by Scott Hurst
Some of Constantine’s cavalry were already out there, harassing the enemy’s flanks, kicking up dust. Now there was a great roar. The enemy mass accelerated towards them. The lituus signalled the cavalry to engage. With the rest of the left flank, Max and his men urged their horses forward. Picking up pace they accelerated towards the horde.
The noise was deafening; horses galloping, the sound of men running, bloodthirsty threats from their screaming enemies. Max watched the rebel hordes hit their front line. Turning forward again, Constantine’s force swung in once more, only to confront a mass of enemy cavalry hurtling towards them. It took seconds to recognize these cavalrymen as Roman, sent by Gerontius to his new allies. Max and his men had just enough time to throw their javelins before they were in the thick of it, chopping, slicing, thrusting.
A Roman cavalryman, snarling face framed by the bright metal of his helmet, raised his arm to bear down on him. Max’s sword caught him at the base of the neck. He felt the shudder of blade biting into flesh; saw bone and crimson blood fly. The man sacked down from his horse between dust and hooves. Max fought on, steady, vigilant, focused. One man at a time and then another, until he was through to the other side of the enemy formation. Turning back he looked to see how his men were faring. Four Catuvellauni down, though more of the enemy had fallen. Two of his men, off their horses, were locked in hand-to-hand combat. The enemy cavalry wheeled round to charge again and Max signalled his men to do the same. In this pass three enemy cavalrymen headed straight for him. Swerving past the wild lunge of the first man, he smashed his shield into the face of the second, catching the third a slicing blow to the thigh.
Wheeling around again Max saw Salvius, locked in combat with two Romans. Forcing Zephyr forward he caught one of them on the shoulder, slicing through muscle and sinew. Salvius had his man down too. He grinned Max his thanks, a wild look on his blood-splashed face. Max turned from him in time to see Madoc slice a man’s shield arm clean off. The Dobunnic stood triumphant over his fallen enemy, duel won. The few remaining enemy cavalrymen still on their horses started fleeing. All around them the enemy’s right flank was in trouble.
The skirmish had moved Max’s unit onto a low rise on the edge of the plain. From this new vantage point he could see the battle playing out. In the centre their enemy was still pushing forward. On the flanks they were being pushed back. Amid the dust and horror, Max’s heart lifted at the sight of the Torc, gleaming in the sunlight, high above the bloodshed. Jubilation filled him, but it was fleeting. There was still work to be done. Issuing swift orders, Max reformed his men, leading them back into battle, this time where he’d seen Constantine’s cavalry biting at the enemy mass. Again and again they charged, scattering their foes where they could, harrying them were they stood firm. As the battle wore on Max was exhausted. But he was proud of his Catuvellauni. Every man fought on undaunted. It was hard to keep track in the swirling chaos of action, but so far he had counted no more than fifteen men lost. Far more of the enemy was down. Thankfully Salvius and Madoc were both still safe.
An hour later he found himself back on the low hill, Salvius next to him. His old friend was grinning, his elation clear. ‘Looks like they’re breaking!’ he shouted, pointing down to the dusty battlefield.
It was true. The enemy mass was moving backwards, slowly, but backwards nonetheless. Better yet, Max could see the Torc moving forward. Pointing, he cheered out his joy.
Suddenly the Torc tilted dramatically, as though it were being crowded. What was happening? The line next to Max’s Catuvellaunian foot soldiers had broken.
Salvius had seen it too. ‘Something’s wrong!’
Stirring their horses both men charged down the hill, signalling the others to follow. The fighting moved closer to the precious Torc until it was surrounded on three sides. A weary foot soldier looked up as Max drew up, desperately shouting his report. The news hit Max like a blow. ‘The Corieltauvi and some of the Gauls have gone over to Gerontius!’
Salvius was already attacking Corieltauvi foot soldiers, trying to push them away from the Torc. Max and his cavalry charged, hacking and slashing. He knocked away the shield of a Corieltauvi with its black Raven insignia and he thrust hard into the man’s midriff smashing the man’s belt buckle with its little Raven decorations and digging deep into his flesh. Above the heads of the warfare Max could see the Torc rise and fall. The two sides locked in bitter combat. Max had almost reached the Torc itself when a cry of went up behind him. ‘Treachery!’ The Aquitanian cavalry who had been drawn up to their rear that morning suddenly charged into their rearguard, hurling javelins and cutting with their swords. There were more enemy cavalry coming at them now. Max recognized them instantly from the skirmish at Massilia. And he recognized the figure at their head.
Guidolin.
His men were almost surrounded now. Everywhere was chaos and confusion. Max felt Zephyr go down and he was thrown onto the battle floor. Every bone aching, he struggled to get upright, coughing in the dust. Someone, it must have been Madoc, reached down and hauled him to his feet. He looked around him.
The Torc was wavering, falling.
Screaming his fury Max began cutting his way towards it. Nothing mattered but the Torc. Fighting like a berserker he reached it, to find the standard bearer on his knees, run through with a spear, a Corieltauvian warrior pulling it from his grasp. Using all the strength he could muster Max cut deep into the Corieltauvian’s back, kicking him away from the precious symbol. Grabbing the standard he held it high, shouting to his men. ‘Rally round the Torc!’
All around him he heard cries go up. Not just from Catuvellauni, but from Silures and Atrebates too. A chant began. The words ‘Save the Torc!’ resounded all around him and the combined British forces turned as one, driving back the Corieltauvi and the hostile cavalry. Holding the Torc aloft Max continued shouting until his voice was raw. Only when he was sure the worst danger was over he nodded his thanks to a red-faced youngster who took the standard from him. Then he turned back into the battle.
His next opponent appeared, a great towering giant of a man carrying a large shield with a red Dobunnic horsehead.
His nemesis, Guidolin.
The two men circled each other as well as they could in the confines of the battle field. Guidolin eyed him steadily, holding his sword arm straight out to his right. Max stood quietly, weighing his sword double-handed, waiting. His mind was strangely clear. Grappling would be ineffective. Guidolin was heavier; he’d have him on the ground in an instant. There was no room for him to dance around the bastard either; they were at such close quarters. How would he avoid being taken to the ground? In an instant he had it. Rising to his full height Max struck first, from above. Guidolin’s sword arm came up in an arc, catching his blade, deflecting it downwards. Max pushed upwards. Their blades flashed and soared in a blaze of silver.
Guidolin was relentless, his height and brute strength giving him the advantage. Already exhausted Max struggled to defend himself against the barrage of blade strikes as Guidolin sought to gain control. Suddenly their swords locked. Pushing hard, Guidolin forced him backwards. His breath was stinking on his face. ‘Today you die.’
Turning his wrist, Max grabbed Guidolin’s sleeve, throwing him off centre. Ramming down on Guidolin’s sword hand with his hilt, he aimed at the knuckles. Guidolin pulled back, the pain of the blow on his face. But he countered, quick, efficient, and deadly. His last thrust had tremendous force behind it. Max knew now that he could not beat him on strength alone. His only chance was to redirect the blows as they came through and pray for a moment of weakness in Guidolin’s attack.
That moment never came. With Guidolin’s next thrust Max found himself reeling backwards, staggering as the ground came up to meet him. Winded, he looked up to see Guidolin towering over him, malicious satisfaction on his hawk-like face. His sword arm rose. The blade descended.
Max prayed one word. ‘Sabrina.’
And the world went black.
His mind filled with visions, screaming faces, flashing blades. The Dumnonian Catuarus, the sword descending as he was beheaded. A river of blood. Guidolin’s face, taunting. The bear’s face, parts missing. Then strange visions, a carriage, the creaking of a boat, and pain, always pain.
Max woke bathed in sweat, heart racing. The pain was still there, but less now, no longer filling his whole consciousness. In the half light the room looked familiar, like somewhere he remembered from long ago. It took him a moment to realize he was home in Verulamium.
‘Maximus, my love. You are awake?’
Max thought about it and nodded. Immediately pain arced across his skull.
Max felt a gentle hand on his cheek. ‘Severus! He’s awake! Send word to the Lady Sabrina!’ Rhoswen’s face came into view. His vision was unfocused, but could make out her eyes, brimming with tears. ‘My precious boy, we have been so worried.’
‘The Torc?’ Max croaked. ‘Is it safe?’
Rhoswen’s eyes flickered away from his and she began to pull his bed linens straight. ‘Salvius will tell you everything later. For now concentrate on growing strong. You have been unconscious for many days.’
Sick and confused as he was, Max sensed something was very wrong. ‘But we had it.’
Now she couldn’t meet his gaze at all. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, Maximus. What’s important is that you’re back with us.’
Severus arrived, looking frailer than when Max had left. The old man smiled down at him sadly. ‘Good to see you awake, my son.’
‘Father, the Torc…’
Unlike his mother, Severus could not pretend. Shaking his head he slumped into a chair. Rhoswen glowered at him, as if urging him silently to console his son. But Severus was struggling to hide his own grief. Max couldn’t blame him. He understood the blow this was to Severus’s hopes. He’d vowed to bring the Torc home. With it the tribe would have faced the future with hope, with confidence. The Torc would have made them unbeatable in the conflict to come.
And he had lost it.
Surely this meant he was unworthy to wear the Torc? That the blessing been taken away because he was unfit to lead the Catuvellauni?
When Severus could not answer, Rhoswen spoke in his place. ‘Your father was so proud of you when he heard the miracle of the Torc’s recovery. He is still proud of you.’
A whirlwind entered the room. Max was engulfed by Adrastia’s perfumed hair. ‘Cousin Maximus! Salvius had told us all of how brave you were in Gaul. They sing songs of you in the taverns!’ But Max paid her no attention. For standing behind her in the doorway was Sabrina. She stood there quietly, looking at him. The second their eyes met seemed to hold every emotion, every kiss, every touch, every fear and disappointment that had fallen between them.
Adrastia was still burbling on, oblivious. It was Rhoswen who intervened. ‘Maximus and Sabrina should be left alone.’ Smiling she ushered Severus and Adrastia from the room, indicating to Sabrina with a gentle smile that she should enter. Sabrina moved forward to stand at the side of his bed, cradling herself in her arms. She was just as beautiful, but more fragile than he remembered her.
‘Hello,’ she said cautiously.
‘Hello,’ he said. The silence hung in the air between them.
She could not meet his eyes. ‘This may not be the right time, but I can have no pretence between us. You have been away so long, Maximus. Long enough for me to consider what took place between us.’
Max felt fear grip his heart. Not knowing what to say, he kept silent.
Swallowing, she went on. ‘You are a good man. Your family has been very kind to me. If you regret our marriage, I will leave. There are many women who would make a better wife for you. Adrastia, for one.’
All those nights in Arelate, wondering when he would see her again, what he would say to her when he did…they repaid themselves now. ‘I too have had time to consider, Sabrina. Our …union…was rushed. You deserved better. We deserved better. I want you to stay.’ He stopped short, suddenly afraid he had misconstrued the meaning of her words. ‘That is, if you want to.’
She looked up and smiled a small, tentative smile. ‘If you want me to. We could…begin again?’
It was enough, for now. Closing his eyes Max let his battered body seek the rest it so desperately needed.
*****
When next he woke Salvius and Madoc were waiting to greet him. Madoc was grinning at him like a mad man. ‘We thought you were a goner, that’s the truth.’
Max had a sudden vision of the three of them on the dusty north plain north of Arelate. Perhaps now he’d get some answers. ‘The Torc. How was it lost?’ he demanded.
Salvius and Madoc exchanged glances. Salvius was first to speak, brown eyes seeking understanding. ‘It’s a mystery, Arcturus. Nobody seems to know. It simply disappeared in the throng of battle.’
Max made no effort to hide his anger. ‘Have you any idea what that carelessness has cost us?’
Madoc winced. ‘Better tell him the whole story.’
Salvius frowned. ‘Guidolin had cut you down. I saw it happen but was too far away to stop it. The fighting went on for a long time, even after you were wounded. It was every man for himself. I stayed by you, staunched the bleeding. The cut to your neck might have killed if you hadn’t been wearing a helmet.’ Swallowing, he went on. ‘The remaining Catuvellauni were relentless. We fought our way out of their encirclement, pushing Guidolin and the other traitors back.’ Salvius shrugged. ‘When we turned to look for the Torc the battlefield was chaos. The youngster who took the standard from you had had his throat slit. Believe me, Maximus, we searched the whole field.’ He hung his head. ‘Nothing.’
Max scrutinized his face for signs. Whoever had tried to steal the Torc from his room probably had it now. ‘You should have kept searching.’ His head was throbbing wildly. ‘Do you believe the Torc in Guidolin’s hands?’
Salvius was downcast. ‘He’d surely be trumpeting it by now, if it was.’
Madoc came to Salvius’s defence. ‘We had no more time to lose, Max.’
Seeing Max’s frown, Salvius continued. ‘You were dying, Max. You’d lost so much blood you were slipping in and out of consciousness. We had to get you help.’
‘But why come home? Why not stay there, keep searching?’
‘After the Corieltauvi defected to Gerontius, Constantine…’
‘That bastard!’ Madoc growled.
Salvius ignored him. ‘…Constantine got it into his head that all the Britons in his army would desert him.’ He paused. ‘You’ve seen how Constantine deals with ‘traitors’.’
Madoc took up the story. ‘We had two options. Staying there in Gaul, betting our heads on persuading Constantine of our loyalty – without you. Or abandoning his cause and heading for home.’
Salvius cut in. ‘The men already had grave doubts about Constantine. Then your Greek contact sent us warning. Constantine intended to execute ten soldiers from each of the suspect units. When I put it to the men, the decision was unanimous. We slipped out at night. Headed north to give any pursuers the idea we were marching home to Britain, then turned west towards Burdigalia and the sea. With God’s help we managed to get hold of a few ships. By the grace of God we were home within the week.’ Salvius shook his dark head, as though he could still hardly believe it. ‘And not a moment too soon, Arcturus. The Saxons are wreaking havoc. And, since his own return, Guidolin, together with Lupicinius, are attempting to persuade the other tribes to unite behind Gerontius’ cause.’ Salvius’s mouth twisted in contempt. ‘With General Gerontius in trouble now, I can’t imagine Guidolin’s devotion to him lasting very long, can you?’
Max winced. ‘About as long as it would take for Guidolin to put on the purple and declare himself Emperor of Britain.’
Madoc butted in. ‘Guidolin’s not the only one with ambition. Your brother Dye has been busy in your absence too. It seems he has had a taste of power and wants more of
it.’ Hearing footsteps approach in the corridor outside, Madoc fell silent.
A figure appeared in the door. Paulinus. Seeing his old mentor Max felt almost overwhelmed with sadness. ‘I lost the Torc, Paulinus – I’m so sorry.’
Paulinus shrugged, and smiled. ‘The Torc is mere metal, Maximus.’
‘We would not have found it without the young carpenter you sent me to. How did he know where the sect had hidden the Torc? He seemed disappointed not to receive a message from you.’
Paulinus looked away as he answered, ‘He’s a young hothead I had apprenticed to a contact in Arelate. Enough time to talk of him later. Salvius tells me you’ve more than met the challenges of leadership, Maximus. Followed the advice of more experienced men, even confronted the Emperor himself when he abused his power. Compared to those things, Maximus, the Torc is unimportant.’ Seeing Max’s confusion, he explained softly. ‘Understand, boy. The Torc is but a symbol of the Rex Britannorum, a symbol of unity. Just because we do not have the symbol does not mean we cannot have unity itself. You, Max of the Vellauni, descendant of the Rex Britannorum, held it aloft to the acclamation not just of your own me, but of other tribes. That means more than you could possibly imagine. You have proven, Maximus, that the other tribes will follow you. ’
*****
Lupicinius listened to the voice of the bear god in the darkness of the cave. He had been hearing his voice more and more. While Guidolin was in Gaul the bear cult had grown. The tribe were like children, eating out of his hand. Now Guidolin was home he stood between Lupicinius and his destiny as priest-king of the Dobunni.
And now the Shadow had whispered it was time Guidolin must die.
Lupicinius smiled at the remaining girls in the bear cave. Seeing him, they shrunk back in their cage. How futile their attempts to protect themselves were, how ugly and dirty they had become in the months of their captivity. It astonished him that after all the abuse and beatings and threats and intimidation that they had developed almost a strange respect for him. They welcomed the sight of him when he came to feed them their meagre rations, asking for news of the outside world, grateful for any crumb of kindness. Imbeciles. Soon they would feel the embrace of the bear god himself. Just as Guidolin would feel his wrath.
