by Scott Hurst
Instead of Latin the Dobunni here still spoke their guttural mother tongue. Max listened intently, piecing the broken sounds together. Having grown up listening to his mother’s rich storytelling he could understand most of what was being said. But knowing Guidolin could appear at any moment, it was impossible for him to relax.
Seeing him tense, Salvius stretched out his hand in comfort. ‘With everything so uncertain, it’s in Guidolin’s interest to parlay too, Max. And we’ll have your parents out of here at the first hint there’s anything’s wrong.’
It was good to know he had someone to rely on. He knew both he and Decentius would gladly give their lives for him, as he would for them. ‘Thank you, Salvius.’
A mug of beer was placed in front of him. It was strong, very strong. He placed it back on the table. He would need a clear head tonight. To his right Severus was sniffing his mug suspiciously, but drinking nonetheless. A girl rushed forward to offer more when his cup was empty. She reminded him in some way of Sabrina, perhaps a cousin.
‘Isn’t it heartening, how the people all eat together?’ Settling down beside her son Rhoswen was clearly delighted to be amongst her people again. ‘See, no hierarchy, no seating order. We Dobunni value each other for who we are.’
‘Let us hope Guidolin remembers that before he kills me,’ Max retorted.
Rhoswen looked at him with great love. ‘Do not allow your anger to get in the way of your goal here, Maximus. Guidolin has no proof of your guilt, or you would be already dead. Don’t let that hot head of yours prevent you from brokering peace for us. Tread warily with him my son.’
Max nodded, hearing his mother’s warning. Once again, the carynx horn sounded, sending shivers down his spine. Its low, throbbing note filled the entire hall as the company rose to greet its leader. His fingers quietly found the handle of his knife under his cloak and he could see Salvius and Decentius doing the same. Strangely he no longer felt fear.
Every eye was on the door, which slowly filled with an ominous shadow.
Guidolin.
Chapter Four
Even surrounded by his guard, men chosen for their threatening appearance, Guidolin towered above them. In his chieftain’s regalia he looked the man he had become. Time had changed his former friend little. The heavy hewn features were still strong and angular, any appearance of beauty sacrificed to the deep pock scars marking his face. Long moustaches covered his mouth but above them Guidolin’s dark eyes blazed with sharp intelligence. Those eyes now locked onto his. Max held his gaze. The two men stood face to face for the first time in a year, each taking the other’s measure, until slowly, deliberately; Guidolin turned his back on Max, an insult of the highest order. Max felt his hand harden around his knife grip.
No accusation, no threat could have hurt worse than this.
Guidolin had humiliated him. Not just in front of the Dobunni, but in front of his own people. Reason and pride warred within him. Above the blood thundering in his ears Max moved his hand off his dagger and he forced the words out between narrowed lips. ‘We are here to resolve our border dispute.’
Guidolin eyed him for long seconds. ‘A border dispute? Wait your turn.’ Turning his back on him once more Guidolin made for his throne. Max looked over his shoulder to his father. There was scorn on the old man’s face. But for whom?
Clearly Guidolin was determined to demonstrate his authority. Max watched as nobleman after nobleman approached Guidolin, to give homage. Guidolin judged the disputes and pleas brought before him mercilessly. Long moments passed. Still Guidolin refused to recognize their delegation. This was no protocol. This was about power. Finally Max had had enough. Walking past a fawning nobleman he addressed the man on the throne. ‘You’ve made your point, Guidolin. You hate me still.’
‘More now than ever.’ The grey eyes were curiously tranquil. Max had expected threats, even an attempt at his life. Not this eerie calm.
‘It’s in your interest as well as ours that we treat together. ’
Guidolin’s voice was cold as iron. ‘In your interest, certainly. The Saxons threaten to lay waste to your country. They grow in strength each day. I pray for their success.’ With each word Max felt a wave of hatred for him and for his people.
‘Our treaty allows grievances to be aired before the Dobunnic people,’ Max insisted. ‘I demand we do so now.’
‘I see no reason why the tribe should not be amused by your petition.’ Turning to a nearby nobleman Guidolin barked an order. ‘Assemble the people. Quickly!’
Immediately musicians began beating their drums and sounding trumpet blasts. At the sound the whole tribe began to gather in the evening twilight. Maximus and his party were led out towards the arena used for tribal councils. It formed an almost perfect circle around the great oak at the heart of the palisade fortress. Within moments the space was illuminated by candles and lamps. Max walked with his mother. Rhoswen spoke in quiet voice. ‘Be careful – we are on a knife’s edge here.’ More lamps were lit and Max noted the golden-haired youth at Guidolin’s side. Rhoswen leaned over and whispered to him. ‘Guidolin’s beloved nephew, Vortigern. There is an unusual bond between the two. They are more like father and son.’
Time to focus on what he had come to achieve. His voice rang out, mercifully strong. ‘Despite your prayers, we Catuvellauni are still safe, Guidolin. And our strength is your strength, if you would but think ahead. Our land is all that protects your tribe from the Saxon hordes and their butchery.’
Guidolin’s eyes never left him. ‘When Rome abandons us the borders they imposed will no longer stand. Times are changing. Britain’s would-be Emperor Constantine is about to take his men across the Alps to dethrone Honorius and conquer Rome itself. I intend to send Dobunni to support him. If Constantine wins, we’ll have Dobunni in positions of power in Rome itself. Show those Italian weaklings what real men are like.’ The gathered noblemen laughed approvingly. ‘If the young Emperor Honorius wins we’ll still have men and weapons left to deal with any opposition.’ Guidolin wielded his words like an axe. ‘You Catuvellauni may have ruled us before Rome, but soon we Dobunni shall be where we belong - in charge of all Britain.’
So Guidolin intended to throw the might and wealth of his tribe behind Constantine, knowing they had enough resources to survive any reprisals by Honorius. If the Dobunni found favour with Constantine in the power-struggle to come, things would go very ill for the Catuvellauni. The two men stared at each other. All the time he’d been up north, being trained in justice and peace by Paulinus, Guidolin had been plotting the future rise of his tribe. But Paulinus was right. Guidolin’s arrogance was his weakness. Why else would a man give away his intentions?
‘Until Constantine overthrows the Emperor, you would do well to protect the boundary between us.’ Seeing that his words had no effect on Guidolin, he turned to the gathered nobles and appealed to them. ‘It is in our mutual interest that the status quo between our tribes persists. We Catuvellauni bring gifts to show our esteem, and ask that we speak of the land treaty between us which is being… ignored.’
Guidolin’s eyes narrowed, his dark brows betraying his fury at Max’s strategy. ‘Ignored?’ Guidolin tented the tips of his fingers together in front of his dark face. ‘I’m afraid the days of our ignoring Catuvellaunian crimes are over.’ As Guidolin glanced at the shadows to his left Max felt a rush of air hit him before he was knocked off his feet. His assailant screamed, ‘Catuvellaunian scum’ and a Dobunnic dagger descended. Somehow Max rolled clear, scrabbling to his feet. He felt his body tensing and heard Rhoswen’s screams above the pandemonium.
He had never faced real combat before. Now it was actually happening he had no time to think. Again the man lunged at him, stopping Max reaching for his own dagger. Thwarted, Max swerved then brought his right leg round hard, kicking the man’s feet from under him. With his left he kicked the dagger free and instinctively followed through with a hard kick to the man’s side that left him curled up and groaning. Finally
Max could pull out his own knife, ready for any further action. But it did not come.
Dobunni rushed to the aid of the downed nobleman as Max stood back, panting for breath. His own people rushed to surround him. Rhoswen began checking him over, searching for wounds. Decentius was grinning wildly, his open face split with a grin. ‘Well done, Max, that showed the Dobunnic bastard.’
In fury Severus turned on Guidolin. ‘You outrage the laws of hospitality. My son has been attacked under your authority.’
Max groaned as all around knives were drawn.
‘My apologies. An over-enthusiastic follower decided to bend our rules of hospitality.’ Guidolin shrugged. ‘Will you not lecture your own son? He has drawn his knife on his host.’
Decentius and Salvius were holding Max back. But there was no need. He knew there was more at stake here than his pride. It cost him more than he could have ever imagined, but he put down his dagger arm, still carefully watching Guidolin. ‘I accept your apology,’ he said, his voice calm. ‘We want no war, Guidolin. That’s why we’re here.’
Scorn joined the hatred in Guidolin’s eyes.
How could things have gone so wrong so quickly? How would they receive a fair hearing now?
Suddenly the atmosphere in the arena changed. Some inner knowing made Max turn towards the entrance of the hillfort. There, clearly silhouetted against the red of the night sky stood a figure, a slender young man dressed in black. The cowl of his robe was pulled up over his head, framing his pale face. Even at this distance his eyes glowed from within the hood, shining as though fevered. Long shadows either side of his wide mouth made his thin face seem even thinner. Yet the face was strangely beautiful, compelling, as if lit from within. Decentius leaned over and whispered in Max’s ear. ‘Lupicinius, the tribe’s priest. He was living as a hermit in the woods before Guidolin brought him in to minister to the tribe. He must have been sent for.’
Lupicinius. It was as though the wolf for whom he had been named had entered the camp. He moved like a wolf, lightly, without a sound. Every eye was on him, as if waiting for his next move. Having bowed briefly to Guidolin he circled the central space then came at Maximus from an angle. Up close Max realized he was much older than he had seemed. There was an energy about the man he could feel, a power he distrusted.
Lupicinius growled at him, his attitude hostile. No greeting, no formality. Just an immediate attack. ‘I have heard much of you, Max of the Vellauni. Charges were made against you? About Lord Guidolin’s sister, Morwen? Accusations about her chastity, that you had contaminated her womb with the impurity of your race, the shame making her cut short her life?’
Every word drew blood, as Lupicinius had known they would.
Max had prepared himself for a verbal combat on borders, not this. That dark pain was there again, the pain of trying to help others understand what had happened to Morwen when Max couldn’t explain it himself. As her memory washed over him Max felt Guidolin’s eyes on him. ‘Your sister chose to take her own life, Guidolin. I was found innocent of all charges.’ Words caught in his throat. ‘When Morwen came to visit my mother Rhoswen she gave no sign of her intention.’
A strange light lit Lupicinius’s brown eyes. The assembly was silent, listening. In the hush of anticipation each word the priest uttered fell like a stone. ‘Why would a beautiful child of sixteen take her life, unless her character was ruined in the eyes of the world?’ Lupicinius’s eyes bored into him, asking the question Max had asked himself hundreds of times.
Max’s eyes found Guidolin’s. The man had been like an animal in his grief. But it had not been grief alone. Guidolin had hated him because Morwen loved him.
Max stared at Lupicinius and when he spoke his voice was strong and steady. ‘You treat the facts as if they were wax, Lupicinius, stretching and twisting them.’ Turning to face Guidolin directly, he spoke his truth, though he knew it would do no good. ‘I have never concealed anything about my friendship with your sister. Even now I am prepared to answer any question you wish to ask.’
Lupicinius answered strangely. ‘On your life?’
Max stared at him.
Rhoswen was on her feet. ‘The Dobunni do not demand the death penalty. We believe in restitution – that payment can atone for any crime.’
‘Other than kin-slaying,’ Guidolin hissed. ‘In those cases our laws demand death… or mutilation.’
Rhoswen seemed to grow in stature as she stared him down. ‘As for arson and murder –we believe the Dobunni have recently been guilty of both. My son’s only crime was to have Morwen fall in love with him.’
Guidolin’s words were so venomous, so quiet, Max wasn’t sure at first that he had heard them. ‘And my crime was to allow my sister to visit a tribe that is cursed. Look at you. Without the Torc the Catuvellauni limp like a wounded animal. A drunkard chief, would-be heirs who squabble like washerwomen, the indignity of poverty for a tribe that once reigned over these parts. How can you bear the shame, Maximus? ’
He was silent, allowing the insult to take full effect. A hush ran around the arena. Adrenalin flooded Max’s body, preparing it for an onslaught.
But no onslaught came. Instead Lupicinius smiled an eerie smile. ‘Enough.’
To Max’s amazement, Guidolin looked away.
Astonished, Max worked to clear his head. ‘We Catuvellauni desire peace with the Dobunni. Under Roman law we have a treaty. To the Dobunni, their land, to the Catuvellauni ours, either party failing to live up to its obligations to be held liable.’
Guidolin’s face was motionless. He gestured for Max to continue.
‘The Dobunni have broken that treaty. One of our men received cruel treatment at the hands of your men on Catuvellaunian land. And now one of our border farms has been attacked. ’
Guidolin was on his feet now, shouting. ‘That land was Dobunnic land for a millennium before the Catuvellauni stole it from us. We intend to put the border back where it was - before your land grabbing ancestors raped and pillaged their way across it. Sacred land, land where our ancestors lie buried. It can never be yours, however long you have managed to hang onto it.’
Max was about to reply when Lupicinius rose to intervene. ‘A word away from our guests, my Lord.’ Max was astonished to see Guidolin’s face betray bewilderment. He watched as the priest leant in to him, his dark cowl hiding their expressions for short moments. When Guidolin re-emerged his voice and attitude had changed. ‘We know nothing about the attack on the farm, but as to the attack on the farmer, it appears some of my men failed to follow the instructions they were given. All leaders face actions committed by rebels in our midst. Those men will be strictly dealt with. You have my word. You may keep your stolen land. For now.’
Why the sudden change of heart? What had Lupicinius told him? Was the priest was simply supporting the cause of peace, just as Paulinus would have done?
It remained only to raise the question of Cada and the missing girls. Even if a rogue group of Bagaudae had taken them, perhaps the Dobunni had heard something.
‘Our slave was found bludgeoned to death. Do you know anything of the girls he was protecting?’
Guidolin’s face clenched. ‘Search the camp. You will find nothing. We don’t need your Catuvellauni milk cows. We have beautiful women of our own, women enough to satisfy any appetite.’ He pulled a young woman forward, roughly parading her beauty, staring at Max with an expression he found hard to read. Finally, Guidolin spoke again. ‘We meet at dawn, for the oath ceremony. Till then, Maximus, perhaps you’ll stay and enjoy our next ceremony.’
As Rhoswen led Severus off, Max sat back, restless yet relieved the parlay was over. Protocol insisted he endure the coming spectacle. The Dobunni were fond of such shows. Hopefully it wouldn’t go on too long. He couldn’t understand all the parts of the ceremony but quickly became uneasy. Guidolin was being clearly recognized and confirmed before all the people. The hub of conversation around him stopped as Lupicinius emerged from the cave at the centre of t
he meeting place and led Guidolin forward, carrying a bear pelt over his arm.
It was almost like an anointing, a coronation. In a strange mixture of Christian symbolism and ancient faith, Lupicinius placed a narrow silver helmet on Guidolin’s dark head, then, in a sweeping movement, adorned the helmet with a bear skull, the animal’s pelt falling around Guidolin’s massive shoulders. In the torchlight it looked as if Guidolin had been devoured by the bear, become part of it. Beneath the helmet Guidolin’s eyes were narrow slits. The wearing of it had changed him. There was a dignity that had not been there before, as though somehow the character of the bear were now imprinted on his character.
‘Behold, your leader, who will deliver us from the hands of our enemies!’ Lupicinius cried. ‘May he experience the favour of Heaven.’ The priest began whispering a blessing, an invocation.
‘What is this?’ Salvius hissed behind him. ‘I don’t understand their speech, but this is not of God, Maximus. This is a pagan ceremony. If Guidolin were a true upholder of God’s law he would refuse it.’
Maximus shrugged. In a church filled with schisms and heresies, what was one more? What troubled him more was the sight of the bear skin. It had a power all its own. In a strange way the bear was its own destroyer – such majestic creatures drew humans to them. People sensed their great spirit, coveted their fearlessness. He thought of the young bear he’d seen in the forest. Pray God he’d never end up so desecrated by man.
The crowd had started shouting, ‘Hail, Guidolin! Son of Artur! Hail Vortigern! Calf of the Bear!’ They began bending their knee and throwing flowers to show their veneration.
