by Scott Hurst
It was over.
Max ran to where Salvius lay gasping in pain. Overcome, Max took him in his arms.
Skin grey with blood loss Salvius was trying to say something. Max bent his ear to his lips. Through gritted teeth, Salvius joked, ‘I always said I’d give my life for you.’
A shadow passed overhead. Looking up Max saw Paulinus standing over them, holding the Torc. He judged Salvius’s wound with a practiced eye. ‘That won’t be necessary this time, thank God. He’ll survive, given the right care. Leave him to me, Maximus. I have news from the Guild. They have persuaded the Cantii and Atrebates to disband their invasion forces. The Corieltauvi are also withdrawing. Go finish what you have to do.’
In the chaos troops were looting everywhere, both Catuvellauni and any Dobunni who had abandoned the battlefield. Some Dobunni had taken control of Guidolin’s wagons to use as a baggage train. Was that Lupicinius with them? Gathering some Catuvellauni, including Victor and some of his men, Max made straight for him.
The priest had been given up by Vortigern. A peace offering of sorts, no doubt. And also a means of eradicating a man who stood in the way of Vortigern’s rise to power over the Dobunni. A clever move. The boy was not to be underestimated.
There was both nervousness and excitement in the eyes of the Dobunnic priest. He held his arms wide in greeting. ‘Welcome, my fellow king. Have I not done well? Have I not done as you and Paulinus wanted?’ The dark eyes were jaundiced, his skin tight over bones of his skeletal face. How could faith take such a wrong turning? Lupicinius sounded unhinged as he cackled, ‘Now we will rule Britain jointly, you and I.’
How could any man be so deluded? Exhausted by the slaughter and the pain of Dye’s death Max almost killed the bastard on the spot. His hands tightened on his sword.
The colour drained from Lupicinius’s face. He leapt back trembling. ‘You sent Paulinus to me to broker a deal. Will you not honour it now?’
Max looked down wearily at the priest. He could deal with Lupicinius later, capturing Calista was the priority now.
Max groaned, ‘We must find my brother’s wife.’
Sensing an opportunity to ingratiate himself, Lupicinius glancing towards the woods, eagerly exclaiming; ‘I saw her go in that direction!’
Summoning two of his men Max told them to guard the Dobunnic priest. ‘Don’t let this bastard go anywhere until I return.’
Lupicinius bowed deeply, unable to believe his luck.
By now Zephyr had been brought to him. Grateful to see the precious beast unharmed, Max mounted and was about to set off when Paulinus grabbed his reins. ‘I know how irate you must be, Maximus. Yet even in your deepest anger you must do nothing that would not conform to the gospel.’
Max was too angry to listen. Galloping towards the tree line he caught a glimpse of blue robes among the trees. Calista.
It was dark there and so quiet, after the clamour of the battlefield.
He found her down by the river, staring dubiously into its depths as if trying to calculate how deep it was. Watching him approach she started to undress, as if she was about to take the waters. ‘Ah, Maximus, how perfect that you come for me. Have you seen that fool of a husband of mine?’
‘Dye is dead,’ Maximus stated coldly.
There was no reaction on her face. She shrugged, as though his life had been of no consequence. ‘That marriage was always a mistake. Your mistake. You and I should have ruled together, Maximus.’ Waiting until he was almost beside her she slipped off her robes, standing naked in front of him with only the collar Heru had made for her around her neck. Her strange green eyes glittered. ‘It still could be, you know.’
Even now she showed no remorse. Not for Dye, nor anyone else she had harmed. ‘You disgust me. I should kill you,’ he said quietly.
She smiled a strange little smile at him. ‘But you’re not going to, are you? Maximus of the Vellauni is far too virtuous to kill a defenceless woman.’ She paused, looking behind her. ‘But since I don’t relish the idea of a lifetime’s imprisonment guarded by the Bagaudae scum I tried to kill…’ Calista turned and, with one smooth movement dived into the river.
Max watched her swim swiftly and easily to the other side. Watched her emerge and turn to wave back at him, a smile on her lips. In the pale sunlight the rich jewellery on her throat and hands sparkled against her pale skin. He could see clearly the ring on her right hand as she raised her hand in haughty farewell. Rhoswen’s wedding ring.
He continued watching. Beyond Calista on the far banks shadows emerged from the woods, shadows who had listened to their words. Here and there he could make out hands, faces, yet somehow it was like a single animal lurking there, moving stealthily towards its prey.
Calista’s white limbs flashed through the dark water below.
As she approached the bank and clambered out, mud spatters soiled her milky skin.
Squeezing the water from her hair she wriggled her hips at him one last time, grinning back at him in triumph. ‘Fare thee well, Maximus. Should we ever meet again, you will regret letting me live.’
Some noble instinct told him to shout out a warning, but he ignored it. Instead he kept his eyes locked on hers, just long enough for the Bagaudae band to reach her. He closed his eyes as her screams echoed high and loud across the water, then suddenly they were cut off. When he opened his eyes again, all he could see of Calista was her right hand, sticking out from the bushes.
Only three fingers remained.
*****
Paulinus approached the group holding Lupicinius. The Dobunni priest saw him and began shouting out, ‘Paulinus, tell these men I am on your side!’
Paulinus looked down at the man with disgust, ‘Whatever side you are on Lupicinius, it is not a side I wish to have anything to do with.’
There was panic and fear in Lupicinius’ eyes now. ‘But we had an arrangement…Guidolin is dead.’
Paulinus stared at the man, calming himself, trying to decide exactly what to say to the wretch in front of him, but he was saved the trouble.
A burst of cheering from behind him grabbed his attention. Every man there turned to see a group of Catuvellaunian horseman riding towards them. Two of the riders had weary, grimy looking girls riding behind them.
As the group approached, wild cheers went up from the group around Lupicinius. One of the men shouted, ‘It’s Drusilla’s daughters’.
One of the approaching horsemen shouted, ‘We found them hiding by the road from Corinium. They’d escaped from some Dobunnic bastard who’d taken them!’
Seeing the girls approaching, Lupicinius knew they were death to him. As his guards turned to hail the escaped girls, Lupicinius backed away.
A young Catuvellaunian immediately crossed his path. ‘Stay where you are, priest.’
‘I am an old man and would empty my bladder. I have no objection to you coming with me.’
The forest was feet away. The young guard turned his back on Lupicinius, anxious to catch a glimpse of the joy caused by the girls’ return. Lupicinius, hitching the skirts of his robe, reached underneath for his knife. Steel met young flesh and won.
*****
Within seconds he was running deeper into the woods, laughing. He had escaped. Perhaps he would never rule the Dobunni, but there were other tribes out there, others who would listen to him. He threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing from tree to tree in the silence of the forest. Because there, in front of him, was a sign that he was still favoured by Artur.
The god continued to bless him.
Standing by the river, was a bear. His bear.
As he offered up a prayer of grateful thanks the bear, fish in mouth, splashed to shore. Rising, it became still, sniffing the air.
He was thicker, more muscled now. There was a dark scar across his muzzle. As he studied the scent he’d picked up, inhaling with short breaths through his mouth, a look of curiosity crossed his eyes. Shaking off the water the bear turned his head to look at Lupic
inius.
He was grown swift.
In an instant the great bear was in front of the priest, ears flattened.
Lupicinius felt the thrill of proximity, not to the creature, but to his god. As their eyes met he revelled in the fear of violent death that made him feel so alive.
The god would not harm him. He had come to bless him.
Almost in a trance Lupicinius stepped forward, willing to be used for the god’s highest good. Completely free of fear, he advanced. He was standing on the edge of the mystery.
He felt the first stroke of the claw, and the second, which tore the skin down his ribcage.
The third felt like the beginning of eternity.
His scream, when it came, was not one of pain or hopelessness. It was a scream of glory.
*****
Can a battlefield be a holy place? Something in Max prayed that it had all been worth it, all the hardship and loneliness and fear – all those feelings that had run so strong and deep in him and in every man who had fought there that day. So many lives lost. For the rest of his life he would work to prevent such a conflict happening again. There was a far better way – not with the sword but through unity, through working together. God still had much work for him to do.
For now, it was over. Max’s soul touched the gratitude he felt, gratitude for being alive, for Sabrina’s gift to him of a child. For Dye’s sacrifice, which had turned the battle.
Giving instructions to abandon pursuit of any fleeing Dobunni he began picking his way through the dead and dying, looking at all the faces on the ground. He found Eppilus and paused to close his friend’s eyes, staring glassily upwards. Without this man’s bravery, he would be dead in a Gaulish grave or worse. In days to come, when he spoke of unity, he would speak of Eppilus, of his example and courage.
Among the carnage there were so many faces. So many of them men who had welcomed him home the night he returned.
He found Dye and spent long, painful moments with him, thinking of what had passed between them. Of the look they had exchanged before Dye went to his death. He had found his courage at the end.
Pulling himself upright he made arrangements for Dye to be taken home to their mother. What she had suffered. First losing her husband and now losing her troubled son without being reconciled to him. Only Rhoswen’s faith would see her through the funeral and the dark days to come.
All the arrangements made Max reached the wagons of their own baggage train, where he found Sabrina surrounded by his bodyguards. She was crouching by Salvius, holding his hand. Seeing him she screamed her joy. ‘You’re safe!’
Max clambered up to join her. Turning he saw Paulinus there too, carrying the Torc.
‘Give me a hand up, Maximus!’ the old monk demanded.
Once up on the wagon’s platform Max took Sabrina under the shelter of his arm.
Paulinus looked at him quietly. ‘Congratulations, my boy. Everything that was required of you until now, the patience, wisdom, self-control – do not abandon them now. You will have great need of them as you lead your people. Service - that is the path of all the servants of God.’
Max struggled to speak past the lump in his throat. ‘Dye gave himself up for us.’
‘A great sacrifice, a great making right.’ Paulinus noted the tears glazing Max’s eyes. ‘Whatever your regrets, put them behind you. Put the future into God’s sure hands. It is your job now to go before us, to anticipate the needs of your people, to lead us to our destiny.’
Despite his wounds, it was Salvius who began the soft chanting. ‘Maximus Arcturus, Rex Britannorum! Maximus Arcturus, Rex Britannorum!’
Maximus heard the cry being taken up across the battlefield. First he heard Catuvellauni shouting his name, then Atrebates and Cantii. Even some Dobunni joined in. Men started swarming to the Torc, falling on their knees onto the battlefield in front of Max. Within minutes a large crowd had gathered, men bloody, scarred, and bleeding, jubilant to have survived the day, full of joy to have a leader who had steered them through, and won out against their enemy. A man they could trust.
Half-dazed with exhaustion and filled with the sadness of the slaughter, Max accepted their acclamation. He’d not set out to achieve this. Could never have imagined how being trusted by these men would fill his heart. The power of it overwhelmed him.
Having already laid the bear pelt across his shoulders, Paulinus advanced towards him, the Torc in his hands. The eyes of the two men met, each acknowledging the wonder of the moment. Paulinus raised his arms and, bowing, placed the Torc around Max’s strong neck. There it lay, strong, powerful, potent.
Max felt its weight, and raised his arms as the men, his men, raised their voices in jubilation.
Here was a new beginning, the start of a new journey for him and for his people. By God’s grace he would be worthy of it.
Epilogue
The bear pelt draped on the throne behind him, an ongoing reminder of his responsibility to his people, Max sat on the same solium where his father had presided the night Max returned from exile. So much had changed since that night. His father gone, Dye dead, Calista presumably murdered. She had not been seen since the vicious attack.
Max turned lovingly to his son, playing on his mother’s lap. Sabrina was talking softly to him, whispering into his golden curls. ‘You’re going to grow up to be a great man. One day you’ll be Rex Britannorum, just like your father. ’
They had called him Alden. The name meant wise guardian. Max smiled at the thought. Alden had more Dobunnic blood in him than Catuvellaunian, yet with God’s help he would lead the Catuvellauni. A new kind of leader for a new age, one not limited by tribal rivalries. For now the tribes were united after a fashion, but their bond was still a far cry from the unity he envisaged for them. It would be many years before true unity was won. Until that day he would continue to give his life for it.
Rhoswen finished reading a letter from Paulinus. Grief had challenged her much in the past months – but she was still strong, still as tender and loving as ever. Dye had been buried and mourned, by Rhoswen and by Max. Memories of his brother were bitter sweet. Despite all the wrong he had done, he had died a noble death. And in life Dye had taught him much about his own faults and failings, about what made a poor ruler, about the dangers of following selfish desires. On the day of his sacrifice a crane had come to roost on the roof of their home. Rhoswen swore Dye’s spirit had sent them a message, that he sought their forgiveness. It comforted her to think so, and it comforted him.
Rhoswen looked up from her letter. ‘Your old friend Paulinus sends his best,’ she smiled. Two years after Guidolin’s defeat Paulinus was finally back in his chapel, having worked tirelessly to help Max build on the new union between the tribes.
It seemed a lifetime since the battle. Much had changed and yet so much remained to do. Max sighed. Peace between the tribes was still fragile, but there was peace, at least for now. He could only hope that it would grow and flourish and that the sacrifices his family had made would be worth it.
He too was changed. Changed since the battle and changed since his ordeal with Constantine. That brush with death had taught him much. Taught him how much he was prepared to sacrifice for what he loved.
Felix coughed gently, interrupted his thoughts. ‘There are…’ Felix paused diplomatically, obviously looking for the right words, ‘gentlemen from Gaul here to see you, my Lord.’
Max rose to greet them, gesturing Salvius to come forward too. As their leader advanced towards them Max counted thirty men in all, thirty burly Saxons. It was only when he was a few feet from him that Max recognised Sigwulf, the same Saxon leader who had helped him rescue the Torc from Constantine, all those long years ago. Max opened his arms in an embrace. ‘Welcome, friend. I had thought you dead.’
Indeed the Saxon carried a few more scars than when they had last met. One had almost cost him his left eye. ‘It is good indeed to see you, Maximus of the Vellauni. They tell me you have achieved the imposs
ible in joining the tribes together. You are become…’ Sigwulf searched for the word. ‘In our tongue we would say Bretwalda. What you Britons call Rex Britannorum.’
Max smiled warmly, the pleasure of seeing the man who had saved his life, saved the Torc, almost overwhelming. ‘Bretwalda. I like that. You must teach me more Saxon, now your Latin has gotten better.’ He had a hundred questions. ‘What news from Gaul, old friend? How did you escape? And what brings you to Britain?’
The Saxon grunted. ‘We just fought harder than the weaklings Constantine sent against us. Or maybe they had no more passion for the fight. Though there were many more of them they couldn’t break our shield wall.’ Sigwulf rubbed a hand through his shaggy blonde mane. ‘I have word of your old landlady. She has herself a new man, a merchant. They have a business, which fares well.’ Sigwulf looked Max in the eye now. ‘As for us, we went over to Gerontius for a time after you left. You know he’s dead now, killed by his own men? At least he died with some dignity, held off his attackers for hours almost single handed. Refused to escape, wouldn’t leave his wife behind.’ Here Sigwulf acknowledged Sabrina with an approving smile. ‘And Constantine’s head sits on a spike in Ravenna,’ the great Saxon chuckled drily. ‘Sly bastard till the end. He tried to escape the vengeance of Honorius’ men by having himself ordained a priest.’ Sigwulf sniffed and scratched his nose. ‘With those two dead, we’ve come north in search of a new lord to serve.’
‘A new lord?’ Max laughed in astonishment. ‘Your people still raid this island. You arrived here safely today only because I gave you escort. There are those who would kill you just for your Saxon blood.’
Sigwulf lifted his mighty shoulders in pride. ‘Not all Saxons are the same. The Saxons who raid your shores are not of my people. All we want is a little land and an honest lord to serve. If you want us to fight the Saxons who are raiding you, we will fight them, Bretwalda.’
