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. The city fell in 293 AD, 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, and announced himself as ‘consul’ and ‘Augustus arrived’ on his coinage. He began work in 294 AD 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 Chorus 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’) implying ‘Restorer of Roman power.’
Imperator Carausius was the first British ruler to unite the kingdom, and deserves his place in history for that, but he actually is best known for his fine coinage. 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.
Of course, the narrative of this second book is fiction. The real Carausius died by Allectus’ actions, but as Caros/Arthur he may indeed have driven out invaders and brought Britain peace. (See ‘Legend and links’)
Readers may note that some ‘modern’ technology was used by Arthur hundreds of years before Europeans adopted it. This is not impossible. Myrddin learned of fireworks from his magi, who had contact with trader Chinese. They in turn had been using ‘fire dragons’ since the second century before Christ, although it was only much later that gunpowder was developed.
Similarly, Myrddin may have heard of the L-shaped stirrups that appeared in India about that same time 400-plus years earlier, or of the later circular and triangular stirrups that are known to have been in use during the First Jin Dynasty of the third century AD, or 700 years before the Normans’ Conquest and their devastating ‘first’ use of mounted warriors who could stand to fight from horseback.
Also, 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. Portus Chester is modern Porchester; Colchester or Roman Camulodunum, appears as itself; Chester was once Deva, Snowdoun is modern Stirling and Eidyn’s Burh is better known to us as Edinburgh. There is a fine hillfort to the city’s east, at Dunpelder, where Arthur waited for his forces. The harbour on the Severn estuary, Abonae is modern Sea Mills; Aquae Sulis is Bath, and Dumnonia is of course Cornwall.
Generally, the Romans did not name their roads, so their great highways were only named by later generations. The famous ‘Streets’ of Watling, Ermine, Dere, Stane and Akeman are well enough known, as is the ancient Fosse Way, which was once the Romans’ frontier rampart of western Britannia. It was not until the first decade of the 21st century that archaeologists traced the Nont Sarah, a trans-Pennine military road that had been forgotten.
Arthur and Carausius: legend and links
There are connections between Carausius and many of the traditional Arthurian sites, and Carausius’ triumphs are closely echoed in the legends of Arthur. The monk Gildas (circa 500-570AD) created Britain’s earliest written history and described a ‘lord of battles’ and ‘outstanding ruler’ whose triumph at Mount Badon was the decisive, culminating victory to rout the Saxon invaders.
The triumph was so celebrated that Gildas did not bother to identify the location of Badon or even to name the victor, noting only that ‘Arth’ – Celtic for ‘The Bear’ - was such a great overlord that King Cuneglasus of Powys humbly acted as his master’s charioteer.
Gildas was writing a century or two after the events and muddled his calendar. He wrongly dated the construction of the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus by two centuries, but he likely got the sequence right: the walls were built, the invaders came, a leader arose and drove them away. It suggests that Arthur may have lived earlier than believed, at a date that fits with the actual reign of Carausius. Many scholars think that the Badon battlefield may be at the Iron Age hillfort at Cadbury South, (‘Caros’ Camp,’) some think it could be Buxton, in Derbyshire.
There’s a great poverty in the era’s history and some of it was written 800 years after the event, but folklore often holds remarkably accurate memories. One such tale is that the Pict Ossian’s son Oscar was killed when he attacked the emperor ‘Caros’ as he rebuilt Hadrian’s Wall.
Carausius’ image on his fine coinage shows him as a thick-necked, bear-like man and the British for ‘bear-king’ is ‘Arto-rig,’ and language experts say there are links between ‘Caros’ and ‘Artorius.’ Even the hill fort at South Cadbury that tradition says was the castle of King Arthur was once ‘Cado’s Fort.’ Certainly, there was once a mass slaughter there, and there are stone foundations of a palace on the site.
A significant part of Arthur’s legend is his Christianity. Welsh tradition holds that Arthur ‘carried the cross of Christ on his shield,’ and was mortally wounded at Camlann. That conflict site has been placed in Gwynedd, where a very early Welsh ‘Stanza of the Graves’ says Arthur was buried. In the 19th century an antiquarian described the discovery of a Roman grave there at the head of a pass, a place where a ruler might be buried, overlooking his lands.
The headstone is inscribed ‘Carausius lies here in this cairn of stones,’ and carries the staurogram, or third century tau-rho cross of a Christian, the earliest found in Wales and one of only a dozen found in Britain.
The man memorialized was so important that the stone and maybe the bones were moved to the nearby church of St Tudclud, in Penmachno, which is an important early Christian site and reputed burial place of Iorweth ab Owain Gwynedd, father of Wales’ greatest king. This, then, is a royal graveyard. The fact that Carausius was so famous that he needed no ‘Soldier of the XXth’ style of identification could therefore be highly significant.
The only other known memorial to the Lost Emperor is in the Tullie House museum in Carlisle, on a milestone that was inverted and reused. The buried portion concealed the honorifics the Romans elsewhere redacted after they re-invaded Britain in 293 AD. That glorious title reads: ‘Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Mauseus Carausius, Dutiful, Fortunate, the Unconquered Augustus.” It should add: ‘The Forgotten.’
Map of Arthur’s Britain
If you enjoyed reading Arthur Imperator by Pail Bannister you may be interested in Roman Arms: Huntress by Ingrid de Haas, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Roman Arms: Huntress by Ingrid de Haas
I: 1197 BC
Diana was sitting on her usual oak stool, her unstrung cornel-wood bow and her painted quiver on the ground. She had been hunting in the forests of Greece all day and was ready to spend some quiet time resting on lofty Mount Olympus. As she was removing her second hunting sandal, her beloved nymph Opis came in through the colossal double doors and knelt next to her.
“Jupiter is in one of his moods again,” she said, straightening the goddess’ diadem. “I heard that our mighty ruler went off to sit by himself on the farthest peak of Olympus again. He boomed instructions to Mercury that he should
not be disturbed, especially in matters relating to his wife, even if the pits of Hades were to freeze over – again.”
“And how is that different from the way my father, the hurler of thunderbolts, behaves every day? But I don’t want to hear about him. Opis, I need you to go down to my sanctuary on Mount Algidus and inspect the recent offerings. I want to make sure that those pathetic, miserly mortals are taking me seriously. There is nothing more annoying than to be shortchanged by those who demand a favor, but are not willing to spend a reasonable amount on their offerings. And come back and report to me as soon as you can.”
It didn’t take the nymph long to fly down the mountain with her winged ankles. It was an exceptionally clear day, and as always on such a day she greatly enjoyed taking in the breathtaking view. There was a sea of green – in myriad shades, all the shades of the trees that grew in those mountains – as far as the eye could see, punctured by the occasional plume of smoke rising from a sacrifice to one of the gods. From the types of smoke she could tell that few of them were blood sacrifices; it was a serious hardship for most people to find and offer an animal, even a small one. No, most sacrifices were simply grains and fruit, with the customary libation of wine. Opis half expected to find only a handful of offerings at Diana’s temple on Mount Algidus. Because she interacted with mortals more than her lady did, or at least got a lot closer to them, Opis knew that many people were not being stingy when asking a god for favors; they simply could not part with what little they had, even if they were desperate for divine assistance. So, as usual, she would tell Diana that there were countless votive offerings – bronze statuettes, and silver ones too. She did not want Diana to be offended or, worse, angry. Jupiter was not the only ambrosia-eater and nectar-drinker who could throw a tantrum of epic proportions and cause some serious damage by flinging something with a sharp point. The last such incident was still fresh in her mind.
As Opis overflew Privernum, she saw several mortals scrambling about outside the palace of King Metabus. She descended a bit and hid among the foliage of a lofty oak tree, pricking her ears.
“We need to find that mid-wife quickly,” said a frail-looking woman to a tall, thin girl. “Master is going to kill us if Lady Casmilla has to give birth without her assistance. He thinks we are not good enough to help the Queen with that. And her sisters haven’t arrived yet.”
“But nobody has seen Ilithyia in days,” answered the girl. “Not since the heavy rains that burst from the stormy clouds made the river swell and it flooded the north side of the village. All of it!”
“Don’t argue with me, just take your sister with you and go! Find her, for Juno’s sake!” she yelled in a shrill voice.
“Yes, mother,” she replied. The young girl ran to find her sister and then they both headed for Ilithyia’s hut.
Up on her arboreal perch, where she heard and saw all, Opis realized that she felt sorry for Casmilla. Not only was she married to a wrathful old man – who sometimes reminded her of Jupiter, lord of cloud and storm – she had already lost three babies during childbirth, all of them boys. But there was nothing Opis could do. Besides, Diana expected her to go back home with a report, and she hadn’t even been to the goddess’ temple yet.
Meanwhile, the girls’ mother invoked Lucina, goddess of childbirth, raising her arms to heaven.
“O venerable goddess, hear my prayer,” she began, “for labor pains are your peculiar care. In you, when stretched upon the bed of grief, women view relief. With births you sympathize, always pleased to see the numerous offspring of fertility. Women invoke you when racked with labor pangs and distressed, for you alone can give relief to pain. Goddess, venerable power, who brings relief in labor’s dreadful hour, please hear me and come to the assistance of my Queen Casmilla.”
Suddenly a nearly invisible blanket of fine mist crept over the palace, and Opis knew that Lucina had arrived. The nymph only hoped that the goddess could lend assistance to the queen even without the presence of a mortal midwife with her drugs and incantations. She lingered a few more minutes hidden among the branches, and then quietly took off in the direction of Mount Algidus.
It wasn’t long before the girls came back to the palace with bad news. As they had suspected, Illythia had died during the floods, and her body, swept away like debris, had been found several miles away, along with some of the remains of her straw hut. The girls and their mother rushed to ask one of the male slaves to inform King Metabus that they were going to be on their own.
Meanwhile, Lucina, who was already in Casmilla’s birthing room, unseen by all – the mother-to-be and her newly-arrived sisters – pulled an invisible vial, filled with powdered sow’s dung and the fat of a hyena, out of the white, ambrosial robe which the Graces had woven for her. As she was placing it on a tripod, she froze. Atropos, wearing her cloak, red with fluid blood, had appeared out of nowhere and was standing in front of Lucina, frowning, with her left hand resting on her hip.
“This is not meant to be,” said the oldest of the ruthless Fates, shaking her torch which was reeking with gore. “Casmilla’s baby may come into this world, but as for Casmilla, I will cut her thread of life with these pretty, shiny shears of mine as soon as I see the head of the wrinkled little one appear.”
“When did you change your modus operandi, daughter of eternal Night?” asked Lucina. “Did you visit Casmilla earlier in a dream and warn her about this, as you are supposed to do? I wouldn’t have bothered to come if I had known that today you would be sending the woman’s shade to the Underworld.”
“Oh, give me a break!” said Atropos with a sneer. “You know that my sisters and I call the shots among both immortals and mortals. Isn’t that why we are called the Fates? And we play by our own rules. So today I am cutting Casmilla’s thread,” she added, combing black vipers from her hair. Some were lying about her shoulders, some gliding around her temples, and all hissed and darted forth their tongues. Then she tore away two snakes from the middle of her hair, which, with pestilential hand, she threw on the floor in front of Lucina. The goddess of childbirth found it wise to take a few steps back.
While the immortals were busy arguing, Casmilla’s sisters and the slave-women, all with their hands wrapped in papyrus to get a better grip, had helped with the delivery of a beautiful baby girl, who clearly came equipped with a very powerful set of lungs. It was her crying that made Atropos and Lucina turn and look. Atropos, who greatly enjoyed the task that she had been performing since the first generation of humans had been created, immediately held up her shears. Then, shaking her head and throwing back from her face the snakes crawling over it, she cut the thread that she was carrying, measured out by her sister Lachesis. In the blink of an eye, and before Lucina could ask her about the baby’s destiny, she was gone. Casmilla’s sisters began wailing, and the young slave-girls panicked, well aware that Metabus might take his wrath out on them. Only their mother remained composed enough to clean the baby with sea sponges and olive oil and then swaddle her in clean wool bandages.
Lucina knew it is never allowed for a god to annul the acts of other supernatural beings, and was very upset because she could not frustrate the iron decree of the aged sister of Clotho and Lachesis. So, realizing that she was of no use in the palace, she decided to leave and go to visit other mothers who were ready to deliver their babies – and hopefully to live long enough to raise them. As she flew out of the birthing room, King Metabus came charging in, drawn by the baby’s cries.
As expected, Metabus was furious. Not sad about the death of his wife, but really, really angry. At that moment it did not matter that his baby daughter was fine, and no longer splitting everyone’s ears but happily cooing in the slave-woman’s arms. He barked at Casmilla’s sisters, telling them to scram. He threatened to kill the slave-girls, who quickly bolted out of the room. Finally, he calmed down enough to sit next to his dead wife, whose body had not been removed from the crested birthing chair.
“Why have you abandoned me today, Fo
rtune?” he asked, looking at up at the heavens. Then he turned to the queen, tears streaming down his face. “I was supposed to be the father of many children, tiny princes and princesses. But now you, Casmilla, are dead, dead like our three little boys.”
Metabus turned his gaze toward his bundled-up daughter, whom the slave-woman had placed on the floor near him. Wiping his tears away and walking over to her, he picked her up.
“I will raise you to be a magnificent queen such as your mother was,” he told the baby, who yawned several times. “And I will bestow on you the name Camilla, which will remind you of the mother you won’t be able to meet until your time comes to go dwell in the realm of Pluto.”
Not much later, Opis was flying over the palace on her way back from the sanctuary, thinking what to tell Diana instead of the truth about the paltry offerings, when she saw preparations being made for a funeral. Convinced that it was for the new-born, she got closer anyway and found out that, instead, the preparations were for Casmilla. She was so shocked that she almost forgot to wave her wings in the air. But she quickly came to her senses and hastened home, going straight to Diana.
Diana had just begun spreading out her new hunting-net and admiring it, a gift from Minerva, made of gold and silver thread. When she saw the look on the nymph’s face, she knew it had to be very important, so she dropped the net and went to sit down. She invited Opis to do the same.
“My lady,” said Opis, as she pulled up a stool and placed it next to Diana’s, “first some bad news. I will give you the report on the sanctuary in a moment. The wife of the tyrant of Privernum died today giving birth to a daughter. Surely you remember Casmilla, for there is … uh, sorry, there was no Volscian more pious than this woman. She always offered abundant sacrifices in one of your sacred groves, always knew the appropriate rites and prayers during your annual festival, and she could invariably be found at the head of every one of the sacred processions.”
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