by M. K. Hume
Decius spat a large globule of phlegm onto the dripping grass and cast a jaundiced eye towards a miserable sky.
‘I’ve been in this pimple on the arse of our world for twenty years, master, so I know the Britons and their ways as much as any outsider can – especially the ladies, if you take my meaning.’ He chortled, but the commander looked increasingly weary, a sure sign that he was irritated.
‘The Britons are strange people with their heathen gods and sacred trees. We removed the Druids, root and branch, but there’s a streak in their souls that turns them into nasty enemies, even for professional armies like ours. They’d be good friends though, if we were sensible enough to mix with them and earn their respect. If we could mould their warriors into a manageable whole, they’d march into Hades for us and not give a damn at the cost. They don’t realise their own strength, master, and I’ve sometimes felt that even the Great Caesar might have failed against them, if they’d been united.’
‘Heresy! If any man but I were to hear such sentiments, you’d be considered crazed – or a traitor!’ Maximus laughed to show he meant no threat. ‘But I agree with you that they’re odd and difficult to understand. I’m in receipt of an invitation to travel into the south-west to consult with the King of the Dumnonii tribe, if this war with the Hibernians ever ends. I’ve never seen the south-west of Britannia.’
‘Well, master, them’s the oddest of the whole lot. The land down there is warmer and more pleasant than elsewhere on the island. Sometimes, the sun’s been known to shine all day.’
Both men laughed and stared ruefully at the slowly darkening sky. Below them, the Romans were slaughtering the badly wounded enemy warriors without quarter.
‘It would definitely be a good enough land to start with for any Roman commander with ambition,’ Decius added, and the pair smiled with a mutual understanding.
‘I hear tell the south is a place of great standing stones and sheer cliffs that overhang the wild western ocean. Many folk in that land say there are drowned cities under the waves, so you can hear the bells ringing when the sea is turbulent. There have been nights when I could have believed in that Wilde Hunt of theirs, and the notion that trees can come to life and smother men with their branches and roots.’
‘That’s an interesting tale, Decius,’ Maximus sneered. ‘I never took you to be a credulous man.’
‘Not I, master! They’re just stories that are passed around the fire pits when there’s not much else to do. It would be best that you went there, my lord, and saw the place for yourself.’
‘I intend to, Decius, for you’ve begun to whet my appetite. I’ve heard that the Dumnonii king is called the Boar of Cornwall. That’s propitious, don’t you think, since the emblem of our own legion depicts the boar?’
‘Aye! I’ve been told that Caradoc’s been named for a black beast that harrows the earth with its giant tusks.’ Decius couldn’t resist one last reference to the supernatural.
Maximus cuffed his servant lightly with one idle hand and kicked his horse into movement. Below them, the cavalry were dragging away the bodies of the dead and preparing them for the funeral fires once the enemy corpses had given up every item of value. Still more of the warriors carried away living Romans or wounded Britons, while the dead were laid out according to their rank and the century to which they belonged. As they worked, so too did a clerk and a scribe who were already recording the names of the dead and the wounded onto short scrolls that would be placed in the archives of the legion. As always, the Roman war machine rolled inexorably onwards.
The night came and, with it, the inevitable scavengers.
CHAPTER I
Strange Bedfellows
May truth be embodied, strong with life.
The Gathas Yasna
Magnus Maximus, tribune of the Twentieth Legion of Deva, rode over a treeless hill to gasp at the sheer enormity of the wild scene that spread out before him like one of Chronos’s jokes.
Time had stood still in this ancient land; it had even defeated Rome’s power to civilise, so Maximus was left speechless by the dizzying impossibility of Fortress Tintagel.
The Hibernian raiders had eventually been herded back to their boats and pursued over the Mare Hibernicus to their boggy, rain-drenched homes like a pack of mongrel dogs. Maximus knew they would return, for they would always lust after the riches of Britannia.
Meanwhile, the legion at Eburacum on the east coast of Britannia had driven the Picts back beyond the Vellum Antonini, leaving the Otadini tribe to hunt down any stragglers who were discovered along the escape route. During the uneasy peace that followed, Maximus had begged leave of his commanding officer in Deva to make a diplomatic visit to the court of King Caradoc in distant Tintagel. Maximus had convinced Theodosius that a treaty with the Dumnonii tribe could be advantageous to their mutual security, mainly because this tribe occupied vast lands and lived cheek-by-jowl with the other tribes that inhabited the south. No major Roman garrisons had been constructed in the southern lands, where the Dumnonii were the strongest fighting force of all. Isolationist and self-sufficient, they could become a valuable ally – or a dangerous enemy.
Theodosius had agreed, albeit reluctantly. Many of the older officers, the Duces, had spoken disparagingly of Magnus Maximus, a commander who was altogether too popular with his men and was likely to order the most peculiar strategic formations in battles involving his fanatically loyal troops. His detractors cited his use of cataphractarii, the Roman heavy cavalry, at the beginning of the recent battle against the raiders from Hibernia. The young commander’s tactics had proved successful, but Maximus’s critics were offended that this young officer refused to follow the old traditions. And so, when Theodosius had asked why Maximus had chosen to do this, the senior officers at the conference had almost salivated in anticipation of the embarrassment that would be inflicted on this ambitious young tribune.
Maximus had responded by thanking the great man for bothering to notice the limited strategic capabilities of a relative newcomer. Theodosius was amused by this humble response, for he was aware that this young Spaniard had no such flaws. Interested, he waited patiently for the answer.
‘The Hibernians aren’t entirely stupid, master, and they know how we fight. After all, we’ve been trouncing them for years. The landscape at the battlefield offered no advantage to either of us, because it was as dry as the earth can get in this countryside in winter. I decided to break their hearts and be done with it. They knew what to expect from our infantry and were forming up to embrace our warriors with flanking attacks, so I let my cataphractarii destroy a large part of their force while they were vulnerable. You’ll have to own that my tactics worked rather well and they kept my casualties to a minimum.’
Theodosius had nodded in agreement. ‘And would you use your heavy cavalry in the same way on the next occasion you’re engaged in battle?’
‘How can I know, master? I’ve not seen the landscape, so I’d consider any commander to be a fool if he made strategic decisions from a pre-ordained scroll. I begrudge losing any of my men because it takes so long to recruit replacements and train them to reach my standards.’
Theodosius laughed then and gave permission for the young tribune to make the journey to the land of the Dumnonii. As he left the commander’s lodgings, Maximus heard a howl of protest from one of his opponents inside the conference room.
‘You’ve rewarded that Spanish bastard for his impertinence, master. That young man has ambitions beyond his birth and, as he advances, he’ll rise to strike you down. Kinsman or not!’
Theodosius’s response had been hard and sharp.
‘Then he’ll serve me well as he climbs to the top of Fortuna’s Wheel. It’s far better for me that my officers think on their feet than sit on their collective arses. Which sort of man are you, Crusius?’
And so, with his body
servant, Decius, and guard of twenty cavalrymen, Maximus left Segontium on a predictably gloomy day. As usual, rain dripped out of a grey sky. Across the Menai Straits, a narrow ribbon of sand revealed Mona Island, a landmark that loomed darkly out of the choppy sea. As usual, Decius regaled anyone who would listen with tales of the genocide of the Druids and their children, all of whom had been slain pitilessly by legionnaires until the waters of the straits ran red with the blood of innocents.
‘The gods say that such actions must be paid for, even if they are necessary,’ Decius stated as he rubbed his chilled fingers together and gloated at the various expressions of doubt, suspicion, fear and dread on the faces of the incredulous cavalrymen. Only one horseman among the ancillary troops travelling with the cavalcade, a Brigante, had the temerity to face Decius with an expression that was studiously blank. This particular soldier was far too wise to embarrass a veteran, so he kept his tongue between his teeth.
For an instant, Maximus remembered what Decius had said about the Britons being odd, but then he pushed the thought away. The people of Britannia had been civilised and imbued with Latin culture so, with luck, they were less likely to fall prey to the wights and ghosts of their barbarian past. Those Britons who had been educated were expected to worship sensible gods and to dress, wash and comport themselves like real people.
The journey into the south had taken less time than Maximus expected, for they followed the arrow-straight Roman roads leading to Glevum. The cavalcade passed through the smaller towns with comfortable Roman names, for a tribune on a mission for his commander could expect to receive the best hospitality that these outposts had to offer.
When the warriors eventually reached Glevum, they knew that their journey was half-completed, so Maximus allowed them to detour to the fleshpots of Aquae Sulis and its renowned hot waters.
They had luxuriated in the baths and brothels for a few brief days before Maximus ordered them to remount and head southwards again through a new landscape that was strange and unearthly. The long valleys, the tors with towers atop them for signal fires, and the standing stones that seemed to thrum and vibrate under human fingers were eventually forgotten as they discovered new oddities, despite the cold winter that covered the earth with a rime of frost.
‘Only Romans would travel with these winds and the scent of snow in the air,’ one old smith muttered in the Celtic tongue to his boy as they worked on the shoes of the tribune’s horse in one of the small unnamed villages through which the cavalcade passed. The lad was labouring over the bellows and his reddened face was running with sweat.
‘You spoke to me, smith?’ Maximus demanded from behind his bay. The blacksmith nearly froze with fear as he heard his own language repeated back at him.
‘I meant no disrespect, my lord. None at all! But you’re travelling the roads at a strange time of year and you’re following the lesser-known paths that lead into the south.’
Maximus’s face was stony and one hand tapped his scabbard suggestively. The boy had ceased to work the bellows and was trying to decide whether to hide himself from these horrible men with their dark and angry eyes.
‘How can I apologise for disrespect, master? I’m sorry for my thoughtless words, but I’m a poor smith, so I spend my days repairing farm implements. I know little of your world.’
‘You’re a liar! Your words are those of a man who was well educated in the ways of the battlefield. You’re only sorry because you’ve been caught out in stupidity.’
The smith’s face became blotchy in shades of grey and red.
‘I don’t like liars, so reconsider your answers or you’ll lie in the mud of the roadway. Perhaps a little pain and reflection on your part might make me listen to your explanations.’
Decius dismounted and his sword was drawn with a threatening hiss. The smith had almost fallen over his feet as he tried to reach the rain-drenched roadway before Decius entered the smithy. He threw himself onto the sodden earth which was liberally spread with dung from the last horse that had been shod, then spread his arms and lowered his face into the foul mud.
Maximus gazed down at the full obeisance usually reserved for emperors or eastern potentates. Reluctant to humiliate the man further, he allowed himself to smile.
‘Rise now, smith, and tell me the truth. I’ll not punish you further. I want to know where you’ve served, because I’m curious about you.’
‘My name is Alwyn ap Isca. I was a signaller in my youth and I carried the Dracos into battle until I was a man. I served with pride for ten years until I got this wound and was forced to leave the ranks. I needed to eat, so I became a blacksmith.’
Alwyn bared one leg and exposed a long sword cut that ran from his groin to his knee.
‘A standard bearer! That would have been a fine role for a young lad. Did you ever let your Dragon fall to the ground?’
Maximus wanted to test the man’s response.
‘I’m alive, aren’t I, master? No standard bearer would want to live if the emblem of their legion was dishonoured. The shame alone . . .’
Even though he was grey and hard-bitten now, this elderly smith, shaking with cold and fearful of this dark Roman with the terrible eyes, couldn’t countenance a worse fate than to see his Dragon falling into the dust again.
‘There is still some of the legionnaire in you, Smith, although your tongue tends to run away with itself,’ the tribune added. ‘Get out of the rain now, man, and finish your work on my horse. You can tell your grandchildren that Magnus Maximus let you live.’
His humiliation forgotten, the blacksmith began to shape the new shoe while his apprentice worked the bellows until his face was purple with effort. As always, Maximus found pleasure in watching a smith force the horse to raise its hoof and then smelled the pungency of burning hair as the shoe, still hot, was deftly put into place.
When the smith handed him the reins, Maximus gave the veteran a golden coin. The reward was far too much for such a trivial task. As Alwyn bit into the coin to check on its purity, Maximus laughed and leaped into the saddle, feeling his mount’s strength and renewed confidence in its repaired hoof.
‘A long life to you, master,’ the smith shouted as Maximus kneed his bay and the gelding raced away with a great splatter of mud and water. ‘And, if it’s fated to be short – then let it be glorious!’
‘Remember that man, boy,’ Alwyn told his apprentice as the cavalcade disappeared down the makeshift street. ‘He’ll not make old bones, but he’ll surely leave a trail of destruction behind him.’
The rest of the journey to Tintagel passed without incident, except for Maximus’s amazement at how much the landscape could change within the space of a few miles. In this strange land even the rivers seemed deceptively shallow and harmless, or sprang from ground that was stained the colour of blood.
Maximus had chosen to ignore a coarse pathway that had been hacked through the thick green sod by the movement of many sharp hooves. Instead, the tribune followed the high ground along the ridges in typical Roman fashion, for he was eager to survey the fortress from above before he committed himself to the plunging downward path. Maximus had scoffed at the notion that these British tribesmen could possibly build an impregnable fortress, given their usual levels of engineering expertise, until he reached the brow of the hill and beheld Tintagel Castell on the cliffs overlooking the Oceanus Atlanticus.
The drop down to the fortress entrance was dizzying. Maximus discovered he was at the same level as the wheeling gulls and birds of prey circling the cliffs in great soaring spirals. Swathes of grass covered the slopes of the peninsula in long, deep waves, carved out by the impossibly strong winds that captured Maximus’s red cloak and sent it swooping and diving like a firebird. The path to the castell followed a long curve that wound its way down to a row of flint-stone buildings next to a narrow causeway that shuddered above the raging sea an
d allowed access to the citadel itself.
Beyond this causeway that was only slightly wider than the width of a mounted horseman, a dangerous lip of a second causeway hung above the boiling waves that dashed against the base of the cliffs. Then, from a guardhouse that was identifiable from the ant-like warriors who seemed to man its negligible margins, a set of carved stone stairs rose up the side of the cliff to give access to the fortress on the clifftops. Those steps rose in a dizzying curve to platforms near the top of the cliffs, where the fortress glowered, surrounded by the huts of the peasant-servants that clung onto sloping rocks overhanging the surging ocean below.
‘Hades!’ Maximus breathed. ‘You could assail that place for a year and get nowhere. Even if an enemy reached the causeway, they’d be picked off from above. I must remind myself never to try to capture Fortress Tintagel.’
Decius stared at the terrifying stairway, uneven and winding, and barely wide enough for one man at a time to stand on each rung.
‘I’ll be the first to remind you of your decision, master. Those stairs would break a cohort’s heart. It’d be bloody murder to try to climb them, especially if the defenders decided you weren’t welcome.’
‘Now I know why Caradoc is a man to be reckoned with. It’s no wonder that Tintagel has never fallen to invaders.’
Maximus felt the hair rise on his forearms and the back of his neck, as if a wight had run its dead fingers over his living flesh.
‘This place is intimidating, just as the surrounding landscape is fierce and strange. Look at it! Have you ever seen the like, Decius?’
The horsemen suddenly heard a loud challenge from ahead of them where a group of mounted warriors awaited the approach of Maximus’s cavalcade. Immediately a troop of six men rode up the flinty track at a brutal speed on horses that were safely negotiating paths they had known all their lives.