Arthur Invictus (15 page)
Authors: Paul Bannister
“Finish
me now, you bastard,” he gasped. It was time. I did not want to delay, my comrade needed help. There was the temptation to let my enemy suffer, but on balance, I’d not let him linger.
“My
pleasure,” I said. I took out my punching knife, leaned over him and hit hard. The death blow went in upwards under his broken ribs and I gave it the wrist-twisting strike that guarantees to send the recipient swiftly to the Bridge of Judgement. I had little doubt that Maximian would be tumbling from that bridge into the demons’ pit, so to get him used to the idea, after I took his imperial seal from his finger, I kicked his body off the aqueduct and watched it fall to the rocks far below.
This
was one Roman who would be useful. He could feed the carrion crows.
Celvinius
was alert, watching. “That’s the second emperor you have killed,” he croaked.
“Shut
up, or I’ll crown you and then make you the third,” I replied.
He
grimaced. “Fix my bloody side and stop chattering,” he said.
A fat trader was holding forth in a taverna alongside the coliseum in Nimes. “You can get from one end of the empire to the other in a couple of weeks,” he was explaining to a whore with startling yellow hair who was pretending to be interested. “All you need is a good ship like one of my three and you can be anywhere in the civilized world as fast as the wind and oars will take you.”
He
was right. Only a few days before, an envoy from the new Augustus himself had arrived all the way from Constantine’s palace in Nicomedia, specifically to talk with me. The news had travelled fast that the British Imperator was in southern Gaul and Constantine had acted equally promptly to assess my attitudes and to bring me into his council.
“The
emperor is impressed that you have made Britannia Christian,” the legate said smoothly, uttering platitudes neither of us believed, “and wishes you to continue the Pax Britannica under your own authority.”
Well
that was a relief, though I tried not to show it. The diplomat was hinting that the tax burden would not be crippling, probably because he and his master understood that the Britons would no longer stand for it. Constantine had enough problems with the hordes from the east, he wanted no painted barbarians setting the northern colonies afire. His message to me seemed to be: keep matters under control and Rome will leave you alone. That suited me. I bowed my head to the beautifully-dressed legate, fished in my purse and produced the imperial seal that Maximian had worn on his finger.
“
Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s,” I intoned. The legate’s eyebrows raised. Maybe, after all, I had learned some of the Christians’ doctrines. He murmured that his master would appreciate the token of office and my gesture at acknowledging his rule. He assured me of Rome’s continued support and appreciation. I kept my eyebrows down, not showing my disbelief. It was all politics after all. At least, now I could make my way back to Britain.
I
had already sent messages to my officers and Bishop Candless to get our troops home,
quam
primum
. Now, with the emperor’s blessing, I myself could return.
In
the tavern where the fat trader was trying to impress the whore enough to get her price lowered with her underclothes, I walked over to him and smiled, which made him start with fright. I had forgotten how my scarred face and battered eye upset some people. Politely, I said: “Is it swifter to reach Britannica by sea through the Gates of Hercules, or by river across Gaul, do you think?” He gaped like a fish, but eventually I had some sense out of him, and, despite some unfavourable winds, one month later to the day I was stepping onto the quayside at Deva. The sea route was faster.
As
always, Guinevia divined that I was coming and had arranged a triumphal parade which promised to be popular, as we had considerable loot from the Roman impedimenta to share as donatives. The Christians and the Picts were to join our British troops for the week of festivities, and a great herd of cattle and sheep were being brought into the
castrum
for the butchers to prepare. Britain was safe from the Romans, the treasury was healthy, the people were content.
And
then the news came from the southeast by dispatch rider. The Saxons were once more invading our island.
I am Arthur, Imperator Caesar Britannicus, Marcus Aurelius Mauseus Carausius the dutiful, fortunate and unconquered Christian Augustus, and I am at peace with Rome, but I am preparing to go to war. Again.
Although this trilogy begins by following the general outline of the life of Carausius, the narrative of the second and third books necessarily must take liberties with history. In
Arthur Britannicus
we read how a soldier became admiral, and then emperor. This was Carausius, a Menapian from what is now Belgium, whose Roman enemies claimed he was of ‘the humblest birth.’ Or, he may have been nobly born, perhaps even the son of a Roman administrator.
Carausius’
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. Some 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. The evidence also 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 Maximian 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 Boulogne, even to Rome itself, but he was frustrated by 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 to Britain.
Carausius
reinforced his military position there 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 southeastern 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. The city fell in 293 AD, 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, and announced himself as ‘consul’ and ‘Augustus arrived’ on his coinage. He began work in 294 AD 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 Chlorus, 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’
) implying ‘Restorer of Roman power.’
Imperator
Carausius was the first British ruler to unite the kingdom, and deserves his place in history for that, but he actually is best known for his fine coinage. 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.
Of
course, the narrative of this second book is fiction. The real Carausius died by Allectus’ actions, but as Caros/Arthur he may indeed have driven out invaders and brought Britain peace. Readers may also note that some ‘modern’ technology was used by Arthur hundreds of years before Europeans adopted it. This is not impossible. Myrddin learned of fireworks from his magi, who had contact with trader Chinese. They in turn had been using ‘fire dragons’ since the second century before Christ, although it was only much later that gunpowder was developed.
Similarly,
Myrddin may have heard of the L-shaped stirrups that appeared in India about that same time 400-plus years earlier, or of the later circular and triangular stirrups that are known to have been in use during the First Jin Dynasty of the third century AD, or 700 years before the Norman Conquest and their devastating ‘first’ use of mounted warriors who could stand to fight from horseback.
Myrddin
could also have learned of Greek (or Byzantine) Fire that was used successfully centuries before Arthur employed it. He would not, however, have had to be concerned about the Huns in Armorica – modern Brittany – because they did not appear there for some decades more.
Constantine
did succeed Diocletian, and his son in law Maximian attempted to steal Constantine’s title, but Maximian did not fall from the Pont du Gard. Constantine, aware of the cult’s growing power, did make Christianity the state religion, although he did not have to face any invading mixed pagan/Christian army from Britain.
Fine
maps by architect/photographer Kelvin Jones pinpoint some of the sites named in these books, which often are identified by their 21st century names, not by possibly-unfamiliar Latin place names. This is done in the interests of clarity and to prevent the need frequently to thumb back to a reference page. There are just a few exceptions that are intended to retain the flavour of the narrative. Eboracum is 21st century York, and Bononia is the French seaport of Boulogne-sur-Mer.
Portus
Chester is modern Porchester; Colchester, the Roman Camulodunum, appears as itself; Chester was once Deva, Snowdoun is modern Stirling and Eidyn’s Burh is better known to us as Edinburgh. There is a fine hillfort to the city’s east, at Dunpelder, where Arthur waited for his forces. The harbour on the Severn estuary, Abonae is modern Sea Mills; Aquae Sulis is Bath, and Dumnonia is now Cornwall.
The
citadel capital of Armorica, then called Mons Tomba, is set fancifully on Mont St Michel, although the capital was actually in modern Lyon, and neither the fictitious Queen Emiculea nor any other monarch ruled both Armorica and Aquitania. Nimes, however, truly was a
colonia
for veteran soldiers, and contains some of the continent’s finest surviving Roman buildings. The aqueduct over the Gardon river, known today as the Pont du Gard, is the scene of… well, (spoiler averted) so please read the relevant part of the book, but this World Heritage site is an awe-inspiring one and a great tribute to the engineers who built it to incredible precision considering the primitive tools at their disposal. I found it interesting to discover that the interior of the water conduit was smoothed to better enable the flow by plastering it with fine-ground ceramic shards set in stucco. The shelly limestone walls were painted with a mixture of olive oil, pork grease, fig juice and slaked lime to create a durable, smooth surface.
The
whole watercourse, which runs its twisting route from the Fontaine d’Eure at Alazon to Nimes descends only 56 feet over its entire length of 31 miles, and took 1,000 workers about 15 years to complete. It is just one example of the Roman tenacity and engineering skills which we also find in their road building.
Some
readers raised an eyebrow about Roman roads and the speed of travel over them. Fact is, the engineers of Rome bound together the then-known world with a paved web 53,000 miles long, of 372 distinct roads. These were precision-made pavements that allowed land transport so rapid that the Emperor Titus is reported to have travelled 500 miles in 24 hours to be with his dying brother. More routinely, a letter from northern Gaul could be received in Rome in just a few days, thanks to the network of staging posts and
mansios
that provided fresh horses and overnight accommodation for officials.
Generally,
the Romans did not name their roads, so the great highways were often only named by later generations. Some few, especially around Rome, like the Via Aurelia and Via Appia did have names, but Britain’s famous ‘Streets’ of Watling, Ermine, Dere, Stane and Akeman were then only known by their itinera numbers. The ancient Fosse Way, which was once the Romans’ frontier rampart of western Britannia, probably already had its name when the conquerors first came to the island.
The
Roman road web is wide, but perhaps we will find it is even greater than we know. In Lancashire, as recently as the first decade of the 21st century, archaeologists discovered and traced a trans-Pennine Roman road that had been forgotten. It runs partly on the course of the moorland A640 road on which the remote Nont Sarah public house stands. The road is known locally as “Nont Sarah’s “ and is perhaps the only Roman road worldwide named for a pub which in turn is named for someone’s Aunt Sarah..
Whatever
the quality of the roads, which were initially intended for the military and had the advantage in unsettled areas of dividing tribal territories and discouraging movement of the natives, travel generally was only for the wealthy, and the roads most used served largely to move goods from a port to its hinterland. Water travel was the method that was quickest and most efficient for traders. Most of Rome’s grain, for example, crossed the Mediterranean from Alexandria in a constant shuttling of fleets of cargo vessels to the port of Ostia, and, as Arthur knew, the great rivers of Europe were fine highways, too.
Curiously,
neither the republic nor the empire was a natural maritime power. The Roman navy did play its part in conquering the nations around the Mediterranean, but the real work was done by the legions. Greeks or Egyptians were generally employed to sail Rome’s ships, under the orders of Roman officers, as naval service was regarded as un-Roman and had lower status even than did auxiliaries. In the later years of empire, when Our Sea was peaceful, the naval force was allowed to atrophy and the navy’s technical development stagnated, although military vessels were much used on rivers like the Rhine and Danube to support and supply the troops.
One
other thing: despite Hollywood’s interpretations, most of those who pulled the oars of the galleys were not slaves labouring under the lash. They were paid free men who served for up to 28 years and enjoyed handsome retirement benefits, usually a substantial cash award and a land grant. Some slaves did have to man the galleys during times of crisis or reduced manpower, but all were freed first, given citizenship and rowed as volunteers.