by Scott Hurst
‘Sabrina.’ Guidolin breathed the word but Lupicinius’s sharp hearing heard it. And his sharp eyes caught the lust in Guidolin’s.
In an instant Lupicinius had it. That proud bitch was the secret to it all. Sabrina was named after their river goddess. The river that was flooding for the second year in a row. His own mind flooded with gratitude – only Artur could have given him this gift, just when he needed it. ‘This statue was my real gift, Guidolin. It is to become your wedding gift – to the Lady Sabrina. In honour of your sacred marriage contract, a union of the power of the river to the force of the bear. Think how the tribe would follow that union.’ All that remained was to persuade Sabrina.
Guidolin was quiet, thinking. Sabrina. She was like the river she was named for – dangerous, beguiling, untamed. He thought again of that drop of blood. He would enjoy taming her. Guidolin fingered the fur pelt. The Bear, Lord of the Animals, was different from all other beasts. Some of the old folk still thought of them as a humans, clad in bear skin. Wearing the pelt alone would raise his status. Would the people believe Lupicinius if he pronounced him the manifestation of Artur, the coming alive of his neglected power? Power he could make his own.
What matter if it were real or imagined? Even a false tribute could be used to lever loyalty. A new beginning, with the priest’s blessing, one that would inspire allegiance. Above all, more power meant more chance of removing that thorn from his flesh – Maximus. The bastard had escaped justice until now. Perhaps this was the answer.
Lupicinius watched in horror as Guidolin raised the bearskin over his head. The great jaws fit over his skull – just. Guidolin turned to his henchmen to be admired. What was needed now was a ritual, to mark the rise in his authority. ‘Call for a new ceremony, a tribute to the old god, Artur. Tell them God has asked us to revive the tradition.’
Lupicinius bowed, the better to hide his anguish. Artur had intended that power for him. Guidolin had stolen his only means of authority, of command.
The Shadow whispered comfort.
He should trap his own bear. There was one in the woods out there. He had seen the tracks.
All was not lost.
*****
Max dismounted by the door of the family home. The only comfort he had for the girls’ family was that the search would continue, and any news would be reported to him. Now it was time to face his father again.
All day long he’d thought of the anger in his father’s eyes. Longingly he looked at Zephyr. What he wouldn’t give to ride out the gate again. Up north all he’d wanted was get back home. Now all he craved was the peace of Paulinus’s haven. Maybe the old monk had the right idea. Life would be so much simpler if he took holy orders. An image rose in his mind’s eye of Sabrina, cheeks flushed as he pulled her to him. He sighed. He’d never make a monk. Why was she suddenly in his thoughts? Women troubles were the last thing he needed right now. And since his last memory was of her waving a knife at him whilst she lectured him on Catuvellaunian arrogance, he wasn’t sure why she was in his thoughts at all. He needed a woman, not some wild-eyed fanatic.
A shadow passed overhead and a white deposit fell on the gravel at his feet, spattering his boots. He smiled wryly. Jesu, even the birds were unloading on him. Muttering a quick prayer that God would make Severus see sense he set off to find him. He badly needed to make peace with the old man.
Severus’s room was dark but he could see the shape of his body under his bedcovers. Max approached cautiously. ‘Father?’
The shape stirred gently. The weary, old eyes opened, focused. ‘My son.’ There was hope on his father’s face. ‘How did the search go? Did you find them?’
Max shook his head gently. ‘They’ve been abducted.’
‘Dobunni?’
Max shrugged. ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps Bagaudae.’ Reluctantly he showed the old man the talisman, knowing what was going to come next.
Severus propped himself up, turning it over in his hand. ‘Bagaudae, eh? Those peasant scum you call friends.’
‘We have nothing to fear from the Bagaudae if we treat them well. I cannot believe Victor and his people are behind this.’
Severus didn’t seem to have heard him. ‘Perhaps it’s some slimy Dobunnic trick! Never trust the Dobunni. They always lie.’
‘Mother’s Dobunnic. Does she always lie?’
Severus heard that. ‘Your mother is different. Civilised. Not one of those wild Dobunni from the backwoods who’ve taken over now that bastard Guidolin’s in power. Their priest Lupicinius has added his own ambition to Guidolin’s ruthlessness. His influence is dark, Maximus. We must watch that pair closely. You were right. We must parlay with the Dobunni.’
Max looked down at Severus in disbelief. Had his argument won his father round?
But Severus had not finished. There was fire in his eyes now. ‘Only because a parlay will win us time – there is no hope of saving the peace.’ His father scrutinized him. ‘When the Romans leave this island, and that day is coming soon, there will be a reckoning. The world runs on power, Maximus. Our ancestors built the biggest empire Britain has ever seen. Not by talking to our neighbours, but by crushing them. I should have given you to a man of power, not an old monk. Paulinus may dream of a land where all Britons are brothers. But while that old monk is praying, the Dobunni and all the other tribes were sharpening their blades.’ Severus turned stiffly to rise. ‘There is too much bad blood between the tribes, too many old feuds, too many accounts unsettled. So for now, yes, we parlay with the Dobunni. But only to give us time to prepare for war. Against them - and the Corieltauvi, and the Saxons and anybody else who wants to challenge us!’
Disappointment crushed Max. He could no longer contain himself. ‘I may have changed, father, but you have not. You’re the same vicious old bastard I grew up with. Always lashing out first and thinking later! I’ve a mind to…’
The old eyes looking at him were focused and alert. ‘A mind to what, my son? Fight Dye for leadership so you can turn our land over to Bagaudae?’ The old man struggled onto one elbow. He laughed; an eerie, cracked sound. ‘Understand this: you’re me, with all my faults. Just a few less wrinkles and a little more hair.’ He cackled again.
‘I’m nothing like you, old man,’ Max breathed.
Severus turned to look at him. ‘If you’re so different from me, prove it. Negotiate with Guidolin. After all, you know that sick bastard better than any of us. You were close once…until his sister came between you.’
Him, parlay with Guidolin? Dread filled his heart. It would be the first time the two men had set eyes on each other since Morwen’s death. Max swallowed, licking dry lips. He felt his fear urge him to refuse, but trapped the refusal behind his lips.
Severus seemed to be enjoying his hesitation. ‘Do you want the tribe or not? I would see how you fare out in the real world, after all your gentle debates with Paulinus.’ His eyes were hard. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there watching. If only to ensure that your misguided sense of justice doesn’t betray our people. Be ready to leave in the morning.’
The atmosphere between them was broken by Salvius, calling from the doorway. ‘There’s been a raid, Max, to the north-west, up by the Dobunni border.’
Chapter Three
Their first warning was the crows circling overhead. Instinctively Max and Paulinus urged their mounts on. Rounding the curve in the road, the smell hit them, an acrid stench of burning wood mixed with the sicklier reek of burnt flesh, making them gag. In the distance farm buildings smouldered. A wild-eyed man, hunched over his hunting spear, face covered with a cloth against the smoke and stink, gestured to them to dismount. Max recognized him as the vilicus from the next farm. ‘Ave, Accius.’
‘Salvete, masters, though it’s a poor welcome we offer this day.’ Accius began to give an account of what he’d found, but Max was barely listening. His eyes told him all he needed to know. Except for one thing. Jaw tense with anger, he spat out the words. ‘Who did this, Accius?’
‘We know not. By the time we got here, they were gone. If we’d only arrived sooner…’ Accius trailed off miserably, unable to look Maximus in the eye. Max could imagine him seeing the smoke and flames and hesitating. Irritation clawed at him but he reserved his real fury for whoever was to blame. ‘If this is the work of the Dobunni,’ he murmured, ‘we’ll track the culprits down and make them wish that they had never been born.’ If this was Guidolin’s work, what else would that murderous barbarian be capable of? Was this his test to him? Was he calling him out, daring him to rise against him?
‘Steady, Max.’ Paulinus’s voice was firm. ‘Remember, what I taught you. The wise use violence only to protect the weak and only once the guilty are identified - beyond doubt. This could be the work of wandering brigands, or of other tribes.’
Barely listening, Max cantered on. The attackers must have come upon the place without warning. It seemed no one had escaped. The farm had been worked mostly by ordinary Catuvellauni. Some of them might have had the revolutionary Bagaudae tendencies his father feared, but all of them were good people. What he saw sickened him. Desperate to defend their families they had run to the tool sheds in search of weapons. Strong young men, lying in a great, tangled mass, murdered by the very weapons they’d seized. Most of the field workers had been slaughtered where they tilled the land for planting. The bottom field was strewn with corpses. Max recognized a young peasant, Philo, by his scarlet tunic. The lad lay face down in the ploughed earth, his skull caved in by a massive blow to the back of the head. Behind him lay three other men, all massacred. Max recognized the lad’s father and two brothers. He struggled to understand the sight before him. These Catuvellauni were his people. Defenceless men, good men, killed in frantic moments of brutal violence by unknown forces.
Several slaves from Accius’s settlement mumbled greetings. From the neat rows of bodies it was clear they had already begun readying the dead for burial. The slaves stood staring at the newcomers, silently acknowledging Max’s authority, awaiting instructions. By the main house eight more bodies lay under blankets. Accius indicated the corpses with a nod of the head. ‘Most of the bodies have been found. One, a slave, is still unaccounted for. Proctor. If he has attempted flight, the slave hunters will soon be on his track.’ His report was interrupted by an elderly woman keening loudly to herself, wandering through the ruins, beating at her face in agonized mourning. Accius apologized. ‘My mother-in-law. She lost her sister here.’ Angrily he waved to another woman who led her away.
Every building had been gutted by the blaze. Paulinus, more used to loss, was practical. ‘You’ll have to send up an engineer. Most of these buildings look like they’re ready to collapse.’
Max rounded on him, incensed. ‘There won’t be any rebuilding, Paulinus. I wouldn’t send my dogs to repopulate this place. Force good people to leave the safety of Verulamium? When the risk of returning is so great? No, first we must crush the vermin who did this.’
Paulinus’s expression was equally grim. ‘Your father will see things differently. The property will have to be defended, or he’ll lose it. He won’t mourn the deaths of a few Bagaudae peasants, and this attack is further proof of Rome’s weakening power, Maximus. This will not be the last time you and your family will face such a challenge.’
Max ignored the monk, silenced by his frustration. Dismounting, he moved silently through the devastation. In the hall where the workers gathered with their families in the evenings they found the women. Women who had harvested his family’s crops, skirts raised, throats carelessly slit by the men who had raped them. The elderly were found huddled together in the storage rooms, burned alive. Small, shrivelled, blackened heaps of humanity amongst the ashes and charred wood.
He still needed an answer to the question which had been eating at him since they arrived - where are the children? When the answer finally came, he wished it had not. They had been forced into a back room in the main house. Each child’s forehead bore a single axe wound, devastating in its accuracy.
Feeling vomit rising in him Max stumbled backwards from the room, but Paulinus stayed him with a firm grip. ‘Look at them, Max…we may not avert our gaze when the blood of innocents is drawn.’ The old monk spoke softly, but with great intent and Max saw that his eyes were moist.
The anger Max had been pushing down exploded now. ‘When we get hold of the bastards who did this, by the bones of St. Alban, we’ll tear them limb from limb! Burn their houses, kill their families!’
‘And become as evil as they?’ Paulinus shook his head. ‘This carnage is the reality of war, Max. Not pomp, nor glory nor excitement. You don’t see dead babies like these carved on the side of triumphal monuments. Poets don’t sing about them. But in war – no matter who is fighting and for what reason – this tragedy is what remains. You think this is Guidolin’s doing? If you retaliate against him now, without proof, other children will die. Rather than lift your sword in anger, think first of the babies who will suffer, then ask our Blessed Father if you can justify their deaths.’
Max had never seen Paulinus weep before. The shock of it penetrated his anger. With sudden certainty he knew that the monk’s words betrayed Paulinus’s own experience. Max felt the anger in him dying. He put his arm round the old man’s shoulder to comfort him.
Paulinus calmed himself quickly. His voice was thick as he urged Max, ‘Remember Our Lord’s words, “Blessed are the Peacemakers”. He chose peacemakers for a reason, Max. We are on the verge of civil war in this island. Neighbour against neighbour, brother against brother. For now we don’t know who killed these people – Dobunni, Saxons, Corieltauvi, brigands? It is your duty, Max, the duty of all good men, to stop such carnage. Not join in like guests at the feast.’
Nodding, Max summoned Accius and the others. They set about burying the dead.
Paulinus seemed to find strength in the familiar. He went about his duties, comforting the living, blessing the corpses, digging the hard earth with an energy that belied his great age. It took time to hollow out the mass grave. Max, for his part, was aghast at the work. He’d known death before. But he’d never seen human butchery up close like this. Exhausted, they bowed their heads as Paulinus said a few prayers. Turning away from the graveside Accius approached. ‘Master, if another farm in the area suffers an attack, people will start to flee. Will your father take our revenge on the Dobunni?’
Max felt Paulinus’ eyes on him. ‘First we must establish who did this.’
Accius looked doubtful, even hostile. ‘So we’ll just stay here and wait quietly and die then, shall we, master?’
Anger flared in Max. Anger at the attackers, anger at his father, now anger at this man’s impudence. Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps the Bagaudae weren’t to be trusted. He advanced towards Accius and the man cowered away from him.
Suddenly Paulinus was there, holding him back. ‘Enough, Max. Accius is not your enemy.’
Max shrugged himself free and made for the horses, the monk following. They rode in glum silence, Max’s mind in turmoil. Growing up he’d been taught that his glorious Catuvellaunian ancestors had created an empire, spreading their civilization to other, more savage tribes. He had believed it, every word of it. Now he understood that other tribes had a very different view of the past. Even within the tribe there were so many different versions of the truth.
Only one thing seemed certain. As the grip of the Roman eagle weakened on the island, the time of peace was coming to an end.
*****
Sitting with Paulinus in Rhoswen’s garden early next morning Max’s mind was full of dark forebodings. Even entering the Dobunni camp to parlay with Guidolin was a risk; after Morwen’s death Guidolin had wanted him dead. But if he didn’t go he would have to relinquish any hope of leading the tribe.
The old monk’s voice brought him back to the present. ‘I’m sorry not to be going with you, Maximus. But there is… urgent spiritual business I must attend to.’
Max nodded. He was used to
Paulinus’s disappearances by now. Over the past months ‘urgent spiritual business’ had called him away several times. The old man had made it clear he would answer no questions about the places he went or break the confidences shared with him by others. Though he respected Paulinus and his ministry Max couldn’t hide his disappointment, losing the old man just when he needed him most. ‘I would have been glad of your wisdom and your diplomacy in the Dobunni camp. We still have no proof they were behind the raid – but who else could it have been, so close to their border?’
Paulinus smiled gently, encouraging him. ‘You need no man to guide you, Maximus. You have spent the past year preparing for just such a day as this. Use what I have taught you, and trust that you can overcome the unknown. Salvius and Decentius will be with you.’ The smile turned to a knowing grin. ‘And, of course, your father.’
‘Who wants me to lead the negotiation. With the man who wants me dead.’
Paulinus sighed. ‘You are a match for Guidolin. Remember what I’ve taught you. Self-knowledge is all. Be sure not to give way to anger and foolishness.’ He paused. ‘How do you intend to approach the negotiation? One wrong move and he could react viciously.’
Max looked at Paulinus in surprise. He’d never heard the gentle monk speak so critically of anyone. ‘From you that’s a forceful judgment, Paulinus.’
‘Guidolin has no conscience, Max, for all his recent claims of faith. Be careful of him.’ The old monk put his hand on Max’s sleeve. ‘A word of advice. From an old soldier, not from the Bible. You and he are alike in many ways. Both new to leadership, both carving your place in your tribes. The vulnerability you feel, he feels also. But the man is arrogant. His need for power is his great weakness. You could exploit that, if you’re careful.’
Max nodded. Even as a child Guidolin had been arrogant. Spending long weeks in the summer with his Dobunni relatives, he and Guidolin had been thrown together. As Guidolin grew older, the arrogance worsened, along with his cruelty. Above all Max had been troubled by Guidolin’s attitude towards his sister Morwen, an ownership almost, that troubled Max greatly. He sighed. Hard as he tried to push Morwen’s memory to the borders of his mind, it hung over him like a pall. ‘He hates me, Paulinus. He blames me for Morwen’s death.’
