The Blood of Kings: Tintagel Book I

by M. K. Hume

  Then his hubris reasserted itself. He could not fail, as long as the stars shone and the moon rose at night.

  Andragathius was instructed to send out scouts to reconnoitre the terrain ahead of them and to gain intelligence on the size and disposition of Gratian’s forces. Maximus was aware that the Sequana River lay ahead and Andragathius’s warriors had given him reports on Parisii and the Matrona River that fed into the Sequana.

  Maximus’s force made a cautious turn eastward when the leading troops made contact with a deep tributary that flowed down from the north. His scouts were fortunate enough to find one section that was sufficiently shallow for his army to make a crossing, but the need to secure the terrain on the distant bank and facilitate the movement of troops, horses and vehicles ate up valuable time. Maximus chafed with impatience, for he could feel time running away like dried sand though his fingers. The stress of maintaining an air of invincibility wearied him, but the troops took their lead from the Roman commander’s inflexible face, so he made sure that he appeared to be on his guard and full of confidence.

  That night, the army made bivouac in an area of heavy forest some little way from the small town of Lutetia. For security’s sake, and until the scouts made their return, Maximus ordered his troops to camp without fires to ensure that the small town, whose lights were just visible in the distance, would remain ignorant of their presence.

  The night was dark and the moon was hidden behind dense banks of cloud but, mercifully, no rain fell to make conditions difficult for the soldiers and warriors who were trying to sleep under the stars. With a single, shrouded oil lamp, Maximus pored over crude maps of the area as he searched for a suitable site on which to confront Gratian, but his head felt thick with an emerging headache and his eyes were gritty with weariness. He would have remained hunched over his camp desk for hours, but Andragathius slid into the tent.

  ‘The scouts have returned, my lord,’ he said. ‘Do you wish to see them immediately?’

  Swallowing an impatient retort, Maximus nodded and demanded a full report from them.

  ‘Lord . . . Gratian’s army has finally taken the field. They have set up camp to the east of Lutetia and are without fires to mask their size. However, we were in positions where we could overlook their bivouac and were able to make rough estimates of the size of their forces. We are outnumbered, probably two to one, but these calculations don’t include Gratian’s troops who are manipulating the siege machines. I formed the opinion that these devices will be useless to Gratian, if you can select the right terrain for the battle.’

  ‘How many native centuries has Gratian assembled?’ Maximus demanded. He knew that many were likely to change sides, especially if they hadn’t been paid for some time. On the other hand, the elite troops such as the Roman Guard would never desert him if they had declared themselves for their emperor. Similarly, mercenaries such as the hated Alans, who had been conscripted into the forces of Rome, would remain loyal to the very end.

  One of the British scouts gave a reckless laugh and stepped forward to speak. ‘I estimated that there were near enough to five native centuries. I couldn’t tell what tribe they came from, but they seemed well disciplined and competent when they prepared their bivouac.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen, you may rejoin your troops.’ Maximus’s fingers traced his rough sketch of the land between his present position and Lutetia. Outnumbered and unfamiliar with the countryside, he had lost the advantage, especially as Andragathius informed his commander that a troop of Alan cavalry, the hated favourites of the emperor, had also been seen among the force deployed against him.

  ‘I can depend on your cataphractarii, can’t I?’ Maximus demanded.

  ‘Unto death, my lord – and beyond,’ his master of horse assured him.

  ‘Then rest, Andragathius! Tomorrow we finally go to war . . . and Fortuna will decide who takes the day.’

  To Caradoc

  King of the Dumnonii tribe, and Regent of Britannia

  Hail and Blessings

  I trust this missive finds you and Lady Endellion well? Please assure her that I continue to take care and I hope to see her very soon.

  But I digress. This missive is to inform the kings of Britannia of the great news. Our High King is now the Emperor of the West in all but name. Yes, such an elevation is amazing, so perhaps Fortuna does choose her favourites. Maximus has rejected the old gods since his elevation, and has embraced his Christian background with a fervour that borders on obsession.

  I speak frankly to you because I am reasonably certain that Maximus will not be concerned over the contents of this document. He trusts you implicitly and he is aware that correspondence flows between us from time to time.

  At any rate, we waited for dawn in the forest north of Lutetia, which is less than an hour’s ride from Parisii. I found myself sweating with nervousness. Gratian’s army was very large, but many of its parts were tribal, including a contingent of cavalry that was almost exclusively Alan, the hated tribe that has won so much favour with him. The Alans come from the desert beyond the Middle Sea and the fertile rivers, the Tigris and the Euphrates, so they have little in common with us, except for their religion. They are almost fanatical in their devotion to the Christian God.

  I have digressed again. Parchment is very valuable, so I will continue my tale.

  Once the sun had crept over the horizon, we emerged from the forest and marched towards the enemy encampment, for Maximus had determined that he would prefer our enemy had the river at their backs in this largely flat landscape. Our army was very steady from the outset, with the Roman foot soldiers in the vanguard and our cavalry hovering on the wings on each flank. Maximus’s strategy was clear and simple to put into effect. He would depend on his battle-hardened Roman soldiers to attack the centre of Gratian’s less experienced troops, for fighting vicious enemies along a frontier, such as the north of Britannia, is far more difficult than keeping the peace in settled provinces such as Belgica, Celtica and Cisalpina. Then, according to Maximus’s strategy, the wings of native cavalry would enclose and smash the enemy. The plan was solid and could easily have succeeded, but all such planning became moot. Fortuna had one more surprise for us all.

  Caradoc put down the long densely written scroll. His old heart had stirred as he read the preliminary events leading to this major battle, but because of his aging sight he required the deepest concentration to do so.

  The door to his private rooms opened with a clatter as Endellion rushed in like a small storm.

  ‘Has Aeron written? I heard a courier had come so I hurried to discover if he carried any news from Gaul. Is Aeron still well? I’ve been ever so worried, Father, because I started having those dreams of hooded men being strangled with silken cords. I’ve become certain that disaster has been following the High King like a pestilence. Oh, please tell me.’

  ‘Silence, girl! How can I read this scroll if you gabble at me like a vulgar fisherwoman in the marketplace?’ He continued to grumble as he squinted at the letter and tried to make sense of the small, tight writing, until Endellion could no longer bear his slowness.

  ‘Allow me to read the scroll, Father. Just sit back on your stool and rest because you’ll probably need to explain parts of it for me.’

  She took the scroll over to the window with her thumb marking the spot where Caradoc had stopped peering at the document. Her heart in her mouth, she scanned the previous section rapidly, but then a slow smile gradually replaced the frown of just a few moments earlier.

  Once she reached the desired part of the document, she cleared her throat and began to read in a clear and pleasant voice.

  ‘“Maximus was eager to learn whether Gratian planned to use archers, so we halted about fifty spear lengths from the enemy. Most Roman commanders consider the bow to be a barbarian weapon, but Maximus has learned the tactical advantages of
archery from his many years on the frontiers. We discovered quickly that Gratian had a small troop of archers but they were kept at the rear, mainly as a defensive weapon against our cavalry. Maximus immediately ordered our bowmen to advance to positions where they could defend our flanks and nullify Gratian’s cavalry.

  ‘“Both armies were poised like wild beasts that fight for the amusement of crowds. We waited for the order to attack, but the command never came.

  ‘“Suddenly, the Roman soldiers at the centre of Gratian’s army sheathed their weapons and lowered their standard. Then, using a white flag, they fell out of the ranks in disciplined rows. Several of their officers approached Maximus slowly as he sat astride his tall white horse, and they swore allegiance to him, declaring him to be the new emperor.

  ‘“The remaining native troops were thrown into total disarray. Most surrendered their arms immediately, but the contingent of Alans stood firm. No man should question their courage, regardless of how roundly they are hated as a race. Maximus loosed his own cavalry to crush them, along with the bulk of his centre troops. They were ably assisted by those Romans who rebelled against Gratian, who annihilated the remnants of Gratian’s army in short order.

  ‘“Gratian was forced to flee the battlefield, in company with his senior aides and those confidantes who contrived to escape the slaughter that followed.”’

  Endellion’s voice shook. ‘In my dream, I saw a man in a litter who had been gutted like a fish. He was wearing a purple toga so I suppose he was a Roman noble, but it didn’t seem real. Now . . .’

  ‘Yes, girl! It’s all too real when it’s written on parchment, isn’t it? Read on, my dear! So far, our High King seems to have won a stunning victory.’

  ‘“I was in the commander’s tent when Maximus called his master of horse and two other cavalry officers into his presence. They were ordered to track down Gratian and return him to Maximus for punishment. If the emperor couldn’t be taken alive, then my master wouldn’t weep if his head alone returned to face the consequences of his actions. We heard no more of Andragathius, Conanus or Crucius, the third man, for many weeks.

  ‘“We marched east towards Italia and the road before us was empty of any threat to Maximus. We paused at Augusta Treverorum and Maximus was briefly reunited with his wife. She is a great lady, but quite old and very grey. Surrounded by his daughters, his wife and his son, Flavius Victor, Maximus was suddenly an aging man in his fifties, well past the age of great deeds. I must admire my master for his power that charms us into believing that he is both young and a brilliant warrior, when I have never seen him raise a sword. How odd the power to charm can be.”’

  ‘Read ahead of me, Endellion. I’d like to mull over Aeron’s words before reading on. Your young man weaves a compelling story, and I’d swear he has something of the poet in his tongue and his fingers. I’m tired, my dear. If you can keep the scroll safe, I’ll return to it in a few hours. For the moment, I must think a little and have some sleep.’

  Augusta Treverorum was a small town where the church was the centre of daily life. Theodora, Maximus’s Roman wife, was a woman of famed piety and discretion, but long years alone had worn her down, so that her thin Roman nose seemed even longer than he remembered. Maximus greeted her with wary affection, gripping her shoulders in a brotherly fashion and kissing her chastely on each cheek.

  ‘I’m pleased to see you looking well and healthy, husband,’ Theodora said bluntly in an aggressive tone that was unfamiliar to him. Maximus assumed that her new assertiveness had developed from the management role that she had been forced to maintain over his estates outside the town. She had also successfully married her daughters to men of significant status and substance, adopting the role of paterfamilias with consummate ease. Maximus tried hard to hide a twinge of irritation as she took control of the conversation.

  ‘You also look well, my dear. As my letters indicated, your negotiations for the marriage of our daughter to Ennodius were skilfully handled.’ He stumbled as he tried to remember which daughter had been married to the proconsul of Africa.

  Had he been able to read Theodora’s mind, Maximus would have been shocked. The girl who had longed for romance and who had fallen in love with a handsome Hispanic officer regretted her long celibacy. When she looked in her silver mirror, she knew that she was a dried-up husk of a woman who would never again experience the passions that had once flushed her handsome face with such rich colour.

  He doesn’t need me, she thought with some regret. He never has. But he’s come to me because he’s on the brink of becoming the emperor and he needs a wife with an impeccable reputation and lineage. She sighed.

  ‘Any child of mine will be happy with her lot because she’s been trained to understand her duty to her husband and her family. Still, I’m pleased that my girl is now in Africa with her husband. She will be safe there.’

  ‘What does that mean, Theodora? Do you expect me to fail in my ambitions, now that I have so nearly achieved my goals? I can swear that I won’t!’ His lips twitched with a brief smile as he considered how out of place Theodora would be in the vast, echoing corridors of power in Rome.

  ‘I’d expect you to succeed as long as you act in the best interests of the people of the west, your loyal followers and your family.’

  ‘Spoken like a true statesman, my dear! You’ve said one thing, but you mean something quite different. Have I been all that unsatisfactory as a husband?’

  Maximus exerted his charm to convince her of the purity of his motives. Yes, he needed her, especially considering the stiff-necked moralistic bastard who was sitting on the throne in Constantinople. Theodora had always represented the finest characteristics of Roman womanhood and Theodosius had always liked her.

  Her stiff back relaxed a trifle, so Maximus took her hand, while ignoring her dry, papery skin and the first age spots that marred her flesh. Briefly, he thought of Elen.

  Husband and wife had parted amicably, but warily. Pleading the need to be ready to march at short notice, he returned to the army bivouac on the outskirts of Treverorum. In a tent of significant grandeur that had once belonged to Gratian, Maximus consulted over his maps and documents as he tried to determine the best route to follow for his approach to Italia. He concentrated on the comfort of his army and kept himself apart from his family and the town dignitaries. Wisely, he ensured that all merchants were paid for food and supplies taken in his name, so that the citizens of the town lauded his forbearance. He won a large number of friends, simply by using Gratian’s discarded war chest to pay for the needs of his army.

  On a Sunday when the bells were calling the faithful to prayer, word reached Maximus that a small troop of horsemen was approaching the bivouac at speed from the south.

  He dressed carefully, choosing full armour and his red cloak, for he felt the tide turning once more and sensed that Fortuna’s eyes had focused on him again. He left his tent with his guard snapping at his heels with their usual strict discipline. Decius had spent days polishing armour and honing his master’s weapons so that Maximus would appear like an emperor-in-waiting. The old soldier also ensured that the guard were as busy as he was, mending their cloaks and cleaning every inch of their accoutrements, including the armour of their horses.

  ‘Our master is judged by you, lads, and by your discipline and appearance. Those fat-arses in Rome think we’re all filthy barbarians. Which we are, but we don’t have to look like them. A little elbow grease won’t hurt us and our master will benefit from your appearance. Be ready, boys, for you can’t know when a little play-acting might serve Lord Maximus well.’

  When Maximus left his tent on that momentous day, the guardsmen fell in behind him in perfect, shining rows, as neat and polished as parade-ground soldiers.

  The small troop of cavalrymen approached the picket lines at a trot. The coats of the horses were running with sweat and foam marked t
heir mouths and chests. The rest of their powerful bodies, their armour and their saddles were covered with dust from the roadway.

  As the riders dismounted, Maximus tried to discern who they were beneath the thick coating of dust that covered them. One man took off his helmet and shook his head and Maximus recognised Elen’s brother, Conanus. Then with brusque hands, the other officer took off his cloak and shook it vigorously until clouds of fine road-dust filled the air. Andragathius had returned at last.

  ‘I assume you have found the erstwhile emperor for me, gentlemen? Where is he?’ Maximus asked curtly.

  Andragathius took a bag that had been looped over the pommel of his saddle. Maximus noticed that this side of the horse was caked with something sticky and was immediately alerted to the bag’s gruesome contents.

  ‘I have the honour, master, to introduce you to Emperor Gratian!’ He abased himself to the victor of the Battle of Parisii as he dropped the bag’s contents at Maximus’s feet.

  Gratian’s head spun out from the leather container. Blood and serum had dried in the curled, foppish hair and the face still showed the grimace of fear and surprise that the emperor had worn when Andragathius had leaped out of a woman’s litter that had carried the assassin to the flaps of Gratian’s tent. In the blinking of an eye, a quick knife stroke to the emperor’s throat, followed by another to the belly, left the emperor dying on the ground. Yet another knife stroke killed his closest guard who had been caught flat-footed by the ruse. Suddenly, Andragathius was wielding the dead guardsman’s sword and the litter bearers had pulled out concealed weapons and attacked those servants and protectors who were within range of their murderous blades. Within a minute, the guards had thrown down their arms and begged for mercy. Gratian’s corpse was lying in the dust, his blood running down a hollow on the roadway. He had been entranced at the prospect of a pretty face and a lush body, one of the oldest tricks used to snare men who possessed gross appetites for sex. Ultimately, Gratian had died because he was a voluptuary.