Arthur Invictus

by Paul Bannister

  “They canna’ deploy properly in that narrow gap,” said Candless.

  “They cannot,” I agreed. “Are your fellows in place?”

  Candless grinned at me. “Aye. It’ll a’ go as we agreed.”

  “I hope so. If we have to stand a siege we’ll be praying for the Huns to save us, but that won’t happen,” I said gloomily.

  “There will be a miracle,” said the Pict happily and, I thought, with unwarranted confidence.

  “You’d best be away,” I said. “Take plenty of holy water with you.”

  Candless, bare-headed despite the rain, strode away to where a small troop of mounted dragoons waited. He’d discarded his elaborate, rich cope and ludicrous crocodile-hide cuirass and, like me, was wearing a simple white surplice with a red cross dyed into it. My surplice covered my segmentata armour, his was worn over a mail shirt and brown monk’s habit. A broad leather belt slung across his shoulders suspended a mighty two-handed sword. “If he wore that thing on his belt, it would plough furrows as he walked,” I thought.

  Candless had discarded his leather boots and was barefoot, but he still wore his big gold looped cross on a chain around his neck. As I watched, he tucked his habit up into the cord at his waist and climbed onto a sturdy mountain pony. One of the dragoons handed him a staff with some banner wrapped around its end. I guessed it was the miraculous Face of Christ. The dragoons, I noted, carried targes with the red cross on a white background. They pulled their ponies’ heads around and trotted out of the hillfort.

  For the next hour or so, the Celts and Franks eagerly lined the walls, peering down through the battering rain at the Roman infantry that was slogging through the churned mud of the valley floor. I saw the attackers were staying on the opposite side of each river, away from any further avalanche of rocks from our defenders. That was suitable, we wanted them to be in as cramped a situation as possible and the opposite banks were even narrower than the ones on our side.

  The Roman praetors and tribunes were well conscious of their disadvantage and were hurrying their men along, trying to get them into ranks facing the slope ahead of them as quickly as possible. Our catapults hurled a few rocks down, but the enemy were out of range of javelins, although they were several hundred vertical paces below us. It would be a murderous climb for them into the teeth of our resistance, but Maximian seemed ready to squander lives. “I’ll help you in that,” I muttered. “Your lives.”

  Grabelius was alongside me. “They’re filling that space for us nicely,” he said.

  “It is all to our advantage,” I responded. “They’ll not expect us to leave the hillfort. They’ll reason that we will only attack them from long range as they cross the rivers and climb the slopes. We can’t let them across. If we do, it will allow them to form ranks. Then they could come up this slope in testudo, tortoise-armoured with their shields in front and overhead, and we’ll not be able to do significant damage. We should do what we’ve readied the men for: get down there before they get a foothold. Send down our berserkers. The Painted Ones will cut the bastards to bits before they can form a shield wall, but they won’t be able to do it afterwards.”

  And that was how it went. When the valley floor was thick with infantry and could seemingly hold no more, the Romans’ brass trumpets sounded and the legionaries began wading across the rivers, readying to attack us from both sides. We let them get halfway through the waist-deep flows, then set our plan in motion. The centurions released our howling mob of Celts and Franks down one slope, our pagan Britons and the few Belgae went down the other. I swung onto Corvus’ back, and reined him in. Our heavy horses would slide down the steeps at the end of the plateau and try to flank the Romans as they fought their way out of the river.

  The Celts, blue paint running down their naked torsos, bare toes digging into the slippery mud, fantastically-shaped spiked hair streaming with water, crashed into the first wave of Roman auxiliaries as they struggled over the underwater obstructions left by our earlier avalanches of rocks. The first Romans were sliding on the slick mud bank that rose steeply from the water. They were cold, tired, dizzy from lack of sleep and weak with hunger. The mere sight of the maddened Celts made them pause, the weight of their mail armour, waterlogged shields and heavy helmets made them struggle for balance up the mud slope, and it was a fatal delay.

  A deadly hailstorm of leaden missiles from the slingers dropped legionaries where they stood; Frankish axemen drugged on mushrooms and mead went berserk, hewing down the inexperienced garrison troops who had been sent in first by the Romans. On the Franks’ left, Celtic spearmen followed a rain of javelins with their own thrusting spears, and the river ran streaked with skeins of blood as the Romans died in that narrow valley of death. In one brutal charge, the enemy were caught flatfooted and struggling, and the bloodtide that swept over them had already decided this part of the battle.

  On the other side of the hillfort, our smaller force of pagan Britons and a cohort of Belgae were having a harder time of it. Some grizzled Roman veterans of the Rhine campaigns had established a foothold on our bank and had formed a wedge to drive into our shieldwall. By the minute, more Romans were struggling onto the bloodied river bank and our force was being pushed back. The moment was critical, I saw. If we took our cavalry along and around to hit the Romans from the side as we had planned, we would be too late.

  Grabelius saw it, too. He was at the head of our heavy cavalry and swerved away from our flank attack to plunge suicidally head-on into the Roman ranks. He went down under a half-dozen spears, but as his dying horse slid and crashed through the front rank, ripping a gap as men fell under it, two more big Frisian mounts followed, tearing and biting, slashing with their huge hooves. Their riders died, but the gap had been created. I was in it, swinging Exalter two-handed, guiding Corvus with my knees. He was leaping and kicking, whinnying with the excitement and blood-stink, biting at the infantrymen who swerved away from his big teeth, slashing with his great forefeet and kicking backwards to crush, maim and kill those who tried to hamstring him.

  Something shockingly heavy pounded on my ribs, and my left arm went numb. A burning something else sliced my eyebrow, an arrow glanced off my helmet cheek piece and the instant gout of blood blinded my left eye. Exalter felt as heavy as an anvil, but I tried to keep swinging him, aware that to stop was to invite a spear thrust that would send me dying, to the Bridge of Judgement.

  Someone was knee to knee with me on my paralyzed left side. I turned my head so I could see, tugging my forearm across to wipe away the blinding blood. Malnic the archer was alongside, yelling at me to retreat. Something hit the back of my helmet, hard, and I rocked forward. Malnic had Corvus’ bridle and I felt the big horse lunge as he lashed out backwards with both hooves, crushing the face of the Roman who had just halfway brained me from behind.

  “Get out of here, go back!” Malnic was shouting. On our horses, we seemed to be sitting knee-deep in Romans, their helmet crests at the height of our waists. Corvus screamed as someone stabbed him, and he lunged again, taking us into a calmer eddy in the swirl of fighting.

  “You’re about to die, Caros old lad,” I muttered to myself. “Let’s take one or two more of these fuckers with us.” And then Candless produced his miracle.

  Chapter XVIII - Icon

  The bishop, his red cross concealed under a dark cloak, had been escorted by dragoons down a discreet route off the oppidum, and across the river at the opposite end of the plateau from where the Romans were advancing. In the blinding rain squalls it was a simple matter to avoid detection and the few legionaries who did see the small group of horsemen had no inclination to pursue them, reasoning that the cloaked, bedraggled riders could as well be Roman as anything else.

  Candless rode around and up the next crest of high ground that paralleled the hillfort plateau. This had been held by the Romans until a few hours previously, but an elite commando of Christian Britons had silenced the pickets and overwhelmed the half-century of legionaries w
ho had not expected an attack from the southwest.

  With that accomplished, the legion of Christians that Candless had raised were moved in from the forests where they had been posted several days earlier. No patrol had survived discovering them, no campfire smoke had given them away, and they had huddled in the dripping forest, grim and determined zealots kept warm by their internal fire for the Lord Christ. Now was their moment.

  One column of Romans had crowded along the valley down one side of the hillfort and was being massacred by the Celtic cavalry and the Frankish spearmen, but the other Roman column was winning its battle with the Britons and Belgae. It was onto this second force that Candless directed his legion, which was carefully hidden behind the enemy; it was here that he indicated the red and white banners of the Christians should be carried forward in their holy cause.

  The Bishop knew the power of inspiration, and he unfurled the banner he had so carefully brought on its staff from the hillfort. The Face of Christ was waved before them as the legion paused at the forest edge, readying for a plunge down onto the unsuspecting rear of the Romans. A low growl was all Candless heard – the centurions had cautioned against any warning yells that might alert the enemy.

  Candless slid from his pony and hitched his habit into his belt cord. He unslung his great war sword from over his shoulder and glanced up at the image of Christ above his head. And gasped. The rain-soaked paint was blurring, running down the linen. At any moment, those closest, who were drawing swords from scabbards, grasping spears, crossing themselves and touching the sacred relics, lucky charms and other tokens that men hope will keep them alive, at any moment they would see the miraculous image was a painted-on fake.

  Candless was nothing if not quick-thinking. He waved the banner vigorously and started to run down the slope. A few officers glanced at each other, then motioned their men forward. Silent as wolves in snow, the Christian army of Britannia raced to kill the Romans where they swirled around Arthur and his hacking blade.

  The ravens and carrion crows would come back for years to this place, I thought wearily, looking at the flock of them busy tugging and pecking at revealed innards and staring eyes of the broken dead who littered the killing place. The exhausted, half-starved, demoralized Roman auxiliaries who made up most of Maximian’s force had broken and run but the slaughter had been brutal anyway. The emperor and his house guard had vanished, and fugitive legionaries were spread wide across the countryside.

  Our slave pens were full and heavily guarded, prisoner work parties were clearing the choked rivers of the new slaves’ dead comrades and Celt and Frank soldiers were walking the battlefield to finish off the badly wounded Romans after relieving them of their treasures. The only incongruous sight was the dozens of Christians who were ministering to the wounded of both sides, waving away the Celts and others who were doing the killing.

  “First they butcher them, then they try to patch them up,” I marvelled.

  “A corporal work of mercy,“ intoned Candless, who must have been reading my thoughts. I turned to him.

  “Your troops did well,” I said. “I am grateful. Your miracle banner worked.” The man had the grace to blush. I had heard what happened after the holy visage melted away. Candless had quietly dunked his banner into the river and vigorously waved it about to wash off the rest of the paint. He then boldly announced that we had another miracle: the Face of Christ had vanished now that we no longer needed Him. We were protected. God had smiled on us once again. He seemed to have smiled on the bishop, too. This latest miracle was worth a considerable boost in offerings, especially from those who had survived and looted the Roman impedimenta train.

  For myself, as the leader of a new Christian army, I made public offering to the Christian god and a private, more heartfelt one to Mithras.

  I was limping about worse than usual, my old wounds seemed trivial in face of the slashed and broken left arm and cracked ribs someone had inflicted on me, and I was irritated to have had another half-blinding wound above my eye just when the last one had healed. My splendid parade helmet, taken from a Roman cavalryman years before, was ruined. Someone, something had split it, but happily not my skull, right up the back. Pity, it was a lucky helmet, too.

  I was looking forward to a few days’ rest. We had cattle to roast, grain to eat, a place to shelter from the persistent downpour available inside the hillfort, and booty to share. Just when my administrative duties seemed to be easing, two couriers arrived from Queen Emiculea of Armorica.

  “The Huns and the Romans have fought each other to a standstill,” she wrote, giving an account of the past several weeks’ activities in the west. She detailed the two sides’ strengths and locations, writing: “I fear that one or the other may come to seize Mons Tomba, and Myrddin, who is here for some reason of his own, confirms that this is in the auguries.” I groaned. That mischief-making Druid was in the thick of it again, and I had better do several things. I needed to head off the Huns, by parley if possible, turn back the Romans and get Emiculea’s Christian troops back to her as quickly as possible.

  It would also be a good thing to capture Maximian, if I could. With his head were separated from his shoulders, he’d cause no more trouble. I’d executed one emperor, I thought, so I could execute another. Especially if it was Maximian. I began issuing orders.

  Queen Emiculea’s troops were to return to her citadel, and I would also go there to confer with her. Bishop Candless would act under the orders of my tribune Quirinus and take the combined British force, pagan and Christian, south to Nimes, which is where I expected the next Roman threat to materialize. Strong contingents of Franks and Celts would join us to confront the Romans there. Now I had urgently to get to Armorica.

  The queen’s men had to march there, and faced ten or twelve long days’ tramping at that, but I could travel faster, and could take a small contingent with me by river. I gave the officers who would be marching several ceramic itinerary tablets which listed the way stops, so they could find their way through the northern complex of good military roads started by Agrippa that led from Belgica to Armorica. Travelling by river was easier – we literally went with the flow, no directions needed.

  In four traders’ freighters, we went swiftly down the Seine, a river which moves steadily and calmly with no major rapids or obstacles. We passed by Rouen, where once I had commanded the riverfront mint that produced coin with my image on it. The tax collectors who saw four shiploads of armed men waved us through unmolested. Further downriver, at Paris, we passed under one of the two fine stone bridges that connect a midstream island to the river banks, again without let or hindrance from the armed guards who stood sentinel there.

  After some steady sailing, we sniffed appreciatively at the salt air of the Narrow Sea and were well on our journey. The weather improved, the weeks of drenching rain finally ended and we sailed west, past the bluff green northernmost point of Armorica, through the big islands and finally, into sight of the steep sea-mount crowned by Queen Emiculea’s citadel.

  The traders’ captains brought us all safe into the small harbour only after we had sailed once completely around the island, checking for signs of ambush or Roman soldiery. The slight figure of Queen Emiculea was waiting at quayside to greet me. I saw Myrddin’s tall, dark self leaning over a parapet far above, but he made no sign to me.

  The queen and I exchanged news only after we reached the heights of the castle. Emiculea rode up in a litter, I walked, eager to stretch my legs after six days on a ship. I soon regretted both the choice and my injured foot and tight-strapped arm and ribs, after the fourth or fifth staircase.

  “The Romans,” said Emiculea, “seem to have withdrawn to Tours, on the Loire river, while the Huns are reported to be moving south to Aquitania. However, by now Maximian will know that that my troops were involved in his defeat and I expect retaliation. You might have overcome him in a battle, but he will continue the war.”

  I agreed. “Maximian is a driven man, and a prou
d one. He will not rest until he has my head on a spear shaft,” I said.

  “There is other, most important news,” said Emiculea. ‘The Emperor of the East, Diocletian, has died at his palace in Split and the troops have declared Constantine emperor. This could have a considerable impact.”

  The news stunned me. The Serb Diocletian had appointed Maximian, his fellow countryman and had been the intelligence behind the Romans’ rule for the past 21 years. Brutish Maximian was a fine general but he was no politician. With his co-emperor dead, how would he cooperate with the new Augustus, for that is what Constantine would be?

  Emiculea was still speaking and I dragged my reeling mind back to pay attention. “My sources in Nicomedia tell me that Constantine feels that persecuting the Christians was an error. He thinks that the emperors have annoyed God, and He has caused the decline of Rome. A communication to me from a well-placed bishop,” she said, “suggests that Constantine may be considering becoming a Christian himself. He would have to discard his claimed divinity as Augustus, but he would make Christianity the state religion and he would become God’s envoy on earth – effectively giving himself God’s powers and making himself into a deity.”

  Now this was a lightning bolt. At a stroke, Maximian was undercut, the Christians would be legitimate and the war with Rome could be ended. How accurate was this bishop’s information, I wondered? As if she were in the room, I heard Guinevia’s voice: “He would be well-placed, Emiculea is the most powerful Christian ruler in the empire. You must go and kill Maximian and then Britain will no longer face any threat from Rome.”