Arthur Britannicus (20 page)

Barbanata showed him her preliminary sketches of the two sculptures and quietly indicated a small figure she had inserted almost invisibly against a backdrop of trees.  In a few careful strokes, she had sketched Guinevia casting a spell, as a small cloud of vapour formed above her head. Celvinius laughed out loud. “Perfect,” he said, his annoyance forgotten. “That should go right on the wall.”

Carausius ignored the laughter and turned away to busy himself with his scrolls and an inventory codex. Increasing activity by sea raiders from Hibernia and Saxonia concerned him, and that, plus the immediate threat from Maximian and the likely invasion of Germanic tribes had him actively fortifying the Saxon Shore. This was the south-east coastline of Britain where Saxon settlers lived, and the closest point to the continental mass of Gaul and the Belgic lands.

The emperor’s chief base of the Shore was at Dover, which overlooked the straits of the Narrow Sea. It was situated under white coastal cliffs, the turf-topped chalk battlements of Britain, where the wide river Dour flowed into the tidal race. The Romans had built two 60 feet tall sandstone lighthouses on top of the heights to guide vessels into the tidal river, where quays stretched for a mile inland. A large fort with 80 or so rooms for the garrison, granaries and supplies commanded the river mouth, but it had been there for a century and a half and was showing signs of disrepair that could compromise its military usefulness. Carausius ordered additions and reinforcements to the structure, to be built Roman-style with layered stone, tile and brick and to include substantial round bastions and a deep ditch.

He had also sent builders across the narrows to Bononia to duplicate the Dover lighthouse and fortifications. At night, the signal fires would shine to each other across the sea channel, and patrols of the fleet could move between their two bases with relative surety and safety.

The emperor pored over the coastal charts with his aide Lycaon, as the dogs Axis and Javelin slumbered and twitched, sleeping close together near the glowing brazier. “The raiders are a nuisance, but if we put garrisons at the river mouths and in the most likely landing places, I think we can control them,” he muttered. “The real threat is not the raiders, it’s that Rome attempts to take this from us, and even if with the help of the gods, we can defeat them, there will still be waves of Germanic tribes flooding this way.

“If we are to hold this country of ours, we need to do more than win a few battles. We have to make the island a fortress so we can live the way we want, not as milk cows for Rome or as slaves of the Teutons, Saxons and the rest who would steal our land.  We must reinforce our borders. I’ll put strong points all the way to The Wash, up there above Colchester. I’d keep a strong cavalry force there, too, as reserves we can get quickly to meet the bandits at their beach head and hold them until we can get foot soldiers in.  There are signal towers along the northern coast; I even saw one being built there, as a boy. It was impressive, a great iron basket full of fuel to signal with fire by night and smoke by day.

“The old Romans knew their job. They built more beacons that went inland to Eboracum and Lincoln so the signal could quickly reach those garrisons, and I’ve ordered those old towers manned and refurbished. We can shuttle the hump-a-lots from the garrisons up or down the military road north to the border or south to Londinium to meet any invader. It’s a good tactic, to have a swift response force behind the frontier, and I’m told that Maximian is using it on the Rhine.

“Here on the Shore, we must cover the rivers, especially the Thames. We’ll need to build signal towers along that estuary, so the Londinium garrison gets plenty of warning if Maximian comes that way. Better put in a big log boom, too, so we can close off the river if we need to. I suppose that goes for other ports, too.”

He checked off further points along the coast, nine fortresses in all, plus some beacon stations, holding down the curling edge of the chart with an ink horn as he plotted a number of smaller strategic garrisons. One critical spot to reinforce, and soon, was the Great Port that was an outlying part of Winchester’s defences. It was a vital defensive link and an important harbour with its mysterious two high tides a day that sailors said were created by the shape of the coastline and the depth of the Atlanticus. 

In Gaul, across the Narrow Sea, the emperor wanted reinforcements moved up and strong points improved near the estuaries of the Seine and the Somme, as well as at the mouth of the Belgic river Scheldt. The emperor looked at the army lists and sighed. Not enough troops to reinforce garrisons everywhere, he thought. The dozen or so forts westwards along the coast of northern Gaul would have to take their chances. Vessels from the great fortress and naval
base at Bononia could scour that white-cliffed coast for pirates but Carausius didn’t want to stretch his land reserves too thin by extending his military coverage any further west.

“The threats will come from Maximian’s legions on land, from the east and south, and from a fleet that will come from the east. They’ll not sail the long way around, through the Pillars of Hercules and up the coast of Spain. He’ll be building his vessels in the east, not in the Inland Sea. The naval attack will certainly come from the Rhine coast. One day soon, we’ll need a strong fleet there to take on Maximian,” he forecast grimly to Allectus and a group of senior officers. “When that happens, I don’t want to be caught with my trews around my ankles. We should keep most of the fleet at Dover, so it can’t be attacked by land forces while it’s in port in Gaul.”

He paused, tapping the scroll as he thought. “I should probably take some coin to the tribes, refresh the alliances, and especially meet that fellow Gennobaudes on the Rhine, to keep him enthusiastic about our treaty. He has some influence with the tribes, you know. Maybe I can persuade them to send some infantry, too.” On an impulse, Carausius added. “I might mix in a bit of pleasure, do some hunting in the Ardennes with the locals, establish the contacts and create some more goodwill. I’ll take the dogs.”

Only a few days later, Carausius sailed across the Narrow Sea, collected an honour guard of two centuries of smartly turned-out legionaries, and with them
,  his hounds and his twin brothers headed for the Belgic forests, and serious trouble.

A hundred miles east of Carausius’ small column, as it made its way the Via Agrippa towards the territory of the Belgae, the Frankish king Gennobaudes was sickly grey with fear.
He knew he was lucky his head was still attached to his shoulders. It had all happened so quickly, he thought mournfully. Maximian and his legions had rolled up the tribal forces along the Rhine, and butchered, crucified and enslaved thousands. There had been a few rumours, but the Romans had surrounded and controlled the tribes and before any real warning could reach the Belgic king, Roman cavalry was at his town walls and messengers were delivering him a harsh ultimatum. Unprepared, he had no choice, and had opened the gates....

On the very day that Carausius arrived at the Belgic king Mosae’s small citadel, the Caesar Maximian was sitting on a throne just a few days’ march to the east. It was the royal seat of Mosae’s overlord, Gennobaudes, and the cowed monarch was kneeling humbly before the Roman.  The business did not take long. The Frank kissed the tip of Maximian’s sword, solemnly promised allegiance to Rome and was installed as tenant king. At least, he thought sourly, he was alive. Maximian suppressed a sneer as he viewed Gennobaudes’ vassals lined
up along the walls of the receiving room and waiting to re-swear their oaths of allegiance. They knelt one by one, their hair shaped with lime water into towering horsetails that nodded as they kissed their king’s feet. It all had all happened as the Caesar and his red-cloaked Dragons had expected. They’d suppressed the restive tribes, taken out the leaders, and appointed a few puppet rulers to do their dirty work. The long lines of crucifixes outside the city walls with their still-moaning victims explained the enthusiasm of the chieftains to surrender.

A tangible result of the Roman success was to be seen in the long wagon train loaded with plunder and guarded by a half-legion of Saxon auxiliaries that went south to Milan, a snake of miserable, chained slaves a full half-mile long dragging behind it. Maximian watched the head of the coffle trudge past, briskly swung himself astride his new Frisian warhorse and nodded for the trumpeter to sound the march. No time to waste; with his great convoy of three legions and their impedimenta, he was impatient to move in another direction, west into Gaul to put the cities of Rouen and Bononia back under his control, and to bring that rebel bastard Carausius to heel. A messenger from king Mosae had been captured by his troops, and he had been carrying notice that Carausius was at his master’s citadel and wanted an audience. Just possibly, Maximian thought, he could catch the Briton away from his army. He clenched his fist at the thought. There would be one more crucifix adorning a field somewhere, he promised himself.

The dogs next to him heard or perhaps scented something first. Carausius was standing on the parapet of the town ruled by the minor Belgic king Mosae, looking down at the camp the British troops had established on a meadow outside the protection of the town walls. The light was fading, the air was still and quiet, and he was pondering how he should best contact the high king Gennobaudes who was, he presumed, two or three more days’ march to the east.  First Axis, then Javelin growled deep in their throats. The emperor looked to see what had disturbed him, but saw nothing. A sentry made alert by the presence of his commander leaned over the parapet, peering into the dusk. “Lord,” he said, “I think there’s something.”

Even before the man spoke, Carausius, instincts honed by years of campaigning, was alerted by a prickle at the nape of his neck. In the dusk-darkened woods, just inside the line of the trees and virtually invisible to searching eyes, squads of archers equipped with bales of odd-looking arrows were standing quietly. Their heavy-headed arrows each carried a thick hank of greasy wool tied below the head, the whole flammable package coated with pitch. A platoon of soldiers carrying shielded containers of smouldering charcoal moved quietly along
the groups of archers and blew the charcoal into glowing life. The bowmen touched their arrows to the glow, the lanolin-soaked wool ignited, the pitch contained the fire and the archers aimed the heavy arrows high as they stepped out of the trees and into the open.

Carausius, uneasy, was scanning the dusk purposefully when he caught a glimmer of something. It flared, then another few points of light flickered and bloomed crimson beside it. The first red-glowing point arced upwards and plunged steeply down into the British tent lines. Five, six more fire arrows followed the first,
then a whole flight of them looped into the air as the thin, sharp noise of bowstrings twanged and plinked in the dusk. The missiles were dropping into the orderly squares of the camp, catching alight the tightly woven wool that had been waterproofed with lanolin and beeswax. Suddenly, it seemed as if only the few leather-canopied ridge tents of the officers were not yet on fire. Men were scrambling out, snatching up weapons, tripping over guy lines in the dusk, calling out the alarm. Carausius was bellowing for the citadel guard and the sentry beside him was clashing his sword pommel on a signal gong when from the treeline a rank of horsemen burst into the open.

Alongside them as they cantered, Roman infantrymen were clinging to the rear pommels of the saddles, being carried at speed across the open ground. Their feet bounced across the turf in great leaps as they were dragged along. In moments, the horsemen and their foot soldier passengers were at the transit camp’s rampart and ditch, forcing down the wooden palings, hacking at the few duty sentries at the gates. Within a minute or so, the cavalry was in among the tent lines, the whole scene lit eerily by the flames of the blazing camp as the horsemen thudded along the open lanes, shouting, slashing and spreading chaos.

Several knots of the emperor’s men formed a resistance of sorts, retreating as they faced the horses but the majority of the Briton’s escort was being chopped down. Two groups coalesced into one unit and fought grimly as, shield-less, they stepped back and back to the barred citadel gates. The prefect Lycaon was inside the walls to aid their escape. Snarling like a beast, he forced the gate guards at sword point to ignore the local commander’s orders and opened a small wicket set into the great gate of the citadel. One by one, the retreating fighters backed through. Defenders began arriving on the walls above the gate, and fired arrows and javelins down at the pressing Romans, but they could not save the last few soldiers, who died outside as the wicket was bolted fast.

XXV
. Ardennes

The night had been a busy and difficult one, and it was almost first light, but King Mosae and Carausius had the walls secured. The little citadel was sited on one of the short, steep hills that were plentiful on the Belgic plains and the Briton had a good view when the sun finally came up. With practised efficiency, the Roman invaders had established their camp. A ring of soldiers had the citadel surrounded and they could be seen already erecting a palisade to circle the entire town, keeping the besieged safely trapped and their own rear protected.  Maximian had joined forces with his son in law Flavius and they had arrived with almost 9,000 men. The rebel Briton was caught in their noose of steel. “He’ll know I’m here,” Carausius thought bitterly, “he has certainly questioned his captives. How in great Jove’s name did he find me?” Everything was clarified a few hours later, when an emissary from Maximian arrived to parley.

The herald met the citadel commander and two of his officers outside the gates, and he carefully iterated the grim terms Maximian demanded. The town would be spared being put to fire and sword, the herald said, if Carausius and his twin brothers, with King Mosae and all his family were handed over naked, in chains. They were to be told their fate before being handed over, the herald specified. . They would be eaten alive by pigs. “You must tell your king and the rebels that my lord has a small herd of feral hogs and it takes them just eight minutes to eat a man, meat, guts and bones,” the herald told the emissaries. “It’s very entertaining to watch and it is a most effective way of keeping discipline. Before you bring the captives, you must cut off their hair, and knock out all their teeth.
All of them. My lord’s pigs don’t digest hair and teeth well, and he does not want them upset. He said specifically that he did not want the swine’s’ digestion fouled by the rebels’ rotting teeth. You must bring them ready for the feast.’

The herald eyed the commander and his aides. “Be absolutely sure to inform your king and his guests, the filth who rebelled against my lord, how and why they are to be readied or you too will suffer the same death. We will question them before they are fed to the animals, so we will know if you properly explained their fate to them.”

As far as the rest of the citadel’s occupants were concerned, the emperor’s envoy declared that the garrison would be decimated for its rebellion, and the treasury, granaries and storehouses filled with the salt, fleeces and leather gathered as taxes were to be emptied and loaded for transport away.  Fifty of the citizens, he said, would be sent to the slave pens as token punishment for giving succour to the rebels. The younger townswomen were to be brought to the market place so the victors could make their choices.

King Mosae mumbled terrified defiance when he heard the terms, and although his officers looked warily at each other to see if anyone were bold enough to mutiny at once, none did, so the waiting emissary was sent back and the siege began. With trained efficiency, the besiegers speedily began pulling down buildings for material to continue the construction of their palisade around the town, working behind impromptu walls that covered them from the defending archers. They blocked the new aqueduct which supplied most of the town’s water and engineers began constructing platforms for the siege engines that were in Maximian’s baggage train. Work parties tramped off to cut timber in the nearby forests, others set about building siege towers, screens and ramps. In short order, the big catapults were readied, and by mid-afternoon were hurling rocks over the walls, destroying buildings and causing chaos from the resulting fires.

The catapults, called ‘wild asses’ for the terrible kick they made, also threw burning material into the town and Maximian ordered forward a dozen batteries of ballistae to support them. These were crossbow-like weapons that fired rounded river stones or large arrow-headed bolts with great precision. He directed them against the archers on the walls above the huge gate and turned one battery of wild asses to batter at the gate with rocks.

,

The walls themselves were too high for a quick assault, so Maximian ordered miners to begin burrowing under a corner tower. His intent was to dig out a vast cavern under the foundation, support the excavation with timber, then burn through the supports. This would cause the collapse of both the cavern and the fortification which stood above it. Meanwhile, under the cover of a constant barrage of fire against the men on the parapets, pioneers crouched beneath protective roofs to fill and hard-pack the ditch in front of the wall so they could roll their heavy machinery right up to the stonework. 

In the swarming beehive of activity, one man was everywhere; Maximian personally oversaw the digging and dragging, the firing and the construction crews. Untiring, and conspicuous in his crested helmet and purple cloak, the emperor strode about, contemptuous of the defenders’ fire, urging on his engineers to complete the siege tower that would allow his own archers to shoot down on the defenders.

“Come on, you donkey-dicked mouse launchers,” he shouted, grinning as he addressed a sweating detachment, who were dragging huge catapults into prepared positions. “We’ll soon be inside, and then it’s women, wine and loot. All we need is a little more effort from you charts and darts fellows to get those walls down.”  The centurion in charge of a battery of ballistae acknowledged the instruction, fired a bolt and with it tumbled a defender from the wall. “What’s your name?” Maximian demanded, nodding in pleasure at the shot.

“I am Maximus Heatonius, lord, marine of the Fifth Pontus.”

“What’s a sea soldier doing here?” the emperor demanded, half-joking.

“Just lucky, Caesar,” the man responded, straight-faced, as his commander laughed and turned away to the next task.
 

Within the week, the attackers’ siege tower was ready to be pushed into place across the in-filled ditch, and the protective, heavy-roofed galleries were being rolled to where they would shield the battering ram crews who would swing their iron-headed beam against the town gates.

Inside the walls, grimy with smoke and sweat, the twins Mael and Domnal were working with hooks and axes, pulling down buildings to make firebreaks. Carausius, streaked with smoke and grime and bloodied from numerous small injuries, stood alongside the Belgic king and looked at the Roman activity that continued even though it was almost nightfall. “We should try a sally against them, destroy some of their equipment, slow them down,” the Briton urged.

“I don’t have the men for it,” said the king.

“We’ll have no men at all if we don’t do something. We don’t have a lot of other possibilities,” Carausius retorted. He was mindful that the three scouts he’d sent to bring reinforcements from Bononia had been captured as they tried to slip through the enemy lines.

That unwelcome news arrived when their severed heads had been catapulted over the walls two days before. “We can’t hold out until winter, it’s too long. We can’t break out against such force and we don’t really have much hope of relief from either my Bononia troops or your King Gennobaudes, if he’s even in the picture any more. I suspect that Maximian’s neutralized him somehow. Our best hope might be to poison their drinking water or spread some kind of plague, but the danger there is we might catch it, too.”

Mosae looked thoughtful, excused himself and went to speak to a wise woman in the town. He had not told the Briton that his men had reported hearing the sounds of miners undercutting the tower in the west corner. It wasn’t wise to share everything. Carausius also looked thoughtful, wondering about his own plans. The town, he knew, could hardly hold out for much longer. He might stand a chance of escape in the chaos of murder and raping when the Romans broke in, but he and his two brothers would be better advised to slip away sooner, if they could, as the twins were too noticeable for a discreet exit when the place was on alert.

The big soldier considered some possibilities, to get over, under or through the walls unnoticed. Through meant using the
gates, and they were under constant guard. Going over the wall might be possible, but they were very high. Tunnelling under them might be more profitable. He’d start with the latrines. The Romans had improved the town, and their sanitation systems were first rate. Although the streets were often foul with waste thrown out of windows, the latrines were a stone-built system of trenches sluiced by running water that had, Carausius reasoned, to go somewhere outside the walls. With the dogs Axis and Javelin at his heels as always, he went to investigate, and started for the west tower, where a barracks latrine was sited.

The Briton didn’t know it, but the earth under his feet concealed a raging furnace. The Roman miners had carved their cavern under the tower, supported the workings with wooden pit props and drilled small ventilation holes to the surface. They’d dragged bundles of kindling into the cavern to stoke the fire, and just hours
before, they had soaked the props in pitch and set them alight. They had, however, miscalculated. The ventilation shafts had created a venturi effect that sucked in air in a blast that superheated the fires, and they were raging, not smouldering. They had created a furnace that was burning far, far faster than they had planned. 

Above the hidden inferno, and oblivious to the wisps of smoke that emerged from the cavern’s ground-level vents, Carausius looked at the path of the stone-lined trench of the latrine in the crypt of the tower. He deduced it would clear the wall about 20 feet west of where he stood. He moved out of the building and stood under the wall, seeking the trench’s exit. There it was, barred with iron, an impassable barrier. He turned to go back into the tower when a flash of white scampered across his path. He frowned.
Another white rat? Both dogs had seen the rodent but made no move to chase. Instead, acting as one, the dogs looked up at their master and whined, then cowered against the town wall. Carausius stooped to reassure them, and the action saved his life.

At the very moment he moved, an earth-shaking rumble began as the cavern below him collapsed into itself, knocking the soldier to the ground. The tower shook and swayed, then crumpled inwards. The pit props had burned through as if vaporized, the cavern imploded under the tower’s weight and the whole structure turned into rubble. Blocks of stone thundered down within a few feet of the crouching man and his terrified dogs, but not a single piece hit them. Shaken, Carausius stood upright, coughing, and took stock. The tower was no more, it was just a heap of rubble from which choking billows of dust were spewing. The iron bars of the latrine grille lay sideways, and an open exit beckoned.

A hundred paces away, outside the walls, Maximian was cursing, raving and shouting orders. The tower had collapsed far sooner than expected, and his planned coordinated attack was in ruins, too. He raved that he wanted the siege tower in
place, he wanted that fucking ram battering the fucking gate down. The rubble didn’t give him enough of a ramp into the town, it was too defensible from the walls on either side, those fucking engineers had fucked everything up, get the fucking archers busy and keep those fuckers’ heads down on the walls. Splinter that gate, I don’t care if it’s dark, the fucking goblins won’t get you.

Their commander’s ravings spurred the Roman camp to swarm like a wasps’ nest that had just been kicked over. Carausius looked into the dust-choked exit in front of him and didn’t hesitate. “This way, boys,” he called to the dogs. He ducked past the latrine gate into the dark, and slipped into the fog of stone dust that was drifting on the night breeze out from the walls.

The fleeing emperor grimaced. He’d only had to kill one person, a legionary he had chanced upon in the miasma of dust and smoke, and his new longsword Exalter had done a splendid job on the fellow’s throat. He’d surprised the man with the sword’s extra reach and a two-handed, backhand swing. He supposed he should chalk up some credit to Axis and Javelin, as the dogs had alerted him to the sentry’s silent presence, stopping, stiffening and giving low growls before Carausius could blunder into the soldier. Instead, the Briton had quietly drawn his sword, edged along the palisade the man was guarding and taken out his voice box before the sentry could get even level his spear. He’d gathered up the man’s cloak and helmet, cleared the containing palisade and had travelled fast, ignoring the pain in his foot.

He’d gone across country all night and through the whole of the next day. Now he was into the karst country of the Ardennes, a well-watered place of dense forest, limestone caves and relative safety. With the stolen cloak and helmet, he could claim to be a courier once he reached the Via Agrippa, that great road which he knew ran to Bononia.  He had a couple of days of hunger, but twice, the dogs caught rabbits, and the man and beasts shared the raw, warm flesh. Once, he found wild plums, and there was plenty of water. The big soldier was
used to hunger, and he made good time. It would not be long before he reached the road, and could find transport.

The battering ram’s heavy iron head had finally smashed through the reinforced elm gates of the citadel, splintering them above the great locking beam and allowing axe men to hack at it and the defenders inside the gate. Above the heads of the sweating, panting squad who swung the ram on its chains, the heavy planks of the wheeled gallery that protected them banged and shivered under the impact of rocks and timbers hurled down from the fighting platforms inside the wall, but nothing broke through.

Inside the citadel, the defenders were being thinned by a rain of arrows and iron-headed javelins fired down from the tall wooden siege tower that now overtopped the walls. A few dozen invading infantry led by a red-cloaked officer were scrambling up the scree of the tumbled corner tower, half-hidden in the choking dust that still hung in the air. Maximian felt it, his instincts all told him that in moments he would be through the defences. Then, he promised himself grimly, he’d hunt down the rebel Briton who’d been a thorn in his side for so long. He’s drag him back to Rome, shackled like an animal. Forget about the pigs, for now.