Arthur Britannicus
Page 12
XV. Aquila
In his headquarters, Carausius was readying for an expedition by sea, but the matter of the Eagle, the sacred aquila, lost by the Ninth Spanish legion had sparked in him a new train of thought. “That is my father’s map,” he told himself. “The gods must want me to bring about change in Britain, to restore my homeland to its past glories. If they want it, I must fulfil it. This lost Eagle is a symbol, the key to carrying out their wishes, and with their help. I can rule Britain and bring about that restoration!” He felt a growing excitement as he considered the opportunity. If the timing was right, it could work. He’d already started the propaganda war, issuing coinage announcing him as the Long-Awaited One, and he’d had some very positive responses to the idea he’d cautiously floated among his senior officers about restoring the Golden Age of Rome.
The legate’s reasoning was simple. Britain was being plundered by the empire, and the natives wanted their pride and independence restored. They were unhappy at being second-rate non-citizens, tired of being bled for tribute. All he needed was the military force, the will and the symbols to inspire men. For a legion to lose its Eagle was a shameful thing, as it represented the pride and power of Rome. If he could find the long-lost icon and parade it at the head of his legions, he’d be restoring some of that pride, and they’d think him a miracle worker. It could be the exact rallying point he’d need to endorse his authority and his claim to be king, an even more potent symbol than reclaiming his British chieftain’s status, if he could ever find his father’s brooch of rank.
The old scroll was a good starting point. Its story was that the veteran was dying, and wanted his legion’s Eagle recovered. The fellow claimed he had been stationed at a place called Lutudarense during the Boadicean revolt and had witnessed the aquilifer and his detachment head out from there ‘back to the garrison,’ without saying where that base was. The veteran told the scribe he’d heard that the aquilifer had been ordered to hide the sacred Eagle in some old mine near the fort, but the soldiers who presumably hid it had been killed by the rebels.
Even the group at Lutudarense had been overrun and forced to flee. The survivors had been scattered in the turmoil of the uprising, and Carausius shrewdly guessed that the veteran had probably decided to keep quiet about it all so he could find the coin for himself, but his chance never came and he’d been posted back to Spain. There couldn’t be too many forts near Lutudarense, wherever that was, Carausius thought. It must be possible to find one with a mine nearby, and the reward would be tremendous if he could find the Eagle. He sketched again, as he had so many times, the simple features of the little map that lived so brightly in his mind. This, he was certain, showed the location of the lost Eagle, and likely of the missing pay chests that had tempted the old veteran to keep his knowledge to himself. He needed to consult his lieutenant.
Allectus, Carausius’ chief advisor and treasurer, was in the fortress’ airy office above the harbour, where he had brought requisitions and other scrolls. A slave served the two men watered wine, then moved outside at Carausius’ gesture. The man halted in the vestibule, seeming to busy himself with a tray of inks and writing implements. The guards posted across the room at the outer door saw nothing amiss, but the slave was listening hard. With a mixture of threats and promised rewards, he had been recruited as one of Maximian’s spies and he was gathering what information he could. That day, gold coins could have showered from the sky and it would not have excited him more. Carausius was outlining the story of the lost Eagle to Allectus and the slave was listening to information that could bring his freedom.
“If Maximian hears this, the best thing that will happen to us is that we’ll both go off the Tarpeian Rock,” Carausius warned his treasurer, “but there’s an imperial crown if we’re decisive. We need to usurp the fleet for ourselves and set up a new empire, in Britain and northern Gaul, and that Eagle could be the way to do it.”
“It would work, lord,” Allectus agreed. “The Britons are restive because Rome ignores them. They’ve never even had anyone in the Senate, although the Gauls had representatives there almost from the minute they were elected to be a province. As for the locals here in Gaul, they’re already administered by us and as long as we keep the Bagudae down and the region safe, they won’t care who collects their taxes.”
Carausius nodded. “The Britons want to be more independent, and to stop being plundered for the emperor’s benefit. The populace would be right behind us, and the Eagle could be a great rallying point for the troops. We don’t need to answer to those extortionists in Rome, if we have control of our floating wooden walls.
“We could simply take the fleet for ourselves. The men wouldn’t know or even care very much, so long as they have their pay days. It could take months before they realize that Rome isn’t issuing their orders, especially if we base the whole flotilla outside Gaul.
“When we have the Narrow Sea to shelter behind, there would be no way for Maximian to reach us. He can’t face our naval forces right now, and even if he builds an armada it will be another year or more before the crews are trained well enough to have a chance against us. Anyway, the emperor has enough on his hands with those troublemakers on the Danube; he’ll not want to start another campaign.”
The two men looked at each other. They were committed now, co-conspirators whose lives would be brutally forfeit if their plans were revealed. Carausius stretched out his right hand, and grasped the wrist of Allectus, who returned the old Roman handshake. They could only go forward now. The agreement was sealed. They’d not just steal the fleet; they would find the Eagle and use it to steal an empire.
As they turned back to the tablum to study lists of supplies and troop dispositions, the wide-eyed slave by the door was moving away across the anteroom, mentally revising what he had overheard. Maximian’s agent would pay handsomely, he knew. He just had to be cautious that he wasn’t betrayed in turn.
Carausius carried the thoughts of creating an empire with him on a brisk, bright morning as he led a squadron of his new fleet out into the strait. He sniffed appreciatively at the clean salt air as he ran through a mental checklist. Finding the Eagle was only a part of it; he needed to mop up these pirates, make a reconnaissance around Britain, recruit some allies, finish off the rebels in Gaul and Spain, and move some troops into Britain to replace the legions Rome had pulled out for service beyond the Rhine. He’d need to reinforce Bononia, too. There was a lot to do, and he’d earn his salt, but first, he had to sort out these pirates and boost the coffers. “There will be plenty of expenses, and Rome certainly won’t be paying for what I want to do. I’ll be needing the coin,” he thought grimly.
In Forum Hadriani, the trader Gracilis was cold to the scribe Mullinus and his offers. “I bought those twins legally and with proper money. They are mine and they are definitely not for sale,” he declared. “I don’t care who their mother is, where they came from or what they are. I intend to punish them for stealing my money and running away, but I have a use for them first and they will stay confined until I decide otherwise.” Clinia, he said, could not visit them; the security risk was too great. He privately thought that they’d blurt the secret of the map to her and he may be forced to turn it over. Anyway, he told Mullinus, there was no time. He planned to leave Belgica on a trading mission very soon. No, he would not say where he was going, it was a commercial secret and he was a very busy man, so good day to you, magister.
Mullinus left, thoughtfully fingering the big amber and silver brooch at his shoulder. Clinia had sketched what she remembered of the leaden map that her husband had guarded so carefully and that Mullinus had viewed for Gracilis. The ‘Ebor’ and ‘Manc’ clues were solid enough. Perhaps, mused Mullinus, he, too, should plan a trade mission to Britannia. It was probably safe enough to go back to Eboracum after all these years. Who would remember a house slave taken in a raid decades ago? There could be a Roman treasure to be found. The risk was worth it.
XVI. Portland Bill
The vessels on the port flank of the Channel Fleet emerged from a small bank of sea fog to surprise the raiders, and the admiral’s plan to intercept the Franks had succeeded. The Roman flotilla, patrolling to catch pirates, had been carefully positioned near a great curving beach that jutted from the British shore like the bill of an ibis. Four Frankish corsairs with their high prows, wide beams and shallow draughts were returning under full leather sails from a series of successful raids on the coast. When they saw Carausius’ nine new warships, easily identified by their uniform blue canvas, they turned as one, sharply away. The Romans held their line astride the pirates’ escape south to Gaul and contained the raiders like beaters driving partridge. A brisk south-westerly closed the seaway to the open ocean, and the loom of the land was hard under their larboard side. They could only sail forward and east. They did not know that the Roman fleet had them trapped like fish in a net.
A navigator wise in these waters had told the legate of the deadly three-mile bank of shingle that extended a murderous wall into the sea, and had brought the fleet to that killing station. “It has the name Portland Bill, lord,” he explained, “and it’s a ship wrecker. As the tide comes in or out, the swirls on both sides of the Bill crash straight into the flood going east to the German Sea, or the ebb going west into the Atlanticus,” the old sailor said. “It squeezes the tide, makes vast whirlpools, and it creates a sea-torrent as fast as a cantering horse. It’s all great waves and sea spouts where the currents clash. Ships can’t live in that. Worse for them, this wind has the pirates caught between the land and the race. They can’t go west against the blast, they can’t go east or north because of the Bill and the shore, and we’re here in the south. When we close on them and the land, we just have to use our oars to drive them where their sails can’t help them. “
Carausius readied his fleet for the capture. He ordered the decks soused with water, and sand to be scattered over them, for better grip in the upcoming battle. He called for the long-poled, bladed hooks that could slash the enemy’s rigging to be broken loose, and oars to be shipped above the leather sheets that kept the waves from entering by the holes. The rowers were to rest as the galleys moved forward under sail only. “We have time. Feed the men. Get the cooks to bring bacon and beans,” he directed. “I want none of that admiral’s ham.” The aide grinned. Admiral’s ham was what sailors called fish, which few of them liked, even though there was usually a supply of cod drying on the bows of the ships as they sailed.
The ballistae and catapults were uncovered, rope-slung grappling hooks readied and the collapsible fighting towers quickly erected at bow and stern. “Bring up more javelins, and get three sheaves of arrows for each archer,” the legate commanded. “Pass that on down the fleet, and tell them: we want these ships captured, not sunk.” The orders went out through signallers using red flags and cloaks, or, if the vessels were close enough, were shouted through brass megaphones. Carausius wanted captives and loot, as well as the vessels themselves. He reasoned that if he faced them with shipwreck and drowning, he might force the pirates’ surrender, so could take ships, slaves and cargo and increase both his war chest and the size of his fleet.
One of the corsairs broke from the others and in a desperate bid to escape, headed directly for the centre of the Roman line, the green sea foaming white under her bows. The others sailed closer to the coast and dropped their sails. Under bare poles, they watched to see what their opponents would do. Carausius’ captain used a speaking trumpet to relay the legate’s orders to the squadron. The three central galleys were to surround and take the fleeing pirate; the others were to maintain station.
The red tunics of the soldiers on the centre galleys, which had the names Concordia, Salamina and Minerva lettered across on their sterns, stood out from the blue-green dress of the sailors and an observer could discern the beehive of activity by following the swarm of colours. The infantrymen readied themselves, taking up throwing javelins, checking that their swords moved freely in their scabbards and looking to the fastenings of their armour. The sailors moving between them quickly erected the fighting towers, and wore their ships around to intercept the oncoming pirate. On the trireme Minerva, a blue-clad swarm lowered the boarding bridge at the prow, where the collapsible fighting tower had been left unassembled.
Carausius’ captain Cassius Sextus was a grizzled centurion with a transverse crest on his leather helmet and salt-stained segmented armour like his legate’s. He was squinting at the trireme where the great boarding bridge jutted forward. “I wouldn’t want one of those old ramps on my ship, lord,” he said. “They make the ship handle badly, and can sink you in rough seas. I thought they’d all been pensioned off, because they must have been around since Romulus.” Carausius nodded. He recalled that the Greek mathematician Archimedes had devised something similar during the defence of Syracuse, centuries before. His war engines had been used to grapple and sink the consul Marcellus’ warships. He’d also used great mirrors as burning glasses to focus the sun and set fire to the invaders’ ships. Not much opportunity for that in these gloomy northern climates, he thought.
Carausius looked closer at the boarding ramp, which was hinged to the foot of the mast and was being lowered on pulleys to project over the Minerva’s prow. A long fang-like spike designed to snag the enemy deck projected from the underside at the front of the gangplank. “I suppose a heavier ship wouldn’t be too affected,” the legate mused. “Still, I wouldn’t want the great clumsy thing, lord,” said Cassius.
“Those,” he said, pointing where the other vessels had assembled their fighting towers at prow and stern and archers were already swarming, “are much more efficient. I say fire into the enemy, then go alongside. We shoot a few grappling hooks into them and haul them to us, and then we board, all along the side, all at once, and overwhelm them.” Cassius rapped his cudgel of office on the gunwale to attract the steersman’s attention. “Steer small,” he ordered, “and hold our station.”
The lighter biremes Concordia and Salamina were almost at the pirate ship, approaching from both sides. Minerva, heavier and less agile, had eased to go head-on at the corsair. The first flight of stones from the warships’ ballistae thumped into the pirate’s deck-less vessel, taking down several sailors, then a shower of heavy darts from the catapults thudded in. The throwing crews abandoned their machines as the distance shortened, and the archers in the fighting towers began pouring their long, broadhead-tipped arrows into the mass of pirates cowering unprotected. At the same time, at twenty paces’ range, the soldiers at the gunwales hurled their weighted, iron-bladed javelins.
Moments later, the rowers on all three decks of the big trireme clattered their oars inboard. The four ships came grinding together. On the corsair, men were screaming, pierced and pinned by the missiles, but a few were running to the ship’s sides to fight off the boarders. It was a swift and bloody action. The first infantrymen were already over the ships’ sides and stabbing from behind their shields, and the pirate vessel shook under the impact of Minerva’s boarding bridge.
A score of nimble marines in leather helmets ran across the ramp shield less, with stabbing sword in one hand and leaf-shaped long knife in the other. The pirates were being assailed from three sides and couldn’t surrender fast enough, but the armoured soldiers at their flanks had their bloodlust roused. They battered their heavy knobbed shields forward, knocking aside the raiders’ swords, and thrust their stabbing gladii in, under rib cages and chins. They stamped their nailed boots down on fallen, wounded men as they moved forward across the narrow deck, literally crushing the resistance.
Carausius grinned as he watched from his flagship trireme, Isis. “Amazing how soft the human head is, eh?” he asked his centurion. “There’s a fellow there just put his sword through from the jaw to the top of that bastard’s skull. The point stuck right out. All right, sound the horn and call the dogs off. We can make some money from pirates as slaves, but not from them as dead men.”
The third ship was handled badly. She turned broadside in the surf, rolled on her beam ends and foundered in the shallows. Her crew scrambled ashore and ran. Carausius ordered two warships in close and set about releasing the 40 or so captives the pirates had taken. All had come from southern Britain, all opted to stay ashore and make their way home. The marines relieved the swamped ship of what cargo they could salvage, then stove in her planking to cripple her. The other three ships were loaded with captives, and manned with prize crews. The legate ordered them to stand offshore until the wind eased, then to make their way back to Bononia, giving the deadly Bill plenty of sea room. Satisfied, Carausius reformed his flotilla and set course for Gaul, to hunt down more raiders.