Arthur Invictus

by Paul Bannister

  The Romans had used it to set mosaics, as a sort of cement. I had seen the mosaic artist Claria Primanata use it at my now-destroyed Fishbourne palace, and she had mentioned that drier asphalt was sometimes used by both the Romans and the Greeks to bind walls together. I wondered if it might make better fortifications, and filed the thought away for the future.

  Other containers on the galleys, false-labelled as containing wine or olive oil, actually held resin, quicklime and sulphur, and these shared space with several stirrup pumps, amphorae of vinegar, alum and talcum, a quantity of leather protective clothing, two barrels of pumice stones and a number of empty ceramic pots.

  The oily minerals and other substances were to form the basis for a mix that produced the Byzantine Fire, the pumps would spray it, and the leather, soaked in a brew of vinegar, talcum and alum would provide some protection to the troops who handled the flame-throwing equipment.

  I also gave Iskandur instructions for Grimr, who was to construct a number of ballistae on site in Gaul. There was insufficient room on the galleys for them to be transported, and any prying eyes that spotted the war weapons could trigger a response we were trying to avoid. To make the ballistae more powerful, I sent along a supply of animal sinew, which made extra-strong ropes for the catapults.

  The two supply ships sailed out of the harbour on the Dee looking like honest traders, for the crews wore civilian clothes and concealed their weapons below the gunwales where they could quickly be retrieved if needed, but would arouse no alarm to a casual observer. With caution and some careful night sailing, the galleys could slip into Gaul undetected, but I also provided the captains with a supply of small gold ingots and coin to bribe any tax collectors who might come across the ‘traders.’

  They left, and my anxieties grew. Their cargoes were vital to my plan, and if that plan failed, I might pay with the lives of my men, as well as with my own. “Manannan mac Lir,” I prayed to the sea god, “please calm the waves, smooth their way and bring them safe and successfully to land.”

  Chapter IX - Raiders

  Fretting was pointless. The dice were cast, I had other concerns. In a remote part of the meadows away from the parade ground, three groups of mixed troopers and sailors had set up a couple of wrecked galleys and were practising with the fire-squirting jets they had set up in the vessels’ bows. I observed from a safe distance, and all seemed to be going well.

  The pumps were two-handed machines, and two burly soldiers encased in soggy leathers pounded the handles with vigour, hurling a jet of spray fully 45 yards. The big, scarred centurion Damonius Mallardis, who had distinguished himself in our losing battle for Londinium, was equally protected in vinegar-soaked leather. He carefully pushed a lighted taper to the touch hole in the barrel of the pump and instantly the thin jet turned into a dragon’s hurled and fiery exhalation.

  The target framework of straw bales they had set up caught at once and whooshed into flame, and the pump handlers stopped their heaving, and stepped hastily back. Damonius dropped wet sacking over the pump barrel, but it did not extinguish at once. The Byzantine Fire was so tenacious that it took three applications of sacking before the fabric became just a smouldering heap. “This,” I thought, “is a weapon to terrify the unwary. May the gods help anyone caught in this dragon breath.”

  Within two weeks, word came from Grimr, carried by Iskandur, who had travelled across northern Gaul in disguise and bribed a fishing boat captain to carry him across the Narrow Sea. At one stage he had to hold the captain at blade point to enforce his demands. The news he brought was vital. After an epic journey, the Suehan raider and his crew occupied two old warehouses with a wharf on the Meuse, about 11 miles upriver of the shipyards.

  Grimr’s two galleys had sailed boldly and unchallenged up the mighty Seine, slipped into the Oise and sailed as far as they could before abandoning their galleys, sinking them under stones in a wooded creek.

  The crews had concealed their weapons and dispersed into small groups, one of them disguised as a travelling troupe of jugglers and entertainers, another as evangelizing Christians, which kept most people away, and had travelled different ways. One group with Grimr had bought horses and made their way to Forum Hadriani, where they had located Cenhud the shipmaster, others had scouted the Meuse and Scheldt to locate the warehouse facilities we needed.

  Cenhud was waiting and prepared. He sold the horses, closed his shipyard and brought two of his galleys upriver, transporting Grimr’s men. In short order, all the force had rejoined, and was waiting, unsuspected at the wharves and warehouses that they had rented.

  The journey for our two cargo galleys had been easier. They had slipped into Belgica at dawn, been generous with the two sleepy customs collectors they encountered and had sailed unnoticed to the warehouse rendezvous. There, the whole force was under orders to stay inside in daylight hours at least, and construction was almost finished on the ballistae and other catapults.

  I ordered the rest of the raiding party to be ready to sail in 36 hours’ time and prayed that Grimr had located a military galley he could steal. We left Chester and went into the Hibernian Sea and set off on our long journey to Gaul, timing our pass through the narrowest strait of the Narrow Sea after dark to avoid observation from either shore.

  At dawn, we hauled our solitary ship onto an isolated stretch of the great sweep of shingle around Britain’s forefoot, out of sight of the watch towers of the Saxon Shore, rested for the day, and sailed away from my kingdom for Gaul as dusk fell. I was taking no chances on being recognized, so could not boldly sail in as our ‘trading’ galleys had done. Instead, I used my local knowledge from years of patrolling these waters, and was able to bring us quietly ashore west of the mouth of the Meuse on a deserted beach among sand dunes.

  We unloaded, dismasted and sank the galley in a small creek, filling her hull with rocks before we marched inland in three separated groups. Four days later, after a cross-country trek made mostly in the dark, we arrived at our rendezvous with Grimr’s outlying sentries, who took us to his headquarters and his hungry, bored force. He gave me a swift tour of the two warehouses.

  Inside were our four ships, ready on rollers to be launched into the river. Carefully separated from them was an assortment of amphorae, ceramic pots, sacks and bundles. Three ballistae were concealed under straw bales and Grimr showed me the wooden pegs and mounting points at the galleys’ bows where the catapults would be fitted. The one galley which would not have a catapult in its teeth had a curious tilting ramp arrangement there instead, and sacks of pumice stone neatly arrayed and ready behind it.

  The Romans, Grimr told me, had a customs post about a mile and a half upriver of the shipyards, and kept a war galley there with the bow-mounted ram I hoped to hear about. About 15 personnel were stationed there, including a contubium – tent unit – of eight legionaries and some non-combatant customs inspectors and tax gatherers, a cook and a smith.

  With a lantern lighting the charts, he showed me details of the river, the shipyards, the locks, the barracks and the harbour fortifications. Here, he said, were the finished invasion barges; there, he pointed, were the timber stores, the ropewalks and the sailmakers’ lofts.

  He showed me a list of times and tides, detailed the speeds of the inflow and of the outgoing tide when it was pushed by the backed-up river and provided answers to questions I posed to him that were crucial to my plans. There were gaps in the information, as he had not wanted to jeopardise the secrecy of the mission by having a spy caught. It might, just might, work, I concluded. Either way, I was going to try.

  Chapter X - Firestorm

  We rolled our loaded galleys into the smooth, dark flow of the river long before wolf light. We had to catch the outgoing tide 11 miles downriver, and if we had to navigate in the dark, so be it. We were not the first of our party to leave, however.

  A picked force of two dozen men, led by the centurion Damonius, was already marching overland to capture the Roman customs post that was
a mile or more short of the shipyards. I hoped that when we reached that place, it would be secured, and I doubly hoped that the patrol galley stationed there would be in our hands. I surreptitiously threw a gold coin over the ship’s side as a token offering to Mithras.

  The god must have been pleased, because we edged quietly into the military wharf to find a grinning Damonius waiting. “Your galley is prepared, lord,” he said, gesturing with his sword, which I noted was bloodied, to the trim, blue-sailed warship. I heaved a gusty sigh of relief. It had a ram mounted at the bow. I would not need to jury-rig the vessel with the great baulk of timber I had ordered stowed on our ship.

  Pointing to the warship, I ordered: “Get the chains fastened to that,” as a work party who had been briefed days ago scrambled onto the wharf. I followed them, raising an eyebrow to Damonius.

  “A few dead,” he said laconically, “but none of ours.”

  His attack had been a success. Arriving silently out of the dark, our raiders had silenced the solitary sentry in a gush of arterial blood and had hacked down the handful of legionaries who resisted. Their officer, sullen and bruised, was shackled to a wagon yoke, the customs officials and surviving legionaries were under guard in a stone pig pen.

  Now it was time to carry out the major part of our plan. Our men took the war galley’s oars and to the steady rhythm of the hammer taps sent out by the decurion Celvinius, another hero of the battle of Londinium, we scudded downriver. Immediately behind us was the galley with a peculiar ramp arrangement that jutted out from its bows, and behind it followed our other three ships.

  Celvinius kept a watchful eye on the gaps between the vessels, not wishing to separate our small flotilla, and the current kept even the slower, cargo-laden ships with us easily enough. As the wolf light gave way to dawn, a light drizzle began to fall, making me curse, for fire was our best weapon in this attack and I wanted every advantage. I glanced at the scroll in my hand, a sketch of the layout of the shipyard, lock gates, stores, ropewalks and all the assorted warehouses and stores associated with it.

  The only small comfort I could draw was that the barracks block was located at the furthest point away from our attack, placed there to defend against seaborne raiders or against the land raiders who must, by nature of the channels and topography, approach from the west and north.

  I really had no need to look at the scroll. Everything was burned into my brain, and as I peered through the drizzle, I saw the first important landmark, the tall arches under a sawtooth roofline that denoted the ship assembly building. I growled at the signals officer and he waved his red flags to the following ships. As planned, the last ship in line, which Grimr commanded, peeled away for the shore and I watched as a swarm of laden men ran for the long, low building.

  Next to depart in ordered silence was the force tasked with destroying the long line of ropewalks, where ships’ rigging was created. They would also be setting fire to the lofts, canvas stores, sawyers’ shops and to the woodworks where the pinewood frames, ribs, spars, stem and sternposts were created.

  I looked with disappointment at the log beds of the shipways down which the part-finished vessels were launched. If I could destroy those, we could certainly delay any invasion for a long time, but we had no way to do that.

  The third ship to head for the wharves carried the commando force that would destroy as much of the blacksmiths’ forges as possible, heaving the anvils and tools, tacks, nails and lead sheathing into the tideway, burning down the smithies. They were ordered to complete that destruction, then join forces with the other landed crews to burn the grain stores and piers. If possible, they should burn down the cookhouse, poison the wells and set fire to the workmen’s barracks. This I wanted to leave for last, as it could bring resistance that could delay us in our other, more important targets.

  A half mile behind us, I could see the first flickers of flame rising, and grunted with satisfaction. No alarm trumpets had yet sounded, few shipyard workers were likely to have been at work at this early hour. We had a few more minutes to implement our destructive plans.

  Ahead, the lock gates appeared out of the thin drizzle. I glanced at Cenhud, who was acting as master of the war galley. “How’s the tide?” I asked.

  He grinned at me, a reassuring sight. “Excellent,” he said. I was relying on the exact confluence of river flow and tide to help me achieve serious destruction. I wanted the lock gates smashed and irreparable. I halted the war galley to allow the last of our vessels, with its curious platform at the bow, to slip past us towards a pier.

  A detail of armed men scrambled ashore and headed for the lock gates. Still no alarm. This was almost too good to be true. We held position for a few tense minutes.

  Cenhud nodded to me, issued a quiet command and as they had rehearsed, a crew hauled up every sail to catch the morning breeze off the land. Celvinius began his hammer taps to dictate the rowers’ rhythm, and steadily increased the pace.

  Soon, remarkably soon, the galley had leaped to the speed of a cantering horse and was coursing under full sail and straining muscles towards the lock gates. The white bone of water at its prow did not cover the deadly war ram, and Cenhud calmly kept the steerboard true and aimed at the exact junction of the heavy lock gates.

  On the stone quay alongside the lock chamber, we could see our comrades, who were hauling the downstream gates open and emptying the lock. Now we had the whole pressure of 600 miles of river building against one side of those gates, and we were speeding towards it with our deadly ram.

  Moments before impact, the rowers shipped oars and braced, the crew detailed to handle chains readied themselves, and with a splintering crash like Thor’s hammer the war galley rammed through the wooden river barrier.

  Most of us fell to the deck, but in seconds the chains were thrown to the waiting assault group and the galley was tethered to the chamber’s bollards long enough for us all to scramble onto the quay, jumping across a torrent of water that was already swamping our ship.

  As the stragglers scrambled to safety, Celvinius waved to the last of our galleys, and the crew tilted the curious platform towards the water and released the flaps on the containers of pumice attached to it. The grey volcanic stone slid down the wooden ramp into the water.

  As it went, men alongside the ramp, men dressed in vinegar-soaked leather with faces shielded, poured a stinking concoction of bitumen, rock oil, resin and sulphur across the pumice, which floated with the current rapidly towards the locks. The crew hurriedly stepped back as Damonius and several assistants began pumping more of the Byzantine Fire mix at the floating rock, and the big centurion, satisfied, touched a lighted taper to one of the pumps’ nozzles.

  Damonius noted later it was a good thing he shaved his head, because the backfire took his eyebrows and would have had his hair, too, even under his leather helmet.

  A giant whoosh of flame went from side to side across the stone-channelled river on the carpet of floating stones and ran with the surging current through the shattered lock gates. It sent our chained war galley up in flames and carried a wide tongue of bright-burning fire downriver and into the anchored ships of Maximian’s fleet.

  The ships themselves were tossed and scattered by the unleashed power of the world’s oldest river, and as they bumped and splintered against each other, they spread the sticky, unquenchable fire.

  By now, brazen-throated trumpets were sounding, gangs of alarmed men were appearing here and there, and a spreading, cloaking pall of smoke was coming downriver from the burning workshops and warehouses. Rapidly, it joined the flaring fires that were jumping from each anchored ship to its tethered companion vessel in the pool below the shipyard locks and put a great blue-grey ceiling low over the area.

  Grimr and the first soot-streaked commandos of our raider force were rowing in to report their assignments completed, and they brought with them the ship-mounted ballistae they had built in the previous weeks.

  We filled ceramic pots with the Byzantine Fi
re and lobbed them across the racing, near-impassable Meuse and into the clustered shipping on the opposite bank, causing more damage to vessels and buildings. Some returning troops also joined in so enthusiastically as their comrades smashed the sluice gear boxes that were vital in the operation of the lock gates that they had to be forcefully ordered away when it was time to leave.

  With one set of gates utterly destroyed and the other badly damaged by the bursting torrent, I felt that the raid would keep the shipyard inoperable for weeks or, perhaps, months. And, when all the added damage of fire-destroyed supplies, sunken equipment and devastated shelter was added, we might well have put the emperor’s invasion plans back by a year or more – if he even had the manpower to spare to restore the yards.

  We had lost several men of our party, one who had drowned, two who had been killed by the enemy and a fourth who had been trapped in a collapsed building. Not a bad butcher’s bill, I felt, for the results. About the only target we had not succeeded in destroying was the pharos light tower, but on viewing it, I had judged it too close to the bustling barracks for comfort, and had reluctantly called off the squad who had been briefed to destroy it.

  It only took an hour or so from releasing our first raiders until I ordered a withdrawal to the upriver rendezvous we had previously designated. We set our ships afire because we had little hope of rowing them upstream against that unhindered torrent and we marched away in good order, unchallenged, smoke-stinking and triumphant.

  Chapter XI - Vallis

  We marched openly across Gaul to the Ardennes foothills, a hardened war band of 55 dirty, dishevelled warriors improbably on a diplomatic mission.

  My intention was to meet the kings of the Belgae, of the Franks and of any others of Rome’s vassals, to forge an alliance against their Italian masters. I hoped that none of them would remember that the last Belgic king to show me favour had ended his days crucified on the battlements of his own citadel, or that I had left their land as a fugitive slinking through the woods.