Arthur Britannicus

by Paul Bannister

  IMP C M AVR MAVS CARAVSIO PF INVICTO AVG

  Correlations between places important in the lives of Arthur and Carausius provide other links between the mythic and the historical men. The Arthur of legend has numerous claimed resting places, but some of the most persuasive tales link him to north Wales, where Carausius was buried.

  This parallels the Welsh tradition that Arthur, who ‘carried the cross of Christ on his shield’, was mortally wounded at the legendary battle of Camlann. That conflict has been placed in Gwynedd, whose ruling dynasty was pre-eminent among British kings. In the 19th century an antiquarian described the discovery of a Roman grave in that exact region near the sacred mountain of Snowdon, Yr Wyddfa, which legend says is the tumulus under which Arthur buried a giant he slew. The headstone, a very rare artefact, is inscribed ‘’Carausius lies here, in this cairn of stones’ (‘Carausius hic iacit in hoc congeries lapidum’). The site is of considerable significance. It is situated high on a Roman road southwest of Cwm Penmachno at the summit of a pass, and is the perfect place for a king’s long sleep, a resting place chosen to overlook a sweeping expanse of his territory.

  The Carausius headstone is also distinguished as the earliest found in Wales known to carry the Chi-Ro cross of a Christian, a marking that is one of only a dozen found anywhere in Britain. The man it memorialized was important enough that his gravestone and probably his bones were moved to the nearby church of St Tudclud in Penmachno. This was an important early Christian site and is the reputed burial place of the heir to the Welsh throne, Iorweth ab Owain Gwynedd, who was father of Wales’ most famous monarch, Llywelyn the Great. The heir was also known as Iorweth Broken Nose and it is said he was refused the throne because of his misshapen face. Whether the long-ago royal was ugly or not, locals believe that two powerful rulers are interred in their ancient graveyard: the Roman admiral and emperor who united Britain and the Celtic prince whose son united Wales. The Carausian gravestone can be viewed in the church at Penmachno, which reopened in 2010 after a 15-year hiatus; the milestone bearing the lost emperor’s titles is in the Tullie House Museum, Carlisle.

  There are other, tantalizing geographic links. One of them, mentioned in a 1622 history, is in Oxfordshire. It recalled memories of the long-dead emperor and spoke of the ‘entrenched sconce of Caraus’ camp,’ a fortification near the church of St Laurence at Caversfield, which may once have been called Carausiusfeld. This church was built around 800 CE, likely on an earlier edifice, and is close to where the casualties of an ancient battle were buried. In 1620, a hoard of Carausian coins was found nearby, at Steeple Clayton. Folklore holds that the usurper emperor was treacherously defeated in battle at nearby Bicester, a theme which reflects the long-held belief that Carausius was betrayed by his closest aide. This, history says, was a man known as ‘Allectus,’ a term which means simply ‘chosen’ or ‘elected,’ and which may not even be a proper name. (Another version of Carausius’ end is that he was assassinated by Allectus after the fall of Bononia.)

  Equally, the site of Arthur’s greatest battle, the siege at Mount Badon, (Mons Badonicus) is not known. Some scholars, associating the Germanic word ‘bath/baden’ with ‘Badon’ theorize that Buxton, Derbyshire, site of a spring whose sacred waters were adopted by the Romans as a spa, was the site of the Badon conflict and this fits neatly with the northern focus of this narrative. Others, arguing for Badbury or Bardon, place the siege in places as diverse as Bath, Coalville, Linlithgow, the Cotswolds, Dorset and Swindon. However, over the centuries the battles and the victorious king’s story have been recorded only in oral tradition, not in written chronicles, so the fog of myth obscures our view of the landscape of history.

  The real story of Arthur, Guinevere and Merlin, reflected here in the characters of Carausius, Guinevia and Myrddin, will possibly never be known. As it is sometimes advisable to ignore the opinions of academics whose conjectures may be no more valid than those of other people, I respectfully suggest that the Carausius of history is the king whose deeds prompted the legend of Arthur.

  What is certain is that in 2010, the discovery of a hoard of Carausian coins buried in a Somerset meadow brought attention again to Britain’s Forgotten Emperor and inspired this book. I hope it revives interest in the sailor who created a nation and a navy that has kept it unconquered for nearly a thousand years.

  Historical and other notes:

  Although this book follows the general outline of the life of Carausius, the narrative does take a few small liberties with history. Briefly, the admiral emperor may have been a humbly-born Menapian, from what is now Belgium, if his enemies’ version of history is to be believed. Or, he may have been nobly born. His later actions in referencing poetry on his coinage, indicates a higher level of education than would be expected from a peasant upbringing. Some sources attribute Roman ancestry to him, which may be supported by his name, a classic Latin one (and not related to the much-later French ‘carousser’ – ‘to quaff.’) Other sources say he was a British or Irish prince.

  Even by Roman historians’ disparaging accounts, he was a skilled river pilot who joined the Roman army and became a successful soldier, then admiral of Rome’s British Channel fleet, based in Boulogne/Bononia. Additionally, the evidence points to him being a charismatic leader. Around 284 CE, he was accused of diverting pirate loot to himself, and was summoned for court martial and likely execution, which may have been a political move to rid the emperor of a rival. Carausius’ response was to seize power in northern Gaul and Britain, places where he commanded legions as well as a fleet. His ambition was to extend his military sway beyond the pale of Boulogne, even to Rome itself, but he was frustrated by the emperor Maximian, who was tasked with bringing the renegade to heel. The Roman’s first endeavour, in 289 CE, was a failure. The new fleet he had built was either destroyed by storms or more probably was defeated by the seasoned flotilla Carausius took with him when he defected.

  Carausius reinforced his military position with the popular support he gained by tapping into the Britons’ discontent with their avaricious Roman overlords, and he skilfully used propaganda on his coinage to suggest he was a messiah returned to save the nation. The self-proclaimed emperor became the first ruler of a unified Britain, and entrenched himself behind the chain of forts he built along the south eastern coast. These Saxon Shore fortifications were intended to guard against an expected Roman attempt to retake Britain as well as to repel Saxon or Alemanni invaders.

  Maximian had to wait four years after that failed invasion before he could drive Carausius out of Gaul. He retook Boulogne, besieging it and sealing the harbour against relief or escape by sea, an event this book placed in the narrative earlier than its actual chronology. In history, Boulogne fell in 293 CE, the year of Carausius’ demise. The loss of the port and the weakening of Carausius’ position probably caused a power struggle with his chief functionary Allectus, and led to the usurper emperor’s death that same year.

  He had ruled a united Britain for seven years when he was either assassinated by Allectus or, more probably, betrayed by him at a battle near Bicester. Allectus, whose identity is obscure (the word itself simply means ‘chosen’ or ‘elected’) took power, announced himself as ‘consul’ and ‘Augustus arrived’ on coinage. He began work in 294 CE on a great building in London that went unfinished, as his reign lasted for only three years. A Roman expedition defeated him after a sea battle off Chichester, and a land engagement near Silchester. Constantius, now Caesar, landed in Britain after the fighting was over and signalled his triumph with a famous medal declaring himself ‘Restorer of the Eternal Light’ (‘Redditor lucis aeternae’) meaning ‘of Rome.’

  The Eagle found by Carausius in the Blue John mine, one of the stately holes of Derbyshire, is a fiction, although there was a Ninth Hispania legion based at York and sent south to suppress the Boadicean uprising in 71 AD. The British queen routed that force with very great losses near the Suffolk village of Great Wratting. Later, the legion was deploy
ed to the Danube, where its history vanished into the mists. It was not mentioned in an army list compiled around 170 CE. A search for the Eagle of the Ninth was the subject of a 1954 novel whose author said she had been inspired by the discovery of a wingless bronze eagle at Silchester. That artefact is presently on display at the Museum of Reading, and is not a legionary standard.

  Also on exhibit, in the British Museum, are some of the 800 Carausian coins that were among a hoard of 52,500 Romano-British pieces of silver and gold discovered in a Somerset field in the summer of 2010. Such coins, the Penmachno headstone and a single milestone uncovered near Carlisle, are the only known memorials of Britain’s lost emperor.

  I should make a small apology for the use of some modernisms in this book. In the interests of clarity and to prevent the need frequently to thumb back to a reference page, I opted not to use many possibly-unfamiliar Latin place names from Britain or France, making just a few exceptions that are intended to retain the flavour of the narrative. Two of those exceptions are Eboracum, which is 21st century York, and Bononia, the French seaport of Boulogne-sur-Mer.

  To establish the locales: the tale begins in the year 270 CE near Oceli Promontorium, now known as the great Yorkshire sea cliff Flamborough Head, and follows Carausius across the North Sea to Forum Hadriani, today’s Dutch town of Voorburg. Forum Hadriani (‘Hadrian’s Market’) was then the northernmost Roman settlement on the continent of Europe and was a key military post in the defences of the eastern border of the empire. Later, when the story is set in Britain’s Peak District, locations include the Roman camp at Navio, which is in the Derbyshire hamlet of Brough. The fort exists today as just a few stones and an earthwork containing traces of the underground strong room. The nearby Blue John mine where the fictional Eagle was hidden is still in operation. The Romans smelted silver from the region’s lead mines, including a major working at Lutudarense, now called Matlock Bath. This village is near the pleasant Regency spa town of Buxton which the Romans knew as Aquae Arnemetiae, or ‘the Waters of (the Celtic goddess) Arnemetia.’ To end the tutorial, Gaul is of course modern France, and Menapia, home of the real Carausius, was a region of what is now Belgium. The palace at Fishbourne, near Chichester, was destroyed in Carausius’ time, but its ruins and fine mosaics are real enough and are a major tourist attraction today. The battles on the shingle of Dungeness and in the waters off Portland Bill, as recounted here, are fictional. But, they could well have happened, just as Carausius, the forgotten emperor of Britain, may be the lord of war whose exploits are the true source of the legend of King Arthur.

  If you enjoyed Arthur Britannicus, you might also enjoy

  Spears of Britannia by Scott Hurst

  Prologue

  These borderlands were too far from safety. Cada looked around the clearing warily, alert for any danger. Nervously he fingered the handle of the kitchen knife tucked inside his tunic, unused to its weight. He was unsure if he was capable of thrusting it into an attacker, yet its bone grip and sharp blade gave him comfort.

  It had been a great risk bringing the master’s daughter here, but worth it.

  Bluebells, a carpet of them, lay deep in the forest’s gloom, vibrant in the shafts of April sunlight. Concordia stood a moment, stunned by their modest glory. When she spoke it was with wonder, as if she understood his intention. ‘Thank you, Cada, for bringing me here.’

  The lad looked at his blonde mistress, fighting emotions he would never dare show. Any slave caught making eyes at his master’s daughter risked losing them. ‘Their coming announces the spring, domina. I didn’t want you to miss them…’ because their perfection reminds me of you. For a brief moment he allowed himself to imagine her in his arms, lying on that blue carpet.

  Kneeling down, Concordia reached across the taboo between them to offer him a tiny bloom. Cada tucked the precious gift into his tunic. When the silence between them grew too great she shouted to her sisters. ‘Over here! Bluebells! Hundreds of them!’ High pitched cries filled the clearing as her sisters swooped on the spring treasure. The grass was still damp from the earlier rain. Uncaring, they threw their cloaks onto the cold earth and began to gather the blossoms.

  Weaving flowers deftly into her hair, the tallest, most thought plainest, sister called to her prettier sibling. ‘We must set off soon, Concordia. Father’s injuries are healing well. Mother has promised to escort us to Verulamium for the feast. I give you fair warning, every man there will dance with me.’

  Concordia grinned mischievously. ‘Every man, Anastasia? You’re not saving yourself for Maximus of the Vellauni? Or had you forgotten our chief’s son returns today?’

  Anastasia shook her mousy curls. ‘You give your envy voice, Concordia. Maximus haunts all our dreams, including yours.’ The mere thought of him made her face almost pretty. ‘Just think, how mother would crow if one of us snared him.’

  Heartsick, the slave Cada moved off to keep guard. His back to a tree trunk, the infatuated guardian closed his eyes a moment. What was he thinking, lusting after the master’s daughter? Classic slave mistake. He was tired of his feelings now. Deliberately he turned his thoughts to the slave girl from the neighbouring house. No beauty like Concordia, but willing at least.

  Shrieking with laughter the sisters began weaving crowns from the flowers, gossiping happily. In their joy they had no sense of the wood around them growing quiet, no ears for the birds taking to wing. They saw no movements in the shadow, heard no footstep closing in. Cada’s attention was focused only on the sunshine on Concordia’s hair. He made no sound, gave no warning as the shadows advanced.

  The girls’ screams came too late. High, sharp, desperate now, their cries sliced through the lavender air, then stopped abruptly.

  Within seconds silence returned. A squirrel emerged from its hiding place to scamper across the clearing. A deer appeared, sniffing the dark red liquid splattered across the base of the tree trunk, then moved off in search of food. A small, green sandal lay abandoned on its side.

  The bluebell carpet lay crushed and mutilated, but not by love.

  Chapter One

  Darkness had begun to fall as the two horsemen made their way down the valley. The last stage of their journey had been easy, good roads all the way home to Verulamium. As the town came into view the younger man stopped; feeling the strength of its draw on him. Tugging the hood of his heavy woollen birrus forward against the rain, Maximus stared down at the place he had called home.

  Home. Maximus grimaced, pushing wet strands of blonde hair back from his face. Would there be a welcome for the prodigal? Would his father have forgiven him? Was there still time to prove himself worthy? For a moment he felt overpowered by the challenge that lay ahead, then he pulled himself upright in the saddle. Nothing would stop him taking his rightful place at the head of the tribe. Digging his heels into Zephyr’s sides Maximus moved forward.

  Beside him his mentor Paulinus recognized the determined expression on the face of his handsome young charge. It had been a perilous journey. Dressing him in rough garments had done nothing to hide Maximus’s nobility. The lad was noble by birth and noble in character. He’d come to know his charge well over the past year, knew his strengths and his weaknesses. He knew the fear the lad would be feeling now. And knew too that he’d overcome it.

  As Verulamium grew larger in the gloom, Max began recognizing its features. For centuries this town had protected his family and his family had protected it. But for how much longer? All Britannia was in chaos; raiders threatened from north of Emperor Hadrian’s Wall as well as from across the sea. The whole country seemed to be on the move; roaming armies, mercenaries, civilians seeking safety… With rebellion sweeping the country, the spectre of civil war had risen once more. They were a nation on edge, uncertain from one day to the next who was Emperor, as usurper followed usurper.

  The chaos had affected his family too. Would father have banished him if his trepidation of the future had been less great? Fearful for the tribe, Severus ha
d been looking to its future. Maximus had thwarted him, humiliated him before his people.

  Yet given the choice again, Maximus knew he’d do the same thing.

  The city gate was guarded by militiamen. Even to Max’s inexperienced eye, the guardsmen looked unequal to an attack, untrained civilians who’d strapped on a knife belt or lifted a hunting spear to give the townspeople reassurance. At their approach the guards lifted their spears in challenge, but a nod from the old watchman gave them admittance. ‘Salve, my Lord Maximus. Welcome home. It’s good to have you back.’

  Max waved acknowledgement. His father hadn’t banned him from the city then. Wearily the two horsemen rode up the street into the heart of Verulamium. Their people had survived the ransacking after Boudica’s uprising. His forefathers had rebuilt the place from the ground up, all these fine buildings, the temples, the baths. Where was that Catuvellauni strength now? Long years of domination under the Romans looked to have killed their spirit.

  That would change. When he took leadership of the tribe, many things would change.

  The decaying vastness of the abandoned theatre rose above them, as did the stench from the rubbish tip it had become. Debris lay abandoned. Shop lanterns hung unlit. In the near darkness Max’s horse stumbled on a broken amphora lying in the street, one of many. An urchin leapt out from a side street to spit at him before running off. Max hurled an angry insult at him, then reached forward to stroke Zephyr’s neck, apologizing for the rough pull on his bit. Usually he’d have cantered after the boy and taught him some manners. Instead he too spat, clearing the stale taste of the journey from his mouth.