by M. K. Hume
The service, conducted by the legion’s priest, was long and sonorous. Elen had been decked out like a small doll of painted gold and white wood, much like the carved Madonna she had once seen in a church in Deva.
Her silk dress, shot through with gold thread, had been bought at great cost from a Middle Sea trader. Her arms tinkled with gold bangles, and heavy earrings dragged on her ear lobes. Still more chains and necklaces hung around her neck with her bulla, for in this Roman birth gift, Meriadoc had chosen to follow the traditions of his long-dead Roman wife. With her arms filled with a sheaf of wheat for fertility, perfumed with costly nard and with her eyes outlined with kohl, she was comely, distant and as still as any ancient goddess. Even her nails had been polished and tipped with golden tracery.
The wedding ceremony was soon completed and her husband heaved a great sigh of relief. Within minutes, the bridal procession filed out into the forecourt of the small church and strolled onto the parade ground where the Roman troops were on display, filling the wide space with the glister of armour and the scarlet of their cloaks.
Then the cry went up. It was a lusty cheer at first, replaced by almost inaudible words that grew clearer and louder as a thousand masculine throats roared out the salutation
‘Hail, Maximus . . . Imperator. Hail Maximus . . . Imperator.’
One of the men marched from out of the ranks. He was a veteran officer, his skin burned to the colour and texture of old leather by many hot suns. His hazel eyes, in nests of thin white wrinkles, were steady and open.
The old warrior carried a crown of dried grass, woven so that the withered stems marked this simple object as the most precious gift that a Roman warrior could ever receive. The Grass Crown, given to generals by their subordinates, told all and sundry that Maximus was deeply beloved by his legionnaires.
Few men had ever been presented with the Grass Crown and even fewer had lived long enough to enjoy the honour, for their popularity brought sudden death to them. But Maximus was now being gifted with his own opportunity to curry favour with Fortuna and carve his name into the ranks of Roman emperors for all time.
He tensed as he stood beside Elen, every muscle on alert. He paused to think as he considered his options. To take the Grass Crown from his troops was to declare war on the Emperor Gratian and attempt to usurp him.
He would be pitting his strength against the might of Rome. But this chance might never come again.
In the crowd behind him, Caradoc strained to see his friend’s face and prayed that Maximus would reject this honour that could bring them all to ruin.
Time seemed to stop as Maximus continued to think.
The outstretched hand held the crown proudly and Caradoc remembered Saraid’s warning, offered so many years earlier at the Red Wells. The words began to echo through his head as he stared at his friend from the steps of the church.
‘In years to come, a cool head will be needed or disaster will destroy the isles before their time.’
Caradoc had thought he had forgotten that disturbing night, although his dearest love, Endellion, had been sired then. But nothing had been forgotten, not even the husky web of Saraid’s voice.
‘He is destined to wear the imperial wreath.’
When Saraid had predicted a glorious future for Maximus, Caradoc had yet to meet the Roman who would later become his friend. Over the years, he had chosen to deny Saraid’s quiet voice. But Saraid had insisted that Caradoc must keep the Roman close to him.
‘Regardless of the temptation, you must never leave your ancestral lands, not for him and not for the sake of any kin.’
Other parts of the prophecy were swept back from the deepest recesses of his memory, but they seemed to speak of a later time. Even the need to share the prophecy with his son was finally remembered; he prayed that Maximus would reject the Grass Crown so that the details of his sin with Saraid and the conception of Endellion could remain his personal secret.
But even as he prayed, he knew Maximus could never resist such an honour.
Caradoc sighed as Maximus stepped forward and bowed his head to the hard-bitten veteran, who with due solemnity placed the crown upon Maximus’s close-cropped head.
Then, as Maximus straightened to his full height, the veteran bowed and sank onto one knee. ‘Hail, Maximus! Imperator! Hail, Maximus! Imperator!’
A thousand throats repeated the call. A thousand soldiers kneeled in the forecourt and offered their homage, while a thousand swords were unsheathed and raised towards the noontime sun so that the blades ran with golden light.
‘Hail, Maximus! Imperator! Ave, Maximus!’
And Caradoc felt a coldness that bit right through to his heart.
Several months earlier, the Tintagel cavalcade had reached Deva to find that the city had been transformed into an armed camp in support of the Roman soldiers who were fighting in the north. The city, which was even more Roman than Aquae Sulis, was now defended by several units of citizen soldiers who had been given the task of maintaining good order and discipline.
The Tintagel troop had been halted at the city gates. Here, Caradoc’s temper began to chafe as he was forced to answer a barrage of unnecessary questions. Even the invocation of Maximus’s name couldn’t allay the suspicions of one ludicrous officer in full armour who was burdened by so much flesh that he couldn’t strap his breastplates together. Ultimately Decius, come to investigate the fuss, convinced the zealous gatekeeper that Caradoc was no imposter.
Eventually, with a promise to share a drink with Decius in the very near future, Caradoc and the rest of his party were permitted to enter the city.
Deva was a compact city, as befitted a Roman garrison. As the wagons made their way along the road parallel to the wide river, they could see the shops, houses and business establishments that had been built on the slopes adjacent to the deeply eroded river banks. Endellion was quick to realise that Deva possessed all the essentials necessary to maintain a high standard of living, at least from a Roman point of view. Baths were situated near the forum, a military hospital was centrally placed and a neat amphitheatre had been built on an area of flat land near the river where it would not be damaged by rising floodwaters.
Caradoc found a clean, well-appointed inn near the forum where he was prepared to house his daughter. Fortunately, his men could be accommodated in the large well-ventilated stables, while comfortable quarters were provided for Trefor, Huw and the rest of the guard’s officers. Then, once the servants had stowed Endellion’s maid and her baggage into a secure room on the second floor, father and daughter descended to the dining area in search of a meal.
Meanwhile, a courier from the military headquarters in Deva arrived with a message from Maximus informing the Dumnonii king that the Roman was unavoidably detained in the north. The war against the Picts had reached a critical point and Maximus was unable to give an exact indication of when he could return to Deva. Caradoc concluded that he would be forced to wait there for the entire summer if Maximus couldn’t achieve a miracle victory, so he decided to return to Tintagel while leaving a detailed message for his friend. In this way, Maximus could make his own decision as to whether he wanted to act on the information provided.
When Caradoc discussed his options with Endellion, she offered a surprisingly common-sense solution to their dilemma.
‘We should wait here for a few weeks, Father. We both need to rest and I, for one, would like to reacquaint myself with the sheer pleasure of sleeping in a comfortable bed. If we must go before his return, you can leave a written communication with his subordinates that tells him what you gleaned during our journey through Cymru. Ideally, he can do what he should have done if the Picts weren’t killing our people in the north. He can come to us.’
Endellion had noticed the signs of extreme weariness in her father’s face and body during the past month and become incre
asingly alarmed. Caradoc was an old man now, and had the swelling disease in most of his joints, making every day of riding agony for him. Endellion decided that her father would luxuriate in the baths, a place of pleasure, where he could enjoy massages and receive treatment from the healing waters that would rebuild his strength.
Caradoc quickly agreed, which told Endellion that he also knew his health was failing. With each keeping their own secrets, father and daughter decided to allow Maximus four weeks to make good his return to Deva.
The baths worked their magic on Caradoc’s protesting muscles, although the public pools lacked the enervating minerals of Aquae Sulis. Still, after five days, the king was walking easily and happily accompanied his daughter on the shopping expeditions that all girls love. Goods from all over the Roman world filtered through Deva’s warehouses, as well as the better trade goods from Britannia and Hibernia. Soon, Endellion had almost filled one of the wagons with bolts of cloth, silk, linen and other exquisite treasures from the East, as well as gifts for her family and friends in Tintagel.
Also, Caradoc found his friendship with the Comes Britanniarum won him invitations to dine in the homes of prominent citizens. His nights were kept pleasantly busy. After initial feelings of repugnance at reclining to eat, Endellion learned the correct protocols and was soon smiling her way through a series of invitations. As for the vast meals and the many courses devoured, she only had to nibble a little and plead a cultural inability to eat large amounts of food.
‘Use your wits, girl. You just need to remain charming and complimentary. There’s no need for either of us to change the customs of a lifetime.’
Endellion made a point of wearing her Roman brooch to every social occasion. Fine clothes and good jewellery made an impression on her Roman hosts, so she worked hard to keep up her appearance by urging her maid to experiment with a wide variety of hairstyles. From the time she mounted the steps of each mansion, she ensured she was self-effacing, compliant and eager to please. For his part, Caradoc was satisfied with the plethora of complimentary comments that Endellion earned from the sophisticated citizens of Deva.
‘You’ve managed to raise a fine girl,’ one smug wine importer, Castor, informed the Dumnonii king after the ladies had retired and the men had been left to their hard drinking and serious conversation.
‘I, for one, wish my daughter showed the same good manners and charm,’ a fish-trader, Gallus, added. ‘She has a good brain and seems to understand the rudiments of local politics. She’ll make a good wife to some young man and I’ll tell you straight, if I had an eligible son to offer you, I’d snap her up in an instant. Who cares about dowries?’
‘Aye, gentlemen,’ Caradoc smiled, and blushed with pleasure. ‘I must admit that this visit to you fine city has changed my little girl into an accomplished young woman.’
‘Are there any signs of a suitor on the horizon?’ Gallus asked with a wide, gap-toothed grin. ‘She’s a beauty and young men set store by the looks of a woman. I tell them often enough that it’s character traits that count, but what lad listens to old men when pert breasts and a lush mouth are on offer?’
‘You’re an old goat, Gallus,’ Castor joked and punched his friend’s forearm. ‘You’d walk over hot coals to find a pretty girl with pert breasts who’d even look in your direction.’
‘Who are you calling an old goat? I’ve seen you at the baths, ogling the servant girls. You’d disgrace yourself thoroughly if you could, Castor, but Sofrania, your wife, would string you up by your balls.’
Caradoc, worried that this disagreement might become serious, especially with men who had been imbibing freely, brought the conversation back on track.
‘My girl has one suitor of note and he’s a young man of pleasing appearance, which hasn’t hurt his chances with Endellion. Best of all, he’s the possible heir to two kingdoms. He’s a nobleman of the Silures tribe and his father rules in Caerleon. It’s famed for its natural beauty, so I’m sure you know the city well.’ Both businessmen nodded, because they had extensive trading links with the town.
‘His mother’s brother is the king of the Dobunni tribe and this ruler is, as yet, childless. Actually, he’s been married near to ten years, since he was fifteen, so perhaps he’s impotent. A pity, because Llew is a good lad and a warrior of some competence.’
‘You have all the luck, my friend’ Gallus said enviously. ‘You’re fortunate to have a suitor who could become a king via each of two routes. That would surely be a coup for Endellion, and for you. She’d reside close to Tintagel, which would give pleasure to your wife.’
‘Actually, my wife is not Endellion’s birth mother and, while I’m sure she’s fond of my girl, she wouldn’t pine if Endellion was far away. I, on the other hand, would be desolated. Listen to my words of woe! I’m turning into an indulgent old man now, and I’m barely fit to hold a sword.’
Both businessmen examined his sharp eyes, the barrel chest and the huge, sword-scarred hands. A man less feeble, given his age, would be hard to imagine, although the swollen joints in his fingers betrayed his advanced age.
‘Somehow, I don’t think many of your enemies would consider you were feeble. If I may presume on our friendship, could I ask when you were last in battle?’ Castor poured another glass of wine for his guest.
‘It was well over a year ago. We were forced to teach some Saxon raiders that our coasts were dangerous places to visit. Their widows and children will still be weeping, so we’ll not see any more incursions for a few years. But, give them a little time to forget their losses and the bastards will come back again.’
The Romans gazed with admiration at this man who’d been forced to fight for the security of his people in his old age, marvelling that he was still capable of such an effort.
‘So you have the same problems in the south as we do?’ Gallus asked, as Caradoc felt the mood darken perceptibly in the room.
‘I’m afraid that the whole of Britannia is under attack,’ Caradoc said. ‘Savages hover around us, just as they do in the rest of the Roman world. They are ready to invade our shores as soon as the Romans depart, and I’m convinced that the Roman senate and the emperor will leave us to our own devices in the fullness of time. My friend Maximus believes that Rome is decaying from within, torn apart by greed, ennui and reckless ambition. Yes, my friends, you’ll be deserted as much as I will be if the legions should leave us. Can you transplant yourselves to Italia? This is the only land I understand, so I’m stuck with it.’
Castor and Gallus looked grave. Both men had been born in these isles, as had their fathers; where could they go if the legions deserted Britannia? More to the point, what country would accept them? Both men were realists, so they examined their hands, their rings or their togas, anything but permit Caradoc to see the bleak fear that permeated their bitter prospects for the future.
‘I understand,’ Caradoc said, as gently as he could. ‘So we will all face the future together, my friends, for my land is also your land.’
‘Aye!’ Gallus answered, with some bravura. ‘Together or apart, the Romans and the British tribes will face the same fate. Better to be united, don’t you think?’
Glumly, all three nodded.
‘I heard some gossip today from one of my friends in the militia,’ Castor said with a sudden grin. ‘It seems that a despatch arrived from the north this morning that spoke of a great victory to Maximus. He has trounced the Picts – again! And one of his columns ambushed a party of Hibernians and sent them to perdition – again! It seems that your friend crushes his foes whenever he meets them. He has such ability that he is able to mount campaigns on a number of fronts, so he is probably one of the greatest military commanders of modern times. The gossip from the courier spoke of the high regard with which his men hold him. There is talk that they intend to offer him the Grass Crown.’
‘The Grass Crown?’ Carado
c was aghast.
He had a vague idea what this honour meant, so he knew that Maximus would be elated at the prospect. But would he accept such a gift and use it to wrest the throne from the legitimate emperor? Maximus was Hispanic, so he was more Roman than the Romans in his attitudes and desires. Would he risk everything for the crown?
In a heartbeat, Caradoc admitted to himself that Maximus would.
‘What would such an honour mean to us?’ Castor muttered, his face paling a little under the mellow light of an earthenware lamp.
‘He will take the legions and as many of our young men as care to follow him to Old Gaul, where they will do battle with the empire’s defenders for the throne,’ Caradoc answered. ‘One ruler will live – and the other will die.’
‘Then we must pray to the gods that Maximus has a talent for survival,’ Gallus murmured.
‘Aye! And that he has the ability to know his own limitations,’ Caradoc added.
Maximus returned in a cloud of late summer dust with his beloved cataphractarii trailing behind him. Along with the rest of Deva’s population, Caradoc watched a spectacular approach at full gallop that barely paused for the town’s gates to be opened before the mounted warriors swept into the central square. Caradoc waved to his friend from the steps of the legion’s hospital while mulling over the vagaries of fate. He had planned to leave Deva on the very next morning and now, here was the great man himself, newly arrived with his usual display of elan.
Maximus threw himself from the saddle of his pure-white horse, which had become one of the Comes Britanniarum’s affectations. Aware of the noble figure he cut, Maximus raised his muscular arm and the crowd quietened immediately.