by M. K. Hume
With some difficulty, Elphin swallowed the dark-brown liquid, despite losing a small amount that escaped to drip down his chin.
Decius climbed down the ladder and cast it away. His face was quite expressionless as he gathered up his kit and headed towards his waiting horse. Speechless and confused, Caradoc watched him as he rode off.
The three wagons were already on the move, piled high with valuable trophies, the spoils from the outlaws’ supplies and possessions, and the four wounded cavalrymen. The execution had taken some time, but Maximus had no intention of waiting until Elphin died or lost consciousness before leading his command back to the safety of their bivouac.
‘Let the crows feast on him while he’s still alive,’ the Roman ordered.
Their departure had been delayed until the early afternoon because of the time needed to burn the farmer’s cottage and prepare the convoy for the short journey to the bivouac site at the river. Eventually, with a blazing fire roaring through the ruins in which the corpses had been unceremoniously dumped, Maximus decided that he’d achieved everything possible to cleanse the site of the battle.
As the whole convoy began to trundle away, Caradoc watched the strained breathing of the doomed man who was trying to drag in just one more breath into his straining airways, and could see that the outlaw’s eyelids were beginning to flutter.
What had Decius given him? What had the decurion whispered to the outlaw before he offered him the flask of dubious brown liquid?
Elphin’s head drooped and his bitten and bleeding lips sagged open loosely. But then, above the outlaw, a large, very black crow fluttered through the open roof to sit on an exposed rafter. Without the slightest trace of fear, the carrion bird gazed down at the earthly king with glittering eyes that seemed ageless, malignant and wise beyond measure.
More crows and ravens flapped onto other beams and waited for Caradoc to depart. Suddenly, the king’s confusion was blown away. He remembered the jar of poppy juice and considered how easy it must have been to add the soporific to Fiachna’s brandy. Elphin would lapse into unconsciousness, and then he would die. Ultimately, he would cheat Maximus of his revenge and the birds would feed on a dead man rather than on living flesh. Maximus would never know, but perfect justice had still been done.
But why had the loyal Decius cheated Maximus of his victory?
Caradoc rejoined his men and his horse joyed in the short canter that the king permitted. Ahead of him, Maximus rode carelessly at the head of the column, his squared shoulders demonstrating his triumph and satisfaction.
But Decius snatched an occasional glance over his shoulder at the wagons until he noticed that the puzzled Caradoc was staring directly at him.
CHAPTER IX
VENTA BELGARUM
There is one safeguard known generally to the wise, whichis an advantage and security to all, but especially todemocracies against despots – suspicion.
Demosthenes, Philippic
‘There it is,’ Caradoc shouted, his tired face wreathed in smiles. One hand pointed over the long swathe of agricultural land that ran on each side of the wide, cobbled Roman road. Although snow blurred the ploughed furrows with several inches of pristine whiteness, the deep brown soil was obviously prime farming loam. Off to one side, Caradoc recognised two more arrow-straight roads heading towards a cluster of towers in the distance. Like the spokes of an enormous wheel, all roads, great and small, led to Venta Belgarum, the lovely city of the south. At last, Caradoc and Maximus could feel the relief and satisfaction that comes with reaching a far-off destination.
The crisp winter air stung the eyes and its sweetness made the heart beat a little faster in Caradoc’s chest. But the air, its smell and the transparent light were familiar to him. He hadn’t seen Venta Belgarum since he was a boy, when Llyr, his father, in company with Caradoc’s grandfather, had brought him to this clean and ancient place to see the true face of Constans, Emperor of Rome, who was the son of Constantine, the emperor who built Constantinople, the golden city of God. Caradoc had scarcely known whom he was meeting, but he was struck by the realisation that Constans was so young as to be little more than a boy.
Even after so long, Caradoc could remember that gilded, magical day more than twenty years earlier. The regal visit had taken place in winter which, with the wisdom of hindsight, now seemed an odd time for an emperor to travel. White snow and marble had covered everything with a mantle of crystalline purity so that Caradoc, with his wild hair and square body, had seemed a poor thing in comparison with the boy emperor. Constans had been dressed in a snow-white toga liberally edged with purple, and some minion had wrapped him warmly in a thick cloak of wool in that same opulent colour.
His grandfather and namesake had pointed out the tall, slender figure of Constans as the young ruler entered the hall.
‘See that cloak, boy? A hundred men died to make the purple and another hundred perished in agony for the toga and the fur-lined boots he wears so easily. The Roman rulers act as if they are gods, so the lives of other mortals don’t matter. Remember this lesson, Caradoc, because all you’ll ever be to Rome is a source of military fodder or frightened slaves that will provide him with his purple dye.’
‘I don’t understand, Grandfather,’ the boy had stated, for he had been raised to ask questions. ‘It’s a pretty colour, but it’s not worth so many lives.’
His grandfather had been a gifted storyteller, so Caradoc could see the bearded shellfish, black and plump, as they were shovelled into the great vats where the dye was extracted. That process released a deadly poison, so the slaves who worked with the dye vats sickened quickly. Without exception, they deteriorated into blindness and died from raving lunacy. ‘Such a high cost for vanity,’ Caradoc Major had said with a sad sigh.
The boy Caradoc had never forgotten the tall, unearthly figure, and the nervousness that threatened to overcome him when he was ushered forward to be presented to the emperor by both his grandfather and his father. The emperor had the beardless face of a boy and his arms and legs, under the golden cuffs of his office, were smooth, hairless and feminine. His eyes were wide and innocent, although Llyr had whispered that Constans had seen sights of such depravity that the eyes of lesser men would have shrivelled in their heads.
Eight years later, that same golden boy perished, dragged from a temple in the Pyrenees and murdered out of hand by Roman cavalrymen. In the political void that followed, many men would claim the crown of empire and die to hold it, but Caradoc would always remember one golden youth in a marble hall at Venta Belgarum. He could still taste the flavour of his first Falernian wine.
The last leg of the journey to Venta Belgarum had been cold, but uneventful. Once the troops had returned to their bivouac outside the hamlet of Vindo Cladia, they were forced to spend a day collecting firewood to burn the corpses of their six dead, for one of the wounded had perished on the journey. The cremated remains, packed in wooden boxes, travelled now with the outlaw’s hoard of treasure, until such time as they could be relinquished into the safe hands of their families.
Sorviodunum rested gracefully in bare plainlands, although an extensive area of forest needed to be traversed to reach those windswept expanses. The town appeared like a small jewel from a distance, and was constructed from plastered stone, thatch and painted timber. The influence of Roman culture was obvious; tall-peaked roofs, topped with rushes, stood cheek-by-jowl with lower ones of red terracotta tiles, pinned together in an unlikely collaboration that should have been ugly, but somehow worked. When the cavalcade rested on a low rise outside Sorviodunum, Maximus was struck by the freshness of the air, for the winds soughed over the long plains, to blow away the woodsmoke from local industry and the fires of the township. The skies seemed very high and wide, unlike the close clouds and low fogs of other towns in the south.
The Roman road passed through land that reeked of age and str
angeness. Maximus had commented on this oddity, so Caradoc tried to explain one of the most bizarre places in all Britannia. Covered by sheets of snow, a number of large stones could be seen in the distance.
‘Come and ride with me, Maximus, and I’ll tell you a tale.’ He smiled. ‘We are only an hour from some of Britannia’s true wonders, if you’re prepared to see them. You’ve seen Rome and all its architectural marvels, but I’ll wager a golden coin that you’ve seen nothing to rival this place. Are you bold enough to accept a wager, my friend? Our troops can rest here, before we find a suitable site to bivouac for the night.’
Caradoc’s easy manner challenged Maximus’s competitive nature. Their relationship had suffered a little during the outlaw attack, but although Caradoc had not forgotten the Roman’s thrusting need to be in control, matched with his cruel application of justice, he was mature enough to remain cheerful and friendly. On the other hand, the self-absorbed Maximus scarcely noticed animus on Caradoc’s part.
Any residual irritation that Maximus felt was because of the king’s obvious physical prowess and the devotion of his warriors, talents which annoyed the Roman for reasons that he admitted were spurious. Each day, Caradoc’s skills forced Maximus to face the unpalatable truth that this British king was as able and as beloved as he himself was.
Caradoc’s challenge goaded the tribune. Within a short span of time both men were ready to ride, although Decius and Trefor insisted on accompanying them, while the remainder of the troop rested in the weak sunshine. A pleasant river bank was adjacent to the spot where they had halted, so Decius issued instructions to Celsus, his assistant, that the guardsmen should water the horses and permit the placid carthorses to rest after many days of hard labour in the traces.
Maximus recalled his earlier curiosity concerning the Giant’s Carol, so he was eager to see this wonder. Even more pressing was his determination to win Caradoc’s wager.
After several days of thick forests, leafless under their mantle of snow, these windswept plains had a spare beauty all their own. Maximus felt as if he could see forever, for few trees blurred the long lines of the horizon and the plain had obviously been a site of human pilgrimage for generations, demonstrated by the multitude of paths worn through the sod to reach the chalk beds below. How many thousands of bare feet had so worn these paths that, centuries later, their tracks were still evident in this empty place?
‘You must speak to your men, Decius.’ Caradoc reinforced his earlier warnings about charlatans and frauds who preyed on innocent travellers visiting the carol.
Caradoc’s earnestness convinced the dour decurion that the warning was kindly meant. For his part, Decius decided to make a concerted attempt to be more forthcoming, for he sensed that Caradoc was a man of exceptional depth. Sooner or later, Decius knew, he would be forced to have a private conversation with the king, for secrets between them had been kept sacrosanct. Yet, for all that, he knew that an explanation was owed.
They rode on in silence over fields of dry grass dotted with with patches of thick snow. The Giant’s Carol appeared suddenly in a low fold in the ground. It wasn’t very large by Roman yardsticks, so Maximus was a little disappointed, but the odd structure was awe-inspiring, once the onlookers had time to consider the tales that these rough-hewn stones could tell of ancient times and long-dead people.
‘What is it?’ Maximus asked after dismounting and climbing to the top of a circular mound that hemmed in the monument.
Caradoc shrugged. ‘We don’t know. Charlatans will tell you it’s a temple and the large, flat stone in the centre is an altar. They’ve convinced the credulous that men and women were sacrificed here for thousands of years. But they don’t know the truth, and neither do I.’
But, sunk in thought, Caradoc gazed at the huge mound and ditch that ran around the perimeter of the whole precinct. For some reason, he believed that Decius could understand the wonder of the carol.
‘The ditch that your master is standing on must have taken many, many generations to build. Curious treasure seekers have dug into the mound, but all they found were some of the picks used to dig into the hard soil. What do you think they were made of?’
Decius’s curiosity was piqued. ‘Iron?’ he hazarded. ‘Perhaps even bronze?’
‘No! The ancients had no metal at all, so they were forced to use what tools were available to them. They used deer horn! Yes, this huge ditch was dug and piled up using picks made from deer horn. Can you imagine how many picks broke and how difficult they were to replace? Consider the decades that this one task must have taken – the centuries – and this is the smallest part of the carol. Then try to convince me that Rome could match the wonders of the task that was set before the original builders.’
This last challenge was aimed at Maximus, who was examining the circle of huge stones in the centre of the monument, but Caradoc knew his words had been heard.
Decius dismounted and allowed his reins to dangle, so his horse wandered away in search of dried thistles at the base of the mound. Excitement sped the decurion’s stride as he hurried towards a large, single stone that was rearing out of the soil at an angle. From its top, Decius could see along a straight avenue of stones that ran directly to the largest part of the open structure, a horseshoe of massive trilithons that consisted of two uprights and one crosspiece, the altar stone lying in the centre of this strange focus point.
‘Did it ever have a roof?’ Maximus asked as he scratched at an irritating fuzz of black beard. ‘Shite, but I’ll be glad when I get an opportunity to remove this hair from my face.’
Caradoc’s short beard only required an occasional trim, so he considered the Roman predilection for clean-shaven faces and hairless bodies to be a time-wasting eccentricity.
‘I don’t see how the structure could have been roofed,’ the king answered. ‘Besides, look closely and you’ll see a series of circles that have been cut down to the chalk layers. These purposeless holes run around the whole monument. They are inside the ditch and the mound.’
‘There’s also a smaller circle of single stones that are of a strange blue colour,’ Decius added from atop the single monolith where he was balancing on his haunches.
‘Aye! The legends insist that a giant carried the stones across the Oceanus Hibernicus from the north of Hibernia and planted them here.’
Maximus snorted derisively. ‘Do you expect us to believe that giants built this . . . this thing?’ The Roman failed to notice a dull, red flush that was climbing up the Dumnonii king’s face from his throat. Decius realised that Caradoc temper was fuelled by his master’s thoughtless insult.
Yet, when he spoke, Caradoc’s voice was as calm and as even as ever.
‘The old tales say that the stones come from far away. But I can assure you that many men have searched for similar stones and have found nothing like them in the lands of the Britons. None of them exist in the south-west, at any rate. So how did these mystery stones reach here? We’ll agree that they didn’t fly. Although the blue stones are smaller than the monoliths of the full circle and the central horseshoe, they’re near as tall as a man. How would you like to be the one who volunteered to move them?’
‘I have no doubt that my Roman engineers could do it,’ Maximus boasted.
‘I’m sure they would make a valiant attempt, but could they show us how the large stones that straddle each pair of the larger monoliths were raised into place? And how do they remain in such an unstable position?’ The Roman strode across to the large, irregular stones of the inner circle. The distance between them was such that Caradoc had to shout to be heard, so he began to walk towards his friend.
‘While I’m on the subject, your Roman engineers couldn’t have used the tools used by the original builders,’ Caradoc added once he had reached Maximus. ‘There’d have been no ropes or metal tools, and there’d have been no fulcrums. All they had wer
e flakes of flint, some fire and the use of stone, hand-held hammers to shape the rock. Perhaps they could have used plaited leather, but I’ve been forced to wonder how any part of this monument could have been built.’
Staring up at these imposing groups of rough-cut and split trilithons, Maximus was soon scratching at his whiskered jaw again. The stones seemed to be bonded exactly, although they had apparently been cut without the use of iron or bronze. Nor was mud used to bind stone to stone, or the concrete used by the Romans. But Maximus still refused to believe that those old architects shaped such huge stones with simple flint blades and hammers.
This isn’t possible, he told himself. If Roman engineers couldn’t design and build a monument like this, it can’t be done. Yet he acknowledged an uncomfortable possibility. Could another culture have surpassed Roman skills and practical applications?
Meanwhile, Decius had followed his horse around the horseshoe of trilithons at the centre of the monument. Some years earlier, the decurion had seen the wonders of Rome, the Colosseum, the Baths of Caracalla and Trajan’s Memorial column when he had been stationed in Italia with the legion. This small cluster of undressed stone could fit into most Roman buildings many times over, but Decius knew that size alone was not the mark of greatness. This structure was a mystery that had obviously taken centuries to erect and he, for one, was puzzled and amazed by its every aspect.
He remembered the eye-popping awe he had experienced when he was first confronted with the wonders that human beings could create but, on this occasion, Decius felt removed from these unfathomable stones and their purpose, so he was repulsed by them. Somehow, their great age and the patience needed to erect them sparked no understanding or compassion in his heart.