Arthur Britannicus

by Paul Bannister

  Passing the abandoned temple they approached the largest house in the city. Rough rains battered the house of Vellauni as its heir and his companion rode through its gates. A newcomer might be impressed by the strong colonnade and expensive stonework. Familiarity let Max see the decay below. There was a new shabbiness, patches of peeling plaster, faded paint. With the Saxons raiding the coasts Severus would be hoarding his money.

  Hearing hooves on the cobbles the courtyard slave leapt up. Max slid swiftly from the saddle, handing the reins to the boy. ‘Care for him well. Zephyr carried me a long way today.’

  ‘Dominus, servus sum.’ The young slave grinned, clearly delighted to have the powerful black stallion back in his care. Immediately the ostiarius left his post at the door entrance to acknowledge the new arrivals. Bowing respectfully he led Max into the portico to wrestle off his boots. Max realized he’d never seen the youngster before. Turning, he looked up at Paulinus dismounting stiffly beside him. Their last halt lay had been half a day’s ride to the north. Paulinus would be exhausted. Max felt a wave of affection for the old monk. Unsure of the welcome that awaited him he was glad of the ally by his side.

  Even after a day in the saddle, the monk’s bearing betrayed his past. Before taking his vows Paulinus had been a military commander and had fought alongside Max’s father under the usurper Magnus Maximus. Their effort had failed, their would-be conqueror executed by the Emperor Theodosius, whose young son Honorius still reigned – for now. The young Emperor’s sway was threatened by a new usurper, the British soldier, Constantine. Max felt a flame of hope flare inside him at the thought of one of their own in charge of the Empire. Would Constantine finally bring power and security back to Britannia?

  Paulinus was beside him now. Max gestured to the slave to help his tutor. Being sent north by his father to the old monk’s chapel had been a humiliating punishment. But he’d learnt far more from Paulinus than history and affairs of state. Slowly, patiently, Paulinus had taught him to control his anger at the injustice done him. The pain felt more distant now and thanks to this old man he felt steadier in himself. But that had been in the peace of the countryside. The real test would come now.

  Max smiled wearily at his mentor. ‘My mother will be glad to repay you for your kindness to me, Paulinus.’

  The older man smiled too, his face calm despite the difficulties of the day. ‘My boy, your family owes me nothing. Friendship always weighs the balance. Still,’ Paulinus’s eyes brightened with good humour, ‘a bed would be very welcome.’ Suddenly he was very serious. ‘A final reminder before we go in, Max. You face many challenges this evening. You will overcome them, if you control that temper of yours. God has given you a fine mind as well as a strong body. Use your mind first.’

  Easy for Paulinus to say. He was not the one who had to face Severus. As the slave attended to Paulinus’s boots Max leant against the plastered wall. From habit his eyes searched out the place where he had carved his name as a child. The knife marks were still there, if you knew where to look. Other marks had come of that day, the day his brother Dye had been injured. His father had blamed him then too; he’d received a terrible beating. His back still bore the scars of his father’s anger. Bitter thoughts came flooding in. His mother’s last letter had said that illness had mellowed the old man. But Rhoswen was seldom able to see any wrong in his father.

  His mother had taken his side when, desperate to quash the rumours spreading about Max, Severus had insisted he marry the woman he’d chosen for his wife. Calista was a Catuvellauni noblewoman, perfect match for him in every respect, except for the fact that she made Max’s blood run cold. His father had taken the rejection as a betrayal of himself, yet still Max had not been able to accept her. Not even to win his father’s favour. When he’d refused, Severus had threatened to disown him. A wave of shame washed through Max at the memory. Had he been renounced, any hope of leading the tribe would have been lost. Anger at the disgrace burned within him.

  He’d been up north only weeks when news came of his brother’s marriage to the woman Max had rejected. Doubt wormed its way into Max’s mind at the thought. Had Dye taken not just his wife, but his birthright too? Growing up, there had been an unspoken understanding that Max would follow his father as chief. But what use was that unspoken agreement now? Max felt his breath shorten, felt his blood turn to fear. Had he lost the right to lead the tribe? Under Catuvellauni law Severus was not obliged to name his eldest heir – especially not a son who had brought shame to the tribe. Ill as he was, Severus was still refusing to name his successor.

  The young slave was still struggling with Paulinus’ boots. Why was it taking so long? ‘Hurry, boy.’

  ‘Peace, Max,’ Paulinus urged. ‘Your restlessness is making itself heard.’

  Max’s eyes took seconds to grow used to the welcome torchlight of the vestibulum. The two travellers made use of the warm water and towels which appeared instantly. There was no time to discard their mud-spattered tunics and bracae after the journey. Combing his fingers through his dishevelled hair, Max looked around him, finding comfort in the familiar. From the outside the house looked plain and severe. But inside his Dobunnic mother Rhoswen had skilfully mixed the beautiful Celtic designs of her tribe with the deliberately Romanised tastes of his father. Rhoswen had been born to their rivals, the Dobunni. The walls, finished in rich colours, were deftly painted with the intricate spirals of her tribe. No one was as well loved as Rhoswen. Max often wondered if his mother was the only reason their two tribes hadn’t annihilated each other before now.

  A roar of laughter within brought Max out of his reverie. Paulinus patted him on the back. ‘It seems the feast to celebrate your new sister-in-law’s birthday is in good flow. You’ll understand if I don’t tarry long, my boy,’ he apologized.

  In the better light Paulinus’s wise old face was marked with exhaustion. ‘Of course, Paulinus. Spoiled as she is, not even Calista would refuse you rest.’

  Paulinus’s grey eyes twinkled. ‘Strange justice, that marriage, is it not? Your scoundrel of a brother, meeting his match in that ambitious young woman?’

  Max nodded sourly. ‘Somehow the little vixen has wrapped my father around her little finger too.’ Calista had many friends among the great and the good of Catuvellaunian society. From the gifts piled high in the wall niche it was clear her friends had been bringing kindnesses all day. Fewer gifts than for his mother’s last birthday Max noted, with satisfaction. For now let Calista have her moment of glory. It could be his birthday gift to her, along with the mirror in his saddle pack.

  Felix, his father’s faithful atriensis, appeared in the doorway. ‘Welcome home, master. Your mother has asked me to bring you straight into the feast.’

  Max smiled his thanks. Felix had served his father since Max was a boy, often hiding him from Severus’s temper. He pulled the welcome warmth of the cloak the atriensis offered around him, the soft wool comforting. He heard Paulinus’s voice beside him. ‘Be strong, my boy.’

  There was a clatter of noise. In a side room a small table had fallen on its side. Max heard a woman giggling and a man’s hushed laughter. He could make out a slave girl’s pretty face in the shadows. For a second he saw the man’s features too, unmistakable to him in any light - his brother, Dye. Another giggle and the girl was gone, smoothing down her skirts. Max glanced across at Paulinus who merely raised his eyebrows. If Felix had noticed anything, he was discrete enough not to show it. Instead, he bid slaves open the heavy doors to the main room.

  Noise and merriment assaulted Max’s ears as laughter rose to the vaulted ceiling along with the heady mixture of perfume and incense. Instantly he felt the warmth of human bodies, caught glimpses of friends and family. Some inner resistance stopped him at the threshold. He had longed for this moment, yet now he feared it.

  As a child he’d stood here by his father’s side, welcoming guests, committing to memory the names his father whispered to him, wanting to know their usefulness to the t
ribe. Back then, despite his harshness, he’d felt close to his father, felt pride in him. Severus commanded respect, not just for his position, but for the man he was. But that was before Severus had sent him away like some fugitive.

  Within the main reception room raised stucco figures celebrating the history of the tribe were lit by a series of golden lamps. By their light Max scanned the room, his eyes searching out his powerful father. Reds and yellows glowed as jugglers tossed flaming torches to each other and a small troupe of acrobats performed feats of skill for the enchanted gathering. Searching the crowd Max finally found Severus seated on his throne-like solium. Seeing him Max felt his heart grow still, felt the anger drain from him, replaced by something softer.

  His father had become an old man.

  Rhoswen had written that he’d had an attack of apoplexy, but she’d spared Max the worst. He could see now how it had devastated this once great hero. The old Severus would have dominated any gathering. Now he sat strangely apart, his expression distant. Max felt a curious sensation. Pity for his father.

  Suddenly, as though sensing his son’s presence, Severus turned and saw him. Their eyes met and he rose. His once mighty voice was hoarse, but it still carried over the clamor of the gathering. ‘Catuvellauni! Rejoice! My son is returned!’

  All conversation died as the crowd turned to witness the reunion. Max found himself grasped by arms weaker than they once had been, felt the leathery skin of Severus’s face against his own, savoured the smell of his favourite honeyed mead. The two men embraced longer than was seemly, mirror images of each other, the father’s vulnerability made more obvious by the health of the son. Their faces, as they pulled away from each other, were almost identical; the same strong brow, same straight nose, same cleft in the chin. The one marked difference was the downward turn of Severus’ mouth, the peculiar lack of fit between the two halves of his face. The attack had changed him permanently then.

  Max searched his father’s eyes. Had his anger been forgotten? All his life he had sought recognition from this man. The need for his father’s favour had driven him in all he did, its lack making him guarded and defensive at times, when all he longed for was a word of love.

  Severus looked his elder son up and down as if saying, Yes, the boy would do. ‘You’ve changed, Maximus. You’re a man now. A credit to the Catuvellauni. Look at you, powerful shoulders, and that jaw…Shows character…’

  ‘Your son has changed,’ Paulinus murmured. ‘Grown in wisdom, just as you hoped.’

  Voice gruff, hiding any emotion, Severus slapped Max on the back. ‘Then this is the return of the Prodigal Son!’ Max stiffened. He’d had the same thought on the ride in. So far his welcome seemed genuine. But he was still to meet his brother. What kind of a reception would he offer?

  ‘Come, let us find your mother. Prepare yourself for her joy.’ Fighting his way through the cheering crowd Severus mounted the dais and raised his voice to the rafters. ‘Rhoswen, where are you? Come greet your boy.’ The old man’s happiness was manifest. ‘Tonight, friends, we came here for togetherness, to celebrate my daughter- in-law, Calista. Our table is set, filled with food of the Catuvellaunian earth. We have wine to make our hearts glad.’ Severus raised his silver chalice to toast their many friends. ‘But what gladdens me most is the return of our boy. A toast, friends, to the son who was lost and has been restored to us!’ Grabbing Max’s hand Severus raised it above his head. ‘Maximus Vellaunus!’

  Max could feel his father strain to hold his arm upright. He looked out at the crowd, roaring their approval. Dear, familiar faces of family and friends. Some of the tension drained out of his body. He was back where he belonged.

  Max grinned across the room at his loyal companions, Salvius and Decentius. Friends since childhood, the three had chafed at these long months of separation.

  Near them stood his brother Dye, looking the very image of a dutiful husband, despite his tryst with the slave girl moments before. Had he taken Calista only to win his father’s favour? Max raised his arm awkwardly in salutation. Was that real joy on Dye’s face as he made his way through the crowd towards him? And where was his mother? Searching the crowd for her a stranger caught Max’s eye. The Catuvellauni had not had such an exotic bird in their midst for some time. Small but strongly built, the man wore his head shaved but for a braided lock worn to one side. For a few seconds they had eye contact, the strange man bowing acknowledgement to him. ‘Who’s that strange looking fellow, Felix?’ Max whispered to the atriensis, hovering to do his young master’s bidding.

  ‘A friend of your father’s, dominus. Name of Heru. He’s been staying with the family for a few weeks. An Egyptian, I believe.’ That perhaps explained his peculiar appearance then, though most of his people wore more Romanised styles now. The little Egyptian still wore make up too, lead ore mixed to a paste, thick black lines extending past his eyes onto his face. Felix caught his look. ‘Outlandish, master, I agree, but the man swears his face paint has magical powers.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘The Lady Calista is keen to learn his secrets.’

  Max grunted as he waved a hearty greeting to his Dobunnic grandfather, Owen. Poor man, still uneasy visiting his daughter amongst his Catuvellauni foes. Standing next to him was a dark-haired girl. Hair combed back, gathered in a simple knot at her elegant neck, she stood half turned from him, tall and shapely in her simple robe. The geometric embroidery of her dress diamond shapes and little circles and shapes like wheels marked her out as Dubonnic. A relative of his mother’s then. Max’s eyes followed her as she moved through the crowd, watching the movements of her slender body beneath the green wool with studied casualness.

  It was time he married. He needed a wife now his younger brother had wed before him. She was definitely the best-looking girl in the room, and by her position and attitude, of eligible birth. But who was she? Was she deliberately keeping her back turned to him? Irritation seized him. Max found himself willing her to turn around, suspecting that the rear view would be more flattering than the vision from the front. Somehow he found himself praying that the wait would be worth it. As she finally turned to face him he felt his own sharp intake of breath. It couldn’t be, could it? But it was. Alert blue eyes met his and held his gaze. Sabrina? That sharp-tongued tomboy had transformed into this delicate beauty? The last time he’d seen her she’d been climbing a tree to spy on them. Surprised and enchanted, he inclined his head, an honest acknowledgment of the transformation in her. He hadn’t meant it to be condescending, but the sharp turn of her shoulders told Max his compliment had been misconstrued.

  Dobunnic women! Rearing them to think they were men’s equals brought nothing but trouble.

  His brother had finally made his way through the crowd. As Dye approached, Max searched his face warily. Their bond had always been thorny. Thanks to Paulinus he could understand that better now. Two sons, each vying to become their tribe’s chief, each of them fighting for the attention of a father who could name only one of them heir.

  Dye had been the first to suggest he be sent away. Would he welcome him back now? His smile was broad, but there was something else in those eyes Max knew so well. Something guarded Max had never seen before. What was he hiding?

  Dye pulled Max to him in a bear hug. As the embrace deepened Max was assailed by the unguent Dye used on his hair, intent on keeping what he had left.

  ‘Good to see you, brother,’ Max said warmly, stepping back to take a look at him. Same prominent cheekbones, same slender face, same vivid scar. Even after all these years, it was the first thing he looked at, and every time he felt the same wash of shame. He tore his eyes away from it. Dye’s ornate tunic was too small for his frame. A year ago Max would have teased him about it and asked why, when most men wore one ring, he was wearing three. Dye had always been a slave to his vanity. The gold-seeking Calista seemed to have worsened that tendency. ‘You look well, brother. The past year has been kind to you.’

  Dye’s blue eyes shone in his tanned face.
‘Kind enough, brother, though Christ knows it’s been hell contending with the old bastard’s temper since his stroke. I begged mother to send me to Paulinus too, but she wouldn’t hear of it.’ He’d been drinking, Max realised. Before the night was out Dye would be staggering. Some deep sadness drove his brother, some pain he couldn’t articulate. It was this pain that separated them. Severus had driven a wedge between them by favouring Max. Well, Max knew something of that pain now too. Knew what it was like to lose his father’s favour. Perhaps they could find a better way to each other through it? If Calista didn’t stand in their way.

  But there was daring in Dye’s expression now. ‘Father and I have become closer. Someone had to take over your responsibilities, after all.’

  There it was; this challenge to his position. It had been Max’s deepest fear while he was away, a fear so deep he had refused to fully acknowledge it. He met it now, knowing he had been right to fear it. The two brothers looked into each other’s eyes and Max knew without doubt that Dye intended to challenge him for leadership.

  He felt his hands tightening into fists. Remembering Paulinus’ warning he forced his fingers to unclench. He was careful to keep his tone measured. ‘Mother probably wanted you home with your new wife. Now I’m back I’ll be able to pass on all I’ve learned to you. Father isn’t as strong as he once was. I’ll need your help.’

  If Dye had noticed the veiled warning in his own words he showed no sign of it. Instead he raised his goblet in silent toast. His words sounded true, if drunk and overloud. ‘Welcome home, brother. I hope you can finally put all of those vicious rumours behind you.’

  Max had a sudden vision of another Dobunnic girl, of her lifeless face, strands of wet hair lying across the grey features. He shook his head to clear it, unwilling to allow Morwen’s memory to poison his return as it had poisoned the past year. Must her terrible death poison his future too?