by Scott Hurst
Max sensed he had found another friend in Catuarus. ‘That would be an honour and a pleasure.’ Turning, Max dismissed his men. ‘You too, Salvius, go ahead and get some sleep.’
Salvius’s dark eyes were full of concern for him. ‘You’re not making for your own bed, Arcturus?’
Maximus smiled at the nickname. He was becoming more comfortable with it, and the term was spreading amongst his men. ‘Thank you, Salvius, no.’ Even here, where every man was out for himself, Salvius cared for him. ‘I hope to drink a few cups of wine with a contact I’ve made on the headquarters staff. That Greek clerk, Thanos? I think he’s a bit sweet on me. Always a good idea to keep on the right side of the men in the know.’ A little friendship could go a long way, ensuring privileges like sending letters through official dispatches.
Max had expected Salvius to laugh at the boy having a crush on him, but Salvius smiled tersely and walked off. What was wrong with him these days?
The clerk Max was after wasn’t on duty. Instead he had a brief conversation with his replacement, before heading back to his billet. As soon as he reached the house Max knew something was wrong. The front door had been forced open. Max ran into the darkened hallway where Antonia was leaning against a wall, her forehead streaming blood. Hearing him she looked up in fear. Her dread was replaced by concern. ‘My Lord, there’s someone in your room. I tried to stop him…’But Max was already at the upper level, drawing his sword as he ran. Every sense was alert to sounds in the darkened building. The door to his room lay open. Inside a flicker of lamplight shifted, as if held by a moving hand. Max burst through the door. By the bed stood a dark figure, wrapped in a cloak, his face obscured. The furniture had been overturned and the intruder was feeling his way along the wall.
The Torc! Instantly Max threw himself at the man. Catching his foot on the overturned table, the misstep sent him flying. Instantly the figure turned around, drawing his sword. Max recognized it immediately. It was like the one he himself carried, the same sword carried by all his men. Rising swiftly, Max sliced down hard. The lamp fell and the intruder parried strongly, slicing towards his arm. Max blocked the blow, driving forward with a thrust which the man blocked in turn. He was strong. The dark figure forced him back a pace. Again Max’s foot caught on the overturned table and he fought for balance. About to strike, the man hesitated an instant. Max took his chance. Swivelling on his feet he pulled loose, regaining his balance. Just in time to see his assailant escape through the window onto the portico roof below.
Max sprinted to the window but it too late. The dark figure was running off through the streets below. Why hadn’t the man finished him off when he had the chance?
Max just had time to check the Torc was safe before Antonia appeared at the door. Warily she checked he was alone, eyes wide. ‘I’ve sent my little one for help. I’m sorry, my Lord. He was too strong for me.’ Quickly she scanned the room. ‘You’re unharmed? Did he take anything?’
Immediately she began clearing up. Max stopped her, pulling her to her feet and sweeping her hair aside to check her wound. She winced with pain. ‘I’m unhurt,’ he said, ‘and he didn’t find what he was after. But you, Antonia, are you alright?’
She smiled up at him. ‘I feel safer now you’re here.’ There it was again, that appealing look. Before Max could respond there was a commotion outside. Madoc and several of his men erupted into the room. ‘I couldn’t find Salvius,’ the Dobunnic shouted, ‘so I just got together the first men I could find.’ Looking around the room he whistled. ‘Had visitors?’
Max looked around the devastation for the first time. ‘He got away.’
Madoc grunted. ‘He was after the Torc?’
Max would have said more, but Salvius arrived, looking as though he had been running. ‘I came as soon as I heard,’ he gasped. Max’s thoughts had temporarily closed down, but now his mind was working again. Salvius alone had known the Torc was hidden in his room. And he alone had known Max had meant to stay late at headquarters. He stared hard into Salvius’s eyes. ‘Where were you?’ he asked sharply.
Salvius looked surprised. ‘Playing dice with Eppilus and the other Atrebates. I thought I was off-duty.’
Max could see no guilt in the familiar face and yet…who else could be responsible?
He turned away. The Torc was still safe. For now that was all that mattered. ‘I want militiamen guarding this building day and night.’ Deliberately he turned to Madoc to issue his orders. ‘Make sure a guard is mounted, with regular changes. Those who are off-duty should get some sleep.’ The men filtered out of the room. As he watched them go Max saw a strange expression on Salvius’ face. Confusion or guilt?
With the men gone Antonia started tidying the room again. He stopped her. ‘Leave it, Antonia. I’ll do it.’
She smiled at him, touching his arm. ‘I have a better idea. My room is warm and tidy. You could share it tonight, if you like. I would feel safer.’
Antonia looked up at him, unembarrassed, voluptuous, her white sheath clinging to every curve of her body. Did she realize the effect she was having on him, a man so far away from home? She would know how to please him. Surrounded by fear, disillusionment and perhaps treachery, Max was tempted. Especially when she reached for his hand, raising it to her lips.
‘Antonia,’ he said softly, ‘I have a new wife, back in Britain.’
‘Some fine lady from a noble family, no doubt’.
Max half smiled. Sabrina was a noblewoman, though her temper sometimes belied the fact. He found himself longing for her, wanting to comfort her, take her in his arms the way Antonia was offering to comfort him now.
‘One day you’ll go back to her, Maximus. But you may be here for some time yet. Your wife need not know…’ Seeing his expression she tailed off.
How easy it would be to say yes, to forget it for a few hours in the arms of someone who asked nothing in return. But somehow he knew he would not. ‘You deserve better than the body of a stranger who will soon leave.’
Sensing she was losing him, Antonia made her move, putting his hand to her breast and pulling his mouth down to kiss her. Her lips were soft and warm, her bosom soft under his palm. Pulling back all he could see were her lips, moist, rosy. Groaning, he looked down at his feet. ‘Antonia, I cannot…’
Now she was embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. You are a fine gentleman who could have his pick of pretty young women. What would you want with a widow like me?’
He reached out to touch her shoulder. ‘It’s not that. You’re very beautiful.’
She looked at him, astonished. ‘Then you must love your wife? You are lucky man, to marry for love. And she’s a lucky woman.’ Planting another sassy kiss on his lips she turned to go. ‘Sleep well, my Lord.’
When Max finally lay down on his narrow bed, he was thinking not of Antonia but of that strange look on Salvius’ face.
As he waited for sleep to come, he wondered once more about the stories that the Torc was cursed. This was the second time his life had been in danger since he had held it. For a long time he lay awake, unable to sleep, eying the shadows in the room, looking for any signs of movement, until blessed sleep finally came.
*****
He was awoken early by a member of the guard. ‘British officers to see you. When you’re ready, sir.’
Max was still splashing his face with water when the guard ushered in three men. Immediately he recognized them; officers from the Silures, Atrebates and Cantii tribes. Men he had spent time with. Good men. ‘Welcome, gentlemen. What can I do for you?’
The Silurean stepped forward, Brennus, the officer who’d sung about Caratacus. ‘There are rumours making the rounds in camp, Maximus. And the guard you’ve placed around this house suggests they are true.’ He paused, as if he didn’t dare believe it. ‘Have you found the Great Torc?’
Max was stunned. He’d hoped to keep the Torc secret and had ordered his men to say nothing. How had word got out? It seemed all of Constantine’s army knew of it. If that were so, then
his enemies would know he had it too - including Guidolin. If rumours were already circulating he had nothing to lose by confirming them. Perhaps there was even an advantage to it. At least now his men could mount a constant guard without alerting attention. Perhaps the other Britons could be persuaded to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Reaching down he carefully withdrew the Torc. Holding it out for the three men to see he enjoyed the look of awe on their faces.
Brennus reached out to touch it. ‘May I?’ Respectfully he ran his fingers over the pattern, just as Max had, his fingertips lingering over the letters CARA. He had a look of almost childlike joy on his face. ‘It is exactly as the tales described,’ the garrulous Silurean breathed. ‘Where’s it been all these years?’
‘Kept safe, by people who treasured it, but didn’t understand its real significance. Soon it will return to its rightful home.’ One by one the other officers, Eppilus the Atrebate and young Gwyr of the Cantii, reached out to touch the Torc. Watching them, Max watched the profound effect the Torc had on these war-hardened men. Brennus spoke his thoughts, keeping his voice low. ‘It is a great thing for all of us that it’s been found at last. Imagine - the Torc of the great Caratacus, the Rex Britannorum.’ The Silurean lowered his voice further. ‘Perhaps it is an omen? When the Torc disappeared our island fell to Rome. Now it has reappeared, just as Rome’s grip is weakening. Perhaps it being found now is a sign – that the tribes will unite and a new Britain will be born, free of Rome?’
Eppilus, the Atrebate, a serious, thoughtful man, gestured for Brennus to be silent. ‘It’s dangerous to even talk of such things. Not all Britons see Caratacus as a hero. My father taught me to honour him but I am descended from an Atrebatian woman and a Catuvellauni warrior. Not all my people feel the same way.’
Gwyr of the Cantii tribe agreed. ‘Many of my people see him as an oppressor still.’
Max frowned. ‘There are many out there who would use the Torc for evil. Let us all be on our guard.’ It was enough for now that they had it.
As they left the room Brennus could not resist laying his hand on the Torc one last time. ‘I cannot believe I am touching it,’ he sighed, running his fingers over it lovingly. ‘Wait till I tell my sons.’
Max made a sudden decision. ‘My men will parade with the Torc at noon. Any of your men who wish to see the Torc may join us.’
A rare grin split Brennus’s face. ‘Constantine is away from camp tomorrow, I believe, so we’ll be safe enough. Prepare yourself for a fine parade then. All my men will be there.’
*****
Some hours later, Max left his billet, carrying the carefully wrapped Torc. Outside he found Salvius, in charge of the guard detachment. Salvius grinned at him. ‘Sleep well?’
Max found himself searching for signs of guilt on his friend’s face. He saw none, and felt almost ashamed of himself. Decentius and Salvius had been like brothers to him. Yet what else could explain the evidence? Narrowing his eyes he surveyed Salvius directly. ‘Where were you last night when the attacker struck?’
Salvius shrugged. ‘I told you last night. Playing dice.’ He paused, waiting for Max’s explanation. When none came, a look of horror appeared on his face. ‘You don’t think…’ He stopped, unable to say the words.
Watch your friends, Guidolin had warned him. Max examined Salvius’s dark features, so familiar but suddenly so strange. This man was the greatest friend he had ever had. True, his attacker carried the same sword, but others in the unit had one too. He was becoming paranoid, probably Guidolin’s intent. ‘Friendship such as ours cannot be betrayed,’ Max said, with as much conviction as he could muster.
Salvius grinned. ‘You had me worried there. I thought for a moment you were going to accuse me of being a spy for Guidolin.’
Max shook his head, knowing he’d almost done just that. He was starting to see treachery everywhere.
*****
A short time later Max was watching his men turn out on a patch of open ground near their encampment. He had commanded these men for long months now. They had proven themselves again and again, in skirmishes, in the ambush they had set. They had shown discipline. And now they had achieved their ultimate goal. These men had lived up to his expectations and so much more. He could feel their pre-parade excitement, he felt it himself. Unfathomable – the parade ground was packed already. As he moved towards the head of the parade he clasped a few of the men by the arm, waving away their greetings of awe and appreciation. There was something in the air; the Torc had brought something new out in these men. A sense of belonging and purpose. And that sense was spreading, causing excitement.
The Torc had been mounted high on a crossbar, like a standard. Salvius had wanted him to be the one to bear it, to hold it aloft for all the tribes to see. Brought up with the tradition that the Torc could be worn only by the worthy or else suffer a curse, he had not felt equal to the honour. There was so much yet he had to prove, so much to achieve. Besides it was to be shared by all. Max had intentionally chosen Madoc, a non-Catuvellaunian, to hold it high so all could see. The look on Salvius’s face had been easier to read that time; he’d clearly been hurt at being passed over for the privilege.
Not only Catuvellauni had come to acclaim the Torc. As Brennus had promised a large crowd of other Britons had gathered too; Silures, Atrebates, Corieltauvi, Cantii and handfuls of men from other tribes. The Trinovantes, with whom the Catuvellauni were allied, came in large numbers. Some were there to mock. One or two made protest, calling Caratacus an oppressor of their people. But most of the tribes seemed fascinated by the relic. There were even a few Saxon faces in the crowd, their new northern friends standing respectfully as it passed by. Even the mighty Sigwulf bowed his respect. When the Torc was finally paraded forth, at first his men’s faces were filled with awe. Then, spontaneously, the soldiers broke out into cheers.
Pride filled Max’s heart as he watched the ancient symbol of power make its way through the ranks. Would the Torc make the crucial difference his father believed? It certainly rallied the men and if the pride swelling in his heart was any measure, it could well be the turning point the tribe so badly needed. Not just for the tribe, but for anyone who rallied under it.
But would he ever wear it? Ever be worthy? Would he be the one to lift the Torc’s curse from his people?
When the Torc had been paraded and all the men had had their chance to see it, Max held up his hands for quiet. He spoke clearly and loudly, so that all could hear. ‘Spears of Britannia today we have gathered to welcome back into British hands the Great Torc of Caratacus. To the Romans and other nations we are not Catuvellauni or Dobunni, Atrebates or Cantii. Nor any other tribe. No matter what people we were born to’, he paused, ‘they hate us all equally!’ A big cheer resounded at his words and laughter rippled through the crowd. Max became serious again. ‘Caratacus had this Torc made for a purpose. He meant it to become a symbol of unity between the tribes.’ The crowd fell silent, listening to him. Was this how Caratacus had felt, focusing the men who followed him on a single purpose? It was as if he knew instinctively how to appeal to their emotions, get straight to the heart of every man in that crowd. ‘That same unity is what the Torc still represents today. That is why the hands now carrying it are not Catuvellaunian, but Dobunnic. Tomorrow a man of the Atrebates or Iceni will bear our Torc aloft.’ The crowd roared its approval.
It was as though every man was experiencing the Torc’s invisible energy, transmitting itself from soldier to soldier, every man sharing the same ideals and emotions. Max used it to his advantage. ‘There are difficult times ahead for our island. Enemies attack us from all sides.’ He wanted them to know he understood their fears about what was happening back home. ‘I too have loved ones, parents who need me, a woman I want to bed again. This symbol means the same to me as it did to Caratacus. He knew that life would be easier for all of us - and for our families – if we learn to see ourselves as Britons. As brothers!’
Loud cheers rang out, loudes
t from the Catuvellauni, but there was great, swelling, joyful support from the other tribes too. Max’s body was tense with excitement, a big grin fixed on his face. It felt good, felt right. People like Calista and Guidolin might not be able to see past the tribe, but these men could. Max was exultant. This was the first time he had shared his slowly growing vision and it had moved them. Perhaps more than that – changed their hearts.
His joy was short-lived. A solemn-faced looking Salvius came up to him. ‘Apparently your little Greek friend at headquarters has some information you’re not going to like.’
As Max turned towards headquarters Salvius fell into step beside him. Max’s heart was heavy, aware he didn’t want Salvius’ company. At least it kept him away from the Torc.
The young Greek clerk looked up as they walked in. His expression, normally flirtatious, was solemn. ‘Bad news, my friend. There have been heavy Saxon raids on Britain. Many killed and much destruction, particularly along the east coast. Damage in the Trinovantian region too, which will affect your tribe.’ Horrified, Max reeled at Thanos’ second revelation. ‘Constantine does not intend to send reinforcements to deal with the Saxon raids. Instead he’s given orders that almost all the remaining units in Britain be withdrawn. They’re being brought here to Gaul.’
‘But that leaves Britain totally defenceless!’ Outrage poured through Max. ‘We’re over here fighting his war and he’s taking away the last protection our families have!’
Salvius hushed him. ‘Keep your voice down, Maximus.’
‘Now we’re at war with Gerontius, Constantine needs every soldier he can get his hands on. The Emperor must never be questioned.’ Thanos rubbed the corner of his young mouth. ‘Surely there are still plenty of British men left over there who can pick up a spear?’
Max had to force the words out. ‘Militiamen with barely any training. And more likely to throw their spears at each other than at the Saxons.’
