Arthur Britannicus

by Paul Bannister

  Carausius’ genius at inspiring his troops was evident in a subtle sign. When he’d uncovered the Eagle in its stony nest, it was wrapped in the red cloak of a long-dead centurion, the iconic garment of a Red Dragon. Carausius had ordered the Eagle to be wrapped again in the fine red wool for its journey to Eboracum. Once there, he had a seamstress cut the cloak into chevron-shaped pieces and sew them onto braided leather cords. Only the handful of guards who had accompanied him on his quest for the Eagle were entitled to wear these distinctions.

  Those men, proud elite of the Eagle, were gathered closest around it on its triumphal entry into the city, and every soldier who saw them knew about and envied the badge of honour that hung at the neck of their breastplates. The strutting guard and their accompanying legion processed past the gladiator cemetery and crossed the fine stone bridge over the yew-lined River Ouse. The drizzle of rain had stopped as if in celebration, and the usually-bustling port was at a standstill as masters and slaves stopped their work to watch the parade entering the city. The columns, swaying with the rhythm of the march, their usual obscene marching chants silenced by centurions mindful of the solemnity of the day, swung through the great east gate in Eboracum’s white limestone walls between the human walls of a cheering mob. Carausius, prideful and glorious lord of war, was about to lead his troops into the expectant amphitheatre when a hawk flew low in front of him.

  In its claws was a struggling white rat. The warlord’s eyes followed the sight, and he watched, absorbed, as the bird fought for height then released its writhing prey. The rat fell onto turf alongside the pavement, paused a moment, then ran rapidly and unharmed right across Carausius’ path. He did not pause his horse’s pacing, but gestured his aide Lycaon alongside. “Did you see that?” he asked.

  “I did, lord,” said the soldier, shaking his head in wonder. “The gods have properly endorsed you. A white rat across your path is a sign of huge good fortune. The great Pliny himself declared it so. This is a remarkable day!”

  Like a breeze, the word went down the columns of the stunning augury. Infantry, cavalry, musicians, all buzzed with the news as they tramped stolidly forward: we have the Eagle back, and the gods have sent a great sign of their favour.

  Carausius, despite the pomp and splendour of the occasion, was distracted. The white rat was good fortune? He’d seen white rats before. Once, he suddenly recalled, was when he was running for his life from the raiders who’d killed his father. Another time was when he’d just decided to join the army. Both times were turning points in his life, and his adoptive mother Cait had explained to him that the rat was an augury of good fortune, a sign that pointed the way to his future. Now, at this hinge of his personal history, as he made open claim to be emperor, a white rat had landed at his feet, delivered almost literally from the heavens. Surely that was a sign of the gods’ approval?

  Another thought struck him, as an image of a tall man with long black hair entered his mind as bright and clear as if the man stood in front of him. “The sorcerer Myrddin, who came to our house when I was a boy,” he murmured. “Is he somehow behind this symbolism? What did he want with my father?” By now, the parade was entering the arch of the amphitheatre, and Carausius mentally shook himself back to the present. As he rode through the archway, a roar went up from the crowd inside the stadium, drowning even the blasts of the acclamatory trumpets. The ranks of waiting legionaries clattered spears against their shields and bellowed for their general.

  As suddenly as the wall of sound had thundered out, it stopped. In a single heartbeat, all went quiet. The Eagle had entered the arena, and the crowds on the instant hushed.

  They gaped in awed, reverent silence at the glinting, golden Eagle carried tall behind Carausius, there at the head of the disciplined, swaying columns of marching troops. The Eagle of the Ninth Spanish, proud standard of a legion once commanded by the great Julius Caesar himself, a sacred emblem lost two centuries ago had finally come home to Eboracum’s fortress on the hill.

  As if a signal had been given, the crowd raised its voice again, in one gigantic wave of noise, a shouted acclaim that drove grey doves circling from the city’s roofs, over the temples, theatres, baths and the palace of the old emperor Septimius Severus, who must surely be smiling down from his seat next to Jupiter. The Eagle was back, unconquered, and the miracle of its recovery was enhanced even more.

  The standard was brought by the Expected One, a British jarl who had promised to rebuild the glory of the nation. The gods had given him the standard, so the glorious promised future would be fulfilled. It was an emotional, throat-aching moment that sent tears down the weathered cheeks of the soldiery as they witnessed this public restoration of their pride. Acclaiming Carausius emperor was the work of a few bellowed moments during a tidal wave of emotion. A new era was dawning, the assurance was there from the gods, the rat, and their general, their emperor.

  XXII. Guinevia

  Sucia had brought not one, but two, a matched couple of hunting dogs for him, littermate males and near-identical big hounds that delighted Carausius. “They are not war dogs, though they are dangerous,” she warned the legate. “The Molossian dogs of Epirus were supposed to be the world’s best war dogs, but they are just brainless fear-biters. The legions have used them to break enemy lines, but those dogs are only good at being ferocious when they’re half-starved and stupid with hunger.

  “If it comes to a dogfight between one of them and a British hunting dog like these, it’s no contest. These fellows will snap a Molossian’s neck. We use them on wild game. Two or three will bring down a great boar. They work together. One will grab an ear, another will take the opposite ear, and as the boar turns, they’ll take out his throat or tear into his groin. Even alone, one can run down a deer. They are agile and highly intelligent. As a guardian of your home and hearth, they really are unsurpassed.”

  Carausius looked at the part-mastiffs lying by his feet. They seemed already to understand he was their new master. Weighing about 100 lbs, the dogs were large, but not ponderously huge. They had jaws big and powerful enough to crush a wolf’s skull, long, strong limbs and large paws. They owned glossy grey-blue and black coats spotted like a leopard’s, with a white blaze on the broad chest. In unison, the dogs wagged their plumed tails as Carausius clicked his tongue to make a noise at them. Each dog had bright, intelligent brown eyes that gazed fearlessly at him, the soldier noted.

  “They are trained to the hunt, and will stay silent on command. They’ll alert you to game, and follow hand or arm signals, even from a distance,” Sucia said. “Their mouths are soft, so they can retrieve game birds undamaged, and they’re very quick. This dog caught a sparrow on the wing a few weeks ago. I opened his jaws and it flew away, unharmed, which is more than I can say for the squirrels he’s caught.” Carausius nodded his great, scarred head.

  “I shall call this one Axis,” he declared, “because I am going to make Britain revolve around me, and that is a good name. And I shall call that one Javelin, because that too will be a part of me. I shall be as true as a spear and I shall reach my goal with an unstoppable force.”

  The dogs looked up as he spoke, seeming to understand his intent. Carausius looked at them and felt his heart swell. He had waited for years until the time was right to have dogs, and these hounds were exactly what he had hoped to have. He could never guess that one day, they would save his life.

  The priority of his plan for Britain, Carausius told his lieutenant Allectus, was to deal with the Picts for a while and pacify the northern border, either by treaty or by force. Only then could he dare to move his legions to settle the problems in Gaul, where he expected soon to face the Caesar Maximian. “We must lock that Pictish back door,” he told the twins Domnal and Mael, whom he had made his advisors, and who were in the room for the council of war. “To defeat Maximian will take all our strength. If we make even small errors, we’ll lose, and we’ll be dead on the field or crucified later. I can’t tell you strongly enough how d
angerous Maximian is to us. We can only stand a chance of beating him if we have all our strength, no distractions, no dilution of our forces. That means we must get the Picts in line first, before we take on Maximian. We simply can’t afford to fight on two fronts. Are you understanding me?” Both twins nodded, then glanced at each other.

  Domnal looked worried, his brother noted, so Mael plunged in: “Yes, well, Caros,” he said, “about the Picts. You wanted us to find you a scribe to get your orders out, be a go-between, to help you deal with them...”

  “Yes, yes, get it out, Mael,” snapped the legate, impatiently.

  “We have a very suitable scribe,” said his brother, hurriedly, “who speaks Pictish and Latin, and Belgic.”

  “Excellent, bring him in”, said Carausius, turning away to his littered writing table.

  Mael was back moments later, ushering in the scribe. The legate’s mouth opened. “This is Guinevia Avenae, brother, an adept of the god Ogmia, lord of letters and law. She is a Druid priestess of Nicevenn, witch goddess of the Wild Hunt. She was born a Pict, not just Trans vallum, but beyond even the wall of Antoninus, at the very limit of Rome’s northern advance.”

  Carausius was about to explode in rage at being brought a female scribe, and a nun at that, but he looked at her again and held his protest. She was attractive, he admitted to himself, slender, fair, with startling blue eyes. She moves, he thought, like a dancer. She had an aura of calm dignity, and met his appraisal with a level gaze, displaying an uncowed self-possession. It was a quality few displayed when they first came into the general’s intimidating presence. Carausius continued his assessment, his mind moving fast. He recognized that his brothers were nervous at presenting their candidate and smiled inwardly. He was coarse, powerful and violent, but he was no fool, and his years as a military officer had made him a shrewd judge of people. This woman, he thought, has a core like a steel blade under that pleasing exterior, but did he want a woman to hold such an important post? Forget about her acting as his scribe and aide, no doubt she could do that, but was she also capable of carrying out the role for which he really needed someone, as an emissary to settle those nuisance Picts?

  She registered his appraisal and addressed him in near-flawless Latin much better than his own. “You are dismayed, lord, to see a female scribe? Juvenal himself wrote of clerks, secretaries and copyists who were women. Even the Greeks and Egyptians afforded female librariae much prestige. The Egyptians called us ‘Mistresses of the House of Books,’ and sometimes, ‘Ordainers of the Universe.’ We were honoured, as keepers of knowledge and warriors against the oblivion of the past should be.”

  Carausius stayed silent, but nodded his head at the gentle rebuke. His mind moved quickly. He wanted more than a scribe; he wanted to build a bridge to those Pict porridge-eaters. His unspoken plan was to appoint an emissary who could persuade them to leave the borderlands quiet for a while. He’d expected he’d have to do the orthodox thing, and send a military emissary, but this obvious noblewoman who was one of their own might do a better job. What more subtle indication of his confidence and wish for peace could there be than to send a woman, and a noble-born Pict at that? Moreover, she might have connections among the clan chiefs, might even be related to some of them, their gene pool couldn’t be that deep.

  Best of all, the pagan nun not only spoke the language, she understood the clans’ mentality and she might prove a better means to soothe their fears than sending some clanking armour-clad tribune, dripping with swords and symbols of aggression. The savages, he mused, could see it as a veiled hint of his confidence: ‘We don’t need to send a soldier to deal with you, but think what could happen if we did…’ Why not take this unusual course? As for being a secretary and manager of the accounts and rosters, she could only do a better job and be a lot less trouble than those useless, semi-literate bin rats he had on the task right now.

  Guinevia again read his thoughts. “I can help you greatly. I command Latin, British, Pictish and some of the Frankish and Belgic tongues. My work for the goddess and with the great seer Myrddin gave me an education, you see.”

  “You are an adept?” he blurted, surprised and impressed by the reference to the magician Myrddin Emrys, a Druid sorcerer of fearful power and mystery. It was said that he was a cambion, the offspring of an incubus and a king’s daughter and had inherited supernatural powers. The man famously prophesied that Britain would soon return to the glory days of the old gods, those long-gone days before the advent of the Romans. The sect in which he held high office was once the potent focus of anti-Roman resistance, and Britain was the wellspring of their religion. When the Roman governor Suetonius had marched to Mona to slaughter the Druids, the Iceni queen Boadicea had put the Romans’ settlements to the sword and had come close to recapturing Britain.

  Now, the Druids were a shadow of their former selves, but Myrddin still had tremendous power. He was the living incarnation, or by the religion’s beliefs, the reincarnation of generations of Celtic power that stretched back millennia across Gaul to Dalmatia and beyond. Some said he had been driven to madness, others said he was the direct voice of Britain’s oldest deities, deliberately sired by a demon they had sent to restore their hold on their ancient lands. All feared the sorcerer’s power and Carausius marvelled to himself that this small woman had been accepted as an apprentice of the fearful magician.

  “You are adept, and a Pict?’ he heard himself repeat, interrupting his own musings. She nodded and in her voice he heard the pride of unconquered generations. “I am from Perth, or Bertha as the Latin has it, where we halted the Romans in their northern progress. Our kings are crowned there, at Scone, and my clan is noble. I am a Pict, an acolyte of Myrddin, and I am on my journey of decades to become a full Druid”.

  The legate shook his head in wonder at himself. He was, he felt, in the presence of a formidable force wrapped in the black gown and wearing the golden necklace of one who was dedicated to the worship of the sun and moon. “Please,” he said, drawing startled looks from Allectus and the twins at the unusual diffidence in his voice, “please come and help me make a peace with your people.”

  Guinevia permitted herself a small smile. “That will be a most useful thing to do,” she said gravely. Carausius gusted a sigh. He felt as if he’d just emerged from a wrestling match, and he wasn’t too sure who’d been pinned. And, he felt the pricklings of desire. This calm, collected woman had power not unlike his own and he knew he wanted to possess her. She smiled a small smile at him. She knew, and there was promise in that look.

  Time passed, and the woman was better than he’d dared to hope. In a matter of weeks, she had established connections with the major Caledonian tribes who lived beyond the great Forth where the abandoned Antonine Wall crumbled its turf walls into the ground. She was about to travel to her home settlement, through the Four Kingdoms that lay between the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus, a Roman-backed buffer state that had held the north British and the Picts at bay. Guinevia was going beyond the Antonine, to her own land on the River Tay. There, her father, a local chieftain, would host a gathering of the Painted Ones to discuss a truce. She had trained a handful of slaves into a staff of sorts to untangle the legion’s records and accounts. Their work had brought about discoveries of corruption that caused three dishonest quartermasters to be flogged to death for embezzlement. She’d sent Carausius’ directives to troops scattered from Hadrian’s Wall to Bononia and even further south in Gaul, and had impressed the treasurer Allectus with her understanding of financial management as well as of the importance of propaganda.

  One of her suggestions especially pleased the legate, and now the mint at Colchester was busy producing coin that celebrated ‘Carausius and his Brothers.’ Allectus explained it to Mael as he showed the twin a sample of the new coinage. “Since we heard that Maximian had been raised to be Caesar, we expect it’s only a question of time before he’s made up to full Augustus. Diocletian has split the workload with him, giving him the we
st while he lives like a sultan in Nicomedia, in the east. He knows he can’t keep Maximian as junior emperor for ever, he’ll have to give him the full authority as an Augustus, and soon. So, there will be two emperors running the Roman Empire.”

  “Our idea,” he continued, slyly taking some credit for Guinevia’s suggestion, “is that we issue coinage that puts Carausius alongside the pair of them. We issue coinage of the three Brother Emperors. It will have your brother’s head on there along with Maximian’s and Diocletian’s. That way, it will make it official that they are all co-emperors, at least in the minds of the troops in Gaul and Britannia, and the soldiers are all that matter. Even if Maximian doesn’t become Augustus, it will take so long before anyone who matters knows about it…” he let his voice tail off.

  That wasn’t the only propaganda stroke. The treasurer and the pagan priestess took the campaign even further, and issued coins with acronyms that to the initiated, or to the soldiery to whom it was explained, represented such slogans as ‘Rome Renewed,’ or a quote from the poet Virgil that said ‘A New Generation Has Arrived From Heaven Above.” The slogans, read out to the troops at parades so there could be no misunderstandings, gave Carausius’ self-assumed ascension the heft and dignity of a prophecy fulfilled, and linked him to ancient Roman tradition. They were explicit and shrewd claims that influenced the superstitious soldiery to accept him even more enthusiastically. They understood that the gods willed it, so their emperor could not be defeated. The masterstroke though, was the generous donative issued to the legions, of coins struck from Welsh gold. Those coins vaunted Carausius as ‘British Emperor of the Restored Eagle.’