Arthur Imperator (6 page)

XII Grimr

Maximian,
Augustus of the West, was looking from his headquarters in Mainz at the bridge over the Rhine, and was frowning. In his hand he held a dispatch from Gaul that told him of the British officer and the purchase of two Frisian stallions. The emperor understood at once what it implied. Britannicus, as he now styled himself, planned to breed a heavy cavalry.

Maximian
had hated Arthur from their second meeting, an instinctive dislike rooted in his desire for a particular woman, and since his junior Caesar and son in law Chlorus had been defeated and executed by the rebel, his loathing had turned into an obsessive hatred. Maximian had long since signed Arthur’s death warrant, but his hatred ran deeper than a mere execution. He wanted the rebel upstart captured, tortured and dismembered. He wanted Arthur’s head on a spear point over his palace gate. The army knew it, the Bononia garrison and the sketchy, rebuilt British Channel fleet knew it: any news of the hated Carausius/ Britannicus/ Arthur, or whatever he called himself this week was to be relayed promptly. 

Now,
the emperor mused, the British bastard was building a cavalry. That would be a real factor should he ever untangle himself from this soggy, foggy place of forests and barbarians. Well, it would take the bastard a few years before he had a real horse force, but it was a matter to be borne in mind. Maximian knew he could not mount any invasion of Britain in the coming year, he was simply too involved with the Alemanni, but in two years or so… he could put the bastard’s head on the same spike his daughter’s husband and his general, Chlorus, had adorned. Or, he could drag this Britannicus back to Milan or Rome and play with him there. Either would be sheer pleasure, and he’d crucify thousands of those British rebels, too. People might talk about how the Appian Way, after the Spartacus revolt, had been lined with 6,000 rebels nailed up in one day, but he’d give them a better spectacle with those insurgent Britons. He crumpled the dispatch and threw it on the floor. Two fucking forest horses, what was that? Hardly a cavalry force, not yet. He’d deal with it, and that bastard Briton, in due course. He might have Britannia, but even a blind pig can occasionally find an acorn…

While
Maximian was staring absently at the flow of the upper Rhine, the sea raider Grimr was standing by its estuary, facing the Jute chieftain Web Brokenose. Grimr took in the man’s appearance. Like a weasel, he thought. Web was narrow-shouldered and not tall. His face was pinched, his eyes suspicious under a shaggy fringe of straw-like hair. Even his voice, with its querulous high-pitched timbre was somehow offensive. How, Grimr thought, did this man become a chieftain? Web seemed to sense the question. “My father and grandfather before him led this clan,” he said, “and we have held our lands against the likes of you for longer than you can imagine. We want no intruders, nor thieves here. What do you think you were doing on our islands?” Before Grimr could speak, Web jabbed at the big man’s chest with his dagger. “I could have you killed,” he said softly. “I could have you burned to death, crushed, or drowned under the keel of your own pirate ship.”

The
big Suehan shrugged and held out his hands placatingly. “You could do any of those things of course, king,” he said. “We are in your power, but that is why we came here, to serve under you.” Inwardly Grimr was gritting his teeth and trying not to say: “I should wring your scrawny neck, you chicken-faced blot,” but overmatched as he was, and with just a dozen of his men present in the Jute’s bustling settlement, he settled for the pragmatic approach. “We came because we heard you were planning an expedition to Britain, and we wanted to offer our swords to your service in return for what you consider fair reward.” And that, he thought sourly, would probably be a fraction of what we’re really worth, but the problem right now is to persuade this half-man not to enslave us, or worse.

“My
crews,” and Grimr put faint emphasis on the plural to underscore to the Jute the possible threat of reinforcements or rescue, “are fine warriors. Why would you not want them in your shield wall, or slaughtering your enemies? Of what use are we to you, lord king, if we are dead?”

“You
were on my islands,” Web repeated sullenly.

“An
accident of weather,” said Grimr firmly. “We were seeking your fortress.” He looked around at the small port that sat near the confluence of the Rhine and Meuse rivers. Stone walls and thick timber palisades, stone quays, some jetties, a couple of warehouses and a small town. It was a sizeable, obviously important place and it was busy. About 20 vessels were tied up to the harbour walls or had been dragged up the beach. The quays and both shipyards were swarming with men readying longships and themselves for a long voyage. Web still looked suspicious, so Grimr threw his arms wide. “Lord king,” he said as sincerely as he could manage, “how could a small party of men like ours even hope to confront your might?” 

The
flattery was swallowed uncritically, the Suehan saw, thinking ‘May as well ladle it on, nothing to lose,’ so he continued: “Just take us under your wing, lord, and we will be your faithful servants and soldiers.”

Web
cleared his throat importantly and handed down his decision in a ponderous manner. “I have considered your pleas,” he said, “and you may swear fealty to me. You shall do it in front of all your men, when the rest arrive, so there is no mistake or possible misunderstanding. You will be my vassals. Displease me, and your head will adorn the prow of my ship. Meanwhile, prepare yourselves as best you can, and do as my officers order you. We are sailing for Britain in a matter of a week or so, as the weather and the gods permit. You may go.” Grimr lowered his head humbly. He’d settle matters with this arrogant princeling at another time, but for now, he and his men were safe and were set for an expedition of blood and fire, as they’d wished. If he just happened to kill this pretentious clown who mistakenly thought he was a warlord, there would be no surprise in it to Odin. 

In Chester, the sorceress Guinevia was readying herself for an expedition, and I was unhappy about it. My scribe, advisor, lover and mother of my child was planning to be away for several months while she studied with her mentor, the Druid Myrddin. Her journey would take her west into the mountains of Wales, to stay with the enchanter in his home under the shadow of the sacred mountain Yr Wyddfa while the pair worked on his scrolls and sky charts to untangle some mystery at which he would only hint.

In
time, they might journey on, down the long passes to the coast, to take a ferry across the treacherous straits to the sacred island of Mona. It was there under the sacred oaks and mistletoe where the druids had soaked the ground with the blood of human sacrifices and eventually with their own, spilled by the swords of a Roman legion. Guinevia told me little of her mission, and knew less of Myrddin’s intentions, but she was determined to acquire more of her mentor’s secrets and to assume some of his powers, so she could help return Britain to the old gods. “We have the Christians confined for now,” she told me, “but they have still weakened our nation. Their tattered priests with their bands of followers are still roaming the land and building their strength. Myrddin has a plan to redirect the energies of nature and to bring back the old gods who made Britain great.” I nodded, not totally comprehending her words, but aware of the threats that beset my land and people.

It
would be good to get the old gods looking over us again. It was they who had led me to locate, after its sleep of 200 years, the iconic Eagle standard. Finding it had proved the god’s care for us and had helped me rally the cantankerous chieftains of Britain behind it to defeat our Roman overlords. For luck, I touched the great silver and amber brooch at my shoulder that is the symbol of my standing as a British jarl, then rubbed my fingers against the iron of my sword hilt to avert evil. Guinevia would be a strong ally if she could enhance her sorceress’ powers…

The
pack horses were laden, the escort of four legionaries were shuffling about tightening buckles and straps, Guinevia was fussing calmly over our small son Milo as he wriggled in his nurse’s arms and I was swamped in a fog of gloom. This expedition to the wildest part of Wales was doomed, my instincts told me. Something bad was about to happen. I had told Guinevia of my fears, and she had cast an augury – positive – and sent out her inner eye to seek Myrddin – pottering happily in his garden, she reported. I could not dissuade her. I held her and smelled the crocus oil she had dabbed behind her ears, and I took in the faint scent of lavender from the flowers she placed in her clothes chest.

She
took Milo from his nurse and handed him, squirming, to me. “I’ll take good care of this fellow,” she smiled up at me. I nodded, numbly. I had sent many men to their deaths, I had killed enough of them myself, but I had never had this sense of great doom, even when I truly thought I was about to die in some skirmish or other.

But
the hour came and my hounds whined, sensing something. The gates were swung open, the escort formed around the pack mules and the two women in their raeda carriage. We bade farewell, may the gods speed and protect you, return soon, pay my respects to Myrddin and all the other words of parting, but I never could voice my fears, and the small procession clattered out of the gate, a small hand waved and I watched my best beloved leave on the road to hell. 

XIII Equus

Lycaon
halted his small group: a file of soldiers and three horsemen, two of them leading the black Frisian stallions they trotted on the last part of their journey from Dover. He scanned the long vista of the chalk downs where the horse camp Arthur had ordered was taking shape. His fellow tribune Cragus had chosen well, sitting the pens near a vast grain farm that had served the legions for two centuries. The place was well watered by a tributary of one of the four rivers that bounded the plain, and the vista of smooth, rolling grasslands seemed to his eyes a grassy sea, islanded with occasional clumps of trees where he could pick out specks that were work parties harvesting timber for the camp. Here and there were the long, low lines of the burial mounds of the ancient peoples who had constructed the plain’s giant stone circles.

The
Romans had slashed a road across the downs, aligning it spear-straight east to west like the sloping long barrows of the burial mounds, and it came close to one edge of the horse camp. The soldiers, who were disciplined and practised engineers of camps, bridges, signal towers and the like, had constructed it well. There were paddocks and stables, a barracks and an administration block, much of it to the established plan of a Roman marching camp: a quadrangle with a gate centred on each side, a timber-walled rampart and ditch around it all and a given, familiar layout for the various occupants. Because it would be a semi-permanent camp, some of the tent lines were missing and barracks blocks and a bath house had been erected. Equally, the cavalry lines that would normally be protected inside the castrum were outside in several paddocks. Lycaon noted with satisfaction that guard posts had been established around those well-fenced areas. No point capturing and breaking horses only for them to be stolen, he thought. You could rely on good old Cragus to consider everything. He turned and waved his group forward, and trotted across the turf to find his old friend.

The
tribune Cragus Grabelius had served Arthur for years and was among his most experienced and trusted officers. He’d trained and readied the troops that turned back the Romans, had campaigned across Pictland, clearing the tribes from between the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus, and forced the surrender of the rocky fortress of the Votadini that commanded the River Forth valley. He’d outwitted and outflanked the Picts by building a floating bridge over that river, and he’d surprised the Romans at Dungeness by taking a force through the flanking marshes and attacking them from the rear. 

Now
he faced the task of building a cavalry unlike any the world had seen. He had as raw material the wild horse herds that roamed the southern downlands of Britain, and he could draw on the legions for troops. He did the former, and ignored the latter.

“I
wanted experienced horsemen,” he explained later to Lycaon, “so I went north to Carlisle. For three centuries, the cohort Ala Petriana was stationed there, 24 troops of auxiliary cavalry, 800 men. It was the biggest cavalry force along the entire Wall, and many of them had been discharged to their farms and wives, so did not go to Germania five years ago when their legion was pulled out.

“I
went with silver and five centurions who can recruit men, and I came back with about 90 experienced troopers, and the promise of more to follow when their crops are gathered. After Carlisle,” he continued, “I went all the way across country to Colchester because one of my centurions told me how he’d always lost money on the horse races when he was stationed there. It is the only place in Britain with an arena for chariot racing, and of course that’s where I found trained horses and men who are used to handling them.

“It
was a goldmine. Some of the old soldiers were trainers who actually had an illicit business going, shipping horses for breeding to Gaul. It was a very easy matter to persuade them to use their skills in the service of the emperor, or perhaps they would prefer a trial and execution? I got a dozen trainers there, plus a few younger fellows. Yes, many of the recruits are not young, but they are trained soldiers and horsemen, and they’ll serve our purpose. Some of them have already brought in half a hundred horses from the herds that run wild here and are busy gentling them right now. It could be that in just a few months, we’ll have a cavalry force of some kind, and in three years we could have a very fine heavy cavalry, once we breed these Frisians and the other horses we’ll be acquiring.”

Cragus
glanced around. The nearest sentry was 30 yards away, eyes forward, rigidly aware of his commanders’ close presence. “There’s one other thing: I sent a platoon down to Arthur’s old palace at Fishbourne to see if there was anything to salvage after Maximian’s men burned the place. They came back with some useful things, including a wagon load of amphorae which we thought was olive oil. Turns out, it’s actually is some very good Rhenish wine. It’s waiting in the barracks for us, and I think we should nobly do our official duty, and drink to the success of the cavalry.” 

In Chester, where I was looking morosely towards the mountains to which my Guinevia was travelling, the cavalry’s success was not uppermost in my mind. I was standing at the edge of the dusty practice ground where the drillmasters were working with some new recruits from the south. They’d gone through exercises to harden them, swimming in the Dee, doing gymnastics under the city wall, they’d made long marches in full kit and they had been marched and counter marched on the parade ground until their feet were sore and their ears ached from the shouted commands.

At
present, after slipping away like a truant schoolboy from giving judgements on court hearings, I was watching a couple of grizzled centurions overseeing combat training exercises. The men were attacking straw targets with wooden swords, and it recalled me to the day in Rome when the Emperor Carus had handed me my commission. Carus, called Persicus for his victories over the Persians, had also awarded a wooden sword, a
rudis
, to some brain-damaged gladiator as symbol that his days in the arena were ended honourably. I even recalled the warrior’s name: Timminus, and his blank stare. The emperor had turned to me like an old comrade, calling me ‘Bear,’ and explained with a sympathetic nod as the man was led away: “They retire after six years or 30 bouts. Not many get that far, and the ones that do have usually got some head injury that prevents them becoming an instructor, which is what we’d prefer.” Carus’ uncondescending affability impressed me. The emperor treated me as a fellow soldier, and I vowed that one day, if I achieved high rank, I would do the same to my subordinates.

But
not, I thought, to these young recruits, not yet. They were struggling to obey their instructors, and the two centurions’ voices were getting shriller and louder with frustration. “You use that shield to fucking protect you!” one was shouting. “Fight like a boxer. Left foot forward, boot behind the base of the shield to steady it, right foot back, turned outwards to brace yourself. Stab, thrust hard, don’t slash with your fucking sword! You punch them in the face or in the nuts with your shield, then stab them over the top with the sword point! You thrust, you don’t slash, you’re not reaping fucking hay! Puncture the bastards!” 

The
recruits were learning the battle-winning value of the shield wall. Overlap the edges of your shield with those of your fellows, keep the shield down to protect your shins, stab over the top of it. The press of the ranks behind you kept you upright even while your comrades in the rear were firing missiles, heavy darts, javelins and the like overhead and into the enemy mob. Meanwhile, the enemy’s own forward pressure pushed their ranks up against our shields so we could jab into them. As they went down under the thrusts, our front line would move forward, stamping down with their studded boots, and marching over them, while the following second and third ranks would dispatch the wounded enemy as they lay crushed on the ground.

I
turned away, and strode over the training field to where more experienced soldiers were practising battle formations. I nodded approval at the centurion who was prodding and shouting at his men to move smoothly from column to line, from line to shieldwall-penetrating wedges, then to spread into a chequerboard pattern so the rear ranks could move up when needed.

Our
preferred technique was to approach the enemy in several columns, for manoeuvrability, and we usually advanced behind a screen of cavalry, light troops and the scouts. As we closed, we’d deploy into three wedged ranks, with each unit in a designated place and the whole forming up in a sort of chequered pattern to allow gaps through which the front ranks could retreat and the rear ranks advance. 

The
third, rear rank was always the veterans and they were usually only called upon if the battle got serious and the first two ranks of spearmen were tiring. We put the least experienced to the front to take the initial brunt while the second and third ranks dispatched volleys of spears and darts over their heads. Sometimes we’d use slingshot men who hurled lethal, egg-sized lumps of lead, sometimes, we’d send in cavalry, or we could even deploy some nasty artillery or archers, but the basic premise was to use the heavy shields, armour and training to move our men forward into lightly-protected enemies as a single grinding front.

Sometimes,
that front took on the shape of a sawtooth wedge designed to pierce an enemy line, but always the chequered pattern allowed us constantly to funnel fresh troops forward, and the steady pressure usually broke the enemy, who typically were good for one or two wild charges fuelled by mead or hallucinogenic mushrooms. Our front ranks would fight until they tired, then funnel back. Fresh troops would move up to take their place while they rested, and then the original frontline soldiers would recycle back in. The third ranks would be held back. Often the officers would order them to kneel, to restrain their eagerness until the moment was right to release them to the kill.

Through
all this, the enemy were usually fighting themselves to exhaustion, as they constantly faced fresh troops and unrelenting attacks. It was the way of the legions, had been for centuries, and it worked.

My
plan was to continue the old tactics, but to introduce heavy cavalry and horse-mounted archers. With a swift striking force that could sting from a safe distance, and cavalry whose big horses could crash through an enemy line as their riders stood upright on those new stirrups, we could win battles easier and more cheaply, and could counter the growing inclination of our enemies to armour themselves in the Roman way. And, there was another way I planned to subdue the growing numbers facing us. I’d explained it to my tribunes: “We will get the least costly victories through attrition. That is, we can deplete our enemies not by attacking their forces but by simply seizing their resources. It is expensive for us to train, equip and maintain a single soldier, so it’s prudent to use our troops in the safest way possible to reduce casualties. At the same time, we cause the maximum disadvantage to our opponents.

“Now,”
I said, warming to the lecture, “armies operate on supplies. If we seize or cut off those resources, two things happen: we have more, they have less. To achieve this, we can cut the supply line and attack the resources in transit, we can seize them in situ, or third, if the enemy is inside a fortification, we can besiege them and cut them off from their supplies. In all cases, they are much weakened by being separated from their reinforcements, from their food, fresh materials and equipment. We can grind them down even before we bring them to battle.” 

The
tribunes nodded. They understood resource tactics, it was their job to ensure we were well supplied, but sometimes their eagerness to do battle was not the most intelligent option. I coughed as they murmured among themselves. “We should consider one other thing, gentlemen,” I said. “We have to recognize that our enemies may use these same tactics against us, so we should secure our supply lines and dumps. We should keep our lines of supply as short as possible, and move our troops swiftly, not just by road, but also by river or sea to surprise our opponents. Using water transport is far more secure than taking a pack train through a forest or mountains where it is subject to ambush.

“Our
strategy must always be to put as much strength to a given point as quickly as possible, to feed and supply it and to keep it unified.” The group nodded agreement, and I felt a thirst coming on. “Time, gentlemen,” I said, “to consider another supply necessity,” and I gestured for a slave to bring in wine.