Arthur Britannicus

by Paul Bannister

  In the swarming beehive of activity, one man was everywhere; Maximian personally oversaw the digging and dragging, the firing and the construction crews. Untiring, and conspicuous in his crested helmet and purple cloak, the emperor strode about, contemptuous of the defenders’ fire, urging on his engineers to complete the siege tower that would allow his own archers to shoot down on the defenders.

  “Come on, you donkey-dicked mouse launchers,” he shouted, grinning as he addressed a sweating detachment, who were dragging huge catapults into prepared positions. “We’ll soon be inside, and then it’s women, wine and loot. All we need is a little more effort from you charts and darts fellows to get those walls down.” The centurion in charge of a battery of ballistae acknowledged the instruction, fired a bolt and with it tumbled a defender from the wall. “What’s your name?” Maximian demanded, nodding in pleasure at the shot.

  “I am Maximus Heatonius, lord, marine of the Fifth Pontus.”

  “What’s a sea soldier doing here?” the emperor demanded, half-joking.

  “Just lucky, Caesar,” the man responded, straight-faced, as his commander laughed and turned away to the next task.

  Within the week, the attackers’ siege tower was ready to be pushed into place across the in-filled ditch, and the protective, heavy-roofed galleries were being rolled to where they would shield the battering ram crews who would swing their iron-headed beam against the town gates.

  Inside the walls, grimy with smoke and sweat, the twins Mael and Domnal were working with hooks and axes, pulling down buildings to make firebreaks. Carausius, streaked with smoke and grime and bloodied from numerous small injuries, stood alongside the Belgic king and looked at the Roman activity that continued even though it was almost nightfall. “We should try a sally against them, destroy some of their equipment, slow them down,” the Briton urged.

  “I don’t have the men for it,” said the king.

  “We’ll have no men at all if we don’t do something. We don’t have a lot of other possibilities,” Carausius retorted. He was mindful that the three scouts he’d sent to bring reinforcements from Bononia had been captured as they tried to slip through the enemy lines.

  That unwelcome news arrived when their severed heads had been catapulted over the walls two days before. “We can’t hold out until winter, it’s too long. We can’t break out against such force and we don’t really have much hope of relief from either my Bononia troops or your King Gennobaudes, if he’s even in the picture any more. I suspect that Maximian’s neutralized him somehow. Our best hope might be to poison their drinking water or spread some kind of plague, but the danger there is we might catch it, too.”

  Mosae looked thoughtful, excused himself and went to speak to a wise woman in the town. He had not told the Briton that his men had reported hearing the sounds of miners undercutting the tower in the west corner. It wasn’t wise to share everything. Carausius also looked thoughtful, wondering about his own plans. The town, he knew, could hardly hold out for much longer. He might stand a chance of escape in the chaos of murder and raping when the Romans broke in, but he and his two brothers would be better advised to slip away sooner, if they could, as the twins were too noticeable for a discreet exit when the place was on alert.

  The big soldier considered some possibilities, to get over, under or through the walls unnoticed. Through meant using the gates, and they were under constant guard. Going over the wall might be possible, but they were very high. Tunnelling under them might be more profitable. He’d start with the latrines. The Romans had improved the town, and their sanitation systems were first rate. Although the streets were often foul with waste thrown out of windows, the latrines were a stone-built system of trenches sluiced by running water that had, Carausius reasoned, to go somewhere outside the walls. With the dogs Axis and Javelin at his heels as always, he went to investigate, and started for the west tower, where a barracks latrine was sited.

  The Briton didn’t know it, but the earth under his feet concealed a raging furnace. The Roman miners had carved their cavern under the tower, supported the workings with wooden pit props and drilled small ventilation holes to the surface. They’d dragged bundles of kindling into the cavern to stoke the fire, and just hours before, they had soaked the props in pitch and set them alight. They had, however, miscalculated. The ventilation shafts had created a venturi effect that sucked in air in a blast that superheated the fires, and they were raging, not smouldering. They had created a furnace that was burning far, far faster than they had planned.

  Above the hidden inferno, and oblivious to the wisps of smoke that emerged from the cavern’s ground-level vents, Carausius looked at the path of the stone-lined trench of the latrine in the crypt of the tower. He deduced it would clear the wall about 20 feet west of where he stood. He moved out of the building and stood under the wall, seeking the trench’s exit. There it was, barred with iron, an impassable barrier. He turned to go back into the tower when a flash of white scampered across his path. He frowned. Another white rat? Both dogs had seen the rodent but made no move to chase. Instead, acting as one, the dogs looked up at their master and whined, then cowered against the town wall. Carausius stooped to reassure them, and the action saved his life.

  At the very moment he moved, an earth-shaking rumble began as the cavern below him collapsed into itself, knocking the soldier to the ground. The tower shook and swayed, then crumpled inwards. The pit props had burned through as if vaporized, the cavern imploded under the tower’s weight and the whole structure turned into rubble. Blocks of stone thundered down within a few feet of the crouching man and his terrified dogs, but not a single piece hit them. Shaken, Carausius stood upright, coughing, and took stock. The tower was no more, it was just a heap of rubble from which choking billows of dust were spewing. The iron bars of the latrine grille lay sideways, and an open exit beckoned.

  A hundred paces away, outside the walls, Maximian was cursing, raving and shouting orders. The tower had collapsed far sooner than expected, and his planned coordinated attack was in ruins, too. He raved that he wanted the siege tower in place, he wanted that fucking ram battering the fucking gate down. The rubble didn’t give him enough of a ramp into the town, it was too defensible from the walls on either side, those fucking engineers had fucked everything up, get the fucking archers busy and keep those fuckers’ heads down on the walls. Splinter that gate, I don’t care if it’s dark, the fucking goblins won’t get you.

  Their commander’s ravings spurred the Roman camp to swarm like a wasps’ nest that had just been kicked over. Carausius looked into the dust-choked exit in front of him and didn’t hesitate. “This way, boys,” he called to the dogs. He ducked past the latrine gate into the dark, and slipped into the fog of stone dust that was drifting on the night breeze out from the walls.

  The fleeing emperor grimaced. He’d only had to kill one person, a legionary he had chanced upon in the miasma of dust and smoke, and his new longsword Exalter had done a splendid job on the fellow’s throat. He’d surprised the man with the sword’s extra reach and a two-handed, backhand swing. He supposed he should chalk up some credit to Axis and Javelin, as the dogs had alerted him to the sentry’s silent presence, stopping, stiffening and giving low growls before Carausius could blunder into the soldier. Instead, the Briton had quietly drawn his sword, edged along the palisade the man was guarding and taken out his voice box before the sentry could get even level his spear. He’d gathered up the man’s cloak and helmet, cleared the containing palisade and had travelled fast, ignoring the pain in his foot.

  He’d gone across country all night and through the whole of the next day. Now he was into the karst country of the Ardennes, a well-watered place of dense forest, limestone caves and relative safety. With the stolen cloak and helmet, he could claim to be a courier once he reached the Via Agrippa, that great road which he knew ran to Bononia. He had a couple of days of hunger, but twice, the dogs caught rabbits, and the man and beasts shared the raw, warm f
lesh. Once, he found wild plums, and there was plenty of water. The big soldier was used to hunger, and he made good time. It would not be long before he reached the road, and could find transport.

  The battering ram’s heavy iron head had finally smashed through the reinforced elm gates of the citadel, splintering them above the great locking beam and allowing axe men to hack at it and the defenders inside the gate. Above the heads of the sweating, panting squad who swung the ram on its chains, the heavy planks of the wheeled gallery that protected them banged and shivered under the impact of rocks and timbers hurled down from the fighting platforms inside the wall, but nothing broke through.

  Inside the citadel, the defenders were being thinned by a rain of arrows and iron-headed javelins fired down from the tall wooden siege tower that now overtopped the walls. A few dozen invading infantry led by a red-cloaked officer were scrambling up the scree of the tumbled corner tower, half-hidden in the choking dust that still hung in the air. Maximian felt it, his instincts all told him that in moments he would be through the defences. Then, he promised himself grimly, he’d hunt down the rebel Briton who’d been a thorn in his side for so long. He’s drag him back to Rome, shackled like an animal. Forget about the pigs, for now.

  The infantry climbing the collapsed tower were at the parapet, almost unnoticed in the dust and chaos. The officer jumped down into the courtyard and led them at the dead run for the inside of the gate. Several went down under defenders’ arrows, but the rest were flanking the gate defenders, swinging and stabbing in a bloodlust frenzy. It took only moments for the resistance to melt away. Some defenders ran, a few dropped their weapons and tried to surrender, but were cut down where they cowered. The red-cloaked officer and three of his men heaved at the locking bar, pulling it loose. The wrecked gate was pushed open from outside, and the slaughter, screaming and horror began.

  Domnal and Mael had never trained as soldiers although they had lived active, often hard, lives for a long time as slaves. They were strong men, but they were into their years and their foot speed had long passed. They were not fighters, they were not fleet-footed runners, and they were doomed. Squads of Romans systematically scouring the town had trapped them as they tried to cross the east wall, and now they were squatting under guard in the open forum with hundreds more townspeople, waiting dully to see what the conquerors would do.

  King Mosae had been recognized when his body slaves put up resistance, and he was taken alive. He had been beaten and raggedly castrated, and was presently manacled naked to the outside wall of the Temple of Mars where passing soldiers jeered and spat at him. Smoke was billowing across the marketplace and a centurion with a file of infantry began pulling men out of the crowd of captives in the forum for a crew to create a firebreak.

  “Get over there, you’ll be tearing down houses,” he ordered them. The twins were selected, the centurion’s eyes narrowing as he saw their similarity. The prisoners were marched rapidly through the paved streets and ordered to strip the reed thatch from a row of low houses before sparks could ignite them. Soon, half a hundred men were ripping and tearing at the buildings to make the firebreak. Mael was working alongside his brother and saw a chance. “When I tell you, drop through the roof,” he whispered. He watched, could see no soldier observing them and hissed the command.

  Domnal vanished, his twin took another swift scan and followed him. In the disorder of the smoke and destruction, it was the work of moments to climb through the window hole at the side of the house, crouch, and slip into the next street unseen. The twins worked their way cautiously west, staying close to the fires and the concealing smoke, until they cleared the wall and ditch. Then it was a matter of walking coolly across open ground, hoping to avoid a challenge.

  The Fates’ good fortune was with them. The soldiers were too occupied with fighting the fires that threatened their loot, as well as doing some freelance pillaging for themselves. By the minute, more captives were being herded into the forum, and a couple of men walking openly across the deserted siege lines were of no great interest. The twins turned aside before they reached the impedimenta, where they correctly anticipated that a rear-guard would be on the lookout for thieves. By nightfall, they had reached the forests to the west. If they had known it, they were following closely in their brother’s limping footsteps.

  King Mosae was in torment. He had been stripped, crudely emasculated, flogged brutally, then crucified. The Romans had driven iron nails through his forearms and both heels, and hoisted him on a cross high on the ramparts of his own palace, so he could be seen from a distance. Maximian’s tribune Flavius had delayed feeding the king to the pigs, and had ordered the flogging and crucifixion to force from him where Carausius was hidden. Mosae badly wanted to reveal the whereabouts of the fugitive, but he simply did not know, and he’d not been able to convince Flavius of that truth. He’d tried, but the Roman was disbelieving. Now, the king was suffering agonies.

  Each time he tried to ease the brutal pain in his feet by letting his arms take the weight, his chest was compressed and he began to suffocate. When he pushed down against the long nails that ran through his heels and into the sides of the upright of the cross, the agony in his feet and legs was like fire. The muscles of his back were torn and weeping blood, the white of his ribs showed through where the metal tips of the flagellum had ripped away the flesh during his whipping. He groaned and moved his head from side to side and the infantryman posted to keep the onlookers from helping him glanced up. “He won’t last another half day,” the soldier thought. “If the pigs want him alive, we’ll have to get him down soon.”

  Inside the smoke-reeking tower of the keep, which had escaped major damage in the fires that swept the citadel, Flavius was speaking to his father in law and commander. “Mosae really doesn’t know, lord,” he told Maximian nervously, “and I’m fairly sure Carausius is not in the town.” “Did you get his brothers?” the Caesar demanded, knowing the answer. “We’re still searching through the captives, lord,” Flavius evaded. Maximian turned away in disgust. He’d wasted too much time in this place to capture Carausius, and the bastard wasn’t to be found. These muttonheads couldn’t even find a pair of twins among the captives. This could seriously damage his chances of being promoted to Augustus, if his senior emperor was displeased with his failure.

  “Take a hundred of the strongest-looking captives and decimate them. Make their own comrades kill each tenth man. Then ask them where Carausius is. If they won’t tell you, decimate the survivors and ask again. Keep doing it until you find out.” “Yes, Caesar,” said Flavius, ‘but why the strongest?”

  “Because, idiot, they’re the ones who’ll give us the most trouble as slaves.”

  The butchery continued as the dying king hung above his conquered citadel, and Maximian strolled down to the forum to look over the captive women. He pointed to a white-faced girl of about 14, to a pretty, Jewish seamstress who was twisting her hands and nervously biting her lip, and to an expensively-robed young matron who was holding her child. “Take those three to my quarters, strip and wash them,” he ordered an archer. “Get them properly clean. I’ll be there when I’ve had a drink. Kill the brat if that one resists at all.” He stepped close to the seamstress, fondled her buttocks and sniffed at her hair as the woman stood silent and trembling. Maximian leaned even closer and murmured into her ear: “Don’t worry about what will be going into your mouth. It isn’t pork.”

  The man for whom his former hosts were dying because they did not know where he was, had crossed the River Scheldt hanging onto the tails of his two big dogs, and came out of the forests at the great Roman road to Bononia. He turned north. He knew that every 15 miles or so there would be a way station mansio of four or five rooms with a bath house, a facility built for officials travelling on government business. There, he could hope to bluff or bribe his way onto horseback and move faster and with less pain.

  Carausius was in luck. Two miles along the Via Agrippa, he came to a way stati
on. The administrator looked askance at the limping, dirtied soldier with the two panting hounds at his heel until he heard the man’s story of being beset by bandits as he came from the siege. The big man’s natural authority, gold piece and demand for a remount all worked, and the emperor was on his way, knowing life would be easier at the next mansio when he would have a horse to exchange. In a day or so, with luck, he could be in Bononia, with his legions, his sorceress and his crown.

  The twins had much less luck. They were across a clearing in the forest when they were spotted by an outlaw. He’d heard a stag belling his rutting challenge and had been moving with extreme care to find the creature and shoot it, when the twins came into his view. The ruffian saw their dirtied, expensive clothes and smelled money. What went on in the forest was nobody’s business, he thought. He quietly stood two arrows upright in the loam at his feet, then notched a third on his bowstring and drew it back to his ear. The twins never had a chance. The poacher’s three-bladed iron broad-head sliced through Mael’s throat, dropping him to the ground in a choking gush of blood. Domnal, three paces ahead, turned at the smacking wet sound and stepped back to his fallen brother.

  He dropped to his knees, disbelieving the sight, and on an instinct, had half-turned towards the bowman, pointing at him, hand outstretched in a silent motion to stop the death he knew was coming, when the second arrow, swiftly reloaded, struck him in the armpit. The impact knocked him sideways but he struggled to his feet. He was facing the archer when the third arrow hammered into the Briton’s eye socket, burst through his brain and left a hand’s width of arrowhead and shaft protruding from the back of his skull. He was dead even before he slumped to the ground, where his face, part-buried in the leaf mould, seemed to have a puzzled expression.

  The outlaw ran to check the two bodies, and empty their purses. He growled irritably when he found they had almost nothing of value but their clothes and swore to himself at the problem he now had, of recovering his arrow from this fellow’s skull.