by M. K. Hume
‘Am I?’ Constantinus replied silkily, but his eyes were threatening and the tribune began to wonder if he might have underestimated the ability and motives of this importunate centurion.
The expression on Constantinus’s face was wiped clean and Maximo was left to wonder if he had imagined the sudden flash of fury. The centurion leaned forward, as if eager to explain himself.
‘I understand your reservations regarding this marriage, sir. I’ll even agree that the Dumnonii king insisted that I’d compromised the girl when I’d actually tried to save her neck. But I can assure you that King Cadal wasn’t interested in any candidate, other than me, for the post of High King of Britannia. The Britons consider that Rome’s choice of Marcus Britannicus was such an insult to the tribes that they couldn’t do worse if their next choice was made by a fool.’
The old tribune wore what was left of his hair in a silver circlet that surrounded his ears. Surprisingly, the fringe seemed more imposing than a laurel wreath. His pale brown eyes, much faded by time, snapped with irritation.
‘The tribal leaders intend to control you. And, through you, they hope to manipulate Rome through your inexperience. I’ll not have it! Do you hear me? I’ll not have it!’
As the tribune’s thin lips pursed in a narrow slit that seemed little more than a bloodless wound in his shaven face, Constantinus read the senior officer’s response as an indication of his contempt for all things British. Another fool!
‘You must be properly advised by my officers if you are to continue with this charade, Constantinus. You must understand that this throne only exists because of Rome’s generosity, and we would have no hesitation in removing you from the position if the necessity arose.’
Constantinus accepted the naked threat with more apparent equanimity than he actually felt. But he was sufficiently wise to understand that Rome ruled these isles, although its power had diminished in recent times and most of its troops had been recalled to the continent. The token force left by Maximus after he departed had received few reinforcements in recent times. The tribune could bluster to his heart’s content, but he had only been sent to Britannia because he was too old to serve in those lands where a strong military commander was required. Lack of finance would soon force Rome to move the last of her garrisons across the Litus Saxonicum to Gallia and the security of the isles would be left to those Britons and the few Romans who were prepared to spend the rest of their days defending themselves against the barbarian raiders. Constantinus had become a part of the landscape of Britannia, whether he liked it or not.
He forced himself to smile obligingly, while trying to cover a streak of rebelliousness that flashed momentarily in his dark eyes. Fortunately, the elderly tribune’s sight was not good, nor was he in the habit of recognising insubordination in his junior officers. Even more tellingly, sarcasm was completely lost on him.
‘I accept that I will need some advice, but I would prefer to have the assistance of men I can respect and trust, friends who will honour my wife and my position in these lands. Too many noble Romans have treated the tribesmen of Britannia as if they are barbarian fools or idiot children. The daughter of Caradoc, Queen Endellion, is clever and acute, much like her father who was a friend to Magnus Maximus. I will consider the advice of anyone you decide to send to me, as long as my conditions are met. Be it on their own heads, if they should fail to maintain my trust.’
Peeved at this ultimatum, the old man spat on the marble floor and the nearest servant hurried to clean up the spittle, appalled by the arrogance of this Roman overlord. Constantinus managed to control his facial expression, knowing that word of this lack of courtesy would soon be passed on to King Aeron.
‘You’re in no position to dictate to Rome what you want,’ the tribune snapped dourly.
‘But I’m in a dominant position, sir. Rome will be happy to accept a high king who is one of their own and, even if the legions finally leave these isles for good, I will still be the ruler of a province that is committed to trade and economic ties with the empire. I fill that description, whether you approve of my choice . . . or not! With all the faults you have ascribed to me, I am still a better candidate for the role of High King than Cadal of the Dumnonii, who is the best of the British kings and the one man who is most likely to be selected as the British ruler, if I was removed. Could you negotiate successfully with Cadal? I doubt it! For better or for worse, Tribune, you’re stuck with me!’
‘You’re impertinent, Centurion, and you speak far above your station.’
‘No, sir! You’re the one who is wrong, for I’m about to become the High King of Britannia. I am no longer a centurion who is at your beck and call, so I expect you to speak to me with the correct measure of civility to which someone in my position is entitled.’
Constantinus’s face was stiff and cold. Strangely, the tribune recognised the same cold anger that he remembered in the great ones, those men who used power like a blade to carve up the world for their pleasure. He shivered.
We may have misread this dangerous young man, Maximo thought. I will have to provide him with advisers who are young, but who are committed to the emperor, or else he will take these islands in directions that will lead to bloodshed. He’s in love with power and death!
Henceforth, Constantinus accepted two Romans of note into his household. The first was a man from a minor branch of the Flavian gens, the royal house of Rome into which, ironically, Cadal had suggested Constantinus should insert himself.
Flavius Constantine! The erstwhile centurion wanted to laugh at the pretentiousness of it all, but Cadal had a politician’s understanding of symbolism, so Constantinus allowed his political aspirations to be guided by this clever British ruler.
The Flavian sent to Constantinus by Maximo had enjoyed all the benefits of his gens, although his branch of the family was relatively minor. The ambitious young man, Cassivellaunus, had been named as a sop to his British grandmother after a tribal king who fought against the great Caesar. This Cassivellaunus was a politician rather than a soldier, as was evidenced by his soft white hands and delicate frame. However, anyone who underestimated this beautifully dressed man would be making a serious error of judgement.
The other man was a centurion who bore the simple name of Gregorius, despite being referred to as the Watchman, a name bestowed on him by his peers and detractors. This Roman officer had a narrow, clever face marked by a scar along his jaw. His voice was soft and mellifluous, while his manner suggested gentle reason and was so persuasive that Constantinus found himself in constant agreement with the advice of his newly appointed assistant. This man might prove to be dangerous, Constantinus decided, once he had an opportunity to consider the undoubted talents of Maximo’s appointee.
One other man had been sent to him from those dim mountains of Cymru which had been the birthplace of Conanus and his sister, Elen. Constantinus had yet to meet this young prince but the very name hinted at a dangerous streak.
Vortigern! Constantinus remembered the Briton far better than their brief meetings warranted. When Constantinus had led Marcus Britannicus’s honour guard all those months ago as the column travelled to Corinium, Vortigern had been a member of the retinue. Their paths had not crossed during that journey, for Vortigern was a young prince of the northern tribes of Britannia, a leader of the future who was learning the ways of the world in which he would one day take part. Immensely proud, and raised by kin in Caer Fyrddin, this intense young Briton had no desire to cultivate an association with a mere centurion.
On the other hand, the late and unlamented Marcus Britannicus had been determined to keep his distance from Vortigern and all of his fellow Britons, for they were men that he deemed to be below his standing in the world of Rome. In the status-obsessed world of Britannia, too, men of means tended to stand apart from each other, and relied on their positions within their own hierarchies, determined by r
ace, social standing and wealth.
Nor had Vortigern travelled with Constantinus and Severa into the south, choosing instead to carry messages between Tribune Maximo and King Aeron as a courier. The events of the past seemed as if they belonged to a long-gone era, but Constantinus hadn’t forgotten Vortigern’s hunger for knowledge . . . and something else that he hadn’t yet been able to gauge.
But the unspoken rules of precedence had been set out of kilter when Constantinus had become the High King of the Britons through an advantageous marriage with a British princess. Vortigern would now be forced to bend the knee to a Roman and Constantinus could see some of the ripples of concealed emotions swimming in his dark eyes.
Careful of the threat he recognised in the young man, Constantinus was determined to regularly check his fingers and toes whenever Vortigern was in his presence.
Well, who can I trust? Constantinus wondered. At least he could take pleasure from the presence of Paulus, who had opted to remain a loyal retainer to his erstwhile commander. Given a grudging release from the legion by Tribune Maximo, the decurion had become something between a body-servant and aide de camp to his commander. Although he would never have stated it openly, Constantinus looked forward to navigating the difficult waters ahead of him, with Paulus standing at his back like a comforting rock wall.
The whole panoply that surrounded the prestige of the High King took Constantinus by surprise, especially the barbaric splendour of the court and the unfamiliar trappings of power that were showered over him. There were so many decisions to be made, and so many areas of contention that must be considered – or left untouched. As he and his wife undertook the journey to Venta Belgarum, in company with a coterie of British kings, Constantinus was reluctant to express any personal opinion on the choice of this old administrative centre as his capital. The British kings had simply informed him that Venta Belgarum had always been the seat of the High King of the Britons, having omitted to mention that Maximus had been capricious when accepting the site for his royal palace.
‘But why choose Venta Belgarum?’ Constantinus had asked Aeron and Cadal in the midst of their discussions. ‘Surely your advice must serve some purpose, if you’ve selected this southern city over other centres that are much more suitable. Travel to Venta Belgarum will be difficult for many of the other kings, especially those whose lands lie near the Wall. Their journey would be difficult, costly and occasionally dangerous.’
Aeron glanced at Cadal, who shrugged carelessly.
‘My father was Maximus’s greatest friend in these isles and, according to his recollections, Maximus insisted on a capital that was close to the Litus Saxonicum,’ Cadal stated in his usual forthright fashion. ‘Even in the early days of his reign, he must have recognised a need to travel to the continent at some future time. My father also explained that the palace at Venta Belgarum was spacious and could be easily remodelled to suit the taste of a Roman ruler. Maximus particularly desired a palace with his own bathhouse. Besides, Maximus disliked the king of the Atrebates tribe and wanted his proximity to frighten the man into submission.’
‘How odd!’ Constantinus said drily. ‘I’ve been offered a capital that was chosen by a previous Roman ruler who found the town to be conveniently sited for his future expansionary plans. While I accept that the presence of a working hypocaust meets with my approval, I would hope that I don’t have to become involved in another personal feud with its rightful owner if I am to gain control of this palatial estate.’
‘Aye! That’s the description in a nutshell,’ Aeron answered. ‘It’s our way of controlling one’s opponents. But the palace has been renovated and it’s waiting for you to grace it with your presence. As well, the church at Venta Belgarum is the site of Maximus’s coronation and your wife was born in the main apartments of the palace. Elen, Maximus’s wife, is buried somewhere in the graveyard attached to the church. Venta Belgarum may have had a chequered history as a royal residence, but the lives of your wife’s kinfolk are intertwined with the history of this city. These matters will be of great importance if we are to create a lineage that will last into the future.’
Cadal paused and collected his thoughts before continuing. He might not find this newly anointed king in such an expansive mood again.
‘You must understand that Maximus was Britannia’s first High King for hundreds of years so my people had no recent history on which they could fashion the role of overlord,’ Cadal explained. ‘Caradoc told me that Maximus considered himself to be the Dux Bellorum of Britannia, or its war chief, so that concept might be worth your consideration when you evaluate the task that lies ahead of you. Primarily, Maximus perceived his role as the ruler who must unite the tribes against a common enemy, halt the barbarian attacks and lead my people in the protection of the isles. My father agreed with Maximus, and he would have been the first to insist that Maximus needed a firm hand if he was to successfully control the ever-squabbling British kings. You’ll have the same problems that plagued Maximus; I suggest that you raise a force of warriors who are loyal to you alone, ostensibly to repel an attack from an unknown quarter. You can’t afford to depend on the kings to assist you at those times when you have a need of them, so levy the bastards in advance for enough men to satisfy your needs.’
This advice was wise. Constantinus’s thoughts dwelled on the suitability of Venta Belgarum as his town while the two men were riding companionably at the head of the cavalcade. He had never visited this centre, although he knew that the surrounding district had a strong industrial and agricultural base. Significantly, the town lay close to the coastal centres of Magnus Portus and Portus Adurni that provided direct trading links with the Roman world. Cadal’s assumptions were correct. The tribal kings were wealthy and could afford the expense of supplying him with a standing army.
Winter was finally loosening its hold on the south when Constantinus and his new bride, accompanied by Roman and British notables, arrived in Venta Belgarum. Impressed from the moment of arrival, the new High King was surprised by the venerable age, vigour and wealth of the large town. As their horses climbed the heavily populated road leading to the forecourt of the palace, Constantinus felt a frisson of excitement. His success as a ruler would depend on his ability to turn this centre and its hall of justice into a capital city, both for himself and his heirs.
The thorny matter of succession was already beginning to trouble him. He was determined to leave his son Constans as a lordling or minor king once he had passed into the shades. To this end, he had sent for Constans, who had been living in Isca fortress where the remnants of the legion were quartered. The wife of a fellow centurion had seen to his care and education for a small stipend that was far more certain than the infrequent payments sent to the legion by their tight-fisted masters in Rome. By diverse ways, some of which were not exactly legal, Constantinus had always been able to ensure that sufficient coin was on hand to care for his first-born son.
As the cavalcade entered the cobbled forecourt adjacent to the King’s Hall, Constantinus noted that the palace doors were twice the size of a tall man and were sheeted with panels of brass, copper, and gold, decorated with scarlet pigment. Behind them, the timber palace was rendered unusual by the addition of several windows made from real glass. Constantinus dismounted and, in company with a wide-eyed Severa, entered the palace through the great, creaking doors.
Constantinus experienced a moment of primeval panic. How can I expect to rule over these difficult and fractious islands, he wondered, as the darkness of the long-deserted hall pressed down on him. I don’t have the faintest idea how to control the population and cater to their needs at the same time, as all my skills lie in the age-old arts of killing.
A huge, spacious hall appeared out of the gloom, while servants hurried to open the dusty banks of shutters that would allow narrow shafts of sunlight and fresh air to enter the long room. At the very end of the hall, a small
dais had been erected above the stone floor, a place of distinction from which the High King would dispense justice to his vassals. In the centre of this dais, a sheeted chair was sitting in solitary splendour. It had remained untouched since Magnus Maximus had last risen from this seat of honour, so one of the servants whipped away the dusty covering.
Surprised, Constantinus drew in a sudden breath of air. This throne had begun its life as a stool modelled on the curule chairs of ancient Rome, but its structure had been modified on so many occasions that it bore little resemblance to that spartan, august seating. Elaborate carving on a tall back had been added to the original design, where depictions of imaginary beasts were struggling now for dominance. Although these carvings were crude, they possessed a strong visual power. A luxurious series of cushions had been added to the seat and its arms for extra comfort, their rich scarlet cloth covered with fine stitchery in silver and gold thread. Neglect had allowed moths and mice to feast on the fabric. In the centre of the dais, a sinuous dragon from the northern legends was crouching below the seat, its outline highlighted by huge wings and flashing, gold-painted claws.
‘The chair is magnificent,’ Cadal observed. ‘I’d forgotten how Maximus enjoyed sitting in state when he was holding court.’
‘And very colourful,’ Gregorius added in his neutral voice.
Cassivellaunus whistled between his teeth. ‘Maximus certainly knew how to keep the peasants impressed.’
‘Perhaps the artist was showing us the power that a High King can wield if he so chooses,’ Severa suggested amicably, although her husband recognised a certain steely disapproval on her face at the obvious scorn of the Roman advisers. ‘Maximus understood the importance of the visual trappings of a king as much as the justice he dispensed to his subjects. To me, this throne shouts out a warning that the High King is the master of everything that happens in his kingdom. He is all-powerful, he is violent and he even commands the wild beasts.’
