to be conquered, then it would automatically come under the control of the military, and perhaps require a small garrison in an inconvenient location. Yet here, he saw at once on the rolling high ground, were exactly the sort of valuable estates that Claudius would be glad to receive for his personal use and for his family: valuable estates, moreover, which were not claimed by any powerful tribe. The legate had no intention of losing such an opportunity to please the emperor. All that was needed, he knew, was a legal document in due form, making a personal gift of them from the present owner to Claudius: that was how such matters were done. But Tosutigus knew little of imperial administration or of Roman legal niceties. He did not understand that the transfer would benefit only Vespasian in the emperor’s eyes, or that such a document would then be used by the clever military bureaucrat to persuade other chiefs to follow his example.
In fact, Vespasian would have been satisfied with half the land he had demanded, in return for which Tosutigus should have held out for at least a grant on Roman citizenship.
But Tosutigus had received a shock, and he panicked.
“It seems I have no choice,” he muttered, and from that point they rode over the chalk ridges in silence.
At the dune, watched in puzzlement by Numex and his men, Vespasian quickly dictated an appropriate document to the centurion who acted as scribe. When it was done, he invited Tosutigus to sign it. It read:
I, Tosutigus, hereditary chief and ally of Rome and in the presence of legate Vespasian, do give to Claudius Nero Germanicus, divine Emperor of Rome, all those lands previously held by me on the high ground and to the south west of the temple of stone.
It was a somewhat crude document, but for the time being it would suffice. A more detailed and formal document could be drawn up later.
Suddenly a thought struck the legate.
“We must give this place a name. What do you call this fort?”
“The dune,” Tosutigus replied sullenly.
“And the stream below?”
“Afon.” This was the Celtic word which meant river.
“Avon?” He shook his head. The sound did not please him. “Sorvio,” he said finally. “Means a slow-moving stream. We shall call it Sorviodunum.”
A.D. 60
It seemed to Porteus, as the night deepened, that the waves crashing against the rocky Welsh shore nearby made a melancholy sound. But perhaps it was his mood.
The sharp, salty wind had just found a gap between the tent flaps and it burst in, causing the oil lamp to flicker violently. But the clean-shaven young Roman who sat motionless on the camp stool inside did not allow this interruption to distract his attention. He passed a hand through his unruly mop of black curly hair – never in all his twenty-one years had he ever completely managed to control it all – and, on a new piece of parchment he wrote down, slowly and carefully, the dangerous thought that had been troubling him for the past few months.
Privately, my dear father, I believe that we are administering the island badly and that there will be trouble. It’s the governor’s fault.
Having written this, he paused. Was it wise to express such ideas in a letter that was to travel all the way to his family’s estate in south east Gaul, and which might easily be opened by spies? He was attached to the governor’s staff, thanks to the influence of his prospective father-in-law. Wouldn’t he be accused of treachery? He shook his head sadly, put the parchment to one side, and returned to the safer narrative of the letter he had been composing before.
Two days ago, dear parents, we exterminated the last of the Druids: and a strange business it was, I can tell
you. They and their followers had gathered on a small island called Mona, off the extreme west coast of Britannia, past the territory of the Deceangli tribe we have been fighting recently.
The governor was determined to crush them, and so we prepared to cross the narrow straits with the whole of the XIV Legion and most of the XX too.
They were burning fires all along the shoreline opposite, and what with the fires, and the shrieks they made, and the surf pounding, our troops hesitated for a moment. But not for long! The infantry crossed in boats and those of us who were mounted swam across on our horses; when we got over it wasn’t so bad. They fought well, but in the end they had to surrender and our own losses were not heavy.
He rested his hand. This account could safely be read out to his mother and his two sisters. The reality had been very different.
It had not been the lowering, overcast skies nor the crashing waves, nor the flickering fires along the shore that had made the legionaries hesitate; it had not been the native warriors banging their long shields with their spears to make a noise like thunder, nor the Druids in their robes shrieking the curses of their Celtic gods across the waters; it had not even been the sight of the naked sacrificial bodies the Druids threw into the hissing fires.
It had been the women.
They were a strange and terrifying sight: they were drawn up in front of their men, half naked but brightly painted and fully armed, their long hair streaming in the wind. They shook their knives and spears, they danced and gesticulated as though they were possessed; and – this was the worst of all, they uttered a high, piercing war cry, again and again, that came wailing over the water with a terrible, unearthly sound. He had never heard anything like that cry: it sent shivers down his spine.