Arthur Invictus (10 page)
Authors: Paul Bannister
“We
should do this alliance agreement properly,” I said, thickly. He tugged at his long braids and nodded. He was an inebriated as I was. I gestured Candless to come over. “The king and I will be blood brothers,” I said. “Bring your sword.”
And
there in moonlight on top of the ancient hill fort, with the German Sea glinting in the distance, Candless cut and raised a square turf of Pictish territory. The subject king Briant Baric was there, as was Grabelius, my horse master, to witness matters. Nobody was very sober, and Baric made some joke about invoking the spirit of Constantine and loving all Christians, even if we did not. Even now, I do not know how Baric knew or guessed at what Constantine would do in the near future.
Kinadius
and I cut our palms with our knives and clasped bloody hand to bloody hand, then we let the gore from our joined hands drip into the revealed ground. At the edge of our vision, the fur of a white rat gleamed in the moon’s reflected light but I think only I saw it. Candless stamped the square of sod back into place and grasped us by our shoulders.
“Arthur,
Imperator of Britain, Kinadius, King of all Picts,” he said. “You are joined in blood on this land you rule. You are now for ever bound in peace and mutual brotherhood. May Wodan and Mithras favour you.” He didn’t even mention my new god, Christ. So it was done, and my northern border was secured. I stumbled to my pallet thinking that Christians like Candless were not so bad after all.
Moonlit
in a small alcove, the stone bust of the local god Antenocitus seemed to beam down at me, tolerantly.
On a clear day, from the top of one of the twin
pharoses
which at night light the way into harbour at Dover, I could see the chalk cliffs of Gaul, and on this March morning I was watching the blue sails of two of my galleys approaching from across the Narrow Sea. It had been a long time since my simple task was to patrol these straits and put down pirates and since then, enough
aqua
had flowed through a water clock to float both of those galleys, I thought wryly.
The
sight of the sails was a good sign. My tribune Grimr, reformed Northman raider and now admiral of my fleet, had returned a week before to report a series of victories over the Roman naval patrols, which seemed to have been cleared from this part of the coast. He had been using a new weapon, a boom that swung out from his ship’s mainmast. His tactic was to get almost alongside the enemy vessel, keeping them from boarding by fending them off with long poles, then to swing out the boom so it was over the Romans’ heads.
At
the end of the boom was a heavily weighted, sharp-pointed bolt that the British sailors released abruptly to plunge directly downwards and through the wooden hull of the enemy vessel. Grimr had used the tactic with great success and had sunk more than a dozen patrol ships. At my specific orders, he had not saved even one of their crews and had not employed the new weapon if other ships were in sight. It was harsh and was not a popular decision with the sailors who had to watch other mariners drown, but I wanted no witnesses and no counter measures developed. Now that the weapon was proven, I would equip more of our war galleys with it, and our next full naval battle could be hugely decisive.
Grimr
confided to me quietly that the drowning Romans had made good targets for his crossbow. “Merciful, you see,” he rumbled. “Kill them before they die.” I nodded blankly. I was a cold bastard, but he made me look like a Christian nun.
The
two ships now sailing back to Dover should contain a scouting party I had sent to survey the Bononian coast for potential landing places, specifically including several beaches and coves I remembered from the past. They were also requested and required to gather information about the condition of the harbour at Bononia itself, to assess the current defences and garrison strength, and to survey the suitability of the local terrain for cavalry action, as I heard that the Romans had been draining a marsh there and may have created a weak spot in their defensive lines.
One
galley, guided by the veteran sailor Donac and the archer Malnic, who had both been with me when we had commandeered a trading ship there, was to slip into the smugglers’ cove south of Bononia. It was a place they could use with small fear of being observed, and they could travel overland from there just a handful of miles to assess the hinterland defences of the port and report on the intermediate landing beaches I had pinpointed. Their warband was to move with discretion while the other galley would act as some distraction to the Bononia garrison.
So
I was waiting impatiently for their reports. Spies, carrier pigeon messages and several sets of envoys from the Huns, Franks, Gauls and Belgae were reporting near-readiness for our allied attack on Maximian’s forces.
Bishop
Candless and my cavalry commander Grabelius had assembled a formidable fighting force both pagan and Christian that was camped in Dover’s
castrum
and was growing by the day. The bow was bent, the arrow nocked, steady and aimed. I was simply waiting for the release and prayed to Mithras it would fly true.
Donac
and Malnic came up from the quayside grinning. “It went well?” I demanded, slightly irritated that they seemed so cavalier when I was fretting about what they would report.
“Couldn’t
be better, lord,” said Malnic.
“Inside,”
I said, turning on my heel. “Tell me inside.”
The
news was good. The Bononia garrison was much reduced. It seemed that Maximian had stripped defences across Gaul to bolster his forces on the Rhine. The latest word was that he had advanced into Germania and was aiming for the River Elbe, which meant of course that his plans to invade Britain were not his priority. That was a relief: I wanted to take him on in his own territories and cripple his forces so he would not be able to invade Britain ever again.
Next,
the beach landing sites we’d considered were viable. Donac had viewed them from the straits, then slipped his galley neatly into the notch of the cove, where the troop had mounted the cliffs and scouted the coastline from the land, too. The scouts had come to the outer works of Bononia, where they had laid up in the woods two bowshots away to observe the garrison and its workings.
The
wooden siege walls built by the Romans when they took the citadel had been torn down, probably used by the locals for firewood, and the palisade and shingle mole the besiegers had thrown across the mouth of the harbour to block it had been removed. The marshy terrain west of the walls had been partly drained. It was passable to cavalry but was not ideal, as the ground was still boggy. Better news was that the channel into the harbour had been deepened, as had a part of the harbour itself so that a few vessels could be tied up to the quayside and sailed out even at low tide. This was vital information. If the harbour entrance were unguarded or subdued, we could sail right in, I thought.
“Did
you count the garrison? Get an idea of the strength?” I asked. Donac smiled. Malnic simply stood and walked to the chamber door and issued a quiet instruction to the sentry outside, I raised an eyebrow. I am their commanding officer, and this had a hint of insubordination about it, although I do not want my officers to be servile. “What,” I asked quietly, “are you doing?”
“We
brought back a prisoner, lord,” said Malnic. “He should be able to answer many of our questions.”
The
Roman they brought in, arms bound, looked rumpled and half-frozen in his good linen tunic. He also looked familiar to me. As if giving me a hint, my eyebrow throbbed, the eye that had been damaged in our snowy skirmish outside Bononia when we had been taken prisoner. Recognition dawned on me and I realized that this was the mounted Roman officer who had directed his legionaries when they overran our frozen, rocky redoubt.
Both
Donac and Malnic were with me that day, the latter inflicting considerable damage with his Scythian bow, just as I had with my lost sword Exalter… wait... this man had taken my sword after our capture.
Malnic
spoke first. ”We found him riding the cliffs with a woman, so engrossed in her that he didn’t even see us until it was too late. Donac recognized him first. He didn’t even put up a fight, although he was wearing a weapon.” He made a gesture to the sentry, and the man carried in a long object wrapped in the officer’s red wool cloak. Exalter had come back to me.
Now
I was the one grinning. Then a thought struck me. “The woman he was with, did she escape?”
Malnic
shook his head. “Bad thing. Her pony threw her as we seized the bridles of their horses, she hit her head, died right there. We left her in the open, as she’d fallen, and let both horses loose, still saddled. We left one of this man’s sandals on the turf, too. Nobody saw us there, we took nothing, so it could look as if it were a clifftop accident, a mystery.”
I
turned to the officer and assumed a ferocious mien. “You, bastard, had me tied to a horsetail and dragged to your fortress. You let your men hand out beatings to bound captives and you would have killed us if Maximian had not ordered otherwise, eh? Now it’s my turn. You are here and nobody knows it. There are no rules of war for you.
“I
think a bout with the
flagellum
to show us your ribs is called for, to start matters, and then you can tell me what I wish to know. Start with the locations of the watch and signal towers, outposts, horse lines, type, numbers and condition of the troops. You get the idea. And sketch a map or two, as well.” He turned his gaze away. “Defy me,” I said as menacingly as I could, “and I personally will give you the first 50 lashes. That white skin won’t look so good to your next concubine when it’s rutted like a ploughed field.”
It
was the threatened shame of being beaten with a metal-tipped whip used only on slaves that broke the aristocratic officer’s will.
“I
will cooperate, sir,” he said stiffly.
I
snarled as if I was disappointed. “I’d like to beat your skull into paste,” I said, and he blanched. My aide Androcles had heard about the capture and slipped into the chamber.
“Question
this man,” I instructed. “I want to hear all about Bononia and their dispositions there. This bastard knows what I want, and if he shows any reluctance at all, I’ll do the rest.” I stalked out of the chamber, winking secretly at Donac and taking Exalter to check the blade for nicks or abuse. This was a good day.
We had sailed for Gaul, landed without resistance, taken the meek surrender of my old citadel of Bononia and had linked with our allies at the Seine river as we had agreed. We formed a sizeable force to hurl against the Romans.
Not
since the days of Alexander of Macedon could the world have seen such a mixed host of warriors. Gauls, Franks, Celts, Britons and Belgae had mustered by the agreement of their chieftains to form a federated army which hoped to halt the grinding armoured advance of the Romans. Only the Hun horde that was camped west of us was not yet at the gathering. I hoped they were not having second thoughts. We vitally needed their support.
I
trotted my black Frisian warhorse Corvus through the encampments, marvelling at what a shared hatred of conquerors could achieve. Surely this force would be enough to halt the onward tramp of the legions?
“Mithras
help me if we don’t stop them,” I thought. “If they beat us here, they’ll hold all Europe, then Britannia will fall. I’ll be dead, my family will die cruelly, my people will be slaves. Can we really be the first in centuries to stop these conquerors?” I knew we Britons could not do it alone: we had only recently been routed despite punishing the Roman fleet. “Pray to the gods,” I thought, “that this fragile alliance holds.”
Maximian
was on his spring campaign and far from his Gallic
colonia
, but the emperor would certainly hurry back when he heard about us. We would be waiting, and praying.
Such
thoughts did not seem to concern the man alongside me. Bishop Candless, whose finery seemed to grow more extravagant every day, was riding a churchman’s expensive palfrey and was resplendent in a gilded parade helmet and a cuirass made of crocodile skin, which he wore over his fine wool cowled habit.
“This
breastplate came from Aegyptus,” he told me proudly, “and it has magical properties.” Around his neck was a vast gold tau-rho looped cross, symbol of the Christian faith.
“Thought
you didn’t believe in magic?” I muttered.
“Better
to keep all the gods happy,” he said cheerfully.
He
waved benevolent blessings as we rode out of our pagan British lines and through the Christians’ camp. There, the cohorts of soldiers for Jesus that Candless had raised from all over Britain and even from Pictland were at their midday devotions. They had adopted a red cross design on their bucklers and targes, a means of identifying friend from foe in the hacking scrimmage of battle.
Many
of their limewood shields had a leather or sheepskin cover, and the red cross on the white sheepskin was especially easily seen, so some men daubed their dark shields with lime before applying the red colouring. The soldiers that Queen Emiculea of Armorica had sent added the decoration of a golden lion to their red and white shields. They were unusually well-armed and equipped, I saw approvingly. Of course, she had a number of gold mines in her lands, so coin was plentiful.
At
the heart of the Christian camp, hard by Candless’ large pavilion tent, an outdoor altar had been set up, guarded day and night by sentries watching over the sacred relics on display there. Candless had ordered an awning set up which shadowed the Face of Christ linen he had conveniently discovered, and in a beautifully-made walnut casket in front of the miraculous image were displayed the bloodied Four Nails from the True Cross. They were genuine crucifixion nails, I knew. My executioner Davius had supplied them and he was under explicit orders to keep his mouth shut about the matter.
As
usual, a line of soldier pilgrims was waiting to shuffle past the relics, crossing themselves and praying as they did. Some may have implored their god to give them victory over his heathen enemies, most probably prayed just to get home safely. The relics were inspiring for troops that I desperately needed, and I also displayed a red cross on my shield, as public evidence of my conversion to the Christ religion. If helped them accept me as their commander, I’d do it, though I still wore a small Thor’s Hammer around my neck, but hidden underneath my tunic.
One
thing I noted about the Christian encampment was its total lack of whores. The camps of the Gaels, Gauls and Belgae were teeming with women followers whose charms could be sampled for only modest amounts of coin, or even bartered for a bit of food, but the Jesus devout, although they drank copiously, stayed away from the prostitutes. When I remarked on this to Candless, he grunted that the whore Mary Magdalene was saved from her life of sin by Jesus, and no doubt the current working girls had no intention of having to change their profession.
Still,
it was curious. I noted, too, that numbers of women seemed to have authority in the Christian camp and here and there was a female teacher or preacher speaking to a huddled knot of listeners. Candless told me that the sect taught that being poor and lowly could be a noble thing and that all people were equal in the eyes of their god.
“Their
reward for obedience and contentment with their lot in this life will come in the next world,” he said, as I sceptically eyed his be-ringed fingers and fine cope with its gold clasp.
The
bishop caught my glance and hurriedly blurted: “We give to Caesar what is his, and to God what is his. As God’s representative, I have to wear this distinguishing uniform, it’s just a symbol.”
“Symbol,
eh? Well, the creed isn’t a bad recipe for keeping people quietly in their place, either,” I said dryly.
“We
offer unconditional love, lord,” he said stiffly. “All are treated like prized members of our family.”
“Let’s
take a look at the next encampment,” I said.
The
Gauls were settled next to the Christians on a prime piece of land along the river bank, whose water spirits they said protected them. Their camp looked prosperous, and the several major chieftains among them each had a proper timber hall with a reed-thatch roof, wood-shuttered window holes and lime-washed interior that brightened it. I was escorted past the boar’s head standard that stood outside and into one such hall and I viewed it curiously. There was a central fire pit and a dais along one side where the tribal lord and his lady had their thrones, and mead benches for the lord’s house warriors ranged down either side.
In
alcoves around the opposite wall and at each end were more benches for daytime chores and nighttime sleeping and the place was lit by oil-soaked torches in sconces and oil-filled lamps. I entered as the midday meal had just finished, and the trestle tables were being knocked down and stored. The lady of the hall, quickly identifiable by the impressive gold torc she wore at her throat, came to greet us, apologizing that her husband was not present.
Like
all the Gauls, she was tall, blue-eyed and fair-haired. Unlike most, she was not prickly-proud. She introduced herself as Lindina and said she had met my Guinevia during her time in Gaul.
“A
Druid of considerable power,” she said. “We have high regard for the old religion here.” I was unsure if she was gently chiding me for my recent conversion to Christianity, so I tugged my tunic neck away to ‘accidentally’ reveal the small hammer of Thor that hung there and she smiled widely.
“The
Christian army will be of great usefulness,” I said blandly.
Outside
again, Candless and I strolled through the big encampment. The Gauls, being at the boundary of their lands and consequently having travelled less distance than most, had brought herds of cattle and sheep with them, and had set up a butchers’ shambles alongside a small tributary that flowed into the Seine, just a few hundred paces away. We looked on as blood and offal floated away, streaking the river red.
“We
should get them to stop that,” I muttered. “They should put it all into pits, filter it before it gets into the river. The troops downstream will be drinking that and we’ll get sicknesses.” It was a fact that ill humours would weaken any army that stayed in one place too long, I knew from bitter experience.
Beyond
the shambles was a park of heavy wagons, and a smithy where troops waited and watched as the smiths repaired tackle, sharpened blade edges and created helmets, shield bosses and all the other equipment of war. I eyed the soldiers appraisingly. They were big blond men, well equipped, well nourished. How they would perform in combat I could only guess. I had heard they fought in tight phalanxes with shield walls, sometimes employing a wedge formation to break an enemy line. This worked well on lesser opponents, but they had enjoyed their few successes over the Romans only by ambush, or when they had great superiority of numbers.
I
was wondering gloomily how best to employ these allies as we rode to inspect the next camp, where the Celts had set up their quarters. They were a ferocious-looking collection. Most went about bare-chested, although in colder weather like this March day they wore colourful striped
caracalla
, the Gallic cloak trademark of the emperor Antonius Bassanius, around their shoulders. They favoured trews, which caused the Romans to call them ‘
bracati
,’ or ‘trousered people,’ and were fond of gold ornaments, especially collars and great brooches like my own silver-and-amber badge of jarl’s office. Even to my British eye, accustomed to seeing people who rarely saw Sol, their skin was startlingly milk-white, making the swirling circular blue tattoos with which they adorned it stand out even more. That was remarkable enough, but the most impressive thing about them was their hair, into which they mixed a paste of white lime, and then drew it out into spikes.
One
warrior, not especially tall, but covered in scars and with an impressive collection of trophy skulls hung around his tent flaps, showed me the lime mix he used to shape his thinning hair, and proudly pointed to a tattoo across his chest that said ‘Tedric.’
“My
name,” he indicated with signs. He could neither read nor write, but had insisted on the painted label in case he died in battle. He wanted his body to be identified.
“How
would anyone see the tattoo?” I wondered aloud.
“Their
elite warriors often go into battle totally naked except for a belt at the waist from which they hang the heads of their defeated enemies,” Candless explained. “When you see them run in, howling from their painted faces, under great heads of spiked white hair, their sheer bravado is enough to unnerve even a disciplined foe.”
Ironically
for those naked warriors, their metalworking craftsmen had long since invented ringmail armour, in which metal rings were sewn onto a leather jerkin. Later it became proper chainmail but it was not widely used until the Romans adopted the idea. A mail shirt was difficult to make and expensive, but it provided good protection, and my best warriors wore it or the lighter
segmentata
armour of hoops around the torso that was used by Roman officers.
We
passed through to the tent lines of the Gallic and Frankish Celts, where I admired the tall shields piled neatly alongside leaf-bladed spears that were stacked like stooks of wheat, and came to the blue-painted Picts’ encampment.
As
I expected, I found Guinevia there, chatting with several of her kinswomen who had accompanied their men to war. She introduced me to her cousins Loisa and Shellea, of the Iones tribe from Bertha, where the legions’ advance into Pictland had been halted by the Pict warriors and their women. I treated them with respect, for these were women who fought alongside their men in battle and even the historian Pliny had remarked on their ferocity. He called that frenzied onslaught of male and female warriors the ‘
Furor
Celtica
.’ It was a maddened charge of fearless infantry in a battle line that had so often overwhelmed their foes that the Celts had never truly been conquered.
The
old Romans also knew of the Picto-Celtic cavalry, and this I was anxious to review. I knew it as light cavalry that usually raced in, lances levelled, behind a shower of javelins. I thought to use my heavy horsemen to break the Roman ranks, and send in the Celts to expand those gaps, so I was eager to view these federates.
Their
horses were small, nimble, hardy steeds for the most part, similar to the mountain ponies of Pictland or the Hunnic steeds with whose tails I had become acquainted as a prisoner dragged behind one. Several Frankish warriors rode into the cavalry lines as we arrived. One cavalry commander, a noble called Davric, seemed ready for war, with three severed heads dangling at his saddle bow, and the bloody hand that the Gallic Celts regarded as a favourable symbol painted on his horse’s shoulder. I recalled the story of a dying warrior who had given his horse a farewell caress, and left his blood imprint there, a symbol adopted later by other warriors.
The
cavalry mounts were bright-eyed, glossy, groomed and decorated extravagantly. Davric and his cohorts were adorned with gold, and carried beautifully-worked, single-edged, curved swords or long, ash-hafted javelins as their main weapon. They wore conical bronze helmets with crests, were lightly armoured in leather, and wore the ubiquitous trews and soft leather riding boots. I liked their casual look of competence. These were proper horsemen and I knew they would serve our army well. I knew too, of their grim reputation as fighters who did not fear death. Their druids taught them that dying was just the mid-part of a long existence, and they would readily choose suicide over surrender.