Spears of Britannia

by Scott Hurst

  There was something strange in his manner, but then there were a lot of madmen in the Roman army. Max wasn’t going to wait and question him. Muttering their gratitude, they walked away hastily, but Max hoped not too hastily, towards the gate. Just before they disappeared into the crowds on the street, Max risked a look back over his shoulder. The officer was still staring after them, but made no move to stop them. They would have to be careful.

  They headed straight for the carpenter’s shop. To his despair they found the shop boarded and locked. Max banged on the door. There was no answer. Just as he was turning away he noticed the slightest movement in the window above. Madoc had seen it too. Giving Max a meaningful look he said in an unnecessarily loud voice, ‘You stay here. I’ll check out the shops nearby, ask if anybody there knows anything.’ Max shrugged in agreement and watched him go. Instead of heading up the street, Madoc turned briefly to gesture silence then slipped down the neighbouring alley way.

  Shortly after, Max heard signs of a scuffle in the room above. Madoc reappeared at the window, holding the little carpenter by the scruff of his neck. ‘Look what I found!’

  Going round the back Max quickly bounded up the stairs to the small room. Recognizing him, the carpenter looked terrified. ‘I’m begging you, leave me alone.’ For all his fear, the little Atrebate looked defiant. ‘Why should I help you?’ he went on, struggling in Madoc’s grip. ‘I made good my mistake, agreed to do what Paulinus asked. Yet he sends no word that I am to return home.’

  ‘How did you infiltrate them?’ Max needed ideas.

  ‘I built the altar for them in Massilia. They sought me out here in Arelate, asked me for another altarpiece. If I deliver it I’m a dead man. They are become more suspicious than ever. I see the persecution they suffer now as retribution – they say the Torc is cursed. How else can you explain the way they have been so annihilated, reduced now to hiding out in terror? Only the worthy may wear the Torc and be blessed.’ Feeling Madoc’s knife pushed more deeply into his gullet the carpenter cried out. ‘Mercy! I only came back here to get my tools so I can leave here for good.’

  ‘Tell us the sect’s new hiding place or we’ll be using those tools on you,’ Madoc drawled. ‘Shame to lose your chance of a fresh start.’

  There was a battle going in inside the carpenter. He couldn’t take his eyes off of Max. ‘I won’t tell you. Besides, you’d never get access. After losing the Torc to you the sect is more vigilant than ever.’

  ‘Where do we find them?’ Madoc prodded the terrified man gently with his knife, to aid his decision. Though he shook his head the carpenter’s eyes slithered to a pile of papers on a rough table. In two strides Max was there, throwing the orders to one side as he searched for the one he needed. Relief coursed through him. There it was; an order for an altarpiece, and the address, just a few streets away. And in the open box beside the table, robes, the robes of a sect initiate. Max turned to Madoc triumphant.

  ‘Let’s go…’

  Madoc made a cutting gesture with his knife across the man’s throat. ‘Shall I…?’

  Again he was taken aback by Madoc’s brutality. Gesturing ‘no’, Max moved off rapidly. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

  *****

  As he ran Max felt his confidence rise. Since leaving home he’d agonised over whether he’d been right to come after the Torc. But now it was almost in his grasp all the risks were worth it. They’d soon be safely home, long before Guidolin moved his army. On the ship he’d gone over and over their plan in his mind a hundred times. The first few minutes would be crucial if he was to persuade the sect to allow them into their inner sanctum. Heru’s plan hinged on their greed. But Max knew he first had to make them trust him, just for long enough to allow him access. How could he get a complete stranger to trust him? Halfway across the ocean it had come to him; by seeming vulnerable, by reaching out for help. This sect understood persecution. So he would play the persecuted.

  The street was unexceptional. At first it seemed as if the carpenter had misled them. What should have been the sect’s house was a baker’s. Impatient as ever Madoc suddenly blurted, ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ and marched into the bread shop. With a ‘Sorry, Madam’ he pushed past the woman being served and grabbed the man behind the counter. Before Max could stop him, Madoc had thrust his blade at him. ‘Men who look like they’ve something to hide. On this street. Where?’

  The man looked down at the knife in terror. ‘I don’t know, sir…’

  ‘Don’t give me that shit!’ Madoc snarled, pushing the tip of the blade closer. The man’s eyes grew wider and wider but still he said nothing. Maybe he really didn’t know. In despair Max scanned the room. A thin old man in the corner, his back to the wall, looked terrified too. But there was something else in his expression. As Max watched him out of the corner of his eye, he began to edge sideways, like he was about to make a run for it. ‘Grab him!’ Max pointed.

  Like lightning Madoc dumped his hostage and grasped the older man, ‘Talk!’ he bellowed, waving his blade, as though he’d slaughter the man whether he talked or not.

  The old man began gabbling. ‘Round the back, hidden behind the vine!’

  Satisfied, Madoc smiled at the remaining woman queuing for bread. ‘This is none of your business. Tell anyone about it and I’ll be back to slit your throats.’ Grinning silkily at the terrified trio he followed Max out of the shop.

  Round the back of the block, half hidden behind a massive vine, was a door, marked with a faint sun symbol. Max pushed at it. As he expected, it was locked. When he banged on it there was no answer. He banged more loudly. They had no time. Despite Madoc’s threats he couldn’t be sure the women in the bakers would stay silent. Perhaps one of them had gone straight to Constantine’s guards. Finally he shouted as loud as he dared, ‘Open up, Men of the Cross and of the Sun!’

  A small window in the door opened. Max could make out half a face through it. The face stared at him hostilely and cautiously. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Open up, brother,’ Max begged. ‘We’re being hunted.’ Immediately he launched into the cover story he had concocted. ‘We too hold the Torc sacred. We too acknowledge Jesus and the Sun as the same true light.’

  The eyes flickered over Maximus and Madoc, questioningly.

  ‘We flee persecution. The Romans found our writings, beat us so badly we barely escaped with our lives.’ Max allowed his face to show anguish and dignity.

  The face at the window changed, eyes narrowing. Still he hesitated. Max didn’t waste the opportunity. Uncovering Heru’s masterpiece he showed the man the manuscript. ‘This was the only work we could save. Brother, it is the most precious of all, the sacred writings of St. Bartholomew.’ The man seemed to be taking in the symbol at its centre. Suddenly a hand replaced the face in the small window, grabbing for the golden leaves. Max jerked them away just in time. ‘Brother, we are almost at the end of our strength.’ The hand retreated to be replaced by the face again, staring yearningly at it. ‘We will willingly share its secrets with you. Just let us in, out of harm’s way.’

  There was a scuffle behind the door and a new face emerged, calculating. ‘If you are who you say you are, then finish this quote: “To you who fear my name…”’

  Miraculously, instantly, the words were there. The quote was a favourite of Paulinus, from the book of Malachi. ‘“To you who fear my name, the Sun of Justice will appear.”’

  Slowly the door opened. The figure behind it beckoned to them to follow. ‘Come, we will allow our priest to decide your worthiness.’

  The door slammed shut behind them. Suddenly the interior was dark again. Max and Madoc advanced cautiously, constantly on the look-out for trouble. But there was none. There did not even seem to be anyone else guarding the entrance, though he could hear chanting, somewhere deep inside the building. They followed through dark passageways that seemed damp, like a cellar. The air was heavy and thick around them, and Max felt the darkness suffocating him. A lone lamp hig
h up cast a thin light down the corridor but it did little to ease his nerves. Instead, among the shadows it cast, Max’s imagination saw enemies and dangers.

  In the near darkness they passed doorways, and Max thought he saw fingers reaching out to him, fingers that disappeared suddenly when he turned to look at them directly.

  Then the passage they were in began to lead upwards. Ahead Max saw more light and he heard noises too, people murmuring and moving in the shadows. He risked turning his head away briefly to catch Madoc’s eye behind him, and saw the tension and fear in the Dobunnic’s face. They passed out of the corridor into an open area, a small underground hall. There was a sound, half way between a moan and a scream ahead of them, as though in ecstasy. The sounds grew louder, until there was noise all around him. Max sensed in the semi-darkness that the man they had been following had turned, almost as if in expectation. Max saw a glint of teeth, as in a smile or a snarl, he couldn’t tell which, distracted as he was by the treasure glinting ahead of him.

  It was there, just ahead of him, glinting in the lamplight. The Great Torc. He knew that he should control himself, but he could not.

  He reached out for it. Only to find muscular hands gripping him in the dark.

  A man’s voice growled. ‘You think we are idiots, that you can bluff your way in here with some fake trinket?’ Struggling in the dark, Max saw Madoc was punching and kicking, trying to get free of the hands that held him. Hands closed in on his own neck. Max struggled to free himself, scratching at whoever held him fast. He felt the pain of his windpipe being closed off. Felt the confusion as his blood was cut off from his brain. Knew the panic as his air ran out. But even above the shouting and screaming he suddenly became aware of something else.

  From down the corridor came the noise of shouting and splintering wood.

  There was the sound of heavy feet running in the corridor. The hands around his throat suddenly vanished. Gasping Max reached out towards the Torc, his fingers gripped the slippery, shiny metal, even as his arms were clamped by two burly Roman guards.

  ‘Got you!’ a rough voice shouted into his ear.

  Turning in despair, Max recognized the officer from the gates. ‘I knew you were the traitor we were to keep an eye out for.’ He grinned in triumph. ‘The Emperor Constantine wants a word with you.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Passersby deliberately averted their eyes as Max and Madoc were dragged past them on the cobbled road to Constantine’s basilica. Perhaps they’d seen the same scene too many times. Perhaps they believed them already as good as dead, or feared that they’d end up the same way.

  Where in the summer the basilica had offered a welcome cool, now the large, echoing building was cold. Rain leaked through the decaying roof, leaving puddles on the marble floor beneath. This was how all tyranny ended, decaying and defeated. The guards went out of their way to deposit Maximus face down in one of the pools, directly in front of Constantine. The rough accent Max recognized only too well crowed in delight. ‘Welcome back, Maximus of the Vellauni. You thought to escape my imperial justice, but it always catches up with traitors in the end.’

  There was no escape now.

  Angling his head, Max watch the guard hand the Torc to Constantine. Towering above him, the Emperor turned it over in his hands, his eyes shining oddly. ‘So this is the Torc you carried into battle before you deserted us so treacherously? The Torc of Caratacus himself, I believe. It must have great power if you were prepared to risk your life to redeem it a second time?’

  Dirty rainwater lapping at his cheek, Max lay thinking of Sabrina. Of his mother. Of all the people he would never see again. How many Catuvellauni would die when Guidolin and the combined armies of the other tribes crashed across their borders into Catuvellaunia? It seemed the stories of the Torc’s curse were true. Every time he had held it, disaster seemed to follow close behind. It had brought him doom now, long before its powers had brought victory to his tribe.

  He was unworthy after all.

  The Emperor’s voice rose to a howl. ‘Answer your emperor!’

  Max was only dimly aware of Constantine gesturing to one of the guards. Almost immediately there was a searing pain in his side, as the guard starting kicking him, hard, first in the stomach, then in the ribs, the blows expertly placed. Instinctively Max rolled himself into a ball, covering his head. The guard kicked him again. Through the pain, Max could still hear Constantine. ‘As soon as my spies in Burdigalia informed me of your arrival I had you followed from a distance. I could have had you picked any number of places, but you were headed straight for Arelate, of course. We thought you were here to spread your treasonous evil among my British troops. But instead you only seem interested in this.’ He held out the Torc. ‘Why?’

  Max tried desperately to clear his mind. He wasn’t fast enough.

  ‘Don’t waste any more of my time, Maximus. I can give you a quick, easy death or a slow, painful one. Right now I’m leaning towards the latter. So speak! Why did you want this Torc so badly you risked being captured by me?’

  Max lay in an agony of pain and disbelief. How could he have lost the Torc again? How could it be in the hands of this megalomaniac who didn’t even understand its worth? Again he felt the pummelling in his side, the searing agony. This time the guard elaborated on his repertoire by grinding his heel on his hand.

  Constantine was still turning the Torc over, as though mystified. ‘Does it have to do with one of your strange customs? Or are you still touting this foolishness about a united Britain? Libo told me of your treachery,’ Constantine scoffed. ‘You savages are all the same. Willing to die for ridiculous ideals.’

  Max’s mind was racing. If Constantine discovered the truth, that the Torc was the symbol of a united Britain, he would use it for his own ends. All he had to do was hand the Torc to his candidate of choice and support them financially - he’d have a puppet Rex Britannorum. The thought galled him. Even if it cost him his life he was not about to hand Britain back to the man who betrayed it. He had to call on every iota of strength, but he wouldn’t give up the Torc’s secret power.

  ‘The Torc belonged to my ancestor,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Call it sentimental value. ’

  The next kick came almost immediately, as he knew it would. This time there were blows to the kidneys and face too. Max heard a strange, low, roaring sound in his ears as the soldier’s boot struck the side of his head. When it was over, he could feel blood trickling down his chin. Constantine was sneering down at him. Max regarded him silently through swollen eyes.

  ‘Treacherous and stupid? One last chance, Maximus of the Vellauni. I’m getting bored, and I have a dinner to attend. What significance does this Torc have to your people? There’s some legend about it I barely remember…’

  How could Constantine understand the Torc was who they were, and all they hoped themselves to be? That nothing else showed their superiority and strength? Nothing else held the power of Caratacus himself. Nothing else could rally the people, make them believe in themselves. What the Torc gave his people couldn’t be put into words. ‘It doesn’t’ matter now,’ he said weakly. ‘The Torc’s significance can be seen only by those who have eyes to see.’

  Again the kicking, again the searing agony. Was this how his life would end? Not in battle, or in old age, but as the plaything of a sadistic, demented would-be emperor? He had failed. All his dreams ended here. He was no hero. He was going to die here. Die and be thrown to the dogs like the men he had tried to save.

  He tasted the blood bubbling up through his mouth.

  Constantine’s words floated towards him: ‘You betrayed my trust, Maximus of the Vellauni. The world will be well rid of you and so will I’.

  Words. And then merciful blackness.

  *****

  Max came to in a dark, stinking, airless cell. In the gloom he could just make out a bruised and swollen face. Madoc grinning at him, despite the large wound on his cheek. Through swollen lips he rasped
his elation. ‘We survived, Maximus, and we didn’t tell the bastard anything!’

  Max lay back on the hard floor, feeling every ache in his body. ‘Victory indeed,’ he smiled. How was it that he was alive? How had he survived the ordeal? There had been moments when death would have been welcome.

  ‘That was the good news,’ Madoc answered stoically. ‘The bad news is there’s more of the same tomorrow. You heard Constantine. Quickly, if we tell him what he wants to know. Slowly if not.’

  Who knew how long they had lain there before footsteps sounded in the corridor? The door clanked open, allowing lamplight into the room. In the doorway stood two guards. Even to Max’s dazed mind, there was something familiar about them. As they entered the cell Max instinctively curled up, expecting another kicking. Instead the first guard crouched down and spoke softly. ‘We’re here to help you.’ Laying bread and water on the earthen floor he moved round to where Max could see him. ‘It’s me, Eppilus.’ Peering at him in the darkness Max recognized one of the officers who’d come to his room all those weeks ago, demanding to know if he’d found the Torc. Taking a careful sip of water Max tried to clear his head then recognized Sigwulf, the Saxon leader he’d played dice with all those nights ago in the Arelate camp. The giant Saxon smiled at him.

  Eppilus the Atrebate sluiced water on his face as painfully, slowly, Max sat up. Eppilus winced. ‘Sorry, Max. Constantine was watching my man like a hawk. The Emperor would have had him killed if he had thought he was faking your beating. He came straight away to tell me what happened. Sends his apologies and best wishes. By Christ, look at the state of you. All that crap about power and glory that was meant to last forever and the man almost destroys one of the few who were ever loyal to him. He’s not fit to wipe your boots, Maximus.’ Sitting back on his heels the Atrebate drew breath. ‘We’re getting you out of here. Tonight. I’ve been to see your old landlady, Antonia. With her help we’ll get you past the city limits,’ Eppilus grinned. ‘You’re a lucky man, Max. That’s one fine looking woman.’