by Scott Hurst
Paulinus fell silent, satisfied that he had made his case.
These men had dedicated their whole lives to this moment. What would their answer be? On many faces he saw agreement, elation even. But there were objectors.
One of those now spoke up, his anguish clear. ‘But the Great Torc, brother! Maximus had it in his very hands and lost it!’ A murmur of sorrow ran round the room. ‘How can he be Rex Britannorum without the Torc of Caratacus?’
Paulinus had foreseen this question. ‘It is a tragedy that the Torc is lost once more. But Maximus was in no way to blame. Indeed he almost gave his life trying to defend it.’ The old monk paused dramatically, then played his ultimate move. ‘For myself, I believe the Torc unnecessary.’
The intakes of breath at his audacity were audible. Paulinus pressed on. ‘I believe the man we choose means far more than the symbol. Would Maximus find unifying the tribes easier with the Torc? Undoubtedly. But even without it, he is still the best hope we have.’
There were loud murmurs of agreement, yet still some of the brothers remained ominously silent. Another objector rose. ‘With respect, brother Paulinus, you are Catuvellaunian. You support a Catuvellaunian candidate for Rex Britannorum. This guild was set up to counter the tendency of tribes to favour their own.’
Another objection Paulinus had expected. He was ready for it. ‘I applaud my brother’s sentiments. Those of you who know me well know how I abhor such nepotism. Secondly, and more importantly, Maximus himself has decisively turned away from any such tribal allegiance; he himself has a Dobunnic mother and has now chosen a Dobunnic wife.’
More approval was heard, but there was still a third objection. ‘Are there really no other candidates we should consider? Maximus has never been chief of his own tribe, never mind leading other tribes to unity. To support this inexperienced young man as Rex Britannorum seems a great risk indeed.’
Again Paulinus was prepared. ‘The Rex Britannorum must come from a tribe with sufficient power and prestige to unite Britain. Can any man here suggest another ruler of such a powerful tribe who shares Maximus’s vision of a united Britain? One in which all tribes are treated equally and fairly?’
‘Since his return from Gaul Guidolin too has spoken of tribal unity,’ a younger brother suggested tentatively.
‘Under his control,’ Paulinus countered. ‘We might as well change our country’s name to Dubonnia!’ The suggestion was greeted with such widespread laughter. When the room became quiet once more, Paulinus looked around him calmly. ‘If I have answered all questions, I suggest we move to a vote.’
A man to his left coughed to gain his attention. ‘Excuse me, brother. May I ask one more question?’ The man spoke gently. ‘You portray Maximus as the soon-to-be ruler of the mighty and powerful Catuvellauni.’
The young brother spoke deliberately. Paulinus, so well prepared for other objections, had no way to meet what was now to come. ‘My information is that Maximus has not yet been declared ruler of his tribe – and never may be. Far from uniting Britain, he is currently some way from even uniting his own tribe behind him.’
The young monk paused again. ‘I also hear that his marriage to a member of the Dobunni is far from perfect harmony. And that his very brother plots against him…’
Chapter Ten
This foul part of Verulamium was beneath a lady of her rank, Calista thought bitterly. Looking around her she shuddered. How could anyone bear to live here? Why didn’t the savages build themselves proper villas? The laziness of these defectives was what caused the problems faced by the tribe. Thanks to her eradication campaign, that would change. Otho and his men were rising to the challenge, although progress was not as quick as she’d like. For now she still had to contend with the feebleminded parasites. Shouting angrily as one stumbled into her, Calista pulled her hood further down her face. When she checked over her shoulder the imbecile was still staring after her, as if debating whether or not to follow. Exasperated she quickened her steps, not daring to look down. There was mud all over her silk slippers. From the stench in the air, perhaps something worse than mud.
At last she found the place, a low lying structure, the thatch green in places. Gingerly Calista pushed at the door. It creaked open and she stooped to enter, immediately gagging at the stench within, a pungent mixture of alcohol and urine. The man who lay slumped at the table across from the door didn’t rouse himself as she closed it. Calista stared at him. Was this really the one? She’d heard the old healer had fallen on hard times, but couldn’t the beast make at least some effort? He was ancient, bald almost, his straggly grey hair framing bloated features, the mouth hanging slackly open. From the smell of him and want of movement he looked half dead.
Just as she was about to prod at him he started awake, murmuring and levered himself slowly upright. Right way up his appearance was no better, the face wrinkled and ruddy. ‘And who are you, sweetheart?’ he demanded, bleary eyed, leaning back in his chair, burping ferociously.
Calista shuddered as the reek of the belch reached her. ‘Never mind that,’ she hissed, nerves making her even more irritable than usual. ‘You were once Themistocles, the doctor?’
He peered at her through red-rimmed eyes. ‘I am the great Themistocles,’ he slurred, struggling to pronounce the words. ‘Are you here for a consultation, my Lady?’ He gazed at her unsteadily. ‘You have a pretty accent, my darling, clearly not from around here.’ There was a glint in his eye now. ‘I bet you’re beautiful under that hood of yours.’ Unceremoniously he burped again. ‘C’m here. Let me take a look at you.’
‘Lay a finger on me, you disgusting old man,’ she threatened, ‘and I’ll have you whipped.’ That bastard Heru had survived it, but this frail old fool might not.
A slow grin spread across Themistocles’ face. ‘My humble apologies, my Lady. It’s rare to see someone of your rank in my humble abode.’ He gestured unsteadily at the disorder around him. Dusty documents, vials and small boxes lay amidst a range of other abandoned items. In the corner an amphora had overturned, leaking something sticky and pungent.
Calista braced herself to be pleasant. She needed something from this awful man. ‘It’s known,’ she said carefully, ‘that you were,’ she corrected herself hastily, ‘are skilled in the healing arts.’
‘The very best,’ Themistocles agreed, pride on his ridiculous, swollen face. He half-bowed awkwardly.
Drunken sot. As if she didn’t see enough of that at home. Calista hesitated, wondering how best to phrase her request. ‘I understand too that, while you can heal, you also have certain potions which make persons worse?’
She’d never seen anyone sober as quickly. Themistocles looked at her hard, piggy eyes full of suspicion. Looking around, he checked the room for unseen listeners. ‘Are you trying to get me killed, Lady?’
Reaching into her cloak she pulled out a small linen bag. Emptying its contents onto her palm she showed a large ring to Themistocles, allowing the gold band to glint in the darkness. ‘Think, man, of all the drink you could buy with that.’
Themistocles seemed to be forcing his booze-soaked brain to function. Eyes widening he reached forward. Just as hastily Calista withdrew her hand. ‘The potion first.’
She pulled her hood cloak more tightly around her face as he mustered her. As if finally making up his mind he tottered over to a locked box in the corner. Returning with a small glass bottle, filled with clear liquid, he held it out to her. ‘You’ll need to put it in a rough wine to disguise the bitterness, otherwise it’s virtually untraceable. Whoever drinks this will get very much worse very quickly. And very permanently.’
Calista looked doubtfully at the small bottle. ‘How do I know it will work?’
Themistocles raised an eyebrow, more in control of himself now. ‘Because, my fine Lady, I, Themistocles, say so.’ He smiled at her knowingly. ‘And because if it doesn’t you will carry out your threat and have my horse whipped.’
Calista looked at the man with a hint
of respect. Perhaps he was not as stupid as he seemed. She held out the ring. Carefully they made their exchange.
*****
Felix woke Max in the middle of the night. Even in the lamplight there was something unfathomable in the old slave’s eyes. ‘My Lord, the Lady Rhoswen bids you come quickly. It’s your Lord Father…’
Instantly Max was alert. Dressing hastily he ran to his father’s rooms. Severus lay pale and motionless on his bed. Max looked at his mother in disbelief.
Rhoswen nodded, confirming the dreadful truth. Her voice was raw with tears. ‘He’s gone, Maximus.’
How could this be? Last night he had seemed as though he was recovering. Feeling strangely numb Max knelt to take Rhoswen in his arms. As she wept out the pain of her loss he stared at the ashen figure on the bed. His father was dead. Maximus braced himself for the pain, but in its stead came confusion. How could Severus be gone, taking with him all those things still unresolved between them? How he yearned now for his anger, his exasperation, anything but this deathly stillness.
Rhoswen heaved a sigh. ‘It happened so quickly. The servants called me. Moments after I got here he was gone.’ She looked at him with loving pride. ‘And now you, my beloved Maximus, are Chief of the Catuvellauni. Indeed our king, now that you have freed us from Rome.’
Hope flickered in his heart. ‘Did he name me his heir?’
Rhoswen smiled sadly, shaking her head. ‘Just two days ago he was about to announce your succession officially. If you hadn’t rowed with him over the Bagaudae campaign that night he’d have made his decision known.’
Max had never known such pain. Severus was dead. And with him any chance that his father would understand him.
His mother hugged him to her. ‘Your father knew you were the better man. I think he always did.’
Max’s mind was racing. Grief clamoured at him, but he was filled with sudden dread. Severus had died without naming his successor. Given the factions within the tribe, that meant trouble. He and Dye would have to decide between them who would follow him. For now the situation would have to be contained. ‘Mother,’ he said, trying to keep the tension out of his voice, ‘who else have you sent word to of father’s death?’
She looked at him, confused. ‘Only yourself …and Dye’.
Then why wasn’t his brother here? Max tried to force his anguished brain to think. Suddenly the door was flung open. Dye and Calista marched into the room, surrounded by a large assembly of retainers, armed with knives and spears.
Rhoswen was on her feet, horrified. ‘What is the meaning of this, Dye?’
Dye had been standing staring silently at the motionless figure on the bed. When he turned back to Max and Rhoswen there was excitement on his face. The scarred skin puckered into a smile of triumph. ‘My condolences, mother. Our tribe is beset by dangers. My brother is dangerously close to enemy forces - both to the rebel Bagaudae and to other tribes. He brings peril to our people. There can be no doubt that I should succeed to the throne.’
His voice could barely be heard as loud cheers rang out from the retainers around him, acclaiming Dye king. At his side Calista was staring down at Severus, smiling her own victory.
Rhoswen erupted with unaccustomed anger. ‘Your father intended Maximus to succeed him.’
Calista’s voice rang out. ‘You have proof?’
Rhoswen looked wounded. ‘You doubt my word, Calista? My husband made me witness to his decision and now I’m sharing it with you. I need no proof!’
Calista eyed the older woman with contempt. ‘You have always favoured Max over Dye, Rhoswen. Now he has taken a Dobunnic bitch for wife, you favour him even more. Since you have no proof of Severus’s intent we must do what is best for the Catuvellaunian people.’ Pulling herself up to her full height she fixed her mother-in-law with her strange, green eyes. ‘Why should our great people accept the authority of some stray Dobunnic who has found shelter with our tribe for too long? ’
Launching himself forward Max found himself facing a row of spear points.
Dye grinned at him. ‘Careful brother. Attacking your new queen is a treasonous offence.’
Calista held up her hand. ‘Enough!’ She ushered their retainers forward. ‘Your treacherous unity plans have angered many in our tribe, Maximus. We are placing you and the Lady Rhoswen under guard, where you will be safe… and where you can do no further damage.’ Max lashed out, landing several punches, but Dye’s goons had him outnumbered. Still struggling Max was marched from the room behind his mother. At Rhoswen’s rooms they were thrust through the doorway and an armed guard was mounted outside.
Calista had chosen their prison well. There was no window built into the beautifully painted walls. Max quickly checked the small cubiculum for another means of escape, but there were none. Any furnishing he could have used as a weapon had been removed.
How had Dye and Calista known to ready their prison even before Severus’s death was confirmed? ‘Think carefully, mother. Was anyone else aware father was about to announce me as his heir?’
To Rhoswen’s grief was added horror. ‘Whatever your brother has done today, he would never harm your father. Dye is capable of many things, but not murder.’
The door opened and another figure was thrust into the room. Shocked and scared, Sabrina came straight to him, sobbing. ‘I would have gone for help if I’d been able to get away somehow. They’re searching for Paulinus, and for Salvius and Madoc,’ she shivered.
‘They won’t find Paulinus, thank God. He’s away on his travels. And Salvius and Madoc can look after themselves.’ Trying to force a smile, Max pushed down the fear that his two friends might already be lying dead in their beds. His mind was working feverishly. Within moments it came to him; they were safe for now. His brother still needed him. He turned to the two women. ‘Dye and Calista still need to be recognized by the tribe as father’s legitimate successors. If they kill us, that authority would be in doubt. That means we’re safe until father’s funeral at least. They’ll want us there, alive.’
Rhoswen was horror struck. ‘Even as we grieve…? Calista would never be so cruel.’
Max had a sudden image of Calista raising her whip to Heru. ‘Your daughter in law can be very persuasive,’ he said. ‘All she has to do is keep one of us hostage and threaten harm to them unless we show fealty at the funeral.’
‘Even at their worst Dye and Calista could not be so malicious.’
Over Rhoswen’s head Max and Sabrina’s eyes met. Rhoswen might not believe them capable, but they certainly did.
When no further prisoners joined them Max started to worry in earnest. Had Salvius and Madoc escaped? Max feared particularly for Madoc. Dye and Calista would be cruel to the Dobunnic turncoat.
As the long hours wore on and no further prisoners appeared a new thought came. All this time he had worried that Salvius was in some way linked to Guidolin. Was it possible that all this time his loyalty had been with Dye and Calista?
*****
Dye felt power flow through him as he stood facing the tribal council, Calista at his side, armed retainers at attention behind him. He had lived in the shadow of his bastard brother all his life. Now it was his turn. He’d needed a few drinks to steady his nerves but all in all he’d never felt so happy. ‘Gentlemen of the council,’ he began ostentatiously, ‘I thank you for attending us at this early hour. I have sorrowful news to impart. After a long illness my noble father has died, peacefully, in his sleep.’ Murmurs of surprise and sorrow ran through the room. ‘Though stricken with grief, we must think first of the living, not of the dead. With my Queen at my side,’ he smiled at Calista who ignored him, in thrall to her own moment of glory, ‘and with the full agreement of my noble mother and my brother, and in accordance with my father’s wishes, I have agreed to take upon myself the burden of kingship.’ Dye hesitated briefly, to allow the council to honour him.
There was no reaction.
Dye pressed on, covering up the silence. His next announ
cement would meet with their approval. ‘My queen and I have recently met with many of you privately to discuss questions of mutual benefit. Now that I am king, those matters will receive my urgent attention. For the Bagaudae scum and for those of inferior race living within our borders the future looks bleak. Whilst the future for any loyal Catuvellaunian is bright indeed.’
Suddenly his new rule met with enthusiastic approval. Pathetic, the way they started acclaiming him, calling out his name. Several even fell to their knees in homage. Looking down at their exposed necks Dye sensed he was going to enjoy his new power. As council members began to come forward to pay him tribute he called to Otho. Calista’s cousin was proving himself very useful indeed. ‘Put our full plan into action now. Round up the rest of the Bagaudae leaders as well as any foreign traitors. And do it swiftly.’ The bastards kneeling before him would soon be asking for the land he’d promised them.
Calista leant across and hissed her own orders to Otho. ‘Naturally you will receive a fair share of any land and assets you seize, cousin. So be sure to do your job diligently. You be the judge of whatever force is necessary.’
As soon as the homage ritual was over Dye turned to Calista. ‘May I have a word in private, my queen?’
