by M. K. Hume
What madness had her husband embarked upon? Would she ever see him again? Did he intend to visit Venta Belgarum before he set off on this grand adventure?
The courier drew a long scroll cylinder out of his saddlebag and presented it to Severa with a low bow. Only the sternest self-discipline prevented the queen from snatching it from his hands, but she managed to behave with some aplomb and thanked the young man.
‘Dilic? Please accompany this gentleman to the guard’s quarters so he can eat and drink his fill. I have no doubts that hard riding and vigilance has earned him a well-deserved rest, so our house shall be his home while he sojourns beneath our roof.’
With a self-satisfied smile, Dilic dragged the courier away, no doubt to discover every detail of his background, as well as seducing him.
Severa drew up a bench seat and sat at one of the long tables. With trembling fingers, she opened the case and pulled out the sealed scroll marked with her husband’s intaglio ring. As the sharp nail on her forefinger broke the seal, she drew in a deep, shuddering breath as if she expected unwelcome news. Her instincts were correct.
To Severa, Queen of the Britons.
My wife
I, Constantine, salute you and thank you for your labours in my absence. But the needs of the British lands and its peoples are more important than the felicity of married life, so we must all be content with what God allows.
My troops have honoured me with the title of Imperator and I have sworn to take their complaints to the very centre of the empire – to Rome itself! The legion languishes with no pay, minimal supplies and inadequate reinforcements, so the legionnaires have lost patience with their absentee masters. Instead they have turned to me.
Cognisant of the great honour conferred on me, I have determined to take ship for Gesoriacum. From there, I will march into Gallia where I will engage the legions of the emperor. I shall not be deflected until I have won better conditions for my men and a promise of protection and safety for these isles. You and I have spoken often about the likelihood that the emperor will recall Rome’s troops at the first signs of trouble, leaving Britannia at the mercy of the invading barbarians who visit our shores every summer. If I am successful, the emperor will agree to protect Britannia’s interests and I will have fulfilled my purpose as High King and earned the trust that has been placed in me by the kings and the common people of our lands.
‘Oh, Constantine, or whatever you’ve come to call yourself. You’re beginning to believe in your own immortality. Where has my handsome, painfully honest protector disappeared to, for I hardly know you?’
For some reason beyond her understanding, the implied thoughts in her husband’s letter seemed quite real when compared with the farrago of nonsense that he had written so easily. Surely, her husband couldn’t believe that he was another Constantine, the great man who ruled the Eastern and Western Empires and founded the great city of Constantinople. Could he?
Severa read on.
I have levied the kings from north of the wall to the Litus Saxonicum and I await these reinforcements at Isca. As well, I have convinced the governor to part with the last legion, men who will accompany me to the continent. If Lady Fortuna is with us, the local troops in Gallia will flock to my standard, as they did for Maximus, for I doubt that the emperor treats his native troops any better than he treats the rest of us. I also expect to be joined by a contingent of Armorican Britons, warriors who will not forget the debt they owe to their homeland.
‘You’re a fool, Constantine,’ she said aloud. ‘Why should the kin and friends of Conanus lift a finger to further your ambitions? You will die! You’ll be far from home, and I’ll be widowed with two young babes.’ Tears filled Severa’s eyes and fell on to the vellum, blurring the writing; then with a very unqueenly blasphemy she continued to read.
Once the army is assembled, I intend to march to Dubris and take ship for the continent. The one gift I can give you is that Venta Belgarum lies in the south so, with a short detour, I look forward to the pleasure of seeing you again. I also yearn to be reunited with my son, Constans, who will assume the role of High King in my absence. I know he is very young and moreover is no kin of yours, but he is wholly Roman by birth. He is a good lad who will obey me in all things and hold my palace safe for me, when I am far away.
I trust him with my most precious possessions – my wife and my infant sons.
You can look for me at the end of spring. I will come. And I will be eager to see you again, although our time together will be short.
Farewell.
Written at Isca, by the hand of Constantine of Britannia
Severa stared at the open scroll as if some secret cypher was buried within it. With Britannia stripped bare of her best warriors, both the British land and the queen were in deadly peril from the Picts in the north and the Hibernians from across the Oceanus Hibernicus. As soon as those fierce enemies learned that the strong arm of the Britons and the men of the legion had left her shores, Britannia would be put to the sword.
How could her husband do this terrible wrong to her and to his people? He was supposed to love her, but hubris had overridden his common sense. At the best, she would become the prize for any ambitious man who hungered for a throne. Once she had been taken, that man need only father a child on her and kill her sons to become the rightful claimant. Who would protect her? Not Constantine! And Constans, only fifteen, could not be trusted to carry out the tasks that would be asked of him, although he was a good and kindly boy.
Outside, the afternoon sun had disappeared and a chill rain was falling.
Leaving the scroll on the table for Constans, Severa made her way to her small bower in the courtyard, when a sudden squall rose and the cold began to cut into her bones. Although winter was nearly over, Severa imagined that she could smell a harsh change in the weather. If so, the young animals born with the onset of warmer weather would be doomed, freezing to death in the fields. Perhaps the young men of Britannia would be doomed too, because of her husband’s hubris.
With a shiver of superstitious dread, Severa saw the first snowflakes begin to fall. Soon, more would come, until Venta Belgarum was encased in a shell of bitter cold.
And the young and the innocent would begin to die.
CHAPTER XIX
Beware the Man Who Smiles and Smiles
I will have this done, so I order it done; let my will replace reasoned judgement.
Juvenal, Latines, Book II, Satire 6
Spring eventually shuffled late into Britannia, dead lambs and calves in its wake. The snow was deep. Many children froze beside dead fires in cottages where the banks of snow blocked the doors, while every piece of furniture had been burned by desperate parents. Again and again Severa heard tales of loss, courage and the fears that fill human hearts when faced with nature’s extremes. In conjunction with Constans, who was rapidly learning the skills that would make him an able king, she presided over the sentences meted out to a grasping opportunist; to another man who had stolen firewood and left whole families to die of exposure; one further miscreant who had killed his neighbour over a flask of wine and an incorrigible poacher who repeatedly stole braces of chickens from widows. The queen was saddened to learn how easily desperation could turn humans into monsters.
Yet she had no hesitation in giving a death sentence to every miscreant, thief and opportunist who appeared before her.
But eventually the winter winds abated and the sunshine began to warm the land once more. The loam was so rich and moist from melted snow that crops seemed to grow in vigorous spurts.
Meanwhile, Ambrosius was learning to run on his sturdy legs and Uther discovered that smiles transformed his frowning face into that of a well-fed, well-loved infant. Severa would have been ecstatic if her husband had been by her side, but the road from the north remained stubbornly empty.
Sev
era despaired. No one, not even the cheerful Dilic, could make her smile.
She feared that he would share the fate of those other fools who had sought the throne of Rome under the guise of healing Britannia’s historic resentments towards the conquerors. Marcus Britannicus and the bland patrician, Gratianus, had both died at the hands of assassins, and both had been born into families of wealth and patronage. But Constantine had come from nothing and nowhere. He would always be Constantinus of the legions to the masters of the Western Empire.
Now, a brief missive that scarcely acknowledged Severa as his wife revealed that he had added another gens to his name by adopting the title of Flavius. In doing so, he was claiming kinship to the family of the emperors. Flavius Claudius Constantine! Did her husband truly believe that the patricians of Rome would consider such blatant lies, if he repeated them often enough? Severa sighed for his naivety and ambition. Had he ever loved her at all, or was she merely the means to an end?
The queen feared she might never see Constantine again but simultaneously she held a more pressing fear that he would simply land, unannounced, on her doorstep. She had learned to think of him by this strange new version of his name, but had also begun to dread his arrival at her door and his entrance to her bed. Strangely, she found that she was unable to relinquish her fond memories of the man she had known during their long trek from Corinium to Tintagel. Would this new, ambitious Constantine still hold any love for her? He was certainly able to live without her at his side; his long absence was proof of that.
Each day she climbed up to the narrow ramparts that overlooked the main gates of Venta Belgarum to stare out along the cobbled road into the north. For the queen, the poorer sections of the shanty-town that lay beyond the city walls seemed refreshed by the spring rains, but she knew that this comparison was deceptive. Every week, she forced herself to enter the fringe village of bawdy houses, shops that sold second-hand or stolen goods and filthy eating-places. Most of the town’s poor lived in these muddy lanes as they struggled to find enough food and firewood to survive. Here she dispensed bread, herbal cures and a pinch of hope. For their part, the inhabitants of the lower town became used to her daily visits to the ramparts at sunrise, so they were happy to wave friendly greetings towards her.
‘She’s pining for her husband,’ one cheerful-faced whore gossiped with a farmer. ‘It’s a pity he should have been away for so long, but that’s the way of things, isn’t it? Men can’t help leaving the women to do the suffering. For all her wealth and power, the poor woman gets little pleasure from her life.’
The farmer snorted with scorn. ‘The queen doesn’t know what it’s like to be poor like us common folk. She’s always had a fine bed and a full belly.’
‘Shut your gob, Colwyn. She’s good to those folk who need her, so keep your opinions to yourself.’
For all her charitable works, there was no one who could share Severa’s daily fears or comfort the disquiet that lay in her heart. Loneliness gripped her.
So, on the morning when she saw a rising drift of dust in the distance, she assumed that a cavalcade of merchants bearing trade goods from Calleva Atrebatum was about to pass through Venta Belgarum while travelling to Britannia’s southern ports, noting idly that this particular train was uncommonly large.
Severa was working on her stitchery when news of Constantine’s arrival finally reached her. She was surprised when her steward entered the room at a run. ‘You must come quickly, Highness! The master is here, and he’s entering the lower town as we speak with a huge army behind him.’
‘What is this nonsense, Jerome?’ Severa replied in a stern voice. ‘How can you tell that the master is here?’
The servant was virtually dancing on the spot with excitement as he tried to convince the queen that the High King had indeed finally returned.
‘I speak truthfully, Highness! The master rides under the banner of the Roman dragon and he is astride his favourite white horse. He was too far distant to see his face, but I couldn’t miss that showy steed.’
Severa felt her heart lurch. ‘You say that he’s entering the lower town? Hurry then, Dilic, for I must change my gown and you must ensure that the children are sweet and clean.’
She turned back to face Jerome. ‘Has Constans been told?’
‘Aye, mistress,’ Jerome replied breathlessly.
‘It’s near enough to noon so the master will be hungry. Warn the cooks that they will be expected to prepare food for a large number of guests and fetch the best Spanish wines from the cellars. And arrange for a large supply of beer too.’
Jerome bowed and ran off at a pace not normally expected from an ancient and stately steward.
In a quiet panic, Severa hurried to her apartment where she snapped out orders to her ladies. Once she was safely behind closed doors, she started to put her appearance to rights. A little of the precious nard that had come from the far side of the Middle Sea was rubbed into her hair and her arms as she settled into a robe of yellow silk which she knew looked well, and hastily pushed felt slippers on to her feet as one of the ladies attempted to neaten her plaits, but Jerome had already reappeared at the door of the apartment.
‘My hair will have to do as it is. Dilic, where are the children?’
‘Both here, mistress,’ Dilic answered with a breathless gasp. They had red, freshly-scrubbed faces, and were dressed now in their best clothing. Both were mulish and in fact, a little frightened.
‘Your father has come home, darling boy,’ Severa told Ambrosius. ‘The king has arrived to see his little princes.’
Ambrosius had no memory of his father; his lips trembled at the prospect of a strange man entering his world. Uther seemed aware of her emotions, as if he was desperate to discover what had upset her. Something protective and fierce lurked behind those pale-amber eyes, making her heart lurch. She pushed her fears away.
‘Come, my darlings, your da will be waiting impatiently to see you.’
The homely words steadied Ambrosius’s nervousness, but he still gripped her hand with all his strength. Matching her steps to his, Severa sailed down the corridor with a serenity that was wholly feigned.
The hall was already a heaving mass of humanity.
The most prominent half-dozen of Venta Belgarum’s citizenry, Constantine’s officers and several massive fighting hounds from Cymru had assembled on the forecourt of the High King’s palace and, from there, had been admitted to the hall in a milling, noisy tide. These notables had been joined by a cluster of Roman and British officers who had remained in Venta Belgarum to assist Severa and Constans with the day-to-day business of administering the kingdom during the king’s absence. Dozens of servants attempted to keep them supplied with food and mugs of alcohol.
A tall figure was standing on the small dais at the centre of this chaos, apart from the joviality that swirled below him. He was holding the king’s gold cup in one slender hand. The man’s face was turned away from her, but Severa knew that the owner of that midnight-black hair was her husband. She had run her fingers through those short locks in the darkest hours of the night and had worshipped that lean, hard body with her own. Her fingers knew every muscle and remembered every blemish and scar. Constantine had returned.
Drawing a deep breath, she entered the hall in company with the two princes, as Jerome beat his staff on the wooden floor to bring the throng to silence.
‘Gentlemen, the queen,’ he announced in his loudest voice.
The hubbub from the gathering stopped almost immediately. Some of the men turned and stared, but most bowed their heads respectfully as she passed.
Many of the audience had never met Severa, so they stared avidly at the slight, upright figure that was a picture of elegance in the silk dress that showed off her porcelain skin and her remarkable golden hair.
Constantine’s allies gazed on his wife and consid
ered him to be a fortunate man.
Yet Severa would have loved to turn on her heels and run from those many judging eyes; she felt like a swan traversing dangerous stretches of water where the frantic actions of her webbed feet below the surface contrasted with the serene appearance of her head and body. With supreme composure, she strolled to the dais and the man who turned to face her.
Without looking directly at Constantine, she sank into a deep obeisance. Her greeting was accompanied by deep bows from Ambrosius, her maid and the babe’s wet-nurse. The only discord came from little Uther, who stared at his father with cold animal eyes. The king stared back at his son and a strange recognition of kinship passed between man and infant.
Then Severa lifted her head.
‘Constantine!’
She said his new name with finality as she forced a sweet smile on to her face. This man who stood before her and leaned over to kiss her hand wasn’t her Constantinus, although both men had similarities. Where was the humour that usually lurked behind his quirky black brows? Where was the longing in the full lower lip? And where was the need in those dark eyes?
No, this would never again be her Constantinus. She loved him still, but her passion was a habit of long standing and she knew her affection was fragile.
Attentively, he took Severa’s hand and helped her to mount the dais so that she could be seated on the elaborate chair she was accustomed to using as queen during his absences. The babe’s wet-nurse handed Uther to her mistress and Ambrosius wrapped himself protectively around her legs. The little boy’s eyes were full of shadows.
‘I’ve missed you, sire,’ Severa lied, before dropping her traitor’s eyes to her youngest son. ‘Here is your third son, Uther, who has been waiting to meet with you.’
Pale eyes and dark eyes duelled again and the king lifted the infant into the air to present him to the crowd. Unafraid, the child gazed at the throng as if they were hardly human.
‘This babe is Uther. He is my third-born, and is a fine young son.’
