by Scott Hurst
Severus was clearly struggling with Max’s public defiance, trying to work out through the haze of alcohol how to respond. The crowd hushed and Max forced himself to continue. ‘We do not yet know for certain that Lord Guidolin is behind the slave’s death. And should we not first search for the girls? They may be hurt or lost.’
Severus stared at him and Max tensed, waiting for his father’s response, knowing that he might have already destroyed any hope of peace between them.
Calista grabbed Dye’s arm, whispering fiercely. ‘Dionysius, trust me now if you have ever trusted me.’ She pushed her husband to the centre of the room. ‘Noble friends,’ she declared, ‘Ever since welcoming his new priest, Lupicinius, into his tribe Guidolin has trying our patience, causing trouble all along our border.’
Who was this Lupicinius? He’d been away too long. Max felt the frustration of needing to know more. His own people…he should never have left them.
‘A poisoned well, sheep slaughtered…and now one of our own murdered. Yet Maximus urges caution.’ Calista turned on him. ‘We had hoped for more in your return. Is that all you have to offer the tribe? Where is your passion, your warrior blood?’
The gathering roared its approval. Clearly Calista knew how to manipulate a crowd as well as she knew how to manipulate men. His anger at her made Max’s tongue leaden. ‘These are matters for the magistrate,’ he managed.
Calista was scathing. ‘Still looking to Rome for justice, Maximus? If they can’t stop the Saxons raiding our coastline, they’re unlikely to bother with a Catuvellaunian slave.’ She turned back to the gathering. ‘If the Dobunni want a battle, we’ll give them one.’ There were cheers from the crowd. New shouts went up, calls for reprisals. There was a sinister atmosphere building, one Maximus hardly recognized. What was happening here?
Rhoswen was whispering in her husband’s ear. Sober he might have listened to her, but drunk his anger won. Pushing her from him he re-found his voice. It boomed out over the crowd. ‘What are you waiting for, my sons? Now is your chance to show me who should be heir!’
So there it was. His father had issued his challenge, before the whole tribe. Allectus’s songs of triumph still hung in the air. Was this his chance to be a hero like them? Something held him back. Somewhere in the room a voice began chanting, ‘Death to the Dobunni!’ Another voice took up the chant and another.
Suddenly Max heard another voice, rising above them. The voice of Paulinus. ‘Catuvellauni, beware! Unsheath your swords now and there is no telling where it will lead. How many of our young men will be dead before it’s over?’ The old monk had their attention. ‘This is a time for caution. There is more at stake here than tribal differences. That young fool Constantine who calls himself our new Emperor…’ At this a roar went up. This was treason. Men had been killed for less. Voices tried to quiet the old monk, but Paulinus pressed on. ‘Constantine promises he will tackle the Saxons once he has seized the imperial throne in Rome. Severus, you believe that if you help him seize power you will win influence. Do not be misled. Rome is weak, yes, but even if Constantine can take it, he will spill our blood to defeat Honorius then abandon this island entirely. He’ll strip us of our last defences against the Saxons to maintain control. This country will descend into chaos. Max is right – we must think of the future, not follow the bloodlust of the moment.’
There were mutterings of agreement until Calista stepped into the centre of the gathering once more. ‘Paulinus has made my point for me. Rome’s power is weakening by the day. Already barbarians rampage unhindered across Gaul. Saxon scum rule our seas. When Rome goes, who will rule this land? The sword alone will decide. All the more reason to punish the Dobunni! Let the other tribes tremble before our strength!’
Many of the onlookers were silent, undecided. The loudest were the nobles gathered around Calista. Was this the faction Salvius had spoken of; Calista’s supporters? There was something afoot here. Who made up this group? It seemed as though she had most of the aristocracy around her. Fortified, Calista spoke with surety. ‘Right now Guidolin will be calling his priest Lupicinius for omens. Let them inspects the livers of their animal sacrifices whilst our men take a battering ram to their gates.’ Calista was staring at him now, those strange eyes full of challenge. ‘I would have thought Maximus eager to demonstrate his manhood to the tribe,’ she goaded, laughing to the crowd. ‘For shame, Maximus. I despise your apathy. Perhaps you should be re-named Minimus,’ she crooked her little finger, ‘instead of Maximus.’ The crowd gasped at her audacity. Max burned with embarrassment.
Severus’ firm voice carried over the room, making the decision for him. ‘We will arm the militia. You, Max, will lead the raid. Anyone who has weapons can join us.’
Max’s thoughts tumbled like dice. If he gave in to his father now, to cement their fragile relationship, he might win his father’s respect, but he would lose his own. He was about to risk all, but his days of being dictated to were over. ‘Father, I will not. I warn you now. Your rashness will cost our tribe too much.’ He felt a gasp run through the crowd, but he could also hear murmurings of support.
A vein throbbed in Severus’s temple, a danger sign Max recognized. He expected the older man to scream at him, but instead Severus’ voice was low and venomous. ‘We have already lost land to the ordo; I will not have what is left us taken from me. Are you such a coward, Maximus? Have you no heart for it?’
Max clenched his arm to his side, fighting to control his fury. His voice was remarkably calm. ‘I am no coward, father. I merely ask that you allow me to search for the girls first.’
When his father’s response came, Severus’s control was gone. His voice was almost a scream. ‘Let the earth open up and swallow me in my humiliation!’ His next strike came lower still. ‘Caratacus would have fought to the last drop of his blood.’ Rhoswen moved to his side but still his father baited him, his speech slurring now. ‘Maximus of the Catuvellauni, I want your solemn vow that you will avenge us.’
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackle of wood burning in the brazier. Calista seized her opportunity. Turning to Dye she whispered fiercely. ‘Now is your chance to best Maximus once and for all! You are the future Lord of the Catuvellauni. Show it now! Raise your arm against Guidolin!’
There was a metallic hiss as Dye plucked an old sword from the wall where it had hung as long as Max could remember. He circled the heavy weapon around his head. ‘I, Dionysius, swear by the holy bones of St. Alban that I am ready to spill my blood for the sake of the tribe. Let my sword not return to its sheath till its work is done.’
Rhoswen’s voice was heard now. ‘Dye, do not insult the holy martyr and sit down. You’re drunk.’ She reached out a loving hand to Severus. ‘Listen to your elder son. You both have the same desire at heart – the good of the Catuvellauni.’
Severus collapsed onto his solium. His next words came through gritted teeth. ‘A Catuvellaunian butchered and he refuses to avenge us!’ He started whimpering drunkenly to himself. ‘The old tree withers. Where is the new life?’ Felix and Aurelianus moved forward as Rhoswen whispered to them, ‘Take your master to his bed.’ Turning to the crowd, her gentle voice was quiet. ‘Catuvellauni, I beg you go to your houses peacefully now. A great wrong has been done us and a good man is dead. But let there be no more violence tonight. The morning will bring new light and fresher heads. Time enough then to talk of punishing the Dobunni.’
People began moving off. Voices were muttering still and despite Rhoswen’s calming words a scuffle broke out between two members of the council, men Max had always thought of as friends. Max stared around the room, sensing the deep divisions. Fear for the future had split the tribe. He had better get to the bottom of this, and quickly.
He found Paulinus at his side. The monk was calm. ‘You did well, Maximus.’
About to respond, a commotion across the room caught his attention. Where Calista’s faction had gathered two men had someone cornered against a wall, a
woman. Max glimpsed her face briefly, framed between them – Sabrina. One of the men, a boorish cousin of Calista’s named Otho, was pawing at her. Across the room Max caught the words, ‘Dobunnic witch’. Now he lunged at Sabrina, tearing at her dress.
Max didn’t wait for Salvius or Decentius, who were already making their way through the crowd to help him. Instead he walked towards the trio, picking up a bronze lamp holder on his way. As he reached them, Otho was salivating over Sabrina. ‘Let’s see if we can’t send you home with a Catuvellaunian baby. ’ With one flowing movement Max swung the lamp holder at Otho’s head, catching him a glancing blow. ‘Sorry about that. Crowded room.’
Recognizing his leader’s son Otho backed off, clutching his head. Max elbowed the other man out of the way, dragging Sabrina into the now abandoned main room. To his astonishment she struggled in his arms, fighting to get free. Sweeping one strong arm under her knees he carried her to safety. Still she kicked and fought. Dumping her on the floor of the main room he stared at her, exasperated. Instead of gratitude he received a sharp kick on his shin. Finally Sabrina tore herself from his grasp, reaching out to grab a knife from the table. ‘What, would you take me yourself, you scum?’
What was wrong with her? She was like a trapped animal. She looked so vulnerable, her beautiful eyes wide with terror. Mystified, but infuriated, he held his arms wide. ‘For the Virgin’s sake, Sabrina, it’s me, Max. I mean you no harm – they’d have torn you to pieces out there without protection. Put the knife down! We need to get grandfather and you out of here.’
It was as if she was shaking herself from a dream. Quietly, unable to meet his eye, she put the knife back on the table.
‘Stay here till I fetch grandfather.’ To his relief Salvius, with his usual foresight, was already a step ahead of him. ‘Your grandfather is already in a carriage waiting out front. I’ll escort them back to Corinium.’
For a moment Sabrina seemed in two minds. Surely she wouldn’t try to leave on her own? Who knew what the crowd was capable of? Long seconds passed till, with a toss of her head, Sabrina acquiesced. Turning to follow Salvius and Decentius, she looked back at him, blue eyes challenging. ‘You defied your own father, Maximus. Makes me wonder, where do your loyalties really lie? You’re half-Dobunnic, after all.’
Max pushed down his irritation at her. ‘Half Dobunnic, but not double-minded, Lady Sabrina. I’m Catuvellaunian through and through. Go home. Tell Lord Guidolin we seek parlay with him. We need to settle this border dispute once and for all. An innocent Catuvellaunian has been slaughtered.’
She looked up at him fiercely. ‘I’ll see Guidolin gets your message. But for your information there are plenty of Dobunni who don’t like that bastard any more than you do.’
Max would have asked her to explain, but Salvius was already urging her through the doorway. Within seconds he and Decentius had spirited her away.
*****
Lupicinius scanned the night sky for the beauty of the Bear. Its sacred pattern shone above him, connecting him to its power.
When the world had seemed dark and confused, the Bear had led him to this place. He had been seeking a place of sanctuary. Here, in the hills and high places, far from the clamourings of the tribe at Guidolin’s fortress. The Dobunni had given him rights as their priest – the giving of judgment, the dispensing of justice. But when the weather continued cold and wet and the crops failed for a second year, they had begun to turn on him. As priest it was his duty to keep the tribe safe – and in that duty he was failing.
Lord Guidolin was losing patience with him. And that was dangerous.
Lupicinius gathered his dark hood more closely to him. Walking up the steep, green hill, weak from the extremes of his fasting, he murmured his incantations. ‘Great Queen, Mistress of the Singing Birds, whisper the way. Goddess of Change, inspire me.’ The Shadow was on him and he was exhausted from fighting its voice, which whispered he was mad. Crossing himself he muttered prayers to the Christian God, the God of his childhood, the God he feared most. ‘Libera me’. Free me, God.
Fear gripped him – fear of banishment. He knew what it was to lose the protection of his brothers, to be put out, exposed to the mercy of other tribes. He had been banished once before – by Paulinus and his secret Guild – and barely survived it. To be banished was a kind of death. Anger rose up in the priest, all consuming. Just when he thought the Shadow was about to tip him over the edge, high in the trees he saw first one skull, then the next. A Dobunni ghost fence, a line of skulls erected to ward off evil. The skulls showed him the path to follow. This had all been Dobunni land, once. The Catuvellauni had no inkling what treasure lay hidden there.
Finally, seeing the cave entrance, his fevered mind was soothed. The hour was right – midnight, the sacred time between times. Spirit might welcome him now.
Slipping once more between the columns of rock that hid the entrance, he walked forward silently. To the Dobunni caves symbolised darkness, death, the inner world. They feared them, much as they would fear death. But this was different. Lupicinius was almost overcome by the Presence in the place. The Spirit was strong.
He entered, lighting the small lamp he had brought with him, placing it a narrow shelf of rock. The small cavern was full of power. Bowing to the presence of the Deity, he moved a few paces and gazed once more at the grave goods, fascinated. The first time he had seen them, emaciated and fevered, he had thought he was hallucinating.
There in a chalk pit lay bones, artfully arranged. The bones of a great bear.
The bones had been buried by their ancestors, Dobunni men who believed in Artur, the ancient god who bore the bear’s name from their old word for that sacred beast, Arth. Surely the god Artur himself had led him to these treasures - the drinking horn, bronze pins and jewellery, amphorae, that strange bronze figure of the woman feeding a beast. Burial goods for a bear, as though for a man of the highest status. Tributes to Artur, to the power of the bear itself.
If he, Lupicinius, had the bear’s strength, its wisdom, its cunning, anything would be possible. The bear would give him the power he needed.
By the grave lay a necklace, made up of the canine teeth, drilled to receive a cord. It would have been worn by those in need of protection. The Dobunni needed that protection now. Lupicinius pulled the necklace over his head. It felt strong on his chest. Kneeling he put his hands in the pit. He had no fear now. The god Artur lay there, in form of the Bear. Artur, who had led him there, would protect him now. The bear’s very bones twisted in his hands. He felt their sharp, jagged shapes. He gripped them so tightly the bones twisted and spiked until they would have ripped his flesh. He longed to be part of them.
How to extract the power he sensed in them? He bowed his head. ‘Show me, Artur, how to use them.’ The urge to become part of the Knowing, to connect the physical world with the mysterious world of Spirit almost undid him.
He heard whimpering. Angrily Lupicinius rose from the burial pit to turn in the direction of the sound. Raising the lamp he saw the faces of the young women tethered there, bound by their feet by leather straps. They didn’t look so pretty now, those fat Catuvellauni virgins, whimpering and mewling in their pen. Taking them would have pacified Artur, atoned for his sins of omission – for now. Their wicker cage was three paces wide but narrow. The only light that fell in it was a natural chimney cut into the rock, allowing a shaft of light – and rain – to enter. There was no bed, no mats on the floor. Already, after only one day, they were filthy, their faces grimed and streaked with tears.
At his approach they drew back. One, the plainest, dared look at him. He pushed his arm between the bars and grabbed her hair, yanking her head down roughly. ‘Not another sound or it will be the worse for you.’ The blonde one pulled her back, placing her hand over the girl’s mouth in warning. Not entirely witless, then. Shoving his hand in his sacking cloth he wore like a bag over his shoulder, he drew out bread and threw it through the bars. They fell on it like a pack of dogs.
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br /> How disgusting they were in their lack of control. How many days was it since he had eaten? He had lost count. Watching them, he could feel his heart pounding, feel his light-headedness. Spirit was a hard master. Turning away, he muttered his prayers. ‘Blessed be the pain. Sanctified be the hunger." How beautiful it was not to be persecuted by the demands of the body. To obey not its impulses, but the will of God. He felt the weakness of his muscles. Felt his heartbeat, irregular, slow. Perhaps he had mortified himself enough. Perhaps now Spirit would accept him as a channel.
In the corner the bearskin lay where he had left it, complete with skull and claws, the fur skinned with great skill. He lifted it and raised the skull over his head. It felt hard on his own skull, scratching at his skin, still surprising him by its lightness. It fit perfectly, as though made for him. Gratitude flooded him once more. The power of the ages was in this pelt. He tilted the skull upwards, careful of the sharp teeth, until they formed a V over his eyes, and then pulled the arms of the bearskin over his chest, in front of him. He felt the caress of the bear, and of the god Artur, whose spirit inhabited it.
The head was the seat of the soul. The bear cult that had buried these bones would have used this very headdress to reach the spirit world.
He sat down. The terrified girls had heeded his warning. There were no distractions. Bending he drew a circle around himself in the earth, and blessed it. What would Spirit show him? Shades rose up in him, shadows of delight and of fear. There it was again - the Shadow of his own insanity. Terrified, he reaching into his pouch and removed a handful of dried mistletoe. He weighed it in his hand – the risk of poisoning was great. Not too much – he did not want to lose control of his bowels. Just enough to make this painful world sublime.
He felt it like a primal urge, this need to discard himself, this longing to transcend his present form. Waiting, hoping, he sensed them all present there, the God of Light who had come in human form, the Christ. But also the God of darkness and chaos, who sent monstrous, malformed spirits. Sensed too his own dark power. He needed an ally. ‘Macha, goddess of cunning, death, of force, war. Protectoress. Be with me now in my struggle. Crow, Queen of Phantoms, Mother of Life’. Macha was the shapeshifter, goddess of magic, of war, of revenge. The god he prayed to when the power of the Christ was too weak.
