by Scott Hurst
Thanos shrugged his slim shoulders eloquently. ‘That’s your problem, you Britons. Always at each other’s throats. If you had united properly, your island would never have been taken in the first place. If you can’t unite now, see off the Saxons,’ he shrugged, ‘don’t blame us.’ Clearly he wanted the meeting over but ushering them out he gripped Maximus’s arm, his dark eyes were urgent. ‘Whatever you do with this information, don’t put my neck on the line, Maximus, or I’ll see you suffer too.’
Outside Salvius let out a slow breath of frustration. ‘This won’t improve morale at all.’
Max stared at him in helpless fury. ‘I’m going to see Constantine. Immediately. We have to get him to change his mind.’
Salvius whistled though his teeth. ‘Dangerous move, Max. Constantine’s not a man who likes to be disagreed with. You have a relationship with him now – one that might be useful. He’s still the Emperor – having access to him, having his favour – that’s a gift we might need further down the line. Do you really want to jeopardize your standing with him? There may be dire consequences.’
Max looked at him helplessly. ‘I don’t have any choice’.
*****
It was cold and dark inside the imperial basilica. Max had always thought the darkness was due to the loss of the sunlight outside. Now he knew there was something malign about the place. His thoughts were confirmed by an agonised scream from Constantine’s audience room. A scream that was cut off, abruptly, as if by a hand clamped over a mouth… or something far worse.
Max immediately looked at Salvius, who hesitated. ‘We should come back later.’
Max kept on walking. ‘Those orders to abandon our country are already on their way. It would be impossible to stop the units being shipped out once they’re actually on the road. Constantine needs to retract those orders immediately.’
More screams echoed around the mighty basilica. A few steps more and they knew the cause. Fifteen men were on their knees in front of Constantine. Near them, on the marble floor, lay five bodies, in various stages of decapitation. Two of the heads had been parted from their torsos entirely and stared glassily up at Max and Salvius. The other condemned men waited in terrified silence, bloodied and bruised, their clothing torn.
Max instantly recognized Catuarus the Dumnonian. These men were the prisoners he had brought in. He ran forward, incensed. ‘My Emperor! These men have offered you their full cooperation! I promised them their lives.’
Constantine raised an imperial eyebrow. ‘You had no right to make such a promise, Maximus of the Vellauni. These scum are suspected of planning an assassination attempt on their Emperor.’
Catuarus started weeping, tears tracking down his grimy face. ‘We have denied such a plan a thousand times! We were a scouting party – no more.’ Shuffling forward his knees, he beseeched Max. ‘Please, help us!’
Constantine regarded the Dumnonian coldly. ‘I sincerely hope you don’t believe a word of his lies, Maximus. Why would he admit to his foul plan?’
Catuarus had a fractured cheekbone. The other prisoners were showing clear signs of torture. Outraged, knowing he was endangering any relationship he had built with Constantine, Max couldn’t still his tongue. ‘What proof do you have?’
‘Proof?’ Constantine raged. ‘You don’t get to rule through proof! Instinct, Maximus, instinct!’ Proudly he pointed at his gut. ‘That’s what got me where I am today. The same instinct that tells me these men are lying!’ Constantine nodded to one of his guards who dragged the next prisoner forward. ‘There can be no mercy for rebel murderers. Be careful that you show none, Maximus of the Vellauni, lest I question where your true sympathies lie.’
Fury warred with fear in Max’s mind. He felt Salvius’ hand on his arm, heard his whispered, ‘Be careful, Max or we’re dead too.’ At Constantine’s signal the butchery continued. Max watched in despair as innocent men were hacked to death. At Constantine’s bidding the executioners left Catuarus until last. When they finally dragged him from Max’s feet, the Dumnonian’s cries clawed at his soul.
If you suspect someone of being a traitor, don’t wait. Kill them first. The Emperor’s words rang in his head. Max could stand it no more. This was wrong, an abuse of power. He had promised never to allow such a thing to go unchallenged again. He took a step forward. ‘Spare him,’ he begged.
Constantine stared at him.
‘For my sake, Emperor, as I saved your life.’
Constantine’s face remained motionless. Max felt Catuarus’s blood spatter on his feet and swallowed hard to stop himself vomiting.
Constantine carried on as though nothing had happened. ‘I presume you didn’t come here to witness the deaths of rebel scum. What can I do for you, Maximus?’
Max pulled himself up to his full height, tearing his eyes from the slaughter in front of him. Something shifted in him. It was useless. The man had no humanity. Any loyalty he had felt towards Constantine left. His voice was cold. ‘You’ve ordered the withdrawal of all forces from Britain, even though our island is besieged by Saxon raids.’
Constantine picked at something between his teeth. ‘Security is so lax in this army. It’s time I executed a few people as an example.’ Constantine was mustering him intently. ‘A loyal subject understands the needs of the Empire. Crushing Gerontius’ rebellion, seizing Rome when this bogus truce with Honorius collapses – these things far outweigh the security of one small island.’
Until this moment Max had failed to understand the extent of the man’s ambition. Constantine was prepared to allow his own homeland to be destroyed, the homeland which had given him his chance to try for the imperial throne. People like his father, people like the Catuarus who now lay dead at his feet, had believed in him. Believed that Constantine would raise Britain up, give it all it needed after decades of neglect.
Who could they believe in now?
Max maintained eye contact with difficulty.
Constantine’s eyes challenged him. ‘You are a loyal subject, aren’t you Maximus? Because you’ve seen what happens to the disloyal, haven’t you? That would be a great pity, after the pleasant times we’ve shared.’
Sensing Max’s fury, Salvius urged him to leave. ‘Enough! Let us leave now while we still have our heads!’
Max’s mouth was dry. Gagging on any words of deference, he forced himself to bow his head.
Constantine smiled. ‘One last thing, before you go. Gerontius has paid a band of vermin to attack us - Vandals, Alans, Suevi. I suggest you get an early night. Tomorrow we march forth to do battle.’
*****
Sitting drinking at an inn close to the city walls Max and Salvius were quiet. Recounting the slaughter they’d witnessed to Madoc had lowered their spirits. Max’s disillusion had an almost physical presence. His attempt to bring Constantine to his senses hadn’t worked.
‘It was an impossible feat, Maximus. Don’t blame yourself.’
Max nodded. It had been madness to challenge the Emperor. Yet it felt as though his hopes for the future were shattered by the experience, scattered and torn like the bodies of those Dumnonians thrown no doubt to the dogs. They stood now on the brink of a decision. One that could mean life or death. But how could they stay and support a man who refused to support them?
Their Dobunnic friend looked warily around before talking, never more aware that conspiring against a commander warranted the death penalty. Leaning in, he whispered, ‘So what do you want us to do now? Throw in our lot with Gerontius? Stay with Constantine and keep our heads down? Or head back to Britain?’
Salvius scoffed. ‘Throw in our lot with Gerontius? When he has our greatest enemy at his side?’
Madoc sighed. ‘I vote we head back to Britain then.’
‘You did not witness Constantine’s cruelty today, Madoc,’ Salvius frowned. ‘If we betray him by leaving now, he’d follow us to the ends of the earth just to hack our heads off.’
Madoc grunted. ‘That wouldn’t be so easy for him now
he’s pulled all his troops out of Britain. And he has Gerontius breathing down his neck.’
Salvius sucked a grape seed from his teeth. ‘You’re assuming we would reach Britain. Constantine has forces all across Gaul. We’d have to evade them first.’
‘Those forces have more than us to worry about. What about this band of Vandals, Suevi and Alans on the loose? And some of the units may no longer be loyal to Constantine, given this civil war.’ Madoc’s brow furrowed.
Max had been listing carefully. For better or worse, he made his decision. ‘We keep our promise; do what we swore we would do. We will fight with Constantine,’ he said flatly. ‘God willing, one single crushing victory may suffice to finish this shameful civil war quickly. That at least would be a legacy we need not feel shame for.’
Salvius looked sceptical. ‘And if we win? What of Constantine then?’
‘Perhaps he’ll come to his senses, lose his ever-present sense of treachery,’ Max frowned, recognizing something of himself in the words.
Salvius’s brown eyes met Max’s over his cup of wine. ‘I don’t believe Constantine is capable of coming to any sense of truth, Max. Nor do you.’
‘For the moment we have no better option. To join forces with Guidolin is unimaginable. To head for Britain brings too many risks, both to ourselves and our families.’ Max emptied his cup. ‘The Catuvellauni keep their promises, though Constantine fails to keep his. So, gentlemen, we have an early start tomorrow. Time to get some sleep.’
Madoc grinned salaciously. ‘And time to say goodbye to that pretty housekeeper who’s so fond of you?’
The accusation was like a kick to the stomach. Max rounded on him. ‘I’ve not betrayed Sabrina, Madoc.’
Madoc apologized quietly, clearly taken aback by Max’s reaction. ‘He’s too sensitive about that beautiful wife of his,’ he laughed to Salvius as Max walked away. But Salvius had walked off too.
*****
In the morning, Constantine’s army headed north from Arelate to face the invaders. There was excitement amongst the men but also tension. The younger, less experienced soldiers had begun boasting about what they’d do to the enemy. Passing the training ground Max overheard a youngster declare, ‘They’re all barbarians, savages. No training at all. Once they face Roman blades they’ll run all the way back to the snows they came from.’ But among the older, more experienced soldiers there was a sense of foreboding. Eppilus was stony-faced. ‘I’ve faced Visigoths before. Mad bastards, most of them. Don’t know when they’re beaten. And they don’t care how many of theirs you kill, they just keep on coming.’
Max kept his thoughts to himself. He would wait and see what the enemy was really like. Inwardly he had begun to pray. Let me not disgrace my family, nor let down my men when the time comes.
The march was especially hard on the Catuvellauni, unused to the burning southern sun. Max ensured his cavalry leant their horses to the infantry men, to allow them short breaks from pounding the roads. He himself gave up his horse for the duration of the journey, marching with his foot soldiers. The Torc hung in a bag on his shoulder. It was strangely comforting to feel it there. Though Salvius had made no further moves Max slept with his sword beside him and the Torc under his pillow.
They met the first refugees fleeing the northern invaders soon after they left Arelate. At first just occasional carts and small groups, but as they marched further north those few swelled to a steady stream of dispossessed. The infirm, babes in arms, the old…decimated families making their way south with whatever they had managed to carry away from their abandoned homes. On the fourth day out they came across the first signs of destruction, a ransacked and torched farmhouse. Birds were picking at two small bundles on the road. Uncovered, they exposed two of the dead babies Paulinus had foretold the day the Bagaudae farm was burned down.
The further north they marched the more looted farms and houses they passed. On the sixth day, scouts brought the news Max had been waiting for; they had caught up with the slow-moving mass that was their adversary. Max asked the scouts precise questions about the number and composition of their opponents. ‘The enemy is hemmed in by hills and a river, sir. Their progress is slow.’ Max thanked the exploratores. With luck the landscape itself would help them achieve their purpose.
Battle would come the next day.
Despite marching since sunrise, there was work to do. The men pitched camp, digging latrines and cleared ground for their tents. The Romans took a portable city with them wherever they went. Constantine was taking no chances. The camp perimeter had walkways that were constantly guarded. Each set of portae was guarded by an additional watchtower. Within hours the camp was established, square-shaped with entrances at the midpoint of each side. His men had received their rations, many of them using their frumenti to prepare porridge. Once all his soldiers were well quartered inside their eight man cantebernii, Max sought out the other leaders. They’d agreed to meet close to Constantine’s tent, the Praetorium, located in the centre of the camp where the main roads intersected. Outside it stood the flagpole on which battle would be signalled the next day.
Max stood watching trade at the merchant tents, where the mercatores bought, sold, and traded booty with the soldiers. Since Caesar all soldiers had received a portion of the ‘spoils of war’. These valuables were what made the soldier's life worthwhile. Soon Max spied Brennus and a few of the others. It would be good to make contact before the battle the next day. Though there was much back-slapping as they greeted each other, Max sensed they were feeling tension too. Normally ebullient, the Silurean’s welcome was quiet. ‘Your first major battle tomorrow?’
Maximus nodded. ‘A pity it’s not in a better cause, or for a better man.’ Briefly, Max recounted the carnage he had witnessed.
Listening, Brennus spat on the red earth. ‘Tell you the truth, my troops are restless. Constantine has done too little to inspire them. We fight tomorrow not for him, but to save our own skins, Maximus. I urge you to ensure your men do the same.’
*****
When Max turned in an hour later, he knew he wouldn’t sleep, though he was exhausted. At least his bunk was prepared. At the last minute Madoc had found a young Arelate lad to run errands for him and make him comfortable. Many such calones were needed to perform thankless menial tasks. Young Tascio had done well – the tent was clean and organized. Sending the smiling, curly haired lad to his own bed Max lay down on his bunk. Tomorrow was the day of reckoning. Many of them would lose their lives, as he himself might. Somehow he was not afraid of death, but he was afraid of the pain of dying. Or worse. What if tomorrow’s battle left him maimed? Perhaps even blinded?
What he’d give to speak to his parents, though he was glad Rhoswen didn’t know what he was about to face. Like all his men he’d written a short letter home, which his parents would receive if he died in battle. As an afterthought, he’d added a few words to Sabrina. Words had never seemed so inadequate. ‘To Sabrina. Thank you for being my wife. I am sorry we could not have had more time together.’ A poor attempt at saying he loved her. Why couldn’t he say what he wanted, just open his heart and tell her how he felt? That he regretted more than anything that this war had stolen their chance to be together? That if he made it home he wanted them to be together as man and wife should be, heart, soul, body and mind. Rolling over in his cot the thought of the curve of her breast, the silkiness of her thighs made him groan. Then he remembered the way her heart hammered beneath his ribs, the terror she had felt giving herself to him.
Guidolin had stolen that first precious moment from them.
But he was to blame too. He’d been a fool to leave without reassuring her that all would be well. Punching the pillow he cursed himself for not having had the courage to make it right.
*****
When he awoke, his body was so tense with anticipation he hardly felt tired.
The cornus was blown, its deep sound calling to basic formations. As the rest of the army readied itself for
combat, Max called his Catuvellauni together. Pointing to the Torc held aloft behind him Max deliberately kept his speech simple. ‘For the first time in many generations, Catuvellauni warriors are once again about to carry the Great Torc into battle.’ The men roared their approval and shook their shields carrying the twin-headed beast of the Catuvellauni. Max gestured for quiet. Looking out at the sea of faces, he felt proud of the powerful force his men had become in such short weeks. ‘This Torc is a symbol of our heritage as Catuvellauni. Today we will not dishonour it. We will fight hard and bring honour to our families. We will guard our brothers-in-arms. At day’s end we will be victorious! I look forward to buying you all beers this evening.’ The Catuvellauni cheered. Men started to call out messages of good luck to each other. Max watched them proudly. These were different men from the men he had brought to Gaul.
It was time. They set off for the battle plain. The Catuvellauni found themselves lined up on the left flank, foot soldiers and Torc parallel with the rest of the British infantry. As soon as his infantry was settled Max and his horse cavalry rode to join the other cavalry units. From their position he viewed the battlefield. Through air shimmering with heat he could see the enemy’s rank and file. There were far more of them. And they were on the move. Their tactic was clear. The enemy was throwing the mass of their warriors behind a frontal assault, trying to break through by sheer weight of numbers rather than any complex strategy. To counter this, Constantine’s plan was to outflank the enemy on both sides, allowing them to push forward, and then trapping them in the centre.
All around Max heard sounds of men moving, warriors shouting themselves courage, bellowing instructions, each sound growing louder and louder in the mêlée of noise. The moment grew closer. Up and down the line horns sounded, signalling instructions. Max could feel the jumpiness of his men, felt his own tension. Looking left and right he checked every man was holding his position. They were. His hand tightened on the javelin he carried.
