The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  Sickened at this callous display, Caradoc kicked his horse into a gallop; relieved to put this ugly scene behind him, Maximus followed in close pursuit.

  No one challenged the troop at the gate.

  ‘Fiachna must have been expecting us. I suppose he’s had scouts out on the roads to warn him of our impending arrival,’ Caradoc said. ‘Faugh! This place smells as bad as that midden, if that’s possible.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Maximus replied. He was happier now that his hand was resting openly on his sword hilt. A sensitive spot between his shoulder blades was itching with anxiety, because he could feel hidden eyes following his every move.

  The buildings within the walls of Durnovaria were no different from the businesses and houses of Isca Dumnoniorum. The contrast lay in the narrowness of the streets which wound aimlessly between blank-faced structures that lacked any whitewash or colour, but sported bars and boarded windows as if neighbour protected himself against neighbour. The hour had yet to reach noon, but these crooked lanes were mostly empty and the citizens who were abroad were clothed in drab cloaks, while their mouths were covered with ragged mufflers, only their eyes visible. Near the gates, the waiting prostitutes were unwashed and verminous, and they were desperate enough to arm themselves for protection from their peers.

  Maximus nodded towards one hard-eyed harridan who was wrapped in a faded and torn blue cloak so bedaubed with mud that its colour was almost indistinguishable from the plaster of the building against which she was lounging. The heavy lines on her face and her scrawny neck indicated that she must have been at least forty years of age. Then, as she called out an invitation, Maximus saw that she had lost most of her teeth.

  ‘I’d have to be crazed to let that grand-dam near me,’ he muttered, disgusted. ‘I wouldn’t touch her, even if she paid me. She must be diseased! ’

  ‘You tight-arsed bastard!’ the harridan shrieked as she made a coarse hand gesture towards the cavalrymen. Her hennaed nails indicated that she must have had some custom if she was able to afford such a luxury, but the reddish-brown talons tipping the skeletal fingers reminded Maximus of dry blood.

  A quick glance behind him assured the tribune that his men were maintaining discipline with frozen faces, despite the curses that the whore hurled at them. But then she was joined by several other prostitutes. Made brave by the presence of her peers, the woman picked up a stone from the roadway and threw it.

  The missile struck a horse that screamed, reared and had to be forced down by the strong arms of Lorn who was unfortunate enough to be in the line of fire. Several other objects were hurled from both sides of the narrow street and a large clod of mud struck Maximus on the chest.

  The Roman drew his sword without further hesitation.

  In an instant, Caradoc had wheeled his horse and charged at the drab, who tripped over her own skirts as she tried to run. She sprawled into the slushy mud, exposing her naked buttocks and pudenda, wailing in terror as she tried to cover herself.

  Caradoc’s horse skidded to a halt above her sprawled form.

  ‘I could kill you for your insults, bitch, but I’ll leave your punishment to your lord and master. King Fiachna lacks basic courtesy towards his guests, but he’ll not wish to go to war for direct insults against a Roman tribune.’

  ‘Forgive me, master. I lost me temper and me last man to a Roman layabout in Venta Belgarum. Please, master!’ As the shrivelled, painted mouth quivered in terror, she was suddenly just a pathetic old woman.

  ‘Leave her be, Caradoc. The insult isn’t of such importance that you should sully your blade on her,’ Maximus said in a contemptuous voice.

  ‘Listen well, woman! If your king should bother to ask, you may tell him that King Caradoc of the Dumnonii has allowed you to remain alive at the request of Magnus Maximus, second in command of Roman Britannia. Now, get out of my sight . . . all of you!’

  Then Caradoc wheeled his horse again, careless of the woman as she scrambled to escape. In disciplined ranks, the Roman and Dumnonii troops trotted towards the heart of Durnovaria and Fiachna’s hall.

  By nightfall, any desire to linger in this benighted town had fled for even the most exhausted and indiscriminate guardsman. Caradoc had been informed that King Fiachna had already departed for Venta Belgarum with a troop of his personal guard in attendance. Meanwhile, the fare and beds offered by his steward were so inadequate that Maximus would rather have slept on the roadway.

  The face of the king’s steward was dominated by lean and hungry features, but was marred by a ferocious squint. Caradoc understood the reasoning of men such as Fiachna, so he decided immediately that this steward must be a kindred spirit to his king, for a steward who couldn’t see straight would be of little use. This unprepossessing man must have other talents and the ones that came to Caradoc’s mind were not very pleasant.

  The steward was almost unbearably arrogant.

  ‘I don’t know what my master will say if I have to feed eighty hungry mouths.’ He wrinkled his nose as if he could smell something putrid. ‘I daresay your clod-hoppers will want to eat us out of house and home.’

  Both Caradoc and Maximus stood taller at the implied insult and their eyes hardened.

  But this steward was impervious. ‘I suppose your men could bed themselves down in the stables. I’d not be prepared to put them into the barracks. Our men have left their personal bits and pieces behind, and I’d have to answer to my king if anything went missing.’

  ‘You’re calling us thieves?’ Maximus’s voice held a clear warning that the steward ignored as he continued to make inadequate provisions for his uninvited guests.

  ‘It’s possible that I can find some stew from the barracks. Failing that, I can ask some of the women to make some bread. We also have cheese and beer, so that will do at a pinch.’

  ‘I am a Roman officer!’ Maximus snarled with a deadly glint in his flat, raptor eyes.

  Caradoc saw the disaster that was opening at his feet like a crevasse, so he launched into rapid speech in the local language, hoping that Maximus couldn’t follow the discussion.

  ‘Listen, you fool. When I inform Fiachna about your stupidity, he’ll want your head – if not your balls! He’s gone to Venta Belgarum to meet with this particular Roman, not to insult him by referring to his personal guard as thieves. Are you quite mad? The Roman is also known as Macsen Wledig. I’ll forgive the insults you’ve directed towards me, the king of your nearest neighbour, but I will refer your appalling behaviour to your master. I do not soil my hands by using my sword on dangerous idiots. But if Fiachna wished to receive any favours from Magnus Maximus, then he’ll probably be out of luck.’

  The awful truth began to dawn on the steward, so he paled visibly.

  ‘I . . . I . . . Why didn’t he say who he was? I didn’t know he was Macsen Wledig. How can I be expected to know every Roman in Britannia if I’m not told anything?’

  The steward continued to bluster and apologise by turn.

  ‘My master frowns on any hospitality to travellers who come to our halls,’ he wailed. ‘He’s often refused shelter to noble visitors when they arrive uninvited. It’s not my fault, for the master has given me my instructions in these matters.’

  The unfortunate man began to gibber in terror. ‘The master will probably kill me if his plans in Venta Belgarum fail to reach fruition.’ He was weeping now and Caradoc began to feel sorry for the fool.

  ‘I don’t care what this Fiachna does to you,’ Maximus snapped and, unlike the Dumnonii king, the Roman’s eyes held no pity. ‘I’ll be surprised if he lets you live, so I’d suggest that you take to your heels and run like the mongrel you are. If I were you, I’d depart as soon as possible.’

  ‘Did you understand what we said in that discussion?’ Caradoc asked Maximus as he turned to face him.

  ‘I’m very good at l
anguages, my friend. A man must think ahead if he’s to succeed in the Roman legions, so I’d be a fool to depend on translations from other men. I try to learn a little of every language in the lands where I serve.’

  ‘Hmmmm!’ Caradoc eyed his travelling companion with humorous respect. ‘No wonder you’ve earned the name of Macsen Wledig throughout Cymru.’

  Maximus grinned, displaying his long sharp teeth. This man will devour the world if the gods smile on him, Caradoc thought with an uncharacteristic feeling of fear.

  Then he remembered the words of Saraid, and her prophecies on Maximus’s future.

  ‘Are you still here?’ Maximus demanded of the steward. ‘You’d be wise to make haste to the kitchens and find me a decent meal.’ The steward scampered towards the door.

  ‘With any luck, we can be gone by first light,’ Maximus told Caradoc in his controlled Roman voice. ‘I have a sudden desire to meet this Fiachna, son of Tormud, and I don’t expect we’ll remain friends for very long.’

  Caradoc almost laughed, but then he realised that Maximus wasn’t speaking in jest. He bellowed for his servants as a long and uncomfortable night began.

  CHAPTER VII

  AMBUSH

  He who sees what is now has seen all things.

  Marcus Aurelius, Meditation, Book 6

  As a parting gift for the rudeness of Fiachna’s steward, Caradoc ordered his men to confiscate a supply of portable viands before the cavalcade left Durnovaria on the next leg of their journey. They also appropriated one of Fiachna’s supply wagons, for their own wagon had already proved inadequate for the demands of their journey.

  A number of chickens, still alive and squawking indignantly, were carried upside down by several of the more provident Dumnonii warriors, while the remainder of the guardsmen foraged for sufficient provisions to cater for their next three days on the road. Like termites, they burrowed into the separate kitchens behind the king’s hall and eventually the cavalcade left the filthy town with several wheels of cheese, numerous loaves of bread, several cured sides of bacon, and some apples and vegetables. These treasures were supplemented by several flasks of a vile but potent plum brandy. In the belief that they had repaid their absent host for the lice with which they had been infected in the stables, the Roman cavalrymen and British warriors left the Durotriges town without hesitation or regret.

  ‘We’ll inform Fiachna that we’ve helped ourselves to selected items from his winter stores,’ Caradoc said with a boyish grin. ‘And I’ll pay him for the use of his wagon.’

  ‘Certainly!’ Maximus agreed.

  Both men eyed the ramshackle, much-repaired vehicle that should have been torn apart for its materials some years earlier. Like everything in this town, the cart was ancient.

  ‘If that heap of shite arrives at our destination, we’ll recompense him for it. However, I’m still toying with thoughts of demanding reparation for the accusations of thievery.’

  Caradoc spent some little time describing the inland route that would have to be followed once the Roman road turned away from the sea. To the north, the poorly maintained roadway led them through a wooded area between two rivers until they reached Vindo Cladia, one of Fiachna’s smaller towns. The state of this major road was a clear indication that Fiachna’s parsimony extended to maintenance of the vital arteries that kept his trade routes open. Caradoc clicked his tongue with disapproval.

  Maximus groaned aloud at the thought of another night with Fiachna’s minions as their hosts. ‘I swear that I’d rather sleep on bare earth under our tents,’ he stated without hesitation, the grotesque memory of that painful night spent under the roof of Fiachna’s hall still fresh in his mind.

  Tactfully, Caradoc changed the subject to elaborate on what could be expected from the next stage of the journey. They were about to enter Belgae territory and pass through the towns and hamlets that swore allegiance to Bleise ap Bladud.

  ‘I seem to remember that he’s the king who tries to turn back time,’ Maximus muttered in irritation. ‘More dirt, I suppose.’

  Caradoc chose not to be insulted. ‘Bleise is certainly in need of a good scrub, Maximus, but my people were almost as barbaric in the time of my grandfather’s father. We were fortunate in that we had iron and our smithing was the equal of anything that the Romans produced. In fact, Dumnonii lead has been mined and sent to Rome for years beyond counting, so we had close contact with Roman culture long before most of the other tribes. But I can promise you comfort in Bleise’s towns, at the very least. The hospitality of townsfolk in this area will be warm, for courtesy is inbred into their ways.’

  ‘I’m relieved,’ Maximus retorted, but the irony in his voice was obvious to the king.

  ‘Besides, my friend, I’m well known in the Belgae lands, so we can expect decent treatment,’ Caradoc added and watched as the Roman’s face cleared a little. Then he recalled the monument known as the Giant’s Dance. His face lit up in a brilliant smile.

  ‘Sorviodunum is close to the Giant’s Dance, or Carol, so it’s a place with a strange history. For reasons that can only be appreciated when you see it for yourself, these long plains attract many soothsayers, itinerant magicians and lore masters. They aren’t druids, mind, but they are men and women who are eager to take advantage of superstitious and uneducated fools. You should warn your cavalrymen to avoid these charlatans, not to buy charms and to avoid speaking with fortune tellers. They should also avoid all offers to purchase relics from the past. In fact, they should avoid anything that might separate them from their coin.’

  Maximus nodded. The tribune knew that scoundrels always flocked around the legions, and were always eager to part young men from their money. But, above all else, he was surprised to find that Fortuna was sending him to the site of the one oddity that he had long desired to see. ‘I’ve heard of the Giant’s Dance, but I didn’t realise we were so near to it.’

  ‘We’ll pay it a visit,’ Caradoc decided happily. ‘We’re so late now that it scarcely matters if we take an extra week to arrive at Venta Belgarum. The kings can hardly imprison us for tardiness, or punish us for viewing the scenery along the path of our journey, can they?’

  Both men laughed at the thought of a Roman tribune being punished by anyone, least of all a king such as Fiachna ap Tormud.

  ‘From Sorviodunum, our route takes us to Venta Belgarum via another Roman road. This last thoroughfare is direct and fast. Then, friend Maximus, our diplomatic difficulties will begin.’

  ‘At least I’ve had an opportunity to evaluate the worth of some of your kings as we’ve passed through their territories. It’s been very educational.’

  A quiet voice whispered to Caradoc that the Roman tribune was learning altogether too much about the Britons, while ensuring that very little was revealed about himself – or his motives. He recalled Saraid’s ambiguous warnings about Roman intelligence.

  As Caradoc explained to his guest, the road headed north once Durnovaria was behind them. The warriors in the cavalcade were fortunate that Roman engineers had built sturdy stone and timber bridges across the many rivers and smaller streams that ran towards the sea, else their journey would have been protracted by an interminable search for suitable fords.

  The journey to Vindo Cladia was blessedly incident-free. The land was exceptionally rich and the crude cottages were poorly maintained, perhaps copying the laziness of their master, Fiachna. Yet here nature had conspired to bless the farmers with her greatest gifts. Their farmsteads were surrounded by chocolate-coloured soil that produced all manner of growing things, including excellent feed, so the ever-present cows could munch contentedly on the last grasses of autumn, regardless of the thin snow. Soon, they would have to move their beasts into the barns for the long, cold months of winter but, unlike the lands around Segontium, the early winter was mild and free from killing frosts. Rivers still tumbled noisily throug
h this fecund land, not slowed by the cold weather.

  The surly attitude of the people who enjoyed this bounty was the only thing that had not changed. Forewarned, the horsemen in the cavalcade opted to eat dry rations from their stores and sleep under their travelling tents rather than cohabit with the local population.

  Vindo Cladia’s name was impressive, but the town was little more than a hamlet in a pretty landscape. Its narrow streets and a general lack of cleanliness blurred the sharp outlines of a number of well-built Roman structures. How these buildings came to be sited in this tiny Durotriges town was a mystery to everyone, including the Durotriges, although chickens seemed to enjoy rooting for food or roosting in the exposed rafters. Now a common alehouse, the largest of the buildings offered shared rooms to weary travellers, but no one was interested in finding space for eighty hard-faced warriors. After several more hours of tedious travel, the cavalcade moved to fields beside the next river, a pleasant spot where the commanders selected a site for their overnight bivouac.

  The landscape here was soft and generous, but surprisingly little of it was actually under cultivation, although the flat expanse where the troop made camp showed evidence of the plough at some time in the past. A chain of low hills separated this section of the border lands from Belgae territory. Maximus noted heavy forests at the feet of the hills and their primordial density told him that passage through these barriers would be extremely difficult.

  The terrain here was comforting for Maximus, because there was little opportunity for enemy warriors to mount a surprise attack on this bivouac. There was no obvious danger associated with the camp, but thoughts of security had leaped unbidden into his mind.

  In obedience to Maximus’s orders, Decius sent most of his cavalrymen out in scouting parties. Their ostensible task was to forage for food, although Decius was convinced that their pickings would be slim in this deserted countryside. But Maximus’s real reason was a prickling on his forearms and across his backbone, a presentiment of approaching trouble that he didn’t quite understand. Something had triggered a feeling of threat, something observed, but so trivial that his conscious mind didn’t grasp it. Perhaps his scouts could find an answer.