by Marc Jones
Chapter Thirty-One
It was dark outside by the time that Aurelianus finally stopped work on the small mountain of administrative matters that had been piled onto his desk. In a way he was glad of the distraction that such work provided. He picked up the little clay lamp that was by his desk, carefully blew out the others, and then went down the corridor.
He found his son in the dining room, where he was reading a short scroll with all the earnest care that he brought to important matters.
“What are you reading?”
His son looked up and smiled slightly. “Good evening Father. It’s a short treatise from Cato about further changes to the saddles used by the cavalry. It’s very good.”
He nodded and sat on his own couch. His son watched him with a slight frown.
“Are you well Father?”
He smiled. “Tired. A lot to do. So much to organise. The Hibernian raids could start up at any time and I want to make sure that the Great Bay is protected. Poplicala came by today to tell me that another five ships have been sent out to Segontium.”
Aurelianus the Younger nodded thoughtfully. “Segontium is growing by the day now. More traders come South from Valentia every day. There is further word from the Damnonii as well that the fighting amongst the Hibernians seems to be dying down.”
The older man raised his eyebrows. “Did they say what happened to the Epidii?”
“Absorbed, broken or dead.”
He looked at the far wall and then shook his head. “Sad. Well, at least their failure there should calm things down a little.”
“Only just Father. As long as we have what they want they’ll keep trying to raid us.”
He smiled a very chilly little smile in response. “Then we must reach them that such raids come at a price.”
His son nodded sombrely and then looked carefully at him. “Are you sure that you are well Father? You seem… distant today.”
There were times when he wished that the boy could be just a little less perceptive. “I… am worried about the South.”
“Ah. Vitalis.” He spoke the name in a level tone that somehow contained contempt.
“Yes. Well – we will have to see what we will see. Now – let us look at something more cheerful. Dinner.”
When his foot connected with something that clanged he looked down in surprise before bending over and picking it up. A helmet. A rather rusty and battered one, but a helmet. His questing fingers met something sticky and he turned it slightly so that he could peer into it. Ah. Well the raider who had last owned it wouldn’t be needing it anytime soon. Never in fact.
Dagr threw the helmet away with a sniff of contempt and then looked at the wrecked keel in front of him. The last of the bodies were being thrown onto into it by his men. He sniffed. Bloody fools.
“Have you seen what they were armed with Father?”
Hakon strode towards him, his feet crunching in the shingle. He was holding a sword in his right hand and as he approached he held it out. “Southern fools, the lot of them.”
He took the sword and looked at it. “Mind your tongue – they were warriors once,” he chided absently as he looked at it. Then he pulled a face. “Rust-pitted scrap.”
Hakon grinned cheerfully. “Well, we can always smelt it all down and forge it anew.”
True. “Gather it all up and then send it on to old Koli.”
His son nodded and then frowned slightly. “One of them is still alive. That mad boy who charged at us and then got an arrow in his chest.”
Dagr raised his eyebrows. “I thought he was dead.”
“So did I, but the little bastard’s tough. He’ll be dead soon.”
“Did you ask him why they came here?”
“I did. Running from the bastards who took their village he said.”
He snorted in response. “Raiding for land and women then. We gave them the right welcome. Scum like that demand nothing else.”
His son nodded fiercely. “What shall I do about this boy then?”
“I thought you said he was dying?”
“Oh he is, but very slowly. Wouldn’t surprise me if we see him trying to crawl away. Stubborn little bastard.” He shuddered slightly. “There’s something about him that makes me uneasy.”
“Then slit his throat and send him to his ancestors. If you’re feeling particularly holy take his name, send a prayer to the Crone and then slit his throat.”
Hakon shrugged. “Already know his name. Hengist he said. I’ll send him off to join the others in the boat.”
“Good. Strip the bodies and then throw them all in the keel. Then burn it. It’s no use to us. Southerners can’t build ships to save their lives.”
Hakon grinned and then strode off through the shingle, pulling out his knife as he did. Dagr watched him as he bent over the small form. His arm moved smoothly and then he stood up and dragged the body to the keel. Good. Another raiding party crushed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Venta Silurum was a bit subdued, thought Vitalis as he looked out of the window. The town was roasting in the heat of the summer sun, so perhaps that was it. It had been a good spring and an ever better summer so far, so the harvest might be a good one. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Well, so far the year had been quieter than he might have thought. The idiots on the Council had not opposed him – not openly at least.
Hearing footsteps behind him he turned. Vitalinus was approaching, holding a scroll. “Father – the latest reports from the silver mines.”
He took it and unrolled it. “Not bad, but it could be better.”
“It might be that they are running out of the ore. There must have been a reason why the old working were closed down father.”
He snorted. “They could get cheaper silver from other places. No, we’ll keep at it. The lead is useful for a start.”
Knuckles rapped at the door and they both turned to see Lerix enter.
“Sir, Owenix of the Demetae is here,” Lerix announced quietly. “He says that he wishes to speak to you on a matter of grave urgency – and secrecy.”
At last. Control of the West. Vitalis and Vitalinus exchanged looks of slightly smug satisfaction. “Very well – send him in. And Lerix? We are not to be disturbed.”
The Silure scowled slightly but then saluted and left through the main doors. After a moment the side door opened. But no-one came through. Vitalis frowned slightly. “Owenix? Come forwards. We would speak to you.”
Something flew through the air and landed on the floor in front of them with a dreadful leathery thud. It was wet and glistening. It had black hair. Its mouth was open in a soundless scream that it would never utter. It was a human head. The head of Owenix of the Demetae.
Vitalis stood up suddenly and wished that he had a sword about his person instead of the small knife that he always carried in the long sleeves of his tunic. “What is the meaning of this?” His bellow should have brought Lerix running, no matter what instructions he might have had. But nothing. The main doors did not open.
“It’s the head of my son,” said a low voice that was taut with rage and Vitalis tore his eyes from the severed head back to the doorway. A man was standing there. A man with black hair that was tinged with grey - a man in the colours of the Demetae. Gwynnos. Who was supposed to be dead. “He tried to betray me. With your support. Don’t try to deny it – he confessed everything before I executed him.”
His throat was very dry and he swallowed convulsively as he saw the long Celtic-style sword in the hand of the other man. And the figures behind him. They were of the Demetae as well, he recognised them as they walked quietly into the room. “I offered him my support. Perhaps I was wrong to do so. Surely we should talk about this?”
“What and give you yet another chance? Time perhaps for your guards to return? No. Your pet animal Lerix had his throat cut just after he left this room. And the others have been reminded about where their loyalty rightly lies.” Gwynnos stepped forwards and hefted his swo
rd. “No. This is between you and me. And your son of course. You cost me my oldest son. He was a fool, a greedy man whose head you filled with worthless promises. But he was still my son. Your actions, and those of your son, have brought this upon you.
“You have conspired to get your supporters into positions of power in the Tribes of the West, you have bought people with your silver and you have mocked, belittled and betrayed those who have been helping us. And you think that you have been building a position of power, by betraying us. Using us. No more. This ends now.”
Vitalis reached for his dagger at the same time that Vitalinus overturned the table in front of him to create a barrier between them and the angry Demetae in front of them, but it was no use. Gwynnos pulled out a dagger of his own with his left hand and then threw it straight at Vitalinus. His son was many things but he was no warrior, not yet, and he was not fast, because he took the dagger to his shoulder with a sharp cry of anguish.
Vitalis saw red as his son went down and threw the dagger straight at the head of the traitorous bastard in front of him. But the old warrior swept it out of the air with a swipe of his sword and then brought that weapon back and then up into his stomach.
The pain drowned out everything else in the world and he felt his throat become raw from the scream of pain that erupted out of his chest. His guts were on fire, he was being flensed like a fish at the market and he collapsed himself as he clutched at his stomach. He could feel blood there and something else and he screamed and screamed and screamed at the agony that was ripping through him.
Dimly, off to one side somewhere, he heard a thunking noise, like something being hacked at with an axe. And then, as he tried to stop screaming, as he tried to stuff everything back in his stomach, as he tried to roll away, he saw something rolling on the floor next to him that finally at least achieved the former. It was the head of Vitalinus, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
Boots scuffed by his side and he turned his head slowly to see that Gwynnos was squatting down next to him, holding a dagger. “You cost me my son, so I’ve taken yours.” He spoke quietly, his words for just Vitalis. “And if he were here right now then Marcus Ambrosius Aurelianus would send his regards, as I know that you tried to kill him and his son.”
The dagger came down.
The room was silent after Gratianus stopped speaking. He’d been in Londinium when the news of the death of Vitalis had come through and he’d travelled to Venta Silurum as soon as he could after a request came in from the tribal leaders there. According to him the place had been in a state of slightly repressed chaos, if such a thing was possible.
And Vitalis… had left some excellent records behind him. The amount of silver that had been recovered had shaken the Council down to its roots, because it meant that Vitalis had been stockpiling it for years.
“I wonder when he started working against us?” Decidivatus mused with a scowl.
“I don’t it was a question of working against us, more one of deciding that he was far more important than anyone else,” Aurelianus sighed. “And he seems to have decided that my son and I were direct threats to him.”
Poplicala shrugged. “Well. Now he is dead and few seem to be weeping for him very much.”
“He was a man who bore grudges,” Aurelianus noted dryly. “As did his son. I will not weep for either of them.”
There was a general muttering of agreement around the table, before Cornelius Felix raised a reluctant finger. “We’ll need to replace him. We need to keep the Tribes of the West happy.”
“Are you volunteering?”
He shook his head. “I have enough on my hands here keeping trade going between here and Gaul – and Hispania and Rome. But we need to choose someone more… reliable than Vitalis.”
Aurelianus looked around the table. “What about Quintus Fabius? He’s been your deputy for some time now Decidivatus. Would he be willing to go to Glevum and Venta Silurum?”
There was a pause whilst Decidivatus pulled at his nose in thought. “Yes, he could do it. It’s a big step up but while he’s stolid he’s also very competent.”
“I think that stolid but competent would be a vast improvement over Vitalis,” Marcus muttered, making the others chuckle quietly.
“In the meantime I think that we have to admit that Vitalis had a point,” Aurelianus said with a frown. “We need to formalise this Council. We didn’t dare do it whilst Vitalis was alive, because he was looking to exploit every lever of power that he could get his hands on. But with him gone…”
“I agree,” rumbled Gratianus. “We need to settle everything as soon as possible.”
Tupilius sighed. “I also agree. With Stilicho having made himself Emperor – and his reforms mean that he’s going to be very busy in Rome, securing it and Ravenna and North Africa – we are cut off from the Empire. And an independent Gaul will make life… interesting.”
A slightly grim silence fell, one that was finally broken by Aurelianus. “Very well then. We stand or fall together. We must be as united as possible. The alternative is… unthinkable.”
Cato looked at him and smiled slightly. “Britannia Invicta.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
451 AD, Gaul.
Argentorate was a city that looked as if it was about to be besieged. Which was fairly correct, thought Marcus Tullius Cato as he approached the main gate at the head of the army. They’d made good time that day and he had to hand it to the Gauls – they had been keeping the road system in near-perfect order. He remembered his father’s comments about how important the roads were and a pang of familiar loss struck him. He missed him.
“They seem a little nervous here sir,” Poplicala the Younger muttered quietly to one side and he turned and smiled slightly.
“Can you blame them?”
“No sir.”
“Me neither.” He looked to one side at the mustering field to the North and the temporary buildings that had been erected there. “Let’s go and meet our allies.”
The guards at the entrance to the field were well turned out and saluted them crisply as they approached, obviously having been warned about their arrival, and Cato saluted back and then looked at the shortish man in a riding cuirass who was waiting for them.
“Legatus Legionis Marcus Tullius Cato?”
“That is me.”
“Primus Pilus Lucius Valerius Rufus. The General has set out an area within the camp for your men, including a place for your cavalry. The entire Northwestern quadrant.”
“My thanks. Primus Pilus Galerix?”
“Legatus Legionis?”
“Lead the men to their quarters. I will be consulting with our allies. Report to me if you have any problems.”
“Yes sir!”
Cato nodded to his left and right and then led the knot of senior officers around him down the road that led to the centre of the camp and the large collection of tents that were there. Banners had been planted there, both Gaullish and Roman, and as they approached Cato gestured at the Britannian bannermen to add their own to the collection.
The bellow came as he was dismounting. “Cato! You’re early!”
He turned to see the burly figure of Quintus Constantius, younger brother to Lucius Constantius, the Dux of Gaul and king in all but name, striding towards him.
“I thought you might need a sensible person to help you to plan this battle,” Cato said as he spread his hands.
“Hah!” Constantius barked with laughter, before clasping forearms and then pulling him into a bear hug. “Good to see you again, you old rascal! I was afraid that your Northern campaign would distract you.”
“Northern… oh, the Painted People? Feh, the Damnonii broke them without me needing to go anywhere near Valentia. No, our eyes have been on here ever since we heard the news.”
Constantius looked at him and then nodded. “And my brother thanks you. Come – meet our cold-blooded guest, who commands the Romans here.” He lowered his voice. “I pray that
the Empire never takes its eyes off the Limes to the North and makes another attempt at invading Gaul. This one scares me.”
Cato shrugged. “Eucherius is too sensible for that. The Empire has had almost 40 years of stability, under his father and then him. Italy might even feed itself one day. Well – show me our Roman ally.”
They walked into the tent, where a slim, black-haired man in a riding cuirass was studying a map closely.
“Flavius Aetius, I introduce Marcus Tullius Cato.”
The Roman straightened up and fixed Cato with a penetrating gaze from a pair of grey eyes, before smiling slightly and offering a hand. “An honour to meet one of the famous Catos of Britannia.”
“An honour to meet the hero of the Battle of Lauriacum.”
Aetius shrugged slightly. “I was lucky there.”
“We’ll need all the luck we can get here,” Constantius said grimly.
“What’s the latest news from the other side of the Rhenus?”
Aetius gestured at the map. “Little new since the remnants of Theodoric’s Southern forces trickled in. The Hunnoi are massing on the Eastern side in some force.”
“Do we have an idea of how many there are?”
Aetius and Constantius exchanged a look before the former answered Cato’s question. “All we have are estimates – anything between 30,000 to 50,000 men.”
His eyebrows went up. “How are they feeding 50,000 men, plus women and children?”
“According to the Ostrogoths they’ve stripped Magna Germania to the bone, like a plague of locusts.”
A grim silence fell as they absorbed that information. Then Cato looked up. “And what of the Ostrogoths?”
“Scraps of their Southern forces crossed the Rhenus three days ago,” Constantius told him. “The rest have fled North into the unknown.”
This got a groan out of Cato. “So, Magna Germania goes up in flames yet again. I’ll send word to Aurelianus in Londinium at once. If the Ostrogoths collide with what remains of the Sea Wolves the old raids might start up again. I doubt it after the way we slaughtered them 20 years ago, but if they’re sufficiently desperate they might do something stupid.”