Arthur Britannicus

by Paul Bannister

  Inside the temple, shafts of sunlight that fell through broken roof tiles dramatically illuminated the stone altar which Guinevia had readied for the ceremony. She had overseen a work party of legionaries eager to clean up the old temple to their god, and the restoration had gone well. Under the dung that had padded the floor, a wonderful mosaic was revealed, an image of the sacrifice of a bull. In it, as a radiant-haloed Sol looked on, Mithras in his Phrygian cap was pulling back the head of a bull with one hand while thrusting his dagger into its throat with the other. Relatively undamaged, the floor’s black and white image glinted in the shafts of Sol-sent light, as did the bronze of an incense burner and a drinking horn on the altar. Beside them, a small silver bowl held sacred mushrooms and a glass flask stoppered with a pine cone contained the wine that would substitute for the blood of a sacrificed bull.

  Carausius and a congregation of soldiers listened respectfully while Guinevia called on her witch goddess Nicevenn to witness, and she dedicated the sacrifice to Mithras, asking him to observe that they had re-purified his temple as true believers. From somewhere, a small cloud of vapour had gathered under the arch of the broken roof. Guinevia looked up at it and smiled, and the congregants who noticed shuddered, and made protective signs. The priestess walked to the side wall of the temple, where soldiers had brought in three Picts as possible offerings.

  Two of the captives were miserable dark creatures taken as they herded some scrawny brown sheep and she dismissed them as unsuitable. The third, a gross-bellied mule trader called Leoni, a man with an oversized bald head and large teeth, was more acceptable. She gestured at him. The soldiers quickly stripped away his coarse blue striped wool gown, bound his hands before him with a length of leather and pushed him towards the altar. Sixty or more legionaries crowded around in a rough circle.

  Guinevia motioned to a bearded centurion who was the pater, or head, of the legion’s Mithraic devotees. As a woman, she could not belong to the cult, so would not make the sacrifice, but she could read the auguries, and her role as a priestess fitted her to conduct the ceremony. The centurion stepped forward with a slender-bladed skinning knife half-hidden at his side and looked again at the priestess. She caught his gaze and nodded. The pater moved quietly, almost humbly towards Leoni. The muleteer, dazed and nervous had no warning of what was to come, and the pater looked into the prisoner’s eyes. Leoni blinked stupidly in the centurion’s almost-hypnotic gaze and never saw the man’s movement as he punched the knife forward, then across. The soldier drew the knife steadily, unhurriedly from right to left in a long slash across the muleteer’s gross white belly. Leoni’s mouth opened in an O of shock and he looked down as a blue-green spill of guts cascaded to his knees. He stooped, clutching the slippery, warm intestines with his bound hands, then whimpered and looked up at the unmoving, impassive centurion almost questioningly.

  A little blood flowed over the backs of the fat man’s hands. Then the prisoner was on his knees, weakly trying to scoop up his steaming entrails. The soldier looked again at Guinevia. She nodded. As gently as a lover, the big centurion leaned forward and jabbed the knife carefully under the man’s jaw, into the left carotid artery. Suddenly, there was blood. Bright, oxygenated arterial blood, it spurted in a thin jet, pulsing with the man’s pounding heartbeat, then sheeted over his bare shoulder and chest. The victim somehow staggered to his feet, his bluish guts flopping and trailing, his bound hands clutching at the side of his neck where the blade had entered. He took three paces, weaving like a drunk, stumbled and sank slowly to his knees.

  For the first time, he spoke, breaking the silence that had gripped everyone in the old temple since Guinevia uttered her incantations. “I’ll tell Mother,” he said thickly. It was all anyone said, then, as the sacrificed Leoni died, he mewed like a cat. Several legionaries sniggered, drawing reproving looks from the pater. High above the sorceress’ head, unnoticed, the vapour cloud seemed to pulse with a dim light several times, then dissipated.

  Guinevia waved the circle of soldiers back and carefully studied the blood trail and spatters across the cleared stone floor. She approached the dead man, who was facedown, and motioned again, still silent, to the centurion. He eased his foot under the bloated body and tipped it onto its back. The corpse gave off a death rattle as trapped air exited the body. Guinevia leaned in to examine the man’s spilled guts, and glanced briefly at the fatted heart and enlarged liver. She looked more closely at the lungs, which were marbled grey and crimson, and surveyed the small bag of the stomach, which was fairly full of what looked like cabbage and greyish meat. The entrails made a repulsive, still-steaming snake that flowed from the corpse. Nobody spoke. Carausius found he was holding his breath. The priestess moved lightly around to the other side of the body, mindless of the puddling blood that wet the hem of her robe, and examined the man’s open eyes. She straightened up, looked across the corpse at Carausius, smiled and said: “The auguries, great Caesar, are good. The gods are with you.” As the soldiers roared their relief and approval, a white rat moved slowly across the rear of the temple.

  A week later, Carausius remembered those auguries and their interpretation sourly. The gods were with him? His situation, it seemed, could not be much worse. He was tied by the wrists to the tail of his own horse, being dragged like a slave. Every so often, the rider above him would turn and spit, or slash him across the face with the willow withy he carried. Around them was a war band of Pictish raiders who were driving along four other prisoners, one of them his aide Aemilius. Four more of their hunting party lay dead and mutilated in the woods a few miles back. The gods, the captive emperor thought, had turned their backs, and it had all happened, as these things do, very quickly.

  It was only a couple of hours since Carausius had opted to go and hunt deer or wild boar. His scouts were still out somewhere, the men were enjoying a make-and-mend day, he’d heard a stag belling in the distant wood and thought some fresh venison, or even hare or pork would be welcome. Hunting was a good thing for soldiers, a training session as well as a welcome means of filling the larder. It kept horse and rider in good shape, built camaraderie and trust in the spearman alongside you and taught the party to work together. The group was in high spirits as they rode, although they had not yet sighted any game. Aemilius was riding alongside his emperor as they trotted through a small wooded ravine. He was telling a convoluted story of waking up thick-headed in the bed of the wife of a man who’d come seeking trade with the military when the forest around them exploded into an ambush. The volley of spears and arrows put six of the nine riders on the ground in the first moments, and when the Pict war band emerged howling from the trees, Carausius remembered bitterly, things had gone from bad to worse.

  His warhorse Ranter had stepped in a rabbit hole and stumbled, throwing the emperor clumsily into Aemilius, who was right alongside him. Both men had fallen and suddenly only one of their party was in position to put up a defence. He died almost at once, with two short, thick boar spears through his chest. The Picts clubbed Carausius senseless as he scrambled to his feet and tried to fight, and when he came to consciousness he was bound and helpless. The Picts had disarmed and robbed the five survivors, finished off the badly wounded of the hunters and plundered and mutilated their bodies. They gathered up the spoils and the prisoners, then goaded them to their best speed away from the military camp and its likely patrols. The hapless Britons were driven like animals, whipped and threatened if they lagged, forced to a gruelling pace. It was a long day, and dusk was falling when the weary captives sighted the fires by the Roman bridge over the Tay river.

  Under guttering rush lights in the timbered hall that was the residence of the chieftain, a Pict named Calderian waited. His thumbprint, Carausius knew, was on the broken treaty the Caledonians had agreed with him. The Pict looked at the emperor with interest. Carausius, his face striped purple from the lashes he’d received, stared back at the traitor and anger overwhelmed him. “You agreed a treaty with me; you are not man eno
ugh to keep your word. One day, I shall cut out your tongue.”

  Calderian shot back: “That was no treaty, there was no agreement!” The big man gestured his bound hands, imposing a moment’s silence on his captor. “Listening to you speak, hearing your falsehoods, is like watching a snake eat its own vomit,” he rumbled, but the Pict, his pale face flushed, cut him off.

  “You are a caged Bear now, and you will dance to my tune. You were foolish to invade my land,” he gritted. “For that foolishness, and for your upstart insolence, I shall make an example of you. Beheading is too easy. I shall have you drowned in the cauldron tomorrow as we feast and watch.” He turned aside, signalling for the prisoners to be taken away.

  The Britons were held, chained and under guard, in a stone and thatch structure oddly similar to that in which the emperor had lived as a boy. He remembered his escape out of that hut from the sea raiders and assessed his chances this time. Not too good, he thought. As he lay down to rest, uncomfortable in his irons, he wondered what had happened to his hounds Axis and Javelin, who that morning had run alongside the hunters’ horses. Now it seemed a lifetime ago. He asked Aemilius, who told him he’d seen the dogs slinking behind ‘like wolves, lord,’ as the captives were dragged towards the Tay. With that news, the emperor settled down to doze. He was bruised, exhausted and hungry but somehow comforted.

  Next morning, Guinevia, waking in her father’s compound, was the first of Carausius’ company to learn what had happened, but it came as no great shock. She had slept fitfully and knew the gods had a message for her, but she was curiously calm. Matters were bad, but they would be remedied, she knew. As the sun took the mist from the fields, a clansman came to her sleeping quarters at to summon her. She took her baby son to the wet nurse and walked calmly across the cobbled yard. The old chieftain, who had heard the news from two clansmen, who had seen the troop of captives pass and had followed their tracks back to the killing ground, was thoughtful when he relayed the news to his daughter.

  “You are not just his lover, you managed that treaty,” he reminded her. “If the ones who broke it are fearful of your master’s vengeance, they might seek to kill you.” Guinevia was dismissive of the idea. “I am a Druid, adept of the witch goddess. I was trained by the sorcerer Myrddin,” she reminded him. “I have the power of rivers and mountains and I have wielded the iron sickle to cut mistletoe. They will not dare to touch me.”

  She dispatched two slaves by pony to Stirling, with a missive reporting the emperor’s capture, and set out with her guards for Bertha, the onetime Roman camp, now the village where treacherous Calderian ruled. She arrived in time to see the last minutes of Aemilius’ lingering death. The Picts had fastened him in a green wicker cage roughly shaped like a man, then hung it on a chain over a fire. The unfortunate Roman roasted to death, moaning, soon after his hair and eyelids had burned away. The dashing young centurion Crassus, who was noted for his luck at both women and dice, died next; his chest crushed under great stones that the painted savages piled onto him.

  Guinevia hid her horror and remained impassive and outwardly calm, as she waited for Calderian to emerge from his sleeping quarters. Carausius, she knew, would not be killed until the chieftain was present. It was afternoon before he emerged, pallid and yawning. He registered the sorceress’ presence and was alarmed, but walked to her and inclined his head. “It is an honour to have you here for the ceremony, mother,” he said.

  “Ceremony?” Guinevia snapped. “This to me looks like foul butchery. There is no honour to the gods in this.”

  Calderian hesitated, reconsidering his defiance, then stiffened his resolve and ordered the emperor brought out. “I shall kill your emperor myself,” he said. “We shall see about the gods.”

  XXIX. Selsey

  Search parties had gone out at dusk when the emperor had failed to return from the hunt and the camp was disturbed all night with the comings and goings of horsemen. The tribune Cragus feared the worst, and found it soon after dawn. A patrol was drawn by the circling, cawing ravens to the mutilated bodies of their comrades, but the soldiers realized that the emperor and several others were not among the dead. Cragus deduced that Carausius had been taken prisoner, so ordered a dozen detachments to sweep the countryside. He detailed one squadron to head directly and with all speed to the next major settlement, at Perth. Those horsemen met the mounted slaves hurrying with their dispatch to Stirling. When he heard of their mission, the prefect in charge had the initiative to open the package and read Guinevia’s message. He ordered two cavalrymen and one of the slaves to continue to the camp at Stirling with Guinevia’s note and scribbled his own report for them to deliver, detailing his plans. He would ride to rescue Carausius, who was likely at the old Roman camp at Bertha. He indicated that he was taking a guide, and sending the other with the note to bring reinforcements to him. With Guinevia’s slave showing the way, he pushed his column forward at a steady hand-gallop.

  Three burly guards forced Carausius out of the hut at spear-point and pushed him to kneel in front of Calderian. The Pict walked around him and noticed the fine, nailed boots he wore. “Take those from him,” he ordered. As the marching boots came off, he saw the Briton’s mutilated foot where a Saxon’s sword had hacked off two of his toes. He laughed. “We can even that up for you,” he sneered, drawing his own blade.

  Guinevia stepped forward. “If you harm him, I will call on the witch goddess Nicevenn to curse you,” she said calmly. “She will turn your eyes into suppurating pools of pus and your lying, false tongue into corpse marrow. Turning on the guards she continued. “Touch him, and you and your shrivelled souls will be the playthings of Rodak, the hideous boar goblin of the Underworld, and you will spend your agonized eternity howling and crying for mercy as you thrash in molten iron and sulphur.”

  The guards, turning pale at the threats to their souls, backed away, making the sign against the evil eye but Calderian, though nervous, would not accept such a total loss of face. He half turned away, then suddenly swung his sword, chopping down into Carausius’ unguarded ankle. The Briton yelled in agony and rolled sideways. Guinevia grasped at the Pict’s sword arm, but he pushed her away and turned to hack again at the prone captive. Before he could strike, two grey-black blurs raced across the packed dirt of the courtyard and flattened themselves growling, fangs bared, in front of the Pict.

  Carausius, trying to rise, saw his dogs face Calderian. He did not hesitate. “Axis, Javelin!” he shouted, gesturing a hand to his chin. The dogs saw the familiar silent hunting sign to which they’d been trained, and stayed crouched and quivering for the release. The Pict saw his death in their menace but was frozen motionless. Carausius gestured again, a chopping motion, and the big dogs leaped simultaneously in a deadly choreograph of attack.

  Their bodies knocked Calderian backwards, jarring his sword loose. Even before his shoulders hit the ground, two sets of great jaws were tearing into him. One had his windpipe, the other’s teeth clashed against the Pict’s, tearing his gums as the dog seized his lower jaw. The hounds shook the man like a rat, flopping his head wildly as they savaged him. The teeth of the first closed through Calderian’s trachea and larynx, ripping out his whole voice box and pulling it away in a froth of blood and saliva. The other dog, growling as it braced its paws for leverage against the man’s chest, tore his jaw half away, leaving the Pict choking in his own lifeblood, helpless and so shocked he was unable even to raise his arms in defence.

  Deep-chested rumbling growls came from both dogs as they harried the dying man, and changed the targets of their savage, flesh-ripping attacks. Axis tore into Calderian’s groin, Javelin, foaming blood and spume, shook him violently by the nape, breaking his neck. The man had no voice even to whimper as his lifeblood pooled out steaming onto the packed dirt of the compound. Carausius lay nearby, propped on one elbow. He watched impassive, silent as his terrible hounds worried the mutilated Pict for a minute or so longer, then whistled sharply, three piercing notes, and called the
m off.

  The prefect at the head of the column that galloped into the settlement could scarcely take in the sight. His emperor was propped against the wall of a hut, his foot wrapped in a gory cloak. Two blood-splashed, mottled grey dogs crouched protectively by him, snarling ferociously at any movement. Nearby a dead man with only half a face and a torn-apart crotch lay slumped on his side in a puddle of congealing blood, his head at an odd angle. Standing over the corpse and facing a dozen mesmerized, unmoving Pictish brigands, was a woman in an otter fur cloak that trailed blood from its lowest hem.

  Over the woman’s head at the height of two men was a small vapour cloud that had mysteriously formed in the grey morning. Her arm was outstretched, her forefinger, on which a silver pentagram ring glowed in the poor light, was pointing at each of the transfixed men in turn. She was keening in the Latin and British tongues, invoking the names of the pagan witches and demons from the deps of hell, who would seize them and theirs if they moved even a single step.

  She chanted of her witch goddess Nicevenn, leader of the Wild Hunt that roamed the world with its hounds from Hell on Samhain, the night of the dead. She threatened the shaking, terrified Picts, chanting in a hypnotic and remorseless drone how she and her Druid powers would send them to flee in terror alongside Nicevenn’s damned down the long, black slopes of eternity. Their bodies would be so foul, she promised, that even Sterculius, Roman god of sewage would turn aside in disgust, and their eyes would liquify into pools of corruption at the very moment they turned to watch his rejection. She used the eloquence of her god Ogmia to shackle with brutal chains of words. She held her shaken listeners attentive and captive and her emperor safe from their swords with the awful power of her threats until the troops arrived. The drone went on as the prefect dismounted to stand by his commander, and the British troops circled around the Picts to herd them at sword-point. Only then did Guinevia fall silent, lower her accusatory outstretched arm and bow her head in relief. And nobody heard as she smiled to herself and murmured, “I don’t think the Jesus-botherers can do that.”