Spears of Britannia

by Scott Hurst

  His men had broken through the scattered Dobunnic lines, slashing with their swords to left and right. Salvius’s blade took off a man’s arm. Madoc seemed to be almost wrestling with his adversary before forcing the man from his saddle. Max winced as he saw one of his own men almost decapitated. Because of the man’s helmet he couldn’t tell who it was. Another Catuvellaunian went down, to be hacked to death in the dust by two Dobunni. Max gritted his teeth. When the next of Guidolin’s cavalrymen attacked him he parried before slashing ferociously at the man’s sword arm, taking off his hand.

  Somehow they were through and galloping away fast from Massilia. Without their leader and with at least seven or eight men down, the Dobunni abandoned their pursuit. They seemed fully occupied with the angry townsmen.

  Max rode on, the steady weight of the Torc beating in the bag beside him.

  Chapter Eight

  Max sat in his billet, turning the heavy Torc over and over in his hands. He could hardly believe it. This was the actual Torc worn by Caratacus, the mighty warrior whose blood ran in his veins. The man who had unified the tribes as Rex Britannorum. He fingered the powerfully crafted spearheads radiating from the collar and wonderingly ran his fingers over the coiled golden ropes. The swirling patterns on its terminals gave way to the letters traced on its side. CARA.

  Caratacus had won many battles, and lost them. He had lost men. Two more of Max’s men had lost their lives now, thanks to Guidolin and his bid for the Torc. Tincomarus, just nineteen years old, decapitated in a hot dusty field, far from his home in Magiovinium. And Quintus, a fine man, who left behind a widow and two orphaned children. Max had sent back scouts late in the night to search for the bodies, but they were gone. He doubted they’d been given a decent burial.

  Under his fingers the gold ropes of the Torc coiled around each other, giving the collar its strength. Eppilus the Atrebatian had told him how and why it had been made. Now he could see for itself - the Torc’s power and resilience lay in its unity. For a moment it stopped moving in his hands. There had been no sign of unity yesterday; nothing but hatred on the faces of Catuvellauni and Dobunni alike. Nothing but the murderous rage it took to hack at and kill another human being. If Guidolin had his way there would soon be brother killing brother when the forces of Gerontius turned against those of Constantine.

  He thought of the stories of the curse of the Torc and shivered. Men told tales that Caratacus had had the invincible spear of the shining god Lug melted down to make it. Lug had cursed the Torc, allowing it to retain its invincible power, but to carry the curse too. Its wearer would be victorious for a while, but ill fate would await him. Could that be true? They had been victorious today, against all the odds. But did doom await him, now that the Torc was his?

  A knock sounded on the door and Max jumped. He crossed himself quickly, rebuking such pagan nonsense, unworthy of a Christian.

  Hiding the Torc under his kit he shouted, ‘Enter.’ Seeing Madoc he relaxed and brought it out again. The Dobunni moved beside him, staring down at it. ‘I’m not one of your people, Maximus, but even I can feel the strength in that thing. Here, a letter from your mother. Don’t take too long reading it. You’re to be at Constantine’s headquarters for noon. Our Emperor has a mission for you.’

  Madoc made to go, but Max stopped him. He’d come to trust this man. ‘You served loyally with the Catuvellauni yesterday, though you are Dobunni. Do you think it possible that one day the tribes of Britain could be united as brothers?’

  Madoc scratched his chin. ‘You speak in mysteries, Maximus. I am a practical man, not someone who tries to change the world. Being faithful to those to whom I bear allegiance is enough for me.’

  Max smiled ruefully. ‘You are a true friend, Madoc, Dobunni or no.’

  Madoc eyed the treasure again. ‘You did a wonder retrieving the Torc. It’s… a powerful thing.’

  Max felt a flow of pride. ‘You’re right. The Torc is powerful. Powerful for the Catuvellauni and I hope one day for all Britons.’ But Madoc had already gone, leaving him alone with his mother’s letter.

  ‘To my own dear Maximus, greetings. First, and above all else, my son, my fervent wishes that you are safe and well. Since we have received no word from you, I must believe that you remain unharmed. Have care – in war it is not alone the sword that kills, but sickness also.

  You must not worry about us here. I shall not say too much. Suffice it to tell you that even your father is beginning to understand why you refused Calista. Her notions of Catuvellaunian supremacy disturb me greatly. Your brother, to his shame, does nothing to correct her views and indeed seems dragged along by her. She and Dye mistreat innocent peasants whom they insist are Bagaudae and plot against innocent Dobunni who happen to live within Catuvellaunian borders. Because of her influence there are now others here who work against you. They see an opportunity in your absence to drive through their plans. Rest assured, while I am by your father’s side, their efforts will be in vain.

  Max rubbed his face wearily. What was Calista plotting now? There was precious little he could do about it from here. Perhaps a letter to Dye, to keep his wife in check? He read on.

  ‘It will be some consolation to you to know that you may not be alone in facing challenge at home while you are away. My Dobunnic relatives tell me that in Guidolin’s absence, Lupicinius has effectively made himself the tribe’s Lord. He still proclaims Guidolin’s rule, but many wonder about his future intentions. He buys popularity by handing out favours, and continues to build his bear cult. I have even heard it rumoured that he will change his name to Ursicinus, in honour of the bear he worships.’ Max smiled mirthlessly, grateful to his mother for knowing how this ridiculous idea would cheer him.

  And Rhoswen had word of his wife.

  Your own dear Sabrina wishes nothing but the best for you. Matters between a man and his spouse are private, yet I sense there has been some quarrel between you. Though she will not say so directly, she longs for some news of you. It would be a great kindness if you were to write to her.

  I will end now, knowing you are needed at the side of our noble Emperor Constantine, bringing new glory to the Catuvellaunian people.

  Please write as soon as you have the chance. We long for news of you.

  Your loving mother.’

  Reading the letter Max was hit with a wave of homesickness. Other feelings rose in him too; guilt about Sabrina, worry about whatever Calista and Dye were up to back home. But most of all, disillusionment. Whilst his mother imagined him fighting for glory at Constantine’s side, he’d sat on his backside for weeks. And now he and his men were about to become embroiled in a squalid civil war.

  Only the Torc in his hands felt solid, reliable. In that moment he swore himself an oath. No matter what, he, Maximus of the Vellauni would bring the great Torc of Caratacus home to his people. Somehow that thought made the rest of this farce bearable.

  Leaning under the bed he sought out the recess he’d carved in the wall. Wrapping the Torc carefully he manoeuvred it sideways into its hiding place where it was well hidden under the bed’s carvings and coverings. Moving to the small table he quickly wrote to his mother, assuring her he was well. After a moment’s hesitation he picked up his stylus again and wrote a similar note to Sabrina. The attempt left him frustrated. His words had none of the significance he wanted them to have. It was almost a relief to head out for his meeting with Constantine. He took the letter for his mother with him, hoping he could persuade the Greek clerk, Thanos, to send it with the official dispatches.

  Halfway down the hallway he met his landlady. Antonia had made him welcome in her home and he’d found himself admiring the young widow’s courage and practicality. Max couldn’t help noticing how attractive she was, her dark hair tousled and cheeks flushed from climbing the stairs. The folds of her long white tunic billowed out, revealing shapely ankles and small feet clad in soft sandals. Antonia smiled at him, holding up a pottery jug. ‘You’re on your way out? A pity. I had
thought we might share a glass together. Won’t you stay and take some wine, my Lord? A thank you for your generosity? The citizens of Arelate were ordered by the Emperor to give his men lodging. You were not obliged to pay for it.’

  Max smiled back at her. ‘Small compensation for your kindness, Antonia. You’ve looked after me well these long weeks.’ There were normally tensions between garrisons and townspeople; though they benefited the local economy the army was also dependent on civilian community for food and supplies – which made for an uneasy balance.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure to have a man around the house,’ she smiled. ‘You won’t keep me company over a glass?’

  He shook his head apologetically, aware there was something in her suggestion he found disquieting. No doubt she was lonely – the loss of her husband must still be difficult. Beautiful as she was she wouldn’t stay widowed for long.

  ‘I’m on my way to see the Emperor. Till tonight.’

  Her gaze was direct and unblinking. ‘Till tonight, Maximus.’

  *****

  Max met Salvius on his way to the headquarters where dozens of the clerks laboured to maintain the army and plan for the invasion of Italy, which now seemed as though it might never happen. Salvius looked at him glumly. ‘I hear Constantine has a job for us.’

  Max agreed the unspoken. ‘Let’s hope it’s something worthy.’

  Salvius had still other concerns. ‘If Constantine is sending us out into the field, you’ll need a safe hiding place for the Torc.’

  Max began describing the hiding place he’d created, but stopped short. The Emperor himself was striding across the basilica floor to greet them, his huge robes billowing out behind him. Constantine’s eyes were red-rimmed, his face flushed, as though from too much wine or too much tension. Or both.

  ‘Maximus, how did it go yesterday? Did you kill all the spies and traitors in Massilia as I suggested?’

  Max almost laughed, thinking of their undignified flight from the city under a hail of vegetables and bricks. ‘I searched out the sect and dealt appropriately with any resistance we encountered, my Emperor.’ He smiled involuntarily, thinking of the Torc back in his billet. ‘Our objective was achieved.’

  ‘Excellent, excellent.’ Constantine looked satisfied. ‘It’s a comfort to know I can trust someone to serve me loyally. I have another important mission for you today. General Gerontius’ cavalry has been sighted some thirty miles west of here – clearly they are search patrols. I want you to intercept one and bring me back prisoners. I would know what Gerontius is planning.’

  Taking prisoners from his ally? That would be the first strike in the civil war. And he, Maximus of the Vellauni, was to be the one to make it. Rhoswen’s pride that he serve under this man filled his mind. ‘My Emperor, there is no hope of reconciliation between you and the General?’

  Anger flashed in Constantine’s eyes. ‘After his cowardly attempt to murder me I am surprised you ask. Were I not beholden to you, I would have you beaten.’

  Max felt his own anger rising, but controlled it. ‘Those assassins were sent by Guidolin, not Gerontius. He wanted discord between you and the General for his own ends. And he has succeeded.’

  Constantine snorted. ‘I will have you speak no more of this. Gerontius gives Guidolin his orders.’ The Emperor eyed him closely. ‘Why the vacillation? Have you no stomach for this fight, Maximus?’

  Max hesitated for a heartbeat. War against Gerontius seemed inevitable. Perhaps it could be won quickly. Perhaps there was still some glory to be had for his men. He pulled himself upright. ‘We are yours to command, my Emperor!’

  Constantine relaxed. ‘Excellent! Now bring me my prisoners!’

  *****

  Max, Salvius and Madoc left Arelate that afternoon at the head of a hundred Catuvellaunian horsemen. The first day out they clashed briefly with a smaller cavalry force. The skirmish barely begun, the enemy took to flight, giving them no chance to take captives. For the following two days they had no contact with the enemy at all, though local informants assured him they were still in the area.

  What was needed was an ambush.

  Scouting the area himself he chose the spot to spring his trap. In a landscape so flat and treeless there were few choices, but on their first trip out Max had noted a river with steep banks, densely overgrown. This was the place he made for. Under his orders two of his men dismounted, positioning themselves in the open by the roadside, as though taking a meal. ‘We’ll strike from concealed positions. Half of the men in that dip, half in the dense underbrush behind. Salvius, place lookouts further up. I want to know when they’re coming.’ Max ordered the rest of his force to take cover either side of the river road.

  They waited, the air shimmering above the river in the dry heat. When an isolated enemy force of twenty cavalry with no back-up charged forwards to capture his men, Max sprang his trap, his troops attacking from the rear and front. There was a brief skirmish. With no way of cutting their way through to safety, the enemy surrendered without a fight. Even in the moment Max was proud his men; they had held discipline on their short, vicious charge. Above the uproar he called out to the leader of the enemy scouts. ‘Do not struggle and I promise your lives will be spared.’

  He was surprised to be greeted in an accent he recognized as Dumnonian, the tribe that lived south west of his own tribe. And even more surprised to be greeted by name. ‘Is that you, Maximus of the Vellauni?’

  Max looked curiously at the tall, steel-haired scout in front of him. Even chained with the rest of the prisoners he was a striking specimen. ‘How do you know me?’

  ‘My name is Catuarus, from Dumnonia. We met once at the market in Verulamium – I sold your father a fine saddle? Times were tough for trade so I thought I’d try my luck here. Half of these men,’ he gestured to the others in chains, ‘are from Dumnonia like me. The other half are Iberians – from God knows where.’ Catuarus eyed him intently. ‘Back home you struck me as a man of honour, Maximus of the Vellauni. Do you intend to keep your word? Are my men and I to be spared?’

  Max fixed his grey eyes with his own. ‘I was sent to take prisoners, not dead bodies. Emperor Constantine would like to know what General Gerontius is up to.’

  Catuarus grinned, showing strong teeth. ‘Then it’s a privilege to be taken prisoner by a fellow Briton. I don’t know about the Iberians here, but we Dumnonians will tell Constantine everything he wants to know!’

  *****

  It was growing dark when the walls of Arelate finally appeared in the distance. Walking behind Zephyr Catuarus called out to him. ‘If Constantine does release us after we’ve given him what he wants I’d even serve in his army if I had to. God knows why we’re fighting our own side anyway.’

  Max laughed. Encouraged, Catuarus went on. ‘I thought this was going to be a big adventure. Come out here; show the world what Dumnonian blood and steel can do.’ The man laughed at his own naiveté. ‘It’s all shit, really, isn’t it? Our generals don’t know or care who we are or where we come from. It doesn’t matter to them whether we’re Dumnonian or Catuvellaunian or African or even Saxon. All they want are armed men they can push into battle.’

  Max grunted. Catuarus was right, but agreeing with him too openly would be treason. Unfortunately his prisoner took that as a sign to continue. ‘I came here to help Constantine take Rome so we’d finally get some proper defences back home. You Catuvellauni have problems with the Saxons in the east, but we’ve Hibernian raiders over our way. They’re tough bastards,’ the Dumnonian admitted. ‘Now instead of kicking Honorius out of Italy, it seems we’re to kill our former brothers-in-arms and squabble over Gaul.’

  Catuarus was speaking thoughts Max himself had had himself. Now others were listening in on their conversation. He kept silent, trotting slowly on, hoping the Dumnonian would get the hint and shut up. But Catuarus was just warming up. ‘The Empire has ignored us for decades. To them Romans we’re just some island in the middle of nowhere, where it’s al
ways raining. They don’t want to be posted there, surrounded by ferocious bastards like the Picts, the Irish and the Saxons, so they don’t spend any money on us. We pay their taxes and what do we get in return? Nothing.’ Catuarus waved his hand at Arelate’s imposing city walls, growing more solid with every moment’s march. ‘Here’s the wealth of the Empire, down here - fine cities, villas, churches, baths, theatres. And more soldiers than they can feed. Back in Dumnonia, we live just as we did before the Romans came. Most of us don’t even speak Latin. And we never see a Roman. Except for the big fortress at Isca, it’s like Rome never existed.’ Catuarus grunted and spat. ‘Apart from the taxes, of course.’

  One of Max’s troopers chipped in. ‘That’s true. Isca’s in decline too, just like the rest of the country.’ A couple of the other men muttered in agreement. They’d almost reached the city gates now. This was too dangerous a conversation to be having. Max barked an order. ‘Silence everybody! We still have a war and an Empire to win!’

  Instantly the Catuvellauni fell silent. Catuarus looked contrite. ‘I meant no dishonour. Obviously we’ll loyally serve your Emperor.’ Quickly he corrected himself. ‘The Emperor.’

  Max kept his features straight. ‘Let’s just steer the conversation away from politics, shall we?’

  It was dark when they entered the streets of Arelate. Reaching the basilica Max handed over his prisoners for interrogation. ‘Treat them well,’ he warned the guards, some of Eppilus’s men. ‘The Emperor wants them healthy’.

  He found it a strange experience, to be thanked by a prisoner. ‘I salute you for the kindness you’ve shown my men. With any luck I’ll soon be serving alongside you, Maximus, Briton next to Briton.’ The handsome Dumnonian looked strangely honourable, despite his chains.