The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  The aftermath to any battle, even a skirmish such as this confrontation proved to be, takes many hours to clean up and set the victor’s house in order. The Roman legions had developed systems of discipline for dealing with the remains of enemies and friends, so Constantinus’s force set to work with few orders and minimal supervision. The Saxons were quickly stripped of anything of any value and their corpses were dragged by unwilling horses into a large pile of naked flesh. Still other troops collected flammable materials from the shanties and huts clustered around the outer walls of Durobrivae. Meanwhile, the wounded and injured among the Britons were taken into the town where the local healers would do their best to hold back the onset of death. Here, too, Constantinus would accept the gratitude of the townsfolk, whose wealth was manifested in the golden chains slung around the necks of those merchants who came to bend their knee to the High King of the Britons.

  By nightfall, funeral pyres had been lit to consume the remains of friend and foe for disease would grow at a prodigious rate if dead bodies were allowed to rot without burial or cremation. Black, oily smoke rose into a pall, dimming the sky.

  The British and Roman dead went to their funeral pyres with their weapons and belongings intact, but this sign of respect wasn’t extended to the Saxon warriors. Prayers were soon rising around the funeral pyre as a hastily found Christian priest offered Constantinus’s dead their own bulwark against the darkness of death.

  The foot soldiers set up a bivouac that would supplement the temporary encampment ordered by Constantinus to ensure the cavalry’s security during the coming night. The king sighed with satisfaction as he settled himself into a simple hide tent that was no better than the facilities provided for his men. His acceptance of their living conditions surprised some of his warriors, because rumours quickly spread that he had been invited to rest for the night in any number of fine homes within the walls of the town.

  ‘Why should our officers stay in camp, sir?’ Paulus asked curiously, after he discovered that his master had refused an offer of hospitality from one of the town’s wealthiest traders. ‘As for the men, there are a number of stables within the walls where they could sleep for the night. I’m assured that the shopkeeper has a hypocaust, buxom slave girls and some of Hispania’s best wines at his disposal. A night’s fleecing by the locals would put smiles on the faces of our men.’

  Paulus’s contempt for the merchant class was obvious from his scathing description.

  Constantinus allowed himself a grin. Men of the legions had little time for civilians, regardless of their status or wealth.

  ‘I’ve slept under roofs for too long while I hungered to see the stars or enjoy the smell of wood smoke and the leather of my sleeping tent. Life as a king can be very pleasant for a time, but a soldier’s bones turn to rust if he can’t raise a sword or feel a good horse under him. I thought you’d understand what I mean, friend Paulus.’

  ‘Aye! A fighting man lives best when he’s in a good bivouac or on a battlefield.’

  Constantinus slept soundly the night and, for once, no night terrors troubled his rest.

  The morning sun came with rain in its teeth, so he wondered if he had been hasty when he had refused the pleasures of a warm, dry billet. Still, wet tunics and sodden boots were pleasures that tame husbands never knew; he was certain he would never miss the luxury of a bland existence.

  Unfortunately, this rain could quickly obliterate the tracks of the main Saxon column. Constantinus struggled into his armour, while ignoring Paulus’s advice that they might consider waiting until the downpour had passed.

  ‘According to our scouts, the main force of our Saxon friends is on the move and they seem to be heading in a southerly direction. It’s probable that they are ensconced in those hills by now, and they’ll be reluctant to fight a battle if we give them too much of a start. But our pursuit will be far more difficult if all trace of their passage is lost in the rain and we have to find them again? No, Paulus! That’s not acceptable, so we’ll prepare ourselves for an immediate departure. I want to reach those hills before we camp again, regardless of the weather.’

  ‘One of the local crofters told me that there’s a confluence of rivers that rise in those hills, master. Beyond them are the forests of Anderida Silva and, beyond those, there are dangerous marshes that stretch along the coast. If the Saxons plan to rejoin their ceols with the plunder they’ve stolen, they will be forced to head for a suitable embarkation area. My crofter assured me that there is an area near Portus Lemanis where the Saxon ceols could be hidden, places where the raiders could load their pillaged wealth in their own time. It seems like good advice.’

  Constantinus collapsed his tent with a few quick actions, while ignoring one of the grateful servants from the town who had offered to help with such mundane tasks.

  ‘Your guesses have proved to be better than the certainties of my other officers, Paulus, so I thank you for them.’

  The decurion strode away to see to Constantinus’s horse with a satisfied smile on his lips. His superior officer was changing and had transformed himself from a centurion into a superb leader who could command an entire legion like the tribunes of old. Best of all, his master understood that the men he was leading were flesh and blood, rather than simply numbers who could be wasted without care or regard. If the God of Hosts, Mithras and the old gods in the dead temples remained true to Constantinus, then his master would grow in the coming years until even the wide plains of Gallia became a part of his fiefdom.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Ambition and Lies

  Pecunia non olet.

  Money has no smell.

  Vespasian, Suetonius: Lives of the Caesars

  ‘Report, Vortigern!’ the king snapped, his face furrowed in frustration at the pursuit of an elusive Saxon enemy.

  An obviously weary Vortigern climbed down from his mare, wiped his sweating forehead and removed his helmet with a muffled curse. With a flash of resentment, he wished his master would at least permit him to dismount before making his demands.

  Constantinus noticed immediately that a small blood-trail was trickling from a scab on the warrior’s forehead.

  He ignored the trivial wound, although he could see that Vortigern’s arms were also spattered with blood, up to the elbows, despite the attempts that the Briton had made to wash and tidy his person before making his report to his master.

  ‘I’ve damn little intelligence that will please you, sire,’ Vortigern responded, although he wasn’t so foolish as to show signs of anger before his liege lord. Even so, Constantinus’s forehead furrowed further at this young man’s clipped tone. His fingers began to drum on the folding table top inside the command tent as if they had a separate life to that of his arms or his body.

  Vortigern was immediately on his guard. He was aware that the king’s temper had grown shorter as the campaign against the Saxons had dragged on . . . and on.

  ‘The main Saxon force of about three hundred men had been divided into a number of smaller groups before we were in sight of Durovernum, and these columns headed into the south, the east and the west in such a manner that we could never have predicted their movements. I decided to follow the largest group of men, some ninety or more, who were heading into the south. Unfortunately, the bastards vanished into a forested wilderness in the only high ground between the town and the ocean. It took us a day and a half before we picked up their tracks again and decided they were heading towards Rutupiae. At that point, I began to wonder whether they were travelling towards some prearranged rendezvous with their ceols or, alternatively, they might have been trying to lure us into an ambush that would stop us from harassing their main column.

  ‘But I was wrong, damn them! During the night, they divided again with such speed and dash that we totally missed the ruse until it was too late. We managed to redeem our error when we cornered one small band o
f ten men who had laid waste to a small village that didn’t even have a name. We put those warriors to the sword.’

  Vortigern’s voice was tinged with regret as he described the tiny farming hamlet that had held some half-dozen structures. Every woman, child and old man in the small stone crofts had been slaughtered and their bodies left to rot where they fell. The absence of able-bodied farmers had told Vortigern that the Cantii king must have stripped this tiny hamlet of all protection by conscripting every male over fifteen years to serve in the defence of his lands. The pitchforks and hoes used by the old men and young boys in the village had been no match when pitted against the abilities of experienced Saxon warriors.

  Vortigern’s voice remained flat and unemotional. The kinglet usually displayed a sense of drama that tended to turn the most prosaic engagements into a tale of intrigue, heroism and adventure. Unfortunately for Vortigern, Constantinus sensed that the unspoken details of this encounter and the chase of the last two weeks were a source of shame for him.

  ‘What do you mean? Ten men? Ten fucking men? How did the other eighty manage to escape? They were afoot, and you were in command of fifty cavalrymen, weren’t you? Explain yourself, Vortigern! You seem to have lost track of a sizeable war party.’

  Vortigern flushed an ugly plum shade across his sharp cheekbones and the colour extended down his face and neck to disappear beneath his body armour. This Demetae chieftain was a patient and calculating leader, a young man who controlled his emotions in order to achieve greater prizes than the spoils won through displays of hot temper or vanity. But Constantinus’s biting scorn had struck at his manhood, so his eyes narrowed to muddy green slits.

  ‘They are afoot, sire, but I know that you’re as aware of the abilities of these barbarians as I am. They have incredible reserves of strength and stamina, so they can run the whole day through while only resting briefly to piss and drink. They’re masters of the art of travelling far and fast, and then fighting with demonic skill at the end of their journey.’

  Vortigern paused to consider his next words.

  ‘Their reserves of strength are amazing, sir, as we’ve all discovered during the past month. They use the terrain to their advantage and they disappear whenever they encounter stone, shale or any other terrain where they can’t be tracked. They forgo cooking fires, so there’s little sign of them until they destroy a village or put some isolated farm to the torch. We’d have missed the ten men we did kill, but the hay barn at the croft caught fire and the smoke alerted us to their presence. Even then, they would have eluded us, but one of the farmers had five sons who were almost fully grown. The boys were determined to protect their mother, and they resisted their murderers until just before we happened upon them. It was serendipity!’

  ‘Serendipity, Vortigern? Did Fortuna spin her wheel and bless the Saxons again?’

  ‘At least we killed this group of Saxons, although they won the sort of deaths that the bastards seem to crave. For them, a good death is one where they enter the shades with a sword in their hands. Well, we acceded to their wishes, but their demise was far too fast for my liking.’ Vortigern tried to disguise the petulance in his voice, but Constantinus missed nothing.

  The High King scratched at a week’s growth of black stubble on his chin with the irritation of a man who prefers to be clean-shaven.

  ‘We may have lopped the odd leg from the main body of barbarians, sire, but they grow another limb quickly enough . . . or they seem to. But we’re still no closer to finding the bastards and their encampment.’

  Constantinus rose to his feet and began to pace impatiently within the confines of his tent.

  ‘Call Gregorius, Cassivellaunus and Paulus to me. Then find Drusus! I’m sick of stumbling around in the dark in search of an enemy that I can’t see. We need to develop a strategic plan so we can regain the initiative. Durobrivae was easily won . . . too easily, in fact, and I’d forgotten the chief lesson of any successful battle.’

  ‘What’s that, sire?’ Vortigern couldn’t resist asking.

  ‘A commander is only as good as his last victory! We should never take our enemies for granted.’

  While trying to appear untroubled, Vortigern saluted his master, picked up his discarded helmet and trotted off to find the Roman advisers. He was grateful for the respite, even if it was only temporary.

  You almost got caught out then, you idiot, Vortigern upbraided himself mentally as he explained the king’s demands to Paulus. He nearly had me today . . . and he was right! I’ve wasted two weeks hunting for those Saxon bastards – and I’ve got shite to show for it.

  Paulus gazed at Vortigern’s feral eyes and wondered why he spent so much time in the company of his master. Obviously, Vortigern was a cautious leader who was still learning his craft, but Paulus could see no liking for Constantinus in those jade-green eyes. At this point, the decurion forced the demands of his duty to brush away the qualms that he always felt when he spent time with this cunning and self-serving Briton.

  After scrubbing his arms, torso and head in a water bucket intended for the horses on the picket line, Vortigern harassed his body-servant until the hapless man found him a clean tunic, undershirt and fresh leather trews to replace his ragged and travel-stained clothing that had been worn for so many weeks. His mail was spattered with clotted blood, but any cleansing of this essential armour would have to wait. Attending Constantinus’s conference took precedence over all else if Vortigern was to further his own ambitions and enhance the prospects of the Demetae people. His recent failings must be mitigated if he was to consolidate his position as one of Constantinus’s favourites.

  Fate had given an unusual facial feature to the Demetae ruler. The corners of his upper lip turned upwards, even in repose, so he seemed to have a smile permanently affixed to his face. When he was very angry, his unintentional smile could freeze the blood of the strongest man. The king had marked Vortigern down as one who was prepared to play the part of a sycophant to achieve his own secret ambitions.

  Constantinus understood and approved of these ambitions, but trusting the young man was another matter altogether. And so it was that the two rulers plotted and counter-plotted in a game of personal and political intrigue that was fundamental to their natures.

  Now, as Vortigern entered the High King’s war tent, he saw that the two Roman advisers were already seated on folding stools as they drank wine. Constantinus’s legionnaires had captured a wagon laden with the best Hispanic wines during the battle outside the gates of Durobrivae where Ranald Ox-killer, the Saxon war chief, had perished with many of his subordinates. This engagement, which cost the Saxons an entire column from their fighting force, near enough to a hundred and fifty men, had proved to be the only battle of significance between the Romano-British troops and the northern invaders during the long, two-month campaign.

  The High King was seething with frustration. He gazed intently at the officers in the tent until their eyes dropped before his uncompromising expression.

  ‘Vortigern has been led on a merry chase through the eastern fields beyond Durovernum by these Saxons who melt away like shadows in the night. We should be grateful that he managed to catch ten of the Saxons who were too slow to elude him. Meanwhile, the abbey near Durovernum was attacked after nightfall and the brothers were slaughtered at the altar of their church. The entire store of holy relics, as well as the gold plate, silver ingots and the treasure of the Cantii tribe that had been stored in the church’s crypts, was hauled away by our enemies in stolen wagons.’

  He paused. His advisers were attempting, and failing, to face him with equanimity.

  ‘I await your report on anything of substance that your scouts have discovered, Paulus.’

  Paulus placed the wine jug on one of the small tables and positioned himself so he could deliver his report. He cleared his throat noisily, aware that the advisers provided by Tribu
ne Maximo considered him to be their inferior in every way.

  ‘Lord, I would have informed you earlier of the news I am about to convey to you, but I wanted to await the arrival of Drusus who has only just returned from our scouting mission. It is important that the intelligence he has gleaned from his mission should be included in this report.’

  Paulus cleared his throat again, while the advisers fiddled with their tunics or their armour to suggest their lack of respect for this relatively junior officer.

  ‘At any road, my lord, you instructed me to carry out a short scouting mission with a small force of twenty cavalrymen. It was a mixed group of Britons and Roman-trained men that included Drusus as our scout. We were instructed to follow in the footsteps of an earlier patrol carried out by Lord Vortigern. I was happy to carry out this mission because the lads I took with me are superior to twice that number of Saxons.’

  As the decurion spoke, Vortigern bridled at Constantinus’s lack of trust and stole a brief glance at the High King before realising that the commander’s face was hiding a sense of satisfaction behind his clenched hands.

  So that’s the way the land lies, does it? Vortigern thought. Interesting! I would have thought that all Romans would stick together. Well! Well!

  ‘As with Vortigern’s experience, I soon discovered that the Saxons divided their war party again and again in an obvious ploy that was designed to confuse us. It’s clear to me that they are a large raiding party whose prime purpose is to pillage and plunder, but they are also keen to hide their actual numbers from us. Their commander is also trying to confuse those of us who want him to commit to making a stand in a set-piece battle. Sending his warriors in diverse directions at the same time served all his purposes. He has no intention of fighting a decisive battle with our force. Several of my lads are excellent scouts, so I stayed put and sent Drusus and my own men out to determine the exact location of the Saxon patrols. When the bulk of the warriors eventually re-formed into their original units, my men realised that their quarry was following a semi-circular route that would bring them back towards Durobrivae.’