by M. K. Hume
Nodding with interest, Maximus returned the ring to his host and their conversation continued.
Later, Maximus’s drowsy mind would go over the alarming conversation on political matters that king and tribune had enjoyed at the end of the evening.
The king had revealed a flexible and pragmatic understanding of the situation in Rome within moments of both men turning the conversation to the political realities that existed within the Roman Empire.
‘I am aware that our masters in Rome consider the provincial kings of Britain to be little more than crude buffoons. However, I also believe that the vultures of Rome will soon desert the City of the Seven Hills, and the prophecies of the Great Ones tell us that its people will be left to their own devices once this catastrophe occurs. There’s no need to protest, Tribune. You’re a man of sense, so I understand your position precisely. Both your friends and your enemies know that Rome is slowly falling into ruin. You know it, the tribes in Gaul know it and so do I. Yes, Britannia remains strong and healthy behind Roman defensive walls, so we will continue to accept the protection and culture that comes from our masters. But we are part of a backwater and an island, so the fate of Rome won’t have much effect on our way of living. Only our external enemies such as the Saxons, the Hibernians and the Picts can do that. Ultimately, Maximus, we are under no illusions, for we would count for very little if Rome decided to remove the legions and leave us to a future dictated by your goddess, Fortuna.’
Maximus lowered his lids in the hope that he could hide his thoughts from Caradoc’s sharp regard. ‘I don’t believe the legions are likely to leave at any time in the immediate future,’ he responded tactfully. ‘These lands are rich in tin, lead, iron and the wools that come from your sheep. Rome has enjoyed the bounty of Britannia for centuries, so the emperors of Rome won’t easily relinquish such wealth as you give to us.’
Caradoc snorted. ‘All true, but the Hibernians, Picts, Saxons, Angles and Jutes come every year to raid the isles with more and more confidence. Rome has built walls to keep out the Picts and the seas protect our shores from attack, but the threat of reprisals from Rome no longer deters our enemies. Fortunately Britannia won’t be beaten easily, even if the legions depart from our shores.’
Maximus drained the wine from his mug. To his chagrin, he felt a thin line of sweat running through his close-cropped hair. This barbarian king knew far too much.
Caradoc bit on his thumbnail and frowned. Then he launched into an explanation.
‘The British tribes are destined to fall, my friend, but it will take a very long time, perhaps a hundred years or more, before we are destroyed by our enemies. But, as sure as night follows day, we will be defeated much faster if the legions return to their homeland before we have prepared ourselves for that eventuality.’
Maximus nodded noncommittally.
‘Why did you invite me here, my lord? I have some small reputation, and my line traces back to the pure veins of Aeneas when he sailed up the Tiber at the will of the gods, but the senators at the forum in Rome continue to treat me like a barbarian, exactly as they would treat anyone from the provinces. I don’t wish to insult you, my friend, but to Romans who are born on the banks of the Tiber all other men are lesser mortals who are punished by the gods because they aren’t truly Rome’s children. You can refer to us as bastards from the Mother City if you will, but I have little influence outside these isles, regardless of what you might believe.’
The slightest trace of resentment convinced Caradoc that Maximus was speaking the truth, but only as the tribune knew it.
‘You’re a realistic man in many ways, Tribune, despite your rank. I’ve heard your men in Segontium refer to you as Macsen Wledig and they believe you are destined for greatness. I agree with that opinion. I will have no hesitation in becoming your friend, for the wise ones have already promised me that I have a similar destiny to you and that our fates are intertwined.’
The two men eyed each other as equals, carefully and with respect.
‘Yes, Lord Caradoc, I understand the need for personal alliances. Romans regularly make alliances with loyal friends who protect their backs during times of political upheaval, such as those occasions when an emperor dies or is deposed. A family without powerful allies is similar to a single tree caught in a violent storm. Sooner or later, that tree will snap under the force of high winds. But a grove of trees is a different matter. The closeness of the individual trees in the group gives strength to the whole area of forest. Similarly, alliances influence the direction of events to the advantage of all concerned. Until now, I’ve met many of the northern tribal kings and found them to be a squabbling clutch of incompetent fools. If you’ll excuse my frankness, Caradoc, you’re a different prospect from most of the British rulers. I have had trouble understanding your motives, so what I don’t comprehend sometimes causes me to have doubts.’
Maximus was speaking with uncharacteristic sincerity, without the usual diplomatic posturing. Fortunately, Caradoc took the tribune’s words at face value.
‘Well said, Maximus. Your words ring true! My fellow kings are unable to agree on anything. They often remind me of chickens scratching in the dirt, squabbling over a single worm while the farmer is coming after them to cut off their heads.’
Maximus roared with mirth at the vivid word picture, especially as he imagined the pompous, well-fed cheeks and features of the king of the Atrebates tribe, superimposed over the body of a strutting rooster.
‘I’ll show you tomorrow how my people live and I’ll also reveal the inner workings of this ancient fortress. Tintagel has never been taken by stealth and I’m convinced that your legions couldn’t smash her defences if we were to seal ourselves within her walls. We have food and water sufficient for two years and the sea can always be harnessed if we need more food. My people must have taken Tintagel from other inhabitants who ruled these lands in long-gone days. We don’t know who these earlier inhabitants were, so the origins of our fortress will always be a mystery.’
‘I’ll look forward to seeing your fortress in the daylight, especially the view from these rooms. Fact is, I can already feel the pull of the sea and the winds that must be rushing through the stones under our feet.’
Caradoc realised that this pragmatic and ambitious Roman was sensitive enough to feel the effects of the Dumnonii lifeblood, and the endless suck and tug of the great ocean as it wore away at the fabric of this long spearpoint of land.
‘For all that Tintagel will crumble into the sea one day, we’re certain that many generations of tribesmen will live and perish before that day comes.’
Both men sat in a surprisingly companionable silence. Occasionally, the king would crack the shell of a nut in his powerful hands, while Maximus attacked a soft rich cheese that was quite unlike anything the Roman had tasted before.
Eventually, Maximus was caught disguising a yawn with one hand, so the king leaped to his feet, all apologies for keeping his guest from his bed.
And so Magnus Maximus met King Caradoc of the Dumnonii for the first time and the Roman decided, as he lay in his warm pallet with the freezing rain striking the tower, that this particular Briton was worthy of closer examination. Perhaps there might even be a chance of true friendship.
Tintagel’s worn stonework had felt his steps. But they held no fear of him, for even the mightiest of Roman warriors was only a momentary distraction in the long memory of those ancient and enigmatic cliffs.
CHAPTER III
The Wise Woman of the Red Wells
All the best days of life slip away from us mere mortals first; illnesses and dreary old age and pain sneak up, and the fierceness of harsh death snatches away.
Virgil, Georgics, 3
Six months earlier, when summer had given way to the first falling leaves of autumn, Caradoc had spent a pleasurable week away from Tegan Eurfron, his termagant
wife. The queen was beautiful and accomplished, but she was rarely satisfied with her lot in life, although Caradoc couldn’t understand what she actually wanted from him. Their marriage had been arranged by Caradoc’s father, Llyr, as was the practice in his house; Caradoc had really hoped for much more from the dark-eyed beauty who had been hand-fasted to him more than a decade earlier. He had hungered for a companion with whom he could share his ambitions, fears and dreams. But Tegan Eurfron had no interest in her husband’s mind or the rapid thoughts that assailed him with fears for the future. Beyond her sons, her only care was for her complexion and her figure, so Caradoc took every available opportunity to flee from Tintagel whenever the weather permitted.
The joys of camping under the trees and the stars never palled for the Dumnonii king. The nights were mostly clear with only an occasional light drizzle of rain before dawn, moisture that left his world clean-washed. The skies of early autumn were soft grey and the palest blue, while the sun warmed his days as Caradoc enjoyed the comradeship of hunting with his most trusted warriors and servants.
The long days had been spent rousing birds and deer in the deep woods to the east of Tintagel in an area that was almost primordial in its wildness and isolation. Here, the trees grew tall and villages were unknown, although the occasional farmer carved a living out of long-grassed pastures near a knot of streamlets that plunged down out of the hills.
One old crofter approached the hunters on the morning of the second day at a time when the king had only just risen from his sleeping pallet. Caradoc saw the crofter’s dog first, a black and white mongrel with a torn ear, a missing eye and evidence of fresh scars on its right side. Then the dog’s master hobbled into the clearing, using a tall staff carefully as he negotiated the uneven ground. One leg was roughly bandaged, so Caradoc knew immediately that this old man had need of his king.
‘Come to the fire, Grandfather. You needn’t fear that any man here will try to harm either you or your dog,’ Caradoc said. ‘Tell me, how can your king help you?’
The crofter had obviously not realised who this lordling was, despite his urgent need to receive aid from these great ones. Now, the realisation took the old man’s breath away and filled his rheumy eyes with tears. He tried to abase himself on the hard ground, but Caradoc pulled him back to his feet and ordered him to sit on a fallen tree stump while he explained his needs.
‘I’ll give you whatever assistance is within my power, Grandfather,’ Caradoc assured him earnestly.
‘We have a wild boar tearin’ about in the woods, my lord. It’s been killin’ off all the young cattle . . . and anythin’ else that crosses its path. My poor old dog tried to bail up the black devil and almost died for his trouble. You can see what it did to me when I tried to save old Cadwallader here.’
The old man laughed through his tears to see the smile on Caradoc’s face, for the crofter had named his dog after one of the great heroes of Cymru.
‘I know it be a grand name for a mongrel, but he’s got the heart of a hero. He saved me, and I can’t say more than that.’
The dog’s feathery tail wagged nervously and its bedraggled head swivelled from one face to the other. Caradoc held out a hand, so the dog rose slowly to its feet before shuffling nervously towards him. Then, its one eye glowing with mingled fear and hope, Cadwallader licked Caradoc’s hand. The king made up his mind.
‘Where did you last see this boar, Grandfather? It seems to be a man-killer, so it’ll be good sport to do battle with it. Rowen here will find some food for you and some meat for your fine animal.’
He turned to face his companions. ‘What say you, my friends? Do we hunt for boar?’
The huntsmen nodded in agreement, although the king was their master and they would always feel constrained to obey. Caradoc laughed with a light-headed feeling of irresponsibility. Raised to rule, he had obeyed the duties of his birth assiduously for most of his life, but there were many things he despised about the trappings of kingship. He would never have saddled himself with such a selfish and whining wife if his father hadn’t arranged a marriage to the daughter of Gwaun pen Mairtin, the romanised ruler of the Atrebates tribe. Compared with enduring his wife’s spiteful sullenness, hunting a wild boar was a pleasant prospect, despite the risk.
‘Go home in peace after my servants have dressed your leg and treated your dog, Grandfather. Such a brave hound deserves all the care and attention we can offer, just like his namesake. My beaters will start the search for the boar during the afternoon, so you shouldn’t hold any fears for your herd or your kin. We’ll find the boar, kill it and bring you the tusks as your personal trophy.’
The old man bowed his head and then raised fear-reddened eyes filled with such gratitude that Caradoc felt like a sham. What he saw as a day’s sport was a matter of life or death for this old man and his frightened dependants.
Caradoc and his hunters sought traces of the boar throughout that day. But, with all the cunning of a feral animal, the beast managed to elude their best efforts. However, there were plenty of signs of its passage through the wild woods, so Caradoc’s hunt master pointed to some scarring along the trunk of a young oak which indicated that it was probably crazed. Not only could that illness kill those men it touched, the space between the tusks indicated that this boar was abnormally large.
Few creatures are more dangerous than a maddened rogue boar, especially one with the dimensions of this creature. As they rested around the campfire that night, Caradoc took particular care with his whetstone when he sharpened his stabbing spear to a razor’s edge and honed his long knife so that the blade would pass easily through skin, muscle and bone.
‘You seem determined to put yourself at risk, sire. What would we do if you were injured or killed by this beast?’
Trefor, the hunt master, was genuinely alarmed, for he had seen the damage done to the forest trees and bramble bushes through which the beast had ranged. The woodsman knew that only the sparseness of human population in these wild hills had prevented death and injury among the peasantry. As Caradoc’s woodsman, Trefor had seen such creatures before, and he knew them to be true demons from Hades. A wild boar was unable to distinguish between a king and a shepherd, so it would attack either at the slightest provocation.
‘It’s my duty to protect my subjects, so this boar must be killed. Isn’t that so?’ Caradoc’s voice sounded irritable. ‘Don’t even attempt to argue with me, Trefor, because I’ve already made my decision. We’ll find this beast on the morrow and I’ll destroy it.’
The following day gave every indication of being miserable with light autumn rain. The fine, dry weather they had experienced could hardly be expected to last forever.
Meanwhile, the horses were restive in the dank woods, as if they sensed something was watching them from inside the dripping tree line, and this animal was hungering for their blood. Caradoc observed their wild eyes and quivering flanks and knew that the hunting party was on the right track.
He ordered his men to dismount. The horses were already milling and sweating with fear, so the king decided that their usefulness was over. Besides, the hint of a foul stink in the air told him that the hunters must be close to the lair of the beast.
‘Be careful,’ he hissed to his men as he slid his spear out of the sheath attached to his horse’s saddle. Somehow, the huge weapon gave him a feeling of confidence, for family legends described how this weapon had been specifically designed to kill a huge wild boar in distant times. Although Caradoc prided himself on being a practical man, he had complete confidence in the supernatural and primordial power of the hunting spear. In ages past, tribal legends insisted that with this spear the king of that time had killed a gigantic black boar that swam ashore on the wild beaches near Tintagel. The battle was so heroic that all subsequent kings of the Dumnonii tribe had accepted this beast as their family totem.
It was now Caradoc�
�s time to take comfort from its smooth haft and heavy blade as long a man’s forearm. Taking his courage into his hands, the king led his huntsmen into a thicket of bracken that stank with the boar’s foetid reek.
The undergrowth was almost impenetrable, so Caradoc’s hunters were forced to hack their way through. Deep inside this green and thorny otherworld of dripping shrubbery and mud, the king slowly pushed his way ahead with every sense alert to threats that could be sensed in the murk ahead of him. Even though the day had not yet reached noon, the visibility was impaired by rain and thick foliage that turned the lambent light to a sickly green hue.
Caradoc forced his way into a flattened area where cloven hooves had destroyed the tender new growth and left a small circle where the foliage arched overhead to form a cave-like enclosure of dripping leaves. He was forced to crouch, although he had sufficient room to manoeuvre within the vile-smelling space. Scarcely had he taken in the scene than he heard a sharp yell of warning from Rowen. Taking a short, instinctive step to the left, he barely had time to use the spearpoint to deflect the black, rushing shape that passed him. He felt a gust of hot breath and smelled the terrible reek of decay as the beast almost swept him off his feet.
The king spun quickly in the enclosed space as he heard a scream from one of his men who had been knocked off his feet by the boar’s charge.
‘Don’t let it get past! Pen the bastard in!’ Caradoc shouted over the melee of struggling men as the boar stood trembling in rage at the entrance to its lair. Retreating as far as he could go to give himself room to move, Caradoc sank into a deep crouch with the end of the spear shaft embedded into the leaf mould and the damp earth in the clearing.
With its snout bloodied, the boar extricated its legs from the thrashing and bleeding body of the wounded hunter. Its small eyes were burning brightly in the half-light, while the coarse black ruff of hair around its neck and down its spine stood on end. As he stared into the feral eyes, Caradoc could read no intelligence, pity or fear in the crazed animal. It would kill them all if it could, and would ignore any wounds it received in the process, if it had the chance to tear its enemies into bloody strips of raw meat. Then, in an instant, the beast charged.