Arthur Britannicus (32 page)
Read Arthur Britannicus Online
Authors: Paul Bannister
Although this book follows the general outline of the life of Carausius, the narrative does take a few small liberties with history. Briefly, the admiral emperor may have been a humbly-born Menapian, from what is now Belgium, if his enemies’ version of history is to be believed. Or, he may have been nobly born. His later actions in referencing poetry on his coinage, indicates a higher level of education than would be expected from a peasant upbringing. Some sources attribute Roman ancestry to him, which may be supported by his name, a classic Latin one (and not related to the much-later French ‘carousser’ – ‘to quaff.’) Other sources say he was a British or Irish prince.
Even by Roman historians’ disparaging accounts, he was a skilled river pilot who joined the Roman army and became a successful soldier, then admiral of Rome’s British Channel fleet, based in Boulogne/Bononia.
Additionally, the evidence points to him being a charismatic leader. Around 284 CE, he was accused of diverting pirate loot to himself, and was summoned for court martial and likely execution, which may have been a political move to rid the emperor of a rival. Carausius’ response was to seize power in northern Gaul and Britain, places where he commanded legions as well as a fleet. His ambition was to extend his military sway beyond the pale of Boulogne, even to Rome itself, but he was frustrated by the emperor Maximian, who was tasked with bringing the renegade to heel. The Roman’s first endeavour, in 289 CE, was a failure. The new fleet he had built was either destroyed by storms or more probably was defeated by the seasoned flotilla Carausius took with him when he defected.
Carausius reinforced his military position with the popular support he gained by tapping into the Britons’ discontent with their avaricious Roman overlords, and he skilfully used propaganda on his coinage to suggest he was a messiah returned to save the nation. The self-proclaimed emperor became the first ruler of a unified Britain, and entrenched himself behind the chain of forts he built along the south eastern coast. These Saxon Shore fortifications were intended to guard against an expected Roman attempt to retake Britain as well as to repel Saxon or Alemanni invaders.
Maximian had to wait four years after that failed invasion before he could drive Carausius out of Gaul. He retook Boulogne, besieging it and sealing the harbour against relief or escape by sea, an event this book placed in the narrative earlier than its actual chronology. In history, Boulogne fell in 293 CE, the year of Carausius’ demise. The loss of the port and the weakening of Carausius’ position probably caused a power struggle with his chief functionary Allectus, and led to the usurper emperor’s death that same year.
He had ruled a united Britain for seven years when he was either assassinated by Allectus or, more probably, betrayed by him at a battle near Bicester. Allectus, whose identity is obscure (the word itself simply means ‘chosen’ or ‘elected’) took power, announced himself as ‘consul’ and ‘Augustus arrived’ on coinage. He began work in 294 CE on a great building in London that went unfinished, as his reign lasted for only three years. A Roman expedition defeated him after a sea battle off Chichester, and a land engagement near Silchester. Constantius, now Caesar, landed in Britain after the fighting was over and signalled his triumph with a famous medal declaring himself ‘Restorer of the Eternal Light’ (‘Redditor lucis aeternae’) meaning ‘of Rome.’
The Eagle found by Carausius in the Blue John mine, one of the stately holes of Derbyshire, is a fiction, although there was a Ninth Hispania legion based at York and sent south to suppress the Boadicean uprising in 71 AD. The British queen routed that force with very great losses near the Suffolk village of Great Wratting. Later, the legion was deployed to the Danube, where its history vanished into the mists. It was not mentioned in an army list compiled around 170 CE. A search for the Eagle of the Ninth was the subject of a 1954 novel whose author said she had been inspired by the discovery of a wingless bronze eagle at Silchester. That artefact is presently on display at the Museum of Reading, and is not a legionary standard.
Also on exhibit, in the British Museum, are some of the 800 Carausian coins that were among a hoard of 52,500 Romano-British pieces of silver and gold discovered in a Somerset field in the summer of 2010. Such coins, the Penmachno headstone and a single milestone uncovered near Carlisle, are the only known memorials of Britain’s lost emperor.
I should make a small apology for the use of some modernisms in this book. In the interests of clarity and to prevent the need frequently to thumb back to a reference page, I opted not to use many possibly-unfamiliar Latin place names from Britain or France, making just a few exceptions that are intended to retain the flavour of the narrative. Two of those exceptions are Eboracum, which is 21st century York, and Bononia, the French seaport of Boulogne-sur-Mer.
To establish the locales: the tale begins in the year 270 CE near Oceli Promontorium, now known as the great Yorkshire sea cliff Flamborough Head, and follows Carausius across the
North Sea to Forum Hadriani, today’s Dutch town of Voorburg. Forum Hadriani (‘Hadrian’s Market’) was then the northernmost Roman settlement on the continent of Europe and was a key military post in the defences of the eastern border of the empire. Later, when the story is set in Britain’s Peak District, locations include the Roman camp at Navio, which is in the Derbyshire hamlet of Brough. The fort exists today as just a few stones and an earthwork containing traces of the underground strong room. The nearby Blue John mine where the fictional Eagle was hidden is still in operation. The Romans smelted silver from the region’s lead mines, including a major working at Lutudarense, now called Matlock Bath. This village is near the pleasant Regency spa town of Buxton which the Romans knew as Aquae Arnemetiae, or ‘the Waters of (the Celtic goddess) Arnemetia.’ To end the tutorial, Gaul is of course modern France, and Menapia, home of the real Carausius, was a region of what is now Belgium. The palace at Fishbourne, near Chichester, was destroyed in Carausius’ time, but its ruins and fine mosaics are real enough and are a major tourist attraction today. The battles on the shingle of Dungeness and in the waters off Portland Bill, as recounted here, are fictional. But, they could well have happened, just as Carausius, the forgotten emperor of Britain, may be the lord of war whose exploits are the true source of the legend of King Arthur.
These borderlands were too far from safety. Cada looked around the clearing warily, alert for any danger. Nervously he fingered the handle of the kitchen knife tucked inside his tunic, unused to its weight. He was unsure if he was capable of thrusting it into an attacker, yet its bone grip and sharp blade gave him comfort.
It had been a great risk bringing the master’s daughter here, but worth it.
Bluebells, a carpet of them, lay deep in the forest’s gloom, vibrant in the shafts of April sunlight. Concordia stood a moment, stunned by their modest glory. When she spoke it was with wonder, as if she understood his intention. ‘Thank you, Cada, for bringing me here.’
The lad looked at his blonde mistress, fighting emotions he would never dare show. Any slave caught making eyes at his master’s daughter risked losing them. ‘Their coming announces the spring, domina. I didn’t want you to miss them…’ because their perfection reminds me of you. For a brief moment he allowed himself to imagine her in his arms, lying on that blue carpet.
Kneeling down, Concordia reached across the taboo between them to offer him a tiny bloom. Cada tucked the precious gift into his tunic. When the silence between them grew too great she shouted to her sisters. ‘Over here! Bluebells!
Hundreds of them!’ High pitched cries filled the clearing as her sisters swooped on the spring treasure. The grass was still damp from the earlier rain. Uncaring, they threw their cloaks onto the cold earth and began to gather the blossoms.
Weaving flowers deftly into her hair, the tallest, most thought plainest, sister called to her prettier sibling. ‘We must set off soon, Concordia. Father’s injuries are healing well. Mother has promised to escort us to Verulamium for the feast. I give you fair warning, every man there will dance with me.’
Concordia grinned mischievously. ‘Every man, Anastasia? You’re not saving yourself for Maximus of the Vellauni? Or had you forgotten our chief’s son returns today?’
Anastasia shook her mousy curls. ‘You give your envy voice, Concordia. Maximus haunts all our dreams, including yours.’ The mere thought of him made her face almost pretty. ‘Just think, how mother would crow if one of us snared him.’
Heartsick, the slave Cada moved off to keep guard. His back to a tree trunk, the infatuated guardian closed his eyes a moment. What was he thinking, lusting after the master’s daughter? Classic slave mistake. He was tired of his feelings now. Deliberately he turned his thoughts to the slave girl from the neighbouring house. No beauty like Concordia, but willing at least.
Shrieking with laughter the sisters began weaving crowns from the flowers, gossiping happily. In their joy they had no sense of the wood around them growing quiet, no ears for the birds taking to wing. They saw no movements in the shadow, heard no footstep closing in. Cada’s attention was focused only on the sunshine on Concordia’s hair. He made no sound, gave no warning as the shadows advanced.
The girls’ screams came too late. High, sharp, desperate now, their cries sliced through the lavender air, then stopped abruptly.
Within seconds silence returned. A squirrel emerged from its hiding place to scamper across the clearing. A deer
appeared, sniffing the dark red liquid splattered across the base of the tree trunk, then moved off in search of food. A small, green sandal lay abandoned on its side.
The bluebell carpet lay crushed and mutilated, but not by love.
Darkness had begun to fall as the two horsemen made their way down the valley. The last stage of their journey had been easy, good roads all the way home to Verulamium. As the town came into view the younger man stopped; feeling the strength of its draw on him. Tugging the hood of his heavy woollen birrus forward against the rain, Maximus stared down at the place he had called home.
Home.
Maximus grimaced, pushing wet strands of blonde hair back from his face. Would there be a welcome for the prodigal? Would his father have forgiven him? Was there still time to prove himself worthy? For a moment he felt overpowered by the challenge that lay ahead, then he pulled himself upright in the saddle. Nothing would stop him taking his rightful place at the head of the tribe. Digging his heels into Zephyr’s sides Maximus moved forward.
Beside him his mentor Paulinus recognized the determined expression on the face of his handsome young charge. It had been a perilous journey. Dressing him in rough garments had done nothing to hide Maximus’s nobility. The lad was noble by birth and noble in character. He’d come to know his charge well over the past year, knew his strengths and his weaknesses. He knew the fear the lad would be feeling now. And knew too that he’d overcome it.
As Verulamium grew larger in the gloom, Max began recognizing its features. For centuries this town had protected his family and his family had protected it. But for how much longer? All Britannia was in chaos; raiders threatened from north of Emperor Hadrian’s Wall as well as from across the sea. The whole country seemed to be on the move; roaming armies, mercenaries, civilians seeking safety… With rebellion sweeping the country, the spectre of civil war had risen once more. They were a nation on edge, uncertain from one day to the next who was Emperor, as usurper followed usurper.
The chaos had affected his family too. Would father have banished him if his trepidation of the future had been less great? Fearful for the tribe, Severus had been looking to its future. Maximus had thwarted him, humiliated him before his people.
Yet given the choice again, Maximus knew he’d do the same thing.
The city gate was guarded by militiamen. Even to Max’s inexperienced eye, the guardsmen looked unequal to an attack, untrained civilians who’d strapped on a knife belt or lifted a hunting spear to give the townspeople reassurance. At their approach the guards lifted their spears in challenge, but a nod from the old watchman gave them admittance. ‘Salve, my Lord Maximus. Welcome home. It’s good to have you back.’
Max waved acknowledgement. His father hadn’t banned him from the city then. Wearily the two horsemen rode up the street into the heart of Verulamium. Their people had survived the ransacking after Boudica’s uprising. His forefathers had rebuilt the place from the ground up, all these fine buildings, the temples, the baths. Where was that Catuvellauni strength now? Long years of domination under the Romans looked to have killed their spirit.
That would change. When he took leadership of the tribe, many things would change.
The decaying vastness of the abandoned theatre rose above them, as did the stench from the rubbish tip it had become. Debris lay abandoned. Shop lanterns hung unlit. In the near darkness Max’s horse stumbled on a broken amphora lying in the street, one of many. An urchin leapt out from a side street to spit at him before running off. Max hurled an angry insult at him, then reached forward to stroke Zephyr’s neck, apologizing for the rough pull on his bit. Usually he’d have cantered after the boy and taught him some manners. Instead he too spat, clearing the stale taste of the journey from his mouth.
Passing the abandoned temple they approached the largest house in the city. Rough rains battered the house of Vellauni as its heir and his companion rode through its gates. A newcomer might be impressed by the strong colonnade and expensive stonework. Familiarity let Max see the decay below. There was a new shabbiness, patches of peeling plaster, faded paint. With the Saxons raiding the coasts Severus would be hoarding his money.
Hearing hooves on the cobbles the courtyard slave leapt up. Max slid swiftly from the saddle, handing the reins to the boy. ‘Care for him well. Zephyr carried me a long way today.’
‘Dominus, servus sum.’ The young slave grinned, clearly delighted to have the powerful black stallion back in his care. Immediately the ostiarius left his post at the door entrance to acknowledge the new arrivals. Bowing respectfully he led Max into the portico to wrestle off his boots. Max realized he’d never seen the youngster before. Turning, he looked up at Paulinus dismounting stiffly beside him. Their last halt lay had been half a day’s ride to the north. Paulinus would be exhausted. Max felt a wave of affection for the old monk. Unsure of the welcome that awaited him he was glad of the ally by his side.
Even after a day in the saddle, the monk’s bearing betrayed his past. Before taking his vows Paulinus had been a military commander and had fought alongside Max’s father under the usurper Magnus Maximus. Their effort had failed, their would-be conqueror executed by the Emperor Theodosius, whose young son Honorius still reigned – for now. The young Emperor’s sway was threatened by a new usurper, the British soldier, Constantine. Max felt a flame of hope flare inside him at the thought of one of their own in charge of the Empire. Would Constantine finally bring power and security back to Britannia?
Paulinus was beside him now. Max gestured to the slave to help his tutor. Being sent north by his father to the old monk’s chapel had been a humiliating punishment. But he’d learnt far more from Paulinus than history and affairs of state. Slowly, patiently, Paulinus had taught him to control his anger at the injustice done him. The pain felt more distant now and thanks to this old man he felt steadier in himself. But that had been in the peace of the countryside. The real test would come now.
Max smiled wearily at his mentor. ‘My mother will be glad to repay you for your kindness to me, Paulinus.’
The older man smiled too, his face calm despite the difficulties of the day. ‘My boy, your family owes me nothing. Friendship always weighs the balance. Still,’ Paulinus’s eyes brightened with good humour, ‘a bed would be very welcome.’ Suddenly he was very serious. ‘A final reminder before we go in, Max. You face many challenges this evening. You will overcome them, if you control that temper of yours. God has given you a fine mind as well as a strong body. Use your mind first.’
Easy for Paulinus to say. He was not the one who had to face Severus. As the slave attended to Paulinus’s boots Max leant against the plastered wall. From habit his eyes searched out the place where he had carved his name as a child. The knife marks were still there, if you knew where to look. Other marks had come of that day, the day his brother Dye had been injured. His father had blamed him then too; he’d received a terrible beating. His back still bore the scars of his father’s anger. Bitter thoughts came flooding in. His mother’s last letter had said that illness had mellowed the old man. But Rhoswen was seldom able to see any wrong in his father.
His mother had taken his side when, desperate to quash the rumours spreading about Max, Severus had insisted he marry the woman he’d chosen for his wife. Calista was a Catuvellauni noblewoman, perfect match for him in every respect, except for the fact that she made Max’s blood run cold. His father had taken the rejection as a betrayal of himself, yet still Max had not been able to accept her. Not even to win his father’s favour. When he’d
refused, Severus had threatened to disown him. A wave of shame washed through Max at the memory. Had he been renounced, any hope of leading the tribe would have been lost. Anger at the disgrace burned within him.
He’d been up north only weeks when news came of his brother’s marriage to the woman Max had rejected. Doubt wormed its way into Max’s mind at the thought. Had Dye taken not just his wife, but his birthright too? Growing up, there had been an unspoken understanding that Max would follow his father as chief. But what use was that unspoken agreement now? Max felt his breath shorten, felt his blood turn to fear. Had he lost the right to lead the tribe? Under Catuvellauni law Severus was not obliged to name his eldest heir – especially not a son who had brought shame to the tribe. Ill as he was, Severus was still refusing to name his successor.
The young slave was still struggling with Paulinus’ boots. Why was it taking so long? ‘Hurry, boy.’
‘Peace, Max,’ Paulinus urged.
‘Your restlessness is making itself heard.’
Max’s eyes took seconds to grow used to the welcome torchlight of the vestibulum. The two travellers made use of the warm water and towels which appeared instantly. There was no time to discard their mud-spattered tunics and bracae after the journey. Combing his fingers through his dishevelled hair, Max looked around him, finding comfort in the familiar. From the outside the house looked plain and severe. But inside his Dobunnic mother Rhoswen had skilfully mixed the beautiful Celtic designs of her tribe with the deliberately
Romanised tastes of his father. Rhoswen had been born to their rivals, the Dobunni. The walls, finished in rich colours, were deftly painted with the intricate spirals of her tribe. No one was as well loved as Rhoswen. Max often wondered if his mother was the only reason their two tribes hadn’t annihilated each other before now.
A roar of laughter within brought Max out of his reverie. Paulinus patted him on the back. ‘It seems the feast to celebrate your new sister-in-law’s birthday is in good flow. You’ll understand if I don’t tarry long, my boy,’ he apologized.
In the better light Paulinus’s wise old face was marked with exhaustion. ‘Of course, Paulinus. Spoiled as she is, not even Calista would refuse you rest.’
Paulinus’s grey eyes twinkled. ‘Strange justice, that marriage, is it not?
Your scoundrel of a brother, meeting his match in that ambitious young woman?’
Max nodded sourly. ‘Somehow the little vixen has wrapped my father around her little finger too.’ Calista had many friends among the great and the good of Catuvellaunian society. From the gifts piled high in the wall niche it was clear her friends had been bringing
kindnesses all day. Fewer gifts than for his mother’s last birthday Max noted, with satisfaction. For now let Calista have her moment of glory. It could be his birthday gift to her, along with the mirror in his saddle pack.
Felix, his father’s faithful atriensis, appeared in the doorway. ‘Welcome home, master. Your mother has asked me to bring you straight into the feast.’
Max smiled his thanks. Felix had served his father since Max was a boy, often hiding him from Severus’s temper. He pulled the welcome warmth of the cloak the atriensis offered around him, the soft wool comforting. He heard Paulinus’s voice beside him. ‘Be strong, my boy.’
There was a clatter of noise. In a side room a small table had fallen on its side. Max heard a woman giggling and a man’s hushed laughter. He could make out a slave girl’s pretty face in the shadows. For a second he saw the man’s features too, unmistakable to him in any light - his brother, Dye. Another giggle and the girl
was gone, smoothing down her skirts. Max glanced across at Paulinus who merely raised his eyebrows. If Felix had noticed anything, he was discrete enough not to show it. Instead, he bid slaves open the heavy doors to the main room.
Noise and merriment assaulted Max’s ears as laughter rose to the vaulted ceiling along with the heady mixture of perfume and incense. Instantly he felt the warmth of human bodies, caught glimpses of friends and family. Some inner resistance stopped him at the threshold. He had longed for this moment, yet now he feared it.
As a child he’d stood here by his father’s side, welcoming guests, committing to memory the names his father whispered to him, wanting to know their usefulness to the tribe. Back then, despite his harshness, he’d felt close to his father, felt pride in him. Severus commanded respect, not just for his position, but for the man he was. But that was before Severus had sent him away like some fugitive.
Within the main reception room raised stucco figures celebrating the history of the tribe were lit by a series of golden lamps. By their light Max scanned the room, his eyes searching out his powerful father. Reds and yellows glowed as jugglers tossed flaming torches to each other and a small troupe of acrobats performed feats of skill for the enchanted gathering. Searching the crowd Max finally found Severus seated on his throne-like solium. Seeing him Max felt his heart grow still, felt the anger drain from him, replaced by something softer.
His father had become an old man.
Rhoswen had written that he’d had an attack of apoplexy, but she’d spared Max the worst. He could see now how it had devastated this once great hero. The old Severus would have
dominated any gathering. Now he sat strangely apart, his expression distant. Max felt a curious sensation. Pity for his father.
Suddenly, as though sensing his son’s presence, Severus turned and saw him. Their eyes met and he rose. His once mighty voice was hoarse, but it still carried over the clamor of the gathering.
‘Catuvellauni! Rejoice! My son is returned!’
All conversation died as the crowd turned to witness the reunion. Max found himself grasped by arms weaker than they once had been, felt the leathery skin of Severus’s face against his own, savoured the smell of his favourite honeyed mead. The two men embraced longer than was seemly, mirror images of each other, the father’s vulnerability made more obvious by the health of the son. Their faces, as they pulled away from each other, were almost identical; the same strong brow, same straight nose, same cleft in the chin. The one marked difference was the downward turn of Severus’ mouth, the peculiar lack of fit between the two halves of his face. The attack had changed him permanently then.
