by M. K. Hume
‘You’ll see your fellow Britons on their best behaviour at this event,’ Caradoc warned. ‘I wouldn’t believe what anyone says for a moment. I’d recommend that you always judge them by what they do, rather than what they say.’
Cadal sighed with frustration, for he lacked the talent for subterfuge that his father seemed to possess in such abundance.
‘But you must watch Maximus even more closely. You saw his approach to war at Anderida. The man is a realist and he’s practical. They’re great talents, my son. His flaw is his hubris, his certainty that he was born for a great purpose and a determination that his name will live forever.’
‘I thought he was your friend, Father. Yet you speak as if you dislike him.’
‘I do and I don’t!’ Caradoc sighed with deep regret. ‘He’s my friend, but he could very easily have us at war with Rome. You must be careful what you say around him. Don’t commit yourself, or the Dumnonii people. Be on your guard . . . always.’
The wedding feast was intended to be splendid, so excellent wines and plentiful food loaded down the long tables in one of the great halls of Deva. The bride and groom sat at a small table on a dais at the head of the room, Elen’s face as pale and as still as a graven image.
Beside her, still wearing his grass crown with pride, Maximus sat at his ease and lounged back on an armed chair with the same nonchalance he would have shown on a Roman eating couch. In deference to the number of guests and the obvious cultural differences, the wedding feast was presented on long tables with benches for seating, rather than the traditional furniture used in the Roman triclinium.
Wine and beer flowed like water and the roistering guests became noisier and more animated as the afternoon lengthened. Even Meriadoc seemed re-energised by the marriage of his only daughter. When he shakily rose to his feet, the room initially exploded with laughter, followed by advice offered on his daughter’s good fortune, given Maximus’s reputed physical endowments. Finally, Meriadoc raised his wine cup, and the hall slowly came to a ragged silence.
‘Master Maximus, fellow Britons and Romans, and all men of good heart. I ask you to join with me in a toast,’ Meriadoc began. ‘Today we have seen a great honour bestowed on our Comes Britanniarum with the presentation of the Grass Crown. But we have the power to offer an even greater honour to my esteemed son-by-marriage. Now, after experiencing repeated attacks from the north, the west and the east in recent years, we find that we are in great need of a warrior who can protect us with wisdom and force of arms. Our Roman friends refer to this protector as the Dux Bellorum. But such a leader would be powerless if we, the kings of the tribes of Britannia, did not support and obey such a commander.’
Several heads nodded, although one or two of the kings listened with stony faces.
‘If we wish to ensure the security of our realms, we must agree that our Dux Bellorum would, in effect, become a high king. During my long reign, I have watched our people come to rely, more and more, on the might of the Roman legions to guarantee our security. But the Roman influence is receding with the passage of time and there are strong indications that Rome will abandon us in the years to come. Her future lies in Italia and the lands on the continent.’
The old man paused to husband his strength.
‘You may argue that each time the Picts, Hibernians and Saxons have attacked our shores, our Roman friends have defeated them. Lord Maximus has been sent to Britannia twice. But how many citizens and warriors perished during his absence from our shores? A thousand? Two? Ten? Such deaths have cost us dearly, so surely we’d be safer if our war leader was here permanently, to protect us from the very first landings by those savages who intend to ravage the British homeland.’
Around the table, the kings were covertly examining each other’s reactions as they were forced to admit that Meriadoc’s claims had some validity. They knew that burned villages, acres of stolen or burned grain, orchards and fortresses had all been laid to waste in the most recent raids and every spring brought some incursions from small, opportunistic groups of warriors bent on rapine and pillage. Fortunately for Meriadoc, the kings who had been part of Caradoc’s southern alliance were the first to raise their hands and speak in favour.
‘We agree wholeheartedly that Maximus should be invited to become our Dux Bellorum. We must have an impartial protector and Britannia must learn to speak with one voice. Let us invite Macsen Wledig to be our first High King.’
The swell of comments and shouted responses was joined by a barrage of cheering as those kings of tribes with the most to lose in the recurrent raids raised their voices in acclamation.
Caradoc sighed again as Maximus rose to his feet, bowed low to Meriadoc and raised both hands to exhort silence. Like all skilled orators, Maximus waited until the wedding guests settled.
He’ll take it, Caradoc decided. He won’t be able to resist. He’ll use his achievements in Britannia to convince us to install him as our protector and then, in short order, he’ll use that achievement to elevate himself to the purple.
‘Friends, kinsmen and loyal lords of Britannia! Meriadoc does me too much honour. I am fortunate to have joined a tribe by marriage that is as strong and as dedicated to its people as the Ordovice of the north-west of Britannia. We have done much in recent years to rid ourselves of common enemies, so I have been grateful for the opportunity to serve the Britons in the role of Comes Britanniarum. However, much more needs to be done and I fear for Britannia’s future if we continue to defend ourselves as a divided and splintered group of small, independent kingdoms. If even one of you should fall, the rest will quickly follow. Rome is in turmoil and its rulers could decide to retreat back to the continent in the near future. You would then be at the mercy of your traditional enemies who will come to your shores in a flood. I understand that some of you might be offended by Meriadoc’s proposal. Perhaps I would feel the same, if I stood in your boots. I propose that we meet in one week to discuss this matter. The future of Britannia is a matter for cool and reasoned heads rather than impassioned and self-interested decisions, made on the emotions of the moment.’
‘Clever sod!’ Caradoc muttered.
‘If you choose to extend this honour to me when next we meet, I will be honoured to vacate my role as a servant of Rome and become the figurehead of your resistance to evil. Such a trust should not be given or taken lightly, so let us eat and drink now and we shall put all thoughts of such matters of state away until the cold light of day permits us to consider the course of action for Britannia and its people.’ Then Maximus offered a toast to the beauty of his bride while smiling down on her upraised face with a warmth and pride of ownership that could easily be mistaken for true love.
Around her, the room spun in a frenzy of eating, drinking and talk as the kings ignored Maximus’s exhortation, as he knew they would. Yet they would weary of the subject within days and would then be more than half-inclined to see the Roman firmly ensconced in his new role.
Caradoc was certain that, somehow, Maximus had engineered Meriadoc’s proposal and had already achieved the desired result, with Caradoc’s assistance. Before him, the Comes Britanniarum’s path to the purple was straight and true and Magnus Maximus was on his way.
The night had held no surprises for Maximus, at least concerning his father-by-marriage, who had proved to be an easy man to gull. His son was a different proposition. Kynan hadn’t hesitated to voice his protests to his father, but Maximus bore him no malice. After all, a brother-by-law who happened to be the High King of Britannia would prove advantageous to Kynan, once the young man followed Meriadoc onto the Ordovice throne, so the prince would soon learn the error of his ways. Maximus gained some enjoyment by niggling at the young man’s ego by using the Roman equivalent of his name, Conanus, which Kynan hated. Maximus always apologised with sincerity, but evil humour danced in his eyes no matter how contrite he sounded.
But Elen proved to be a welcome surprise, one that he had not anticipated.
Maximus’s wedding night had been a revelation. He had crossed the bedchamber threshold expecting very little enjoyment from a virginal and inexperienced bride.
Without doubt, Elen was virginal, but her lack of experience would not last for long. Unlike many of her sex, his bride responded immediately to even the most casual of touches.
He had expected inexpert and frightened responses to his caresses in the darkness, so a swift slaking of his desires in her flesh had been planned, to be followed by a triumphant night of excellent sleep. Now, his interest and his libido were piqued by curiosity as he began to explore her body in the lamplight, while enjoying her reaction to his unfamiliar caresses.
She shivered when he kissed her throat where the veins and arteries were closest to the skin; she moaned in surprise when his thumbs first teased her hardened young nipples, and she tried immediately to become one with his body in the most charming and inexperienced fashion. When he stroked her belly and delicately licked at her thighs, her whole body arched as it responded to his slightest touch. Elen surrendered to the touch of an experienced lover with an eagerness that spurred him to exercise every element of his own self-control, as he tutored her in her first lessons of Eros.
As he smoothly entered her flesh, Maximus marvelled at how willingly she had surrendered to his ardour. The cold part of his brain that was rarely overwhelmed had enjoyed toying with her inexperienced body and mind, as he drove her to the peak of passion and then permitted her to slide back to the desperate longing of unfulfilled sexual arousal. She moaned, she begged and she tried to arouse him in turn with quickly learned caresses.
But, even as he luxuriated in his power over her and was pleasured by the blind madness and longing of her half-closed eyes, she found the secret spots on his flesh that ignited the slow-burning force of his own passions until he was as lost as Elen; he could no longer resist her and he drove her into her scented pallet as both enjoyed their release. Sated and panting, he lay upon her sweating flesh, desperate to catch his breath and recapture that god-like sensation of triumph.
Thoroughly dishevelled and with badly bruised lips, she smiled at him like a contented cat. She stretched every muscle under the heavy weight of his body and nestled her head into the pillows so he could rest his head between her soft breasts.
‘My lord,’ she whispered, once she could speak without panting. ‘Was that what all men seek of women? Did I pleasure you?’
‘Aye, girl! That was exactly what all men strive for, but so few women are able to give. Yes, you have pleasured me greatly. And what of you?’
This last questioned surprised him. He hadn’t asked for a woman’s approval since he was a callow, seventeen-year-old youth who’d been taken by his uncle to the best whorehouse in Egypt.
‘I feared I would die, my lord. I thought you would kill me with pleasure,’ she murmured with a small giggle that caused his body to twitch against her thigh.
She gasped with a courtesan’s honed insight. ‘Will our love always be so . . . ?’
‘Ah, wise one, a woman can give and take pleasure a thousand times and yet, like a sweet spring, her waters will never run dry. I fear I’m an old man and I’m unable to find the energy to meet your needs as well as I should.’
He cupped her heavy breast in one hand and toyed with it, sucking on the nipple like a selfish infant until he felt his desires start to build once more. Surprised, he kissed her swollen lips and played with the hairless, shaved mound of her secret places.
‘I could not imagine a more passionate lover, my lord. But I know so very little of how to pleasure you as you deserve.’
‘I will teach you, little Elen.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘You’re a surprising gift that Fortuna has given to me.’ Then he ceased to think of anything at all.
When he finally slept, he dreamed of a throne of gold and stirred in his night imaginings as he sought her breasts with the eagerness of a child.
Elen smiled.
Who would have thought that she could hold the soul of the great Maximus in the palms of her narrow hands?
CHAPTER XVIII
A LONG TIME FOR WEEPING
We make war that we may live in peace.
Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, Book 10
Two brief and busy years passed, creating a whole new way for Britannia’s governance, and Caradoc had been in the thick of it, his gravitas covering him with an aura of wisdom and invincibility.
As always, the High King moved with the speed of his beloved cataphractarii. Before Elen could become truly comfortable in Deva, Maximus whisked her away southward with a large contingent of his troops, as he prepared for another spring and the inevitable Saxon Summer with a new flood of invaders from the north. Elen wept copious tears over the separation from her father until, in a fit of temper, Maximus decided that she could stay behind and rot in Segontium, if that was her preference.
Aware of her error, Elen slid back into her husband’s good graces, using seduction and apology in equal measure although, inside, she raged at his apparent indifference. For his part, Maximus had gambled that his wife would soon come to heel. While his need for her grew more powerful with each passing day, he feared that his fondness for her could drive away the God-given chance to gain his heart’s desire.
In one fast swoop of the Roman eagle, Meriadoc had lost both children, for Kynan was lured into Maximus’s service as a captain of the native cavalry, having decided, belatedly, that his future lay with the Roman who had won the heart of his sister.
Maximus’s sense of urgency was so acute that their supply wagons were forced to move at speed, so extra carthorses had been requisitioned and regular harness changes made to maintain the column’s brutal pace. Maximus, his troops, his engineers and his wagons charged down the straight Roman road through the belly of Britannia, towards a destination where Elen would be friendless and alone.
At Corinium, the road split into two with one branch heading towards Calleva Atrebatum while the other took travellers to Sorviodunum. Maximus sent a courier to Tintagel with an invitation for his old friend, Caradoc, to meet him at Venta Belgarum. The excessive pace made good by the column and problems with communications, supplies and vehicle maintenance necessitated a one-night pause at the comfortable court of King Llew, who remained a loyal supporter of the Roman High King and an emerging strategist of note. This comfortable evening was spent in Llew’s scriptorium with a flask of red Spanish wine, numerous document scrolls and Llew’s kinsman, Aeron ap Iorweth, who was kept busy taking copious notes of their discussions.
The next morning, when Maximus awoke to the first rays of the sun, the hollow in the bed next to him was already cold and empty. He searched impatiently for his wife and eventually found her in the latrines where she had been vomiting uncontrollably. Maximus’s immediate emotion was one of intense irritation.
‘How long have you been ill, Elen? Damn it, woman! You’ll hold up the journey if you can’t travel. Of course, you could stay here for a few days until such time as you’re feeling a little better. I’ll leave a small detachment of warriors for your protection and, when you’ve recovered, they can escort you to Venta Belgarum.’
Elen stared up at her husband in horror.
‘No, husband! No! I must travel with you. I’ll be well again as soon as the nausea passes,’ Elen mumbled through her stiff, pale lips. Then, another paroxysm shook her. She retched miserably until Maximus took charge of the situation and carried her back to her pallet.
Ignoring Elen’s increasingly loud protests, Maximus called for a physician to ascertain what ailed the queen, all the while chafing at the delay.
The physician was a small, hook-nosed man with the very dark complexion of one of the sons of Abraham, so Maximus’s opinion sharpened with age-old prejudice. Unafra
id, the physician stared into his untrusting eyes after he had made a diagnosis within moments of being led to his patient.
‘You’re to be congratulated, Your Highness,’ the physician stated baldly. ‘Your wife is very well. She’s a fine, buxom lass who will bear a healthy child. Make sure she drinks boiled water or milk and eats nothing before noon, other than finely sliced fruits.’
‘Oh! So that’s it!’ Maximus replied blankly. ‘I understand now. Thank you, Master Physician. I should have recognised her condition for myself, if I hadn’t been so anxious to depart from Corinium. Is it safe for Her Highness to travel?’
The physician smiled sleekly. ‘She’s very strong and healthy, so she could walk to Sorviodunum if she had to, morning sickness or no. You’re a fortunate man, Your Highness.’
Maximus’s nerves were twitching with irritation over the unforeseen delay to his travel plans, but he still sent the Jew off with several gold coins for his trouble. A generous reward was expected from one such as the Comes Britanniarum, and he was pleased at the show of avarice in the Hebrew’s eyes.
Despite having fathered children in the past on both sides of the blanket, Maximus was mildly pleased with the news of Elen’s pregnancy. The existence of a potential heir was an essential ingredient if a High King was to rule Britannia in perpetuity.
But when Elen was informed of her condition, she was thunderstruck. ‘I don’t want to be pregnant and I refuse to become fat and ugly. Do you hear me, Maximus? I don’t want a brat crying night and day or chewing my breasts until they’re flat old dugs. I don’t want your baby!’
Furious, she turned on her husband.