The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  ‘They’ll hardly dare to offer violence to our tribune,’ Lorn replied, his face as white as Decius’s was red. ‘Our numbers may be reduced across the isles of Britannia, but we can still smash any British force with half their number.’

  ‘You, Lorn, are still thinking like a Pict!’

  Lorn’s fists tightened. ‘Picts expect chicanery, oath-breaking and treason from Romans and Britons. And I’m not a Pict!’

  ‘No? You’re not thinking clearly about numbers! Use your brain! A hundred men wouldn’t help us. Good men have often died by stealth in these lands. Poison or disease have ended the lives of more cautious men than Maximus. One thing is for certain, the legions wouldn’t march on Venta Belgarum because our tribune died from the shits, would they? I think not! And British herb masters could kill all of us, and never be caught for the crime.’

  ‘But most herb masters are women,’ Lorn gasped. ‘Would they poison our tribune?’

  ‘Really? Do you understand these women and their motives? I don’t! But I respect their knowledge enough that I won’t underestimate these old grand-dams with their harmless potions and busy hands. Good murderers are never caught,’ Decius added in a sarcastic voice.

  Lorn shrugged. ‘Then we’ll need to be very, very careful, won’t we?’ His eyes had darkened with the passion expended in defending his viewpoint.

  ‘Exactly as I’ve been saying, Lorn,’ Decius responded. ‘I believe that our master should not take unnecessary risks with his person.’ He grinned in triumph and those men who had followed the conversation began to guffaw with approval.

  Out-manoeuvred, Lorn’s parchment-coloured face reflected his fury.

  Before the disagreement became even more serious, Lorn opted to back away from the edge of disrespect towards a senior officer. The decurion could have ordered him flogged, but old Decius was far too wise for such an extreme course of action.

  ‘We’ll need to be on our guard, boys,’ he told the group. ‘We’ll have to avoid carousing with our hosts, for drunken men can easily be manipulated and overcome. Our task will be to protect our tribune from all threats, no matter how trivial they seem. Is that understood? So get some sleep, boys, while you can.’

  ‘Can we trust the Dumnonii warriors? They seem like good fellows,’ one grizzled veteran asked from his position beside the fire where his toes were toasting.

  ‘We can trust them as far as one can trust any of our allies – which is no distance at all! We are King Caradoc’s guests, so we are under his protection while we are in his fortress. He is sworn to protect us, so I believe he will do his best to keep us breathing. His duties as a host are one thing, but a smart man tries to help Fortuna along. Organise your kit, boys, and be ready to ride at short notice. Meantimes, use your whetstones carefully if you want to survive this shit.’

  The guardsmen returned to a gloomy consideration of their weapons and several of them took out their whetstones and began to hone their spears, swords and knives into even more razor sharpness than usual.

  Lorn hefted the sword in his hand. ‘I think I’ll keep you for a little longer, old friend,’ he whispered, before allowing the perfectly balanced blade to tilt towards the stone floor.

  ‘You’ll have no joy with that weapon, if you allow the point to blunt,’ Decius reminded him. ‘She’s not a pretty lady, is she? But she’ll kill cleanly for you if you always keep her razor-sharp.’

  Lorn nodded as Decius wandered away, whistling between his teeth. His bad temper was completely forgotten as he considered the small tasks that a good decurion must perform if his tribune’s orders were to be effectively obeyed.

  CHAPTER VI

  A NASTY JOURNEY

  Nemo Bonus Britto est. No good man is a Briton.

  Decius Magnus Ausonius, Epigrams, 1:19

  The road to Venta Belgarum was circuitous and dreary as an early winter gave warning of freezing days ahead. The combined cavalcade of Dumnonii and Roman cavalry was leaving the more moderate climate of the far west for the harsher weather of southern Britannia.

  The grasses in the fields were sere and brown; even hardy brambles snapped when the mounted guardsmen brushed against them. The ploughed fields seemed empty except for the occasional bird still hopeful of finding exposed grubs or worms disturbed by the ploughshares. The skies were leaden and Decius could smell snow in the air.

  Maximus might have chosen to ride at a moment’s notice, but Caradoc was a far more methodical traveller. The men in his guard were carefully chosen so that the fifty-strong guardsmen were warriors of nobility, young and old, who owned fine horses and splendid equipment. With many protests, Rowen had been left behind to protect the heir and Caradoc’s family, in case someone with avaricious eyes tried to take advantage of the king’s absence. With cloaks of the check woven by the Dumnonii women to indicate their status, the guard was an impressive and dignified sight as they assembled five abreast beyond the causeway leading out of Tintagel.

  Not to be outdone, Decius led his troop to form a phalanx of horseflesh in front of the Dumnonii guard. His men had outdone themselves in their preparations. The metal of their mailed shirts, their breastplates and their shoulder guards glinted in the sunlight; their red cloaks stirred in the wind; their helmets gleamed and their horses had been brushed and curried briskly until they glowed. Decius felt a moment of intense pride in his men, in the standard and in the legion. His back straightened, his shoulders squared and his tanned and wrinkled face radiated his pleasure.

  When Caradoc and Maximus rode over the causeway, they also experienced the same feelings. Above them, a weak sun attempted to banish the gloom of a winter morning.

  Roman roads hadn’t penetrated into the Dumnonii lands on the western coast, so the route to the closest large centre, Isca Dumnoniorum, was along tracks used by farmers to take their produce to market. Because the cavalcade was on horseback and was accompanied by a single supply wagon, the Dumnonii trip should have made good time, but the land here was steep and occasionally difficult and heavily wooded in the remote areas.

  Now and then strange and ancient stones reared out of the green sward in odd groups, so Maximus was reminded of other circles and long columns of local rock that could be found throughout Cymru and deep into the south.

  Caradoc viewed one group of stones with casual familiarity, but Maximus discovered that the hairs were rising on his neck and arms. Here, three squat stones, liberally blotched with lichen and moss, had been covered with another large flat stone to create an open chamber.

  ‘What could be the purpose of that structure? It must have taken an inordinate effort for farmers to complete such a task, but I’m damned if I can see what it could have been used for,’ Maximus muttered. He crossed himself surreptitiously, causing Caradoc to smile at this unlikely display of superstition.

  ‘Legend tells us that the little people erected those stone chambers as tombs. According to the tales told by the common folk, earth was packed around the chamber once the corpse of a great man had been placed inside it and grassy sod laid on top. Whenever I see a small hill now, I always wonder whether some old king or magician has been buried there.’

  He stared at the mute old stones for a moment. Then he laughed raucously, causing a pair of crows in a nearby elm tree to rise into the air with a loud flapping of wings and shrill, indignant screams.

  ‘You mustn’t fear them, my friend. The people who laboured to raise those stones are long dead and have left nothing behind them, other than the mystery sealed in these formations. Tintagel was supposed to have been built by those self-same people, but I can’t swear to that. What I can swear to is that the stones don’t have the power to touch living and breathing flesh. We must marvel how people who left no records behind them, not even a single carved word, could have cut those stones without the use of metal. They must have been highly skilled in the use of flint.�
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  ‘It seems your island is full of mysteries, Caradoc. Not far from Segontium, a small stone circle sits at the top of a slope that leads down to the straits and Mona Island.’ Maximus crossed himself and even Caradoc, who was a pagan at heart, paled a little under his tan. ‘The druids died there in their hundreds, but rumour has it that those stones are far older than the time of those fanatics.’

  ‘You’d have to think of them so, Maximus, because they resisted Rome. Even the destruction of their sacred groves didn’t deter them, so your masters were forced to spend many months herding them onto Mona Island where they could be killed. Despite being unarmed!’

  Maximus raised one of his brows. ‘Do I detect a trace of criticism in your voice, Caradoc? The generals must maintain order and the druids persisted in fomenting rebellion.’

  ‘Aye! On those ancient wrongs, we will have to disagree, my friend.’ Caradoc’s blunt statement left Maximus on the verge of losing his temper, but fortunately Caradoc recognised the signs of a man stretched to his limits, so offered the Roman an olive branch of sorts.

  ‘But the murder of the druids is long past and cannot be remedied, Maximus. Only a fool would blame the sins of the father on the sons. I’d prefer not to be at odds with you, certainly not because of decisions made before any of us were born. We’re both Christians now, but I can understand the demands of securing an island like Britannia and the need to remove the religious leaders of any resistance.’

  Caradoc’s capitulation mollified Maximus a little, but the gulf between them remained wide because the Roman resented any criticism of decisions made by his forebears.

  In a spirit of conciliation, Caradoc offered his hand to Maximus, who stared at it for a brief moment before moving his horse closer and offering his own hand in return. Although Maximus still smarted at the uncomfortable exchange, he was man enough to admit that Caradoc had sound reasons for complaint. He said as much to the Dumnonii.

  So, with a certain degree of amity, the troop rode away from the standing stones, and headed towards the sea.

  The great southern Roman road terminated at Isca Dumnoniorum, a pleasant town situated on a river that emptied directly into the sea known as the Litus Saxonicum, although Saxons rarely journeyed so far into the west of Britannia. In a fertile river valley, Isca Dumnoniorum enjoyed a mild climate, even in winter.

  Maximus looked down at the river valley and noted with pleasure the neat farms and plump livestock. As they rode down from the hills, the size of the imposing cavalcade attracted considerable attention, especially as the Dumnonii standards proudly proclaimed the presence of the king. Farmers, their wives and children hurried out of the cottages with work-worn hands that were filled with homely gifts.

  The Romans in the cavalcade noted the obvious signs of health in these peasants. Maximus, who was overfamiliar with the effects of war, knew that starvation and disease struck the poor first and that the cumulative effects of hunger were brutal. Here he was seeing the physical signs of happy people who lived in a peaceful land, so realised that Caradoc’s wise rule was probably the main reason for their well-being.

  As one elderly woman pressed a circlet of daisies into his hand, Maximus was impressed by the respect and love being showered on Caradoc by his people; they reached out to touch the edge of his cloak or pat the flanks of his horse.

  Although the frequent halts to greet his subjects slowed the troop’s advance, Caradoc insisted on dismounting and greeting his subjects personally. He made sure that he treated all his subjects with the same courtesy, especially when he kissed the hands of raw-boned, wide-rumped women. Similarly, he won the hearts of awe-struck children by ruffling their hair as they gazed wide-eyed at the troops. The king would cajole, joke, pull faces or compliment the children until he saw tremulous smiles appear. Then, with the best wishes of subjects who often kneeled to demonstrate their respect, Caradoc remounted his gelding and the journey continued.

  ‘Do you ever tire of these bucolics, friend Caradoc?’ Maximus asked one night as they ate some excellent bread with butter, a gift from one of the peasant farmers.

  ‘I’d be a fool if I did. I’m forced to call on these men and their sons to fight for me in times of war. The loss of a good foot soldier is a nuisance to us, but to these peasants, the death of a son is the loss of grandchildren and their future. I’ve found that the men in my tribe go into battle willingly out of love; better that than being forced to fight by some distant and uncaring ruler. After all, what does pleasantry cost me? Nothing! And, in return, I am given gifts like this excellent bread.’

  But constant interruptions slowed the pace of their journey, so Maximus was glad when the cavalcade approached the low walls of Isca Dumnoniorum and, behind it, the grey of the sea.

  Two days were spent in the township, while Maximus chafed with impatience at the constant demands on Caradoc’s time. However, there were compensations. Maximus used his time to reconnoitre the town and evaluate Caradoc’s summer palace, if such a word could be used to describe a rambling compound consisting of a large hall and minimal facilities suitable for short official visits. Nearby, a simple rectangular house on Roman lines offered clean facilities for a number of visitors to Isca Dumnoniorum, while a barracks for troops and the usual stables had also been constructed.

  Caradoc spent some of his time in the city dispensing justice between citizens and farmers, or in earnest meetings with the town’s dignitaries. By the time they were ready to leave, Caradoc had given a promise to the city fathers that the guard would return to hunt down a small cadre of outlaws who had been carrying out vicious crimes against lonely farmsteads in the surrounding district. He had an aversion to murder, rape and robbery within his kingdom; he promised Maximus some sport by bringing these miscreants to justice, once they had completed their business with the British kings in Venta Belgarum.

  The Roman road leading towards the east was broad and well maintained, and the combined guard of Dumnonii and Roman horsemen made good progress. Maximus was uncharacteristically silent during the first leg of the journey to Durnovaria, the town of the Durotriges, so Caradoc watched his guest unobtrusively as Maximus’s eyes surveyed the countryside with the practised eye of an intelligent and observant military commander.

  What can he be thinking? Caradoc wondered on the eve of their arrival in Durnovaria. Unlike the rest of the Romans, Maximus had been prowling around the campsite and, when challenged by Caradoc, made the excuse that he had been unable to sleep.

  Then, when he settled himself in his light travelling tent, Maximus tossed and turned restlessly. From his small shelter on the other side of the dying fire, Caradoc watched his guest and wondered if this clever and charming tribune could ever be totally trusted, before he decided that such pointless thinking was a waste of good sleeping time and sank into a soldier’s sleep.

  Durnovaria may have possessed a Roman name as a sop to its conquerors, but nothing Roman seemed to exist within this fortified town when the troop approached the first shabby buildings at noon on the following day. As he recalled Caradoc’s description of its king, Fiachna ap Tormud, Maximus sat up straighter in the saddle and ensured that his right arm was free and close to his scabbard. Signs of poor leadership were in evidence wherever he looked. Durnovaria was filthy, although its outlook and site were spectacularly beautiful.

  Situated a few miles from the shore, the town had the dispirited look of an abused slave. The familiar hovels and crude traders of anything marketable, including girls and boys, were even grubbier and more verminous than the usual detritus that formed a scum around any outland township. As their horses approached the gates to the town proper, Caradoc hawked and spat on the roadway. It was a true measure of his contempt, because the king rarely acted in an uncouth manner.

  ‘You can believe it or not, but Durnovaria was a pretty place in the days when Tormud was king.’ Caradoc pointed to the rubbi
sh that had been piled in a section of lower ground to the right of the gates. ‘Only barbarians would site the public midden so close to their living quarters.’

  Although winter gripped the town and a thin layer of dirty snow was conspiring to hide the worst of the filth, only a blind man without any sense of smell could miss the heaped piles of rotting garbage that oozed with corruption. Immediately adjacent to this space of stinking vileness, three sturdy sets of gallows had been erected. To Maximus’s disgust, two were occupied. One corpse was relatively fresh, although the birds had torn away the eyes, the protruding tongue and some of the soft, appetising parts of the dead man’s face. More sickeningly, a swollen greenish-yellow carcass hung grotesquely from the other set of gallows and looked as if it had been there for some time. The face had been reduced to a shredded, oozing lump, but the rags of a skirt cutting tightly into the swollen abdomen indicated that this victim had been female.

  It was Maximus’s turn to hawk and spit now, to remove the taste of decay from his mouth and nose.

  ‘Jesus!’ Maximus blasphemed when he saw that three small children, shivering in rags, were scrambling through the filth of the midden in search of stray scraps of food. Anything they found would have to be protected from several wary and starving dogs so hungry that they were prepared to risk stones or sharp weapons to ease the pangs in the hollows of their bellies.

  On the battlements above, two warriors looked over at the grisly scene, laughing uproariously at the impromptu and deadly conflict below, while making wagers on who would eventually claim the prizes to be found among the garbage. One of the men threw a crust of coarse bread down onto the snow and laughed as two children tore at each other to win it. As they fought, one of the mongrels stole the tasty morsel, leaving the children to weep and recommence their hunt for sustenance.