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 hig
hways 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.
Arthur and Carausius: Legends and Links
There are connections between Carausius and many of the traditional Arthurian sites, and Carausius’ triumphs are closely echoed in the legends of Arthur. The monk Gildas (circa 500-570AD) created Britain’s earliest written history and described a ‘lord of battles’ and ‘outstanding ruler’ whose triumph at Mount Badon was the decisive, culminating victory to rout the Saxon invaders.
The triumph was so celebrated that Gildas did not bother to identify the location of Badon or even to name the victor, noting only that ‘Arth’ – Celtic for ‘The Bear’ - was such a great overlord that King Cuneglasus of Powys humbly acted as his master’s charioteer.
Gildas was writing a century or two after the events and muddled his calendar. He wrongly dated the construction of the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus by two centuries, but he likely got the sequence right: the walls were built, the invaders came, a leader arose and drove them away. It suggests that Arthur may have lived earlier than believed, at a date that fits with the actual reign of Carausius. Many scholars think that the Badon battlefield may be at the Iron Age hillfort at Cadbury South, (‘Caros’ Camp,’) some think it could be Buxton, in Derbyshire.
There’s a great poverty in the era’s history and some of it was written 800 years after the event, but folklore often holds remarkably accurate memories. One such tale is that the Pict Ossian’s son Oscar was killed when he attacked the emperor “Caros” as he rebuilt Hadrian’s Wall.
Carausius’ image on his fine coinage shows him as a thick-necked, bear-like man and the British for ‘bear-king’ is ‘Arto-rig,’ and language experts say there are links between ‘Caros’ and ‘Artorius.’ Even the hill fort at South Cadbury that tradition says was the castle of King Arthur was once ‘Cado’s Fort.’ Certainly, there was once a mass slaughter there, and there are stone foundations of a palace on the site.
A significant part of Arthur’s legend is his Christianity. Welsh tradition holds that Arthur ‘carried the cross of Christ on his shield,’ and was mortally wounded at Camlann. That conflict site has been placed in Gwynedd, where a very early Welsh ‘Stanza of the Graves’ says Arthur was buried. In the 19th century an antiquarian described the discovery of a Roman grave there at the head of a pass, a place where a ruler might be buried, overlooking his lands.
The headstone is inscribed ‘Carausius lies here in this cairn of stones,’ and carries the staurogram, (monogram of the cross) or third century tau-rho cross of a Christian, the earliest ‘sign of the Lord’ found in Wales and one of only a dozen found in Britain (early Christians used this cross as their symbol, the current crucifix cross being regarded as a shameful symbol).
The man memorialized in that cairn was so important that the stone and maybe the bones were moved to the nearby church of St Tudclud, in Penmachno, which is an important early Christian site and reputed burial place of Iorweth ab Owain Gwynedd, father of Wales’ greatest king. This, then is a royal graveyard. The fact that Carausius was so famous that he needed no ‘Soldier of the XXth’ style of identification could therefore be highly significant.
The only other known memorial to the Lost Emperor is in the Tullie House museum in Carlisle, on a milestone that was inverted and reused. The buried portion concealed the honorifics the Romans elsewhere redacted after they re-invaded Britain in 293 AD. That glorious title reads: ‘Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Mauseus Carausius, Dutiful, Fortunate, the Unconquered Augustus.” It should add: ‘The Forgotten.’
Maps
Arthur’s Map of Britain
Map of Gaul
Not Forgotten
Thanks for this book and for the others in the trilogy (Arthur Britannicus and Arthur Imperator) must go to the dedicated and professional staff of Endeavour Press, London, to editors Matt Lynn and Richard ‘less is more’ Foreman and to the always helpful publisher Amy Durant.
Thank you, too, to Kelvin Jones of Barnstaple and Los Angeles, two cities that rarely appear together in a sentence, for the splendid maps, to my publishing professional daughter Rachel Williams for her input and research and to my legal eagle daughter Claire Bannister for some sage advice. Lastly, my gratitude and affection to my long-suffering wife Jennie who has had to contend with conversation about third century Britain for about, oh, XXVIII months.
Lege felicter!
Paul Bannister, Oregon 2013.
If you enjoyed reading Arthur Invictus you may be interested in Sword of Rome: The Complete Campaigns also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Sword of Rome: The Complete Campaigns by Richard Foreman
Sword of Rome: The Standard Bearer
1.
The boats drew closer to the white cliffs. Sunlight glinted off a myriad of swords, breastplates and helmets. Spray from the turquoise channel blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened Lucius Oppius’ palms as he gripped the Tenth Legion’s eagle. His eyes were as blue and cold as the Mediterranean. His friend Roscius had commented, half jokingly and half in earnest, how Oppius would have been considered handsome – if he ever bothered to smile. A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier’s face as he gazed up at the jeering barbarians, their bodies smeared with woad, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, Oppius mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck a Roma
n scutum or the hull of a ship.
Oppius turned his gaze towards the lead trireme where his General, Caesar, stood at the prow. Did the standard bearer notice the hint of a wry smile upon his commander’s face? Caesar had encountered such defiance before. Many had rolled the dice against Caesar and the Tenth, but in the end the Venus throw always came up and Rome was victorious. His red cloak blew in the wind. Caesar was still handsome, whether he smiled or not. His hairline had been retreating of late more than the armies of Gaul but his body was still taut with muscle, his face clean-shaven. His eyes took in everything, yet often remained unreadable. Although brave, Caesar was not foolhardy, Oppius thought. Should he choose to attack now then the legions – the Seventh and Tenth – would be slain from a barrage of missiles before the boats could even reach the beach.
“If their blood lust is anything like their lust for alcohol then we could be in trouble,” the standard bearer heard a legionary mutter behind him, only partly as a joke.
“The one often fuels the other.” The knowing reply came from a man that the legion nicknamed Teucer, for his skill with a bow. The wiry, pale-faced soldier was a Briton, who had left his homeland and travelled to Gaul. Most Britons were recruited by Rome’s enemies on the continent but Teucer had chosen to fight for the Republic. Caesar himself had witnessed his abilities with a bow and bent the rules to promote him to the Tenth. Oppius liked the Briton – and not just because he had saved his life in battle on more than one occasion. He was amiable and intelligent, picking up Latin as quickly as he picked up the legionary’s black sense of humour. Oppius briefly wondered how his comrade was now feeling, as he journeyed towards invading his homeland. What was it like, to view your countryman as your enemy? Oppius hoped that he would never have to find out.
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