The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  Finally, because he was an optimist, Gregorius made his choice. Better to be a live mouse than a dead lion!

  I was foolish when I lauded Maximo’s decision to support Constantinus’s elevation, Gregorius thought regretfully, but I was convinced at the time that his choice was wise and considered. Ultimately, the centurion had trapped the tribune and, by God, he’s also trapped me.

  ‘My allegiance is to you, sire, for you are the protector of these isles. When I was given the task of coming to your court as one of your advisers, I came with the knowledge that I was expected to serve the newly crowned High King of the Britons in order to save this Roman province from the barbarians. As a Roman, I love and honour my ancestry, so I pray that I’ll never find my loyalties are divided in such a way that I am forced to make an unwanted choice.’

  Tribune Maximo had instructed him to remain close to the High King and influence his policy-making. Gregorius, a politician by nature, must entertain the hope that he could live by this oath.

  The tribune had intended that Constantinus would never be more than a figurehead, saddled with the doubtful glory of spending his days repelling the increasingly insistent waves of barbarians who invaded Britannia’s shores during the spring and summer months. But he had proved to be a true High King, a ruler who desired to bring peace and prosperity to these troubled lands.

  Why did this British pimple on the backside of the world continue to produce so many political difficulties for Rome and its emperors? Gregorius thought back to the Iceni bitch who almost defeated the legions in bygone days. And, in recent times, Magnus Maximus had miraculously won the approval of the British kings and eventually attacked Rome herself. Maximus had damned near beaten the power of Rome. Against all logic, the isles had produced an emperor, no matter how briefly. Could it do so again? Just as the ancient kingdom of Judea had produced so many God-crazed challengers to Roman authority, so the populace of Britannia had given birth to their own line of successful rebels. Was another emperor rising to power before the advisor’s terrified eyes?

  ‘Please, God! Not again,’ he whispered softly, then immediately began to wonder whether he could have been overheard. One of the servants was filling the goblets from a flagon; Gregorius accepted the fine red wine and gulped it down in one long swallow. The smooth, Hispanic liquor warmed his belly, but it had done nothing to wash away his fear.

  ‘You spoke, Gregorius?’ Constantinus demanded.

  ‘Me?’ The single word left Gregorius’s mouth in a foolish squeak that forced Constantinus to hide a smile behind his hand. ‘No, sire! I was reflecting on whether Britannia might yet avoid a costly campaign with the attendant loss of life.’

  ‘Then you must devise more effective plans, Gregorius, and create better strategies that will kill the barbarians while protecting our own warriors.’ Constantinus was perfectly relaxed as he sat at his ease, but his eyes were drilling through Gregorius’s skull.

  In a lucid moment, Gregorius sensed that there had been a certain rehearsed quality to the rage inflicted on Cassivellaunus, as if Constantinus had been considering this action for some time and had waited for an excuse to put his secret plans into action. Was Cassivellaunus, dead or alive, just another pawn in one of the High King’s plots?

  The flesh on Gregorius’s forearms began to pimple with an imagined chill. His mouth was dry and he tried to remove the gravel from his throat before he answered.

  Please, God, don’t let this Constantinus be another Maximus. The West couldn’t endure another protracted war . . . and Rome would have difficulty in defending herself if she had to throw off a determined attack by a pretender, especially one with the legions at his back.

  But that day won’t dawn if I can help it, Gregorius thought. Rising to his feet, he bowed to make his departure and recognised a glint of satisfaction in Constantinus’s eyes.

  Two weeks later, after entering an unforgiving expanse of swampy water, sucking mud and shifting sands, interspersed with isolated areas of firm earth filled with stunted trees and tracts of spiky ground cover, the Saxon thane discovered that Constantinus’s mixed force of Britons and Romans had moved into an almost unassailable defensive position that blocked the Saxon advance towards the ceols awaiting them in a secret cove to the west of Portus Lemanis. He’d been given no choice. He couldn’t outflank his enemy, so he must fight his way through their ranks if he was to make good his escape.

  There was a single narrow track through the swamps. Overgrown, and almost impassable, it was the only route that could be followed by warriors through the dangerous terrain. But these Saxons were also burdened by wagons filled with heavy treasure.

  The thane had despatched scouts who discovered that the Britons had straddled this route through the swamps that could take them to their ceols. But, along the track, intermittent patches of firm earth would permit some slow movement of the wagons as long as the warriors were prepared to dig out the huge wooden wheels whenever the wagons became bogged down in mud. What was originally determined to be a laborious, albeit passable, route to the coast had committed the thane to a pitched battle against a large force of Roman-trained infantry and cavalrymen.

  Beached on the shingles of the cove, some of the boats were already awaiting the returning raiders, while others remained afloat and waited their turn to beach themselves. But the main force of Saxon warriors and their baggage train was trapped inland.

  The thane met with his subordinates to consider the options available to them. The treasure in the wagons mustn’t be risked, so a decision was made to hide the heavy carts among a small stand of forest on the last sizeable strip of dry ground before the Saxons entered the swamps. Guarded by a few reluctant warriors who could be spared from the battle soon to come, the treasure could still be moved to the beaches by hand if the swamps proved impassable to wagons after the hated Romans had been vanquished.

  Then, once the treasure was secured, the thane sent scouts to the ceols in the cove by a circuitous route, carrying orders that the seamen must wait, under pain of death and accusations of cowardice, until after the battle was fought to its conclusion. The thane could imagine no worse fate for his warriors than being marooned in Britannia for another winter.

  The scene was set, and the time for a final confrontation had arrived.

  As soon as Constantinus’s scouts had informed him that the Saxon ships had appeared in the small cove and some of the ceols had been beached on the shingle above the high-water mark, he sprang into action.

  The Saxon force must be outflanked, so Constantinus must march his columns around it until he reached Portus Lemanis, then travel along the coast for a short distance before selecting a suitable stretch of coastal land where he could carry out an ambush that would halt the raiders as they attempted to make good their escape.

  A forced march had brought the legionnaires to a small strip of dry land a little over a hundred feet wide and surrounded by many miles of treacherous swamplands. Even if the Saxons tried to outflank their enemy, their efforts would be doomed to failure for control of the cove and the embarkation beaches was the sole objective for the Saxon thane. His only option was a direct assault on the defensive positions selected by Constantinus.

  From this strip of firm earth, Constantinus’s men could hack their enemies to pieces before they reached the sands.

  There was no other way that the Saxons could return to their ships.

  Unfortunately for the Romano-British defenders, the terrain was so treacherous that their cavalry were at a distinct disadvantage. Constantinus must relinquish his greatest tactical resource and confront the taller and heavier Saxons, face to face, without the benefit of his cataphractii. In a swamp or in scrubby terrain, his men would be forced to fight, mired in mud or entangled in heavy brush, so only the most determined and ruthless leader could hope to prevail.

  The tired legionnaires were set to w
ork with axes, clearing the chosen field of combat and erecting obstacles that would slow the attacking Saxons.

  Constantinus had the advantage of choosing the battleground and had seized the initiative by selecting the best defensive position. Here his legionnaires waited for the Saxons to make their attack.

  Once his men had bedded themselves down in sand and mud, Constantinus was grateful for the battles he had fought throughout Britannia where the landscape had been as fierce an enemy as his redoubtable barbarian opponents. Those experiences would save many lives.

  Around the two forces lay a morass of swamps, a network of salt water, sharp grasses, stinging insects, mud and quicksand that might cause wary men to make mistakes. But would the Saxons remain wary? So far, Constantinus’s force had remained invisible to the skeleton crews on the ceols although it was likely that some of the Saxon scouts knew of its presence. With his usual care, he ordered his own scouts to keep the boats and their crews under observation, and to inform him if there was activity behind his rear.

  ‘Could the Saxons drive us into the swamps if they were able to hit us in a concerted rush?’ Gregorius asked, while sharpening his blunt gladius. He’d been spared from the dangers of combat throughout his years of diplomatic service, so his weapon had never been used in anger.

  ‘Of course! I’ll speak to the men before first light, so I’ll explain the likely course of events then,’ Constantinus replied, his face alive with excitement at the prospect of battle. Gregorius shook his head in surprise at this love of combat. For his part, he was terrified of being seen as a coward or incompetent, so the anticipation on Constantinus’s face was both inexplicable and vaguely comforting.

  ‘There’s no chance that the thanes will order an attack at night,’ Constantinus added. ‘Only a suicidal fool would try to find their way through the swamps in the dark, so the men can get some sleep and waken before first light.’

  In a corner of Constantinus’s tent that had been erected at the highest point of the perimeter, Paulus was working with a whetstone and polishing cloths to clean and sharpen his master’s weapons. The High King’s armour was waiting, glowing and burnished and ready for use. He preferred clean lines for any protective plate iron, so no embellishments had been used. Paulus partly regretted this, because the armour failed to celebrate his master’s power and importance. Yet, practical soldier that he was, Paulus recognised that the unadorned metal offered no flourishes that could guide a blade into unprotected flesh. In his understanding of the tools of war, Constantinus was still a centurion at heart.

  As the night dragged on, the sentries along the perimeter crept between the defensive positions like ghosts. Meanwhile, men tried to sleep, knowing that the dawn might bring the last light that their eyes would ever see. Those who managed to doze were restless and, occasionally, a man would call out in his sleep, only to be hushed by his fellow warriors. For his part, Paulus missed the soft noses of the horses on the picket lines and the sounds of harness jingling as scouts moved beyond the camp in the seamless, ceaseless patterns of patrol.

  But his master was sleepless and hunched over a smoking lamp, writing on an old scroll that had been scraped clean again and again so that the hide was worn and thin to the touch. Constantinus wrote to his son, Constans, for he realised that a long-held dream was now within his reach. Constans must be made aware of his plans; his grown son would become the proof of his mastery in the days to come, if God or the Devil permitted Constantinus to survive the coming battle.

  ‘I’ll have my way or perish, by God,’ Constantinus swore, as he signed his name with a flourish at the bottom of the scroll. Then he carefully rolled the parchment and slipped it into its hide and brass sheath before sealing the container with a gobbet of wax. Before the wax had cooled, he placed his dragon intaglio ring into it to sign his name so that even the illiterate would know it was a message from their High King.

  This scroll belongs to Constantinus, the High King of the Britons.

  Then, as his summoned courier came to the tent flap, Constantinus gave the man his orders. The young Briton’s face dropped.

  ‘But I won’t be here for the battle, sire,’ he complained.

  ‘You’ll be serving me in a task that is far more important than using your sword. Be careful to avoid the Saxons when you make your way to our picket lines, and then you must ride hard and fast. Much depends on your swiftness and courage.’

  ‘May I return as soon as I have completed your task, Highness?’ the young warrior begged.

  ‘Of course! In any event, I expect that there will be a reply to my message,’ Constantinus answered and clapped the Dumnonii youth on the shoulder with easy familiarity. The lad flushed with pleasure and pride.

  In the semi-darkness of his tent, Constantinus eventually slept, while Paulus watched over him. The night wore away with infinite slowness until the first rays of scarlet blood streaked their way across the black horizon in the east.

  The time for testing, for Constantinus and Britannia, had finally come.

  CHAPTER XVII

  To Gain an Empire

  I hate and I love: Why I do so you may well ask.

  I do not know, but I felt it happen and am in agony.

  Catullus, Carmina, No 85

  To my eldest, well-loved son, Constans.

  Hail and all happiness to you. I trust you are healthy and content with your stepmother in Venta Belgarum? Assure her of my continued love and gratitude for the care she gives to all my children.

  Severa peered over her stepson’s shoulder so she could read the spidery writing on the well-scraped hide. Her hands were clenching at a fold in her skirts so strongly that her knuckles were shining like polished ivory. Oblivious to her discomfort, Constans read to himself while mouthing the words silently and opening the scroll so slowly that Severa longed to snatch the missive from his hands.

  We are currently camped in the swamps, waiting for dawn and a Saxon attack. They must come to us through dangerous terrain, so I hope the force of their charge will be blunted. As this battle will decide the success or failure of the whole campaign, I am a little nervous. Be assured that I will win, for all my plans hang upon victory. Pray for my success, my son.

  You must never believe that these Saxons are easy to kill, Constans. They stand half a head taller than I do and, as you know, I am taller than most of our legionnaires.

  A man with a height advantage has a longer reach than a shorter man, so he can kill from a greater distance. But I don’t need to explain this to you, for your tutors will have instructed you in these matters of single combat.

  As I have told you, the barbarians are very hairy and wear thick and foul-smelling skins to ward off the cold. Their hair is lighter than ours, although it is hard to tell the true colour, for they use bear-fat to grease their locks. The rancid smell is distinctive.

  ‘The battle will have been fought already,’ Severa whimpered, her eyes wide with dread. ‘Even as we speak, your father might be dead!’ Frightened by his mother’s distress, little Ambrosius began to wail in his nurse’s arms.

  Severa ignored her son as she contemplated a lonely future with horror. The life of a widow was precarious at best, regardless of her wealth or standing in the British homelands.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Mother Severa. Father has been killing barbarians for near enough to twenty years. I can’t recall half of the barbarian tribes he has fought during his postings to the more dangerous frontiers of the empire, but he has always come through without hurt. I always refer to him as Fortuna’s Favourite, although he tells me I’m tempting fate by taking her name in vain. I swear that he’s more than equal to the task, so see to your babe and make him stop his caterwauling.’

  Paulus has often joked that the men can smell barbarians before they see them, but tomorrow their personal reek will compete with the foul-smelling swamps.


  If I am still favoured by God, I will prevail tomorrow. Then, with the Cantii silver in our treasure chest, I can begin my plans in earnest. For years, I have thought on the life of Magnus Maximus and how close he came to wresting the empire from the ineffectual hands of effete and disreputable rulers and the proud old men of the Senate.

  I fear that if Britannia does not take the power of Rome unto herself, then the barbarians will take these isles and will lay them to waste. Regardless of whether I, or another, rise against Rome, the empire is finished. The body rots already, although the heart and brain believe it is still alive.

  I will look to you, my son, to hold my British kingdom for me if I should win the acclaim of my warriors and the permission of the tribal kings to seek the throne of the Western Empire, like Flavius Magnus Maximus before me.

  May the gods of our fathers preserve and protect you.

  Ave, my son,

  Flavius Constantine Claudius

  Severa gasped.

  Her husband had taken his new nomen, Constantine, from that great emperor who had ruled both the Eastern and Western Empire in Rome’s glorious past, so it seemed incongruous to her that he would inform her of the name change by scrawling it on a worn piece of vellum. A long-suppressed conviction, buried deeply into her memories of childhood, whispered to Severa that her husband was guilty of a primal crime against the fates and God.

  Superstition had never plagued Severa overmuch, but only a few short years had passed since her uncle Conanus had perished dishonourably at her hands.

  She stared down at her right hand as if she could still see and smell her uncle’s blood.

  Her father had been beheaded and his corpse had been fed to the dogs in a distant town beside a barbarian river, far from his home and his kin. Flavius Magnus Maximus had met his fate after being overtaken by the same weakness of hubris. Would her husband also suffer because he dared to reach too high?