The King's Cavalry

by Paul Bannister

  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, (monogram of the cross) or third century tau-rho cross of a Christian, the earliest ‘sign of the Lord’ found in Wales and one of only a dozen found in Britain. (Early Christians used this cross as their symbol, the current crucifix cross being regarded as a shameful symbol of punishment.)

  The man memorialised in that cairn 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 the 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.’

  Not Forgotten

  This book and the others in the series (Arthur Britannicus, Arthur Imperator and Arthur Invictus) owe their existence to the skilled, professional staff of Endeavour Press, London, to editors Matt Lynn and Richard Foreman and especially to the publisher at the spearhead of it all, Amy Durant.

  I am also indebted for the maps in this and previous works to my friend the West Country and Hollywood artist Kelvin Jones, who produced the meticulous cartography in this series of books. I also owe great gratitude to my publishing professional, daughter Rachel Williams for her vital input, and to my daughter Claire Bannister for legal guidance as clear as her name implies.

  Most of all is the debt I owe to my wife Jennie, maligned as the model for the pagan witch Guinevia. It was easy to write about her in the role, as all I had to do was reverse some of her gentle, caring characteristics. No emperor, Roman or British, could have greater treasure than such a spouse.

  Paul Bannister

  Oregon, 2014.

  Map of Ancient Britain

  Map of Gaul

  If you enjoyed The King’s Cavalry by Paul Bannister you might be interested in Wolves of Rome by Christopher Lee Buckner, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Wolves of Rome by Christopher Lee Buckner

  Chapter One

  “Blood, Mago – I want blood on my sword!” Hannibal yelled as he turned to face his younger brother, Mago Barca. “Yet my blade remains sheathed in its scabbard, unstained!” His mood had been bad for the past several weeks. The siege was not going well. It was made worse by the fact that his men’s nerves seemed to be wavering with each day the city of Saguntum held – now over eight months. With each week that went by came the increasing threat that Saguntum’s greatest ally, Rome, might send its legions from Italy to Spain in defence of its treaty.

  Hannibal wanted war with Rome. However, he must take Saguntum and its storehouses if his army was going to make the crossing over the Alps. More importantly, he needed the support of the nearby Gallic tribes, who watched eagerly for Hannibal’s success or failure. If he won the siege than they – tens of thousands of fearsome barbarian tribesmen – would flock to his cause. His Spanish and Carthaginian forces would swarm like a locust horde. But, if Hannibal failed to take Saguntum, his allies, seeing weakness in his resolve, might turn against him to challenge his stronghold in Spain, and New Carthage might fall. If that happened how long would it be before Rome followed and took what remained of the new territories in Spain or even attacked the homeland?

  “The town elders are weakened from starvation and thirst, brother. I doubt they could hold a week longer. By then we might be able to present terms for their surrender.” Mago knew his brother too well to know that nothing but absolute victory would satisfy his craving.

  “Terms?!” Hannibal rebuked. “I want those walls! I want the city fathers’ heads on spikes for their defiance! I want the grain and our men want the women and booty that await them in Saguntum!”

  Hannibal stared at his brother for a long while, not angrily, but in concentration as his mind was drawing up a plan of action. It was in these moments of crisis that Hannibal knew he was at his best – when his back was up against the wall that his desperation gave birth to his greatest and most daring plans. His father Hamilcar, who had never lost a battle against Rome during the war in Sicily a generation ago, had taught him never to run from a superior foe: It is only when faced with a rival who is larger, meaner and stronger than yourself that you truly understand your own worth, he would say around the campfire.

  “Get your men ready to storm the gates when I give the signal,” Hannibal ordered, finally breaking the long silence as he leapt down from his horse and pushed his way through the gathering soldiers. Mago looked around, noticing the prying eyes of dozens of men who had overheard the whole conversation. Smiling wide, he drew his sword and held it up over the front of his horse.

  “Well, do you want this city or not!” Mago cried as loud as he could. His men roared as they lifted their assorted blades to the sky, thrashing iron against their shields and bellowing in murderous expectation. Saguntum was going to fall, and everyone and everything in the city would be theirs for the taking.

  *

  Gisgo hadn’t time to scream before an arrow plunged into his right eye socket. He had done his duty as one of Hannibal’s bodyguards – giving his life so his master may survive. Hannibal liked and respected the big Numidian who had first served with his father decades earlier. He had three sons b
ack in Carthage and a dozen more bastard children here in Spain. Hannibal vowed that he would tell Gisgo’s story, about how he had died bravely in battle, even if the veteran never saw the man that took his life.

  “Keep moving forward you dogs!” Hannibal barked as he urged the torrent of men all around him to push against the onslaught of arrows, slingshots and rocks being hurled from the stone walls. Hundreds were wounded, bleeding on the ground, trampled by their comrades who refused to waver behind Hannibal’s urging. Hannibal was determined that even if he had to tear down Saguntum’s walls with his fingernails, stone-by-stone, he would succeed. To fail would mean certain death, either by his supporters here in Spain, or back home in Carthage where generals who failed in the field were often crucified outside the city walls.

  Finally the first set of ladders rose to the rim of the stone ramparts. Archers from the ground did their best to ensure they stayed in place as men made ready to scale them.

  Gripping one hand tightly around the base of a ladder, his shield held firmly above his head with the other, Hannibal turned to his army and cried out, “Follow me to glory! Saguntum shall be ours! The wine, the gold, and the women are ours for the taking!” His men bellowed with excitement as Hannibal pulled himself up the ladder, quickly followed by dozens more men across the length of the southern wall.

  The defenders held fast as they threw down a volley of arrows and stones. Men’s heads caved in and bodies crumpled, but still they climbed with madding determination, following Hannibal as he reached the top. Hannibal was unaware of those behind him. He had heard over the deafening roar some of those below him falling to their doom as their bodies were crushed by tumbling stones and well-aimed slingshots. Regardless, he pressed forward and locked his sight on the first man – a boy really – that came within range of his sword.

  Hannibal was no stranger to killing. He had been trained to use a sword the moment he dropped his rattle and had taken his first life when he was eleven years old. He was a Barca – the famed and feared family of Carthaginian warriors who knew nothing of defeat or dishonour. As the oldest son of Hamilcar – a man who struck terror in the hearts of the Romans during the last war with the Republic for the control of Sicily – a great deal was expected of Hannibal. He was groomed from boyhood, like the kings of Sparta or Macedonia, to take up his father’s mantle and carry out his dream of a Mediterranean world dominated by Carthage, and not the upstart city-state of Rome. So far, there had been one setback already with Carthage’s capitulation during the last war: after the Mercenary Wars Carthage realized it could not pay the armies it had used to fight Rome, leading the men to turn in rebellion against their motherland. Hannibal was determined to restore his beloved city’s status in the world – he would elevate it to its rightful position, no matter what the cost.

  To think, Hannibal’s father used to say, that Carthage was responsible for Rome’s existence. If it weren’t for our help, they would never have overthrown their old kings. Now look what they’ve done to our great nation. We are but a shadow of our former glory. You, Hannibal, you and your brothers, will reclaim Carthage’s honour and restore our rightful place at the head of Mediterranean – as it should be. Those words had echoed through Hannibal’s memory since he was a boy, resonating with him more so now than ever before. But he was not just acting on behalf of his father’s memory, or for Carthaginian domination, but for himself as well. If he could do what kings and warlords, barbarians and Greeks could not do before – topple the Roman Republic – he would be a god made flesh, forever immortalized as one of the greatest generals of all time, maybe superior even to his own idol, Alexander the Great.

  The man whom Hannibal sighted – a boy no more than fourteen – manned the fortress, holding a bow in his hand and drawing arrow after arrow. He never saw Hannibal coming. He was so focused on his duty that he only stopped firing when Hannibal’s sword ripped through the soft flesh of his neck in one effortless motion.

  The second man whom Hannibal sighted was another archer, older by a decade, who only just managed to glimpse his enemy before Hannibal drew his sword in a violent horizontal arch, and sliced across the man’s face. The right eye socket exploded with gore as the eyeball ruptured while the impossibly sharp iron blade tore through flesh. The man screamed in pain, clutching his face as he stumbled forward. His cries were silenced as he plunged over the edge of the wall and fell onto the group of densely packed Spanish and Carthaginian soldiers down below.

  Hannibal moved with blinding speed as he attacked his third enemy. By now the walls were choked with dying men, as more of Hannibal’s soldiers had joined him, fighting up and down the length of the narrow walkway that was set between two forty-foot stone towers.

  A spear shot in a high arch towards Hannibal’s head, but he managed to raise his shield just in time to parry the blow away. Striking low, Hannibal countered the attack by jabbing his sword into his opponent’s right knee. Blood and bone jetted out from the wide wound as the man bellowed in agony before Hannibal rose back to his feet and rammed his shield as hard as he could against the man’s broad chest.

  As the defender fell to the ground, Hannibal stood over the dying man and rammed the bottom of his shield into his mouth, shattering teeth as the layers of wood sliced all the way through the man’s cheeks, nearly cleaving his head in two.

  Hannibal winced in pain as a sword slashed across his exposed flank, cutting deep in the flat of his back. Already he could feel his blood gushing out, but thankfully his chainmail armour had protected him from most of the damage.

  Turning sharply, Hannibal drove his sword into the man’s face. His sword lodged fast at the back of his skull for a moment, causing Hannibal a great deal of difficulty in trying to pry his weapon free. It was then that he heard the pounding footsteps of several heavily armed men rushing behind him. He glanced back for a moment and saw infantry charging up a set of stone steps, hoping they could repel the attackers before the walls fell.

  Hannibal was trapped. He was forced to stop his attempts to retake his sword from the man he had killed and instead turned to face the charging infantry. Raising his shield while holding it firmly against his shoulder, Hannibal screamed a battle cry before he charged. He threw all two-hundred and thirty pounds of weight plus armour against the infantry, driving his shield into the first man, who gasped as air was knocked out from his lungs on impact. Hannibal cursed under his breath as he was cut once, twice, and then again across the arm and legs – not deep enough to slow him down, but painful enough to sap what strength he had left.

  With one final burst of energy Hannibal bellowed a murderous roar and pushed against his shield, throwing the dozen men who stood against him back, but in the process he lost hold of his only defence as it was stripped from his grip and cast aside.

  Hannibal, his head dripping with crimson blood, bared his teeth as he raised his fists. He would not fall easily he vowed, but as he drew himself up to face his foe, the first foot soldier was struck dead-centre by a well-aimed spear throw.

  The soldier staggered back into his comrades as many more spears thrown from behind Hannibal easily found their mark.

  Hannibal turned and saw his bodyguards and Carthaginian soldiers rushing towards him, crying out, “Save Hannibal! Defend the General!”

  Ordax, one of Hannibal’s Spanish-born bodyguards, handed him a new sword as the remaining groups of infantry and archers on the wall were easily dealt with. Soon after the only men on the south wall were Hannibal’s, and they raised their weapons to the sky and roared his name in one thunderous body, “HANNIBAL! HANNIBAL! HANNIBAL!”

  “Do you want this city?!” Hannibal bellowed joyfully.

  “Yes!” they roared.

  “Then open the gates and take what is rightfully ours!”

  Hannibal, with his bodyguards and a dozen other men, charged down the stone steps. Most of Saguntum’s defenders were in a blind panic running for their lives once they realized the walls had fallen. A few officers,
however, tried to form a phalanx and repel the invaders, but their efforts were not enough as Hannibal charged forward, his destination the southern gatehouse.

  Most of the men Hannibal cut down as they turned and fled, dropping their swords or spears, and even more foolish, their shields. Those that stood their ground died just as easily. As brave as these men might have been, they weren’t warriors. The wealth that poured into Saguntum made its people fat and lazy, much like the Romans. If this had been a Gallic stronghold Hannibal knew he would have had to fight tooth and nail to claim his victory.

  Hannibal’s eyes opened wide with surprise and a small smile cracked in the corner of his mouth as he spotted a well-dressed, well armoured officer he knew by the name of Ballista. Ballista had marshalled Saguntum’s defence over the past eight months but what made this captain of the guard valuable beyond his rank was that he was also a Roman soldier, sent by his Senate when Saguntum declared its loyalty to the Republic some years ago. The man had been a constant annoyance to Hannibal as he had represented the city elders during the various negotiations. Stubbornly, Ballista had been confident in his defiance’s, which had now collapsed all around him.

  “Hannibal, you shit-eating dog, face me yourself, if you have the courage!” Ballista sneered with bitterness as he held his ground; sword and shield at the ready with a dozen trusted men standing before the gatehouse, each refusing to leave.

  Hannibal grinned, “Finally, a Roman,” he said under his breath. “The Roman is mine! Slaughter the rest,” he demanded as his men roared their excitement before they charged in a mad rage towards the waiting defenders.

  Ballista squared himself as Hannibal neared him, but did not move to attack. Hannibal could see from the man’s age and various scars that the Roman was seasoned from many battles hard fought and won. A worthy adversary, or so Hannibal hoped.