The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  After removing the corpse’s head, Andragathius had showed it to the one hundred men who had ridden off with Gratian, and then given the warriors the choice of making their way to Maximus’s army at Treverorum or falling back to Rome and pleading for mercy from the senate.

  ‘We don’t care what you do. Our master will be coming to Rome anyway,’ Conanus shouted, so all the enemy troops could hear him. ‘You can choose to serve the new emperor or you can die on the outskirts of Rome. The choice will be yours.’

  Then the officers and their two warriors had taken Gratian’s horses and ridden away.

  At Treverorum, Maximus tried to hide his excitement as Conanus bowed low and presented him with the golden wreath of oak leaves, which Maximus immediately placed over his short hair. Around him, his guard snapped to attention and the soldiers watching began to cheer, spontaneously uplifted by the thrill of the moment. Maximus raised his fist in salute, so the army cheered more loudly as more and more of the troops came running to join the impromptu victory celebration.

  Once the melee had settled down and Maximus had returned to his tent with his two officers in tow, he heard the story of the ruse that had taken them into the heart of Gratian’s bivouac. He listened to their story of betrayal with obvious pleasure, but one question teased at his mind. ‘How did you manage to meet up with Andragathius?’ he asked Conanus. ‘When you left the battlefield, you were heading in a different direction.’

  Conanus had changed very little in the three years since Maximus had first met him in Cymru. His face was sullen most of the time, as if he resented most aspects of his life in the Roman army, yet he had volunteered to sail with his brother-by-law, even after his sister, Elen, had died. In truth, Conanus understood Maximus as few men ever had and he was sensibly determined to make a place for himself that was free of his father, the damp vales of Cymru and the brooding warrior-culture of the west.

  ‘I followed Gratian’s trail for some time, but I lost his spoor two days after leaving Parisii. However, I could tell he was heading east at some speed, so I followed in the same direction. I eventually heard word of him at Alesia where one old man agreed to speak with me, after some encouragement, about Gratian’s escape route.’

  Maximus avoided asking about the fate of the old man and urged Conanus to continue.

  ‘I was advised that Gratian intended to turn south and head towards Lugudunum once his column reached the Rhodanus River. We hurried after him, although we seemed to be heading away from Italia. Nevertheless, we persisted. Gratian was leaving a trail of unpaid and frightened peasants behind him, as well as ravished women, so we knew we were hot on his trail. At the same time, I realised then that I hadn’t given any thought to how we would separate him from his large guard after we caught up with him.’

  ‘Was he at Lugudunum? That’s a major centre.’

  ‘No. Gratian had already departed by the time we arrived, but I learned that Andragathius had followed Gratian’s trail by a roundabout route that started near Parisii. We caught up with Andragathius in the river valley. He was chasing after Gratian when the emperor made a run toward Gallia Cisalpina. This escape route would have taken Gratian through the mountains and into Italia. From there on, you know what would have happened.’

  ‘You’ve always been a clever and sneaky bastard, Conanus. That idea of taking him for a fool with the litter was a stroke of genius.’

  ‘Thank you, master. I’ve learned a great deal since entering your service.’

  The two kinsmen circled each other like wolves and watched every movement and expression in their battle for ascendancy.

  Maximus knew that this conflict had to be won without violence, so treachery must play no part in Conanus’s demise. He must be left alive until such time as Maximus was safe. Both men smiled at each other and pretended they were playing a harmless game, but the battle for the purple was heading towards its ultimate conclusion.

  ‘“In Treverorum, Maximus planned to push us towards the frontier, passing through Alesia and Lugudunum and heading towards Gallia Cisalpina. Through the impossibly high mountains, a pass led to the river lands of northern Italia, so our master decided this would be our route. Each day, he scanned the roadways to the south and the east, hoping for signs of movement – anything that indicated that Gratian had been found.

  ‘“When his scouts had not returned, Maximus worried constantly and pored over his maps and plans every evening. So we were all very relieved when word came that some of the scouts were returning on the southern road to Treverorum.

  ‘“Andragathius and Conanus had stumbled across each other during their search for the fleeing emperor. I had been instructed to carry a message to Maximus’s wife during the afternoon when they returned from their mission, so I was absent from the camp and I missed the presentation of Gratian’s head and crown to our king. However, our king took great pleasure in telling me the whole tale of Gratian’s assassination in all its gory detail. Maximus even removed the head from its bag so I could examine it, and I was surprised by how ordinary the features of the dead emperor had been. Even his brow was surprisingly low, although I would never suggest that this part of his physiognomy was a sign of Gratian’s lack of intellect. My master had made no attempt to clean the head, so it stank of corruption and the thick, congealed blood that had dried in the head’s snake-like curls. I swear, my lord, that Maximus gloried in the condition of that head and the crown that came with it, which he rarely took off for that whole afternoon.

  ‘“I expected that we would stay in Treverorum, now that Maximus had achieved his purpose, but our king was like a horse, freed from both saddle and bridle and now able to run where he chose. No human hand controlled the reins of Maximus’s actions. The king ordered camp to be struck the next morning and we made haste directly towards Italia.

  ‘“We reached Lugudunum with Maximus’s usual speed, where we learned that Gratian’s son, the second Valentinian, had fled by ship from Italia, obviously bound for Constantinople. Anyone but Maximus would have permitted Valentinian’s mother and his siblings to depart with him, for the boy emperor was only twelve. But our ruler is not a generous man, so he couldn’t permit the fledgling heir to the throne to foment revolt from across the sea. By his actions, I learned much about our High King’s character, for he rewarded Andragathius by sending him to Massilia. Andragathius’s orders were to take ship immediately and head for the Ionian Sea to block Valentinian’s escape. Few of us believed that Andragathius could succeed in this endeavour, considering he was so far behind Valentinian’s ship and would need to sail around Italia to reach Valentinian’s departure point. But Maximus was determined and Andragathius always obeys his master, even at the risk of his own life. Such blind loyalty is a little frightening, when examined closely. Andragathius’s devotion is complete and unthinking. He never asks for explanations: he simply obeys.”’

  ‘Father?’ Endellion paused in her reading, looked up from the parchment and bit her thumb in concentration. Caradoc smiled to see his own affectation repeated by his daughter.

  ‘Yes, lass? What troubles you?’

  ‘Who is this Andragathius? I don’t remember him among Maximus’s warriors, and you’ve never mentioned him as one of the High King’s confidantes.’

  ‘I recall him dimly, from Maximus’s second campaign in the north. He was a fellow Hispanic and distinguished himself by obeying Maximus’s orders with no regard for his personal safety. You would call him an ugly man, Endellion. I remember very startling amber-yellow eyes and a scar from a sword cut that crossed his face from ear to ear, a wound that left his nose misshapen.’

  ‘He sounds like a loyal subordinate, Father, but I still can’t recall him. Maximus always chose officers who were of use to him. I regret sounding critical, but the High King was your oldest companion and still conspired to use you. At least your thoughts were your own, so Maximus valued your
advice. This Andragathius seems to be a follower who cannot think for himself.’

  Caradoc sighed and smiled. ‘All true, daughter, but I can’t help liking Maximus, despite his flaws. He never tried to hide what he was, so I can’t make the excuse that I didn’t know his intentions.’

  ‘So this Andragathius is a tool, nothing more,’ Endellion decided with youth’s arrogance. She sought out her place in the parchment.

  ‘As are all servants of the great ones, my dear. We’ll find that Maximus will prove to be a great ruler. For my part, I prefer to be a man rather than a god or a hero.’

  Endellion stared at her father for a moment, but he had taken care to hide his eyes from her acute gaze. Thwarted, she read on aloud.

  ‘“My letter grows over-long.

  ‘“We have reached Mediolanum in the rich lands that are crossed by the great rivers in northern Italia. Our master is waiting outside the city for a company of priests and Roman aristocrats who wish to parlay with us. Everyone in camp is on edge, although we pretend that we fear nothing while we follow Magnus Maximus, the rightful master of Rome and all her provinces. I am a little afraid of our situation, far from the sea and many miles from friendly faces, although our army has swelled with recruits who have come from all over Gaul and Hispania. They give us hope, for the empire has been needful of change for many years, as it groans under the arrogance of Gratian’s Alan allies.

  ‘“We have heard that an army has been hastily cobbled together under the command of a general from Constantinople called Flavius Bauto, a kinsman of Theodosius. Ambrose, the bishop of Mediolanum, has also put himself forward to broker some kind of compromise that will satisfy Theodosius and Maximus, but rumour whispers that Theodosius is under attack on his northern borders and will probably try to make a treaty with our king, if Maximus is inclined to be reasonable.

  ‘“I fear that reason is one word that Maximus refuses to recognise.

  ‘“Maximus has asked me to record all the discussions with Ambrose, so I must cease writing this missive at this time and arrange for a courier to forward the scroll to you.

  ‘“Be sure that I will honour my friendship with your daughter and, if I should survive this campaign and return to my homeland, then I intend to ask for her hand in marriage. I hope you will look favourably on this union.

  ‘“I remain your most loyal servant,

  Aeron ap Iorweth

  Secretary to Flavius Magnus Maximus”’

  Aeron’s letters raised more questions than they provided answers, so Caradoc suffered fits of curiosity and dread that made him feel ill when he tried to understand. Did Maximus rule in Rome? Or had his ambitions come to nothing in Mediolanum? The silence was grim and complete. Both father and daughter watched the road from Portus Adurni for any sign of another courier, but no more long and informative parchments came, covered economically with spider-fine black Latin so that not even a tiny portion of the valuable space remained unused.

  Nor did gossip filter across the Litus Saxonicum to warn them what had befallen Maximus and his army. The world, it seemed, conspired to deprive Caradoc of information. So, with nerves stretched, he waited impatiently for any news, any information at all that would end this agony of indecision. Spring passed into an oppressive summer, and autumn arrived with good harvests.

  In Caradoc’s hall of justice, traders still squabbled with citizens, questions of inheritance caused family disputes and arguments over property boundaries occupied much of Caradoc’s time as he exercised his conciliation and arbitration skills. The servants of the hall at Venta Belgarum became accustomed to the wakefulness of their Dumnonii master, so the patterns of waiting became normal in a world that would never again be wholly settled or fully comfortable.

  CHAPTER XX

  THE ROLL OF THE DICE

  On him does death lie heavily who, but two well knownto all, dies to himself unknown.

  Seneca the Younger, Thyestes Chorus

  Six months of silence followed the delivery of that very long missive that had set his daughter to weeping and fits of crazy happiness by turn. Six months with no word!

  The days stretched on and another year came. With the spring weather, the Picts and Hibernians took advantage of the Roman absence to set the north-west coast of Britannia aflame.

  The Picts burned the towns and villages between the walls, as they continued on their murderous way until their arms could barely lift their weapons. Their enmity was fuelled by hatred and revenge, because the blue-tattooed warriors could never forget that Roman Britannia had once been their home. The heat of their resentment had never cooled, although centuries had passed since the Britons had first begun to drive them northward, and then the Romans had penned them beyond the Vallum Antonini. Now, Castra Exploratorum and Blatobulgium were burned to their foundations as the Pict army swept over the Vallum Hadriani and flooded into the wealthy flatlands.

  Meanwhile, the Hibernians had been biding their time. The narrow straits of water that separated their homeland from the fat towns of the Brigante tribe were easily crossed by the raiders. Using their ungainly ships, they ranged up and down the central coast where they sacked and destroyed churches, monasteries and nunneries, targets which were notoriously easy prey because the religious communities were unwilling and unable to protect themselves. Alauna, Glannaventa, the island of Monavia and as far inland as Bremetennacum and its convenient river all felt the scourge of Hibernian attacks.

  But Caradoc had not been idle. Although his time as a warrior was over, his skills as a strategist had saved Deva from being sacked when he levied the tribes of Britannia from one end of the land to the other and led a relieving force against the invaders.

  Caradoc’s considerable powers of persuasion forced the tribes to deplete their already dangerously low reserves of warriors. He would have taken old men and boys into his army if he had to; always pragmatic by nature, the king knew that half the success of any battle was based on the size of the army that took to the field.

  Meanwhile, he sent a courier to Maximus, explaining bluntly that the situation in Britannia was grave.

  To Flavius Magnus Maximus

  High King of Britannia and Master of Gaul

  I extend my greetings and salutations to my Master and Friend on your successes in Gaul.

  Unfortunately, your old enemies have seized the opportunity made by your absence to ravage your kingdom. The damned Picts and Hibernians have robbed your cities, towns and villages of your gold and taken many of your citizens as slaves. Your return is vital, if there is to be anything of Britannia left for you to rule. Our need is urgent, as I am only one old man and I fear I am no Magnus Maximus.

  Your daughter, Severa, thrives and is well.

  I trust this missive finds you successful and happy, but I wish I could send better news that will speed you home.

  As always, I am your loyal servant,

  Caradoc,

  Regent of Britannia, and King of the Dumnonii Tribe

  With his old bones aching from the rain and cold air, Caradoc observed the still-smouldering outskirts of Mamucium. His army had headed at speed for this industrial complex after the Hibernians mounted a major attack on the lightly defended centre in their search for an easy victory over the Britons. Now, trapped within the walls of their town, the British tradesmen, metal-workers and citizens waited for the inevitable breach of their defences and the reprisals that would soon be inflicted on the population.

  Although Caradoc had almost killed his rag-tag army during a forced march to the town, his inexperienced warriors had no time to rest and recuperate. To make things worse, continuous rain had fallen throughout the whole journey and his men were bedraggled, hungry and miserable. As he and his officers stood on a small hill overlooking the township, the cold downpour showed no signs of stopping.

  Thick, sticky mud ma
de any movement slow and difficult. To fight in such conditions was tantamount to breaking the swords of his tyro troops and sending them unarmed against savages who lived by the fruits of rapine, pillage and murder. Throughout that first night, Caradoc puzzled over the terrain, struggling to find an edge that he could exploit.

  Initially, the only advantage that his army had over the Hibernians came about through a conundrum that the raiders had inflicted on themselves. They had not expected Caradoc’s relieving force to arrive so quickly, so they found themselves sandwiched between Mamucium’s protective wall and the encircling relief force and thus forced to face their British enemy on two sides. Not that the Hibernians were particularly worried. So far, they had experienced little opposition and the absence of the Roman army emboldened them.

  Meanwhile, inside the low walls of the town, the population had been given new hope by the arrival of the British column, though their plight remained dire. Rocks, hot oil, sewage and well-aimed arrows were rained down on unprotected Hibernian heads with renewed catcalls and raucous jeering.

  But the Dumnonii king remained patient, although the novice warriors in his force were eager to charge directly at the raiders and blood their swords for the first time. Fortunately, Caradoc’s head was cooler and his views prevailed. The impasse that followed their arrival was broken by occasional skirmishes and much shouted name-calling, but the weather ensured that the two armies must wait for a more auspicious day before battle commenced.