by M. K. Hume
‘We can’t be sure that my uncle ordered the attack,’ Severa replied doubtfully.
‘They tried to kill your servants, but they could have killed you on quite a few occasions during the attack if they had a mind to do so. No! Their intention was to capture you and to drag you off from under my nose. They almost got away with it.’
Angry with himself and carrying the responsibility for the success of the mission on his shoulders, Constantinus stomped off to redirect their journey towards this Glastonbury and a religious community that might not even exist.
Necessity forced Constantinus to keep his command on that section of road leading down from the hills before he was able to enter an older section of road that would take them to Glastonbury. Mostly disused, this road proved to be little more than a goat track that took the column into the south-west. Meanwhile, the body of Severa’s maid had been wrapped in her cloak and laid out in the bed of the wagon alongside Cael, who was trying to make light of his wound, despite the pain that was clearly visible in his grey face. The time taken to bury the maid would eat into any chance of throwing off the pursuit by the assassins, but Severa refused point-blank to leave the woman’s corpse behind as a feast for the scavengers.
The roadway taking the column to Glastonbury had obviously been constructed for use by farmers to carry their produce to the markets in Aquae Sulis, the only town of any size in the district. Poorly maintained, this narrow track was mostly straight and true, and followed a section of lowlands that forced them to cross over a number of streamlets and rivulets. The surrounding countryside was very rich as the farms attested with their deep, viridian grass and contented animals.
A ridgeline ran parallel to the valley, so Constantinus imagined that a great sea might have covered the lowlands and lapped at the slopes leading up to the higher ground in days gone by. Then, when he saw something glittering in the mud, the Roman commander felt a shiver begin at the base of his spine. Obviously exposed by the hooves of a horse or a farm animal, the clay had been hiding the spiralled shape of a whitened seashell.
Constantinus dropped the clay with a curse of disgust. Like everything else in this weird landscape, the earth revealed strange inexplicable contradictions.
‘Ride on,’ the centurion snapped when he found the column had been dawdling along as they waited for their commander. Swearing under his breath, he remembered an undone task and rode back towards the wagon that held Severa.
When he reached the wagon, he found the girl was sitting with Cael, attempting to calm the frightened man by explaining that Constantinus intended to take him to Glastonbury where his wound would be treated by the religious healers. Like all the peasantry, he held little hope that even the best of healers could repair his wounded shoulder.
‘I’ve never heard of this Glastonbury, Cael, but I’m aware of the medical knowledge held by the Christian priests and brothers. If anyone can save you, the little fathers can do it.’
‘I don’t want to die, mistress.’ Cael coughed awkwardly. ‘I suppose I might never get to see Tintagel now.’
When he inspected Cael’s wound, Constantinus could see that the stump of the arrow was protruding from the bandage that covered his naked chest. Blood stained the bandaging and an occasional cough would bring threads of blood up in Cael’s sputum, symptoms that Severa wiped away quickly before the wounded man could see this evidence of internal damage.
‘How are you, Cael?’ the centurion asked gruffly.
‘I’ve been better, sir, but I thank you for asking. The mistress here has taken care of me real well and she told me that you’re taking me to a place where I’ll be able to get some help. Thank you, sir, because you didn’t have to do that for a stranger. You could have just left me on the side of the road to fend for myself.’
The driver’s eyes filled with tears and he grabbed at Constantinus’s hand and kissed it.
Flushed with embarrassment, Constantinus would have pulled away, but the genuine gratitude in the man’s eyes caused him to pause.
‘My legionnaires never abandon their companions,’ Constantinus told him. ‘We stay with our men or we carry them out with us, even if they are badly wounded. You’re in my employ, Cael, so you’re just as Roman as any of the British cavalrymen under my command.’
No one listening to his even words would have doubted his honesty. But the centurion could recall times when other legions had left their men behind to be slaughtered by barbarian hunting parties. In the old days of the Republic, during the times of Marius and Julius Caesar, his assertions of Roman honour might have been true, but Constantinus rather feared that the legions had become dominated by practical concerns that invariably overshadowed Rome’s loyalty to the individual.
However, Cael’s eyes reflected a growing feeling of hope, so Constantinus sighed with relief. Severa would remain calm if she thought that the Romans were doing something – anything at all – that might save the life of her driver. With renewed confidence, Constantinus explained his plan to them.
‘I intend to be in Glastonbury by tomorrow morning, but I must warn you that it’s a very strange place. If you’re a Christian, you might be interested to learn that Joseph of Arimathea, kinsman to Jesus Christ, is supposed to have built a church there, so many men believe that Glastonbury is very sacred. If your wounds can be healed anywhere, surely the settlement where the kin of Jesus once walked in these lands would be such a spot.’
‘It’s kind of you to say so, sir,’ Cael wheezed, so the centurion suspected that one of his lungs had been punctured by the arrowhead. The wagon driver would probably not survive his wounds, regardless of what the religious community could do.
Constantinus fell back to speak to Paulus.
‘Keep your eyes sharp, Paulus. This place is giving me the creeps.’ Constantinus wasn’t alone in his nervousness. The other cavalrymen in the column had the finely honed instincts of self-preservation that had kept them alive through many battles. Something was in the air or blowing in on the wind! The more thoughtful Romans imagined themselves to be part of a long procession that was taking them to some secret, dangerous and unfathomable place where humans were never intended to tread.
The column would occasionally see neat pigsties and paddocks, or an occasional drift of smoke on the higher ground, but the landscape was mostly devoid of life for the whole day of travel. To add to this perplexing emptiness, the legionnaires sensed eyes that were following their every movement.
‘The assassins haven’t given up,’ Paulus warned. ‘I saw the reflected light of metal when we were passing between some of those hills in the earlier part of the afternoon.’ The decurion pointed towards the hills that ran parallel to the long valley.
Constantinus nodded. ‘I haven’t seen them, but I’ve been sensing their presence all day. They’re just watching us now, so they’re waiting for us to make a mistake.’
‘It’s a strange situation,’ Paulus replied. If the conspirators we interrogated at the Bower of Beauty were speaking the truth, there were only five assassins involved in the murder of Marcus, so that would mean that we are only facing a threat from four men now that one of them has been killed. Why is it that I feel we’re at a disadvantage in this place?’
‘We’ve got too little information to assume anything, Paulus. I’d never have sent a small group into alien territory without any reinforcements. I’d want extra bodies to be secreted away if I should need some support. Wouldn’t you do the same?’
‘It’s quite possible, sir, because this Conanus is a very determined sod. And he’s a watchful bastard as well. That ambush in the hills was an inspired piece of improvisation. Who’d have guessed that the rearguard could lag so far behind our little princess that she was out of their sight. I won’t sleep easy now till we’ve ditched the maiden at this Tintagel place.’
‘I agree, Paulus! I agree wholeheartedl
y!’
After a nervous night, the party set off before first light without even the warmth of a reheated stew in their bellies. Constantinus was eager to reach Glastonbury and its illusion of safety, so he had instructed his scouts to find the shortest and easiest route that would deliver Cael into the hands of the healers with minimal delay. As it turned out, the scouts soon returned to the column with the welcome news that the religious community was only a few hours of easy travelling to the south.
‘You can’t miss it, sir. We just follow the track that lies to the right of the big tor on the horizon. Many pilgrims come to Glastonbury every year, and they all take this path.’
The tor was clearly visible. As the sun continued to rise above the eastern horizon, the top of the hill seemed to float on a sea of mist so that its head, crowned with some kind of structure that appeared like a pointing finger, rose out of a sea of grey and pearl waves. Constantinus felt the hair on his arms rise with superstitious wonder that this soggy earth was considered to be a land where giants and creatures from Britannia’s mythic past had proliferated, including ogres, hags with black eyes, great wolves, giant boars and other monsters who lay in wait to feast on human flesh. Then the centurion chided himself, replacing the sinister images with rational Roman explanations.
‘There are no such things,’ he reassured himself.
Before the sun was fully up and the mists began to shrink into the hollows, the cavalcade followed the slowly curving road that allowed the wondrous tor to become clearer.
He immediately recognised the thin spine of a religious construction at the apex of the tor. The tower held a signal fire that could be seen on the horizon. Constantinus swivelled in his saddle and looked back towards the range of hills where they had been ambushed. At another high point at the apex of the surrounding hills, he expected to see the ruins of another signal post, but his eyes weren’t strong enough to pierce the prevailing mists.
These fires, once lit, could soon warn the populations of the isolated villages and those warriors who protected them of attacks.
He stared back towards the south again where he could barely make out another tor that lay several days’ march to the south. A warning could leap over many days of travel, moving from signal fire to signal fire, all the way to Sabrina Aest – and to the population centres that lay in the west.
A feeling of respect for those ancient warriors who had devised these sentinel fires stole over him. He recalled the derision of Marcus Britannicus for all things British and then smiled with grim amusement. British ingenuity had put Marcus in the midden.
‘I’ll try my best to never underestimate any Britons who might become my enemies,’ the centurion muttered to himself, a new habit now that he had assumed the role of commander. Surprised at the realisation, he shook his head briskly and called for one of his scouts.
‘Drusus! Ride ahead and warn the good fathers that we’re coming to them with a wounded man who is near to death. Go alone, so they aren’t alarmed at the sight of armed men. You’ll need to show good faith, so answer any of their questions with complete honesty.’
Drusus nodded his head and kicked his horse into a gallop. The column’s protection was soon far behind him.
When he saw the hamlet of Glastonbury come into view, Constantinus was surprised by its size. Built along the base of a long slope that eventually led to the tor itself, the enclave was surrounded by low stone walls that served as boundaries rather than protective barriers. Behind these walls, a number of stone and timber buildings clustered on the flat earth at the base of the rise, where sheep and cows were cropping on knee-high grasses.
As the centurion drew the column to a halt a respectful distance from a set of low gates, a place where the pilgrims were given permission to enter the community, he saw evidence of good husbandry, discipline and hard labour in the surrounding fields. Men and women were working in the fields and Constantinus decided that they were either lay persons or members of the Aryan Church that controlled and administered this remote area of Britannia. Men in homespun robes were instantly recognisable among the workers toiling in the vegetable plots and herb gardens of Glastonbury.
‘Good!’ he said to himself. ‘If they’re growing herbs, they must have a healer.’
Within minutes, a small procession of robed men approached the gate with Drusus following at their heels. The Roman scout ran nimbly to join his commander, with his bronzed face impassive under his helmet.
Constantinus dismounted as the wagon carrying Cael drew up at the head of the column.
‘Sir? This man is Father Gregory, the priest who is the leader of this community.’
Drusus gestured towards an unimpressive man whose only distinction seemed to be his wide, innocent smile.
‘The good abbot bids you welcome and will offer our legionnaires the use of the quarters that are usually preserved for pilgrims who make the journey to see the church of Saint Joseph. Father Adolfus, a healer, will care for the wagon-master and I’ve been assured that he is very skilled in matters of health and medicine.’
One of the priests, a saturnine man with a blued shadow on his chin that gave him an unshaven appearance, approached the wagon like a fussy rooster that has been brought to service a difficult, bedraggled hen. The man’s manner may have been unfortunate, but Constantinus spied a face that was alive with intelligence and eyes that were kind, so he turned his attention back to Father Gregory.
‘I apologise for appearing at your gate without warning, Father Gregory, but Mistress Severa begged us to do what we could to save her driver after we were attacked by brigands yesterday. We must have seemed like a force of ignorant aggressors. I am Constantinus, a Roman centurion, and this lady is the Princess Severa who usually resides in Corinium. She has been placed in some danger by assassins, so we are escorting her to Tintagel where she will be well-protected.’
He continued with a brief and simplified explanation of the situation in which Severa had been placed, her status in the political landscape of Britannia and a sanitised version of the reasons for escorting her to the fortress at Tintagel.
The priest nodded affably. Both of his hands were hidden in his capacious sleeves and he smiled beatifically at the Roman officer as if he was accustomed to troops of soldiers arriving on his doorstep on a regular basis. Then, turning to the wagon, the priest bowed low to the young lady who was alighting with the assistance of Drusus.
‘Be at peace, Lady Severa. Father Adolfus will do all that can be done to care for your servant. See? He is already arranging for your driver to be moved into our hospice. You will be able to sit with him after you have broken your fast.’
Severa could only curtsy awkwardly to this composed man who barely reached her shoulder, and yet seemed so much more powerful than men like her foster-father. His impervious facade of good humour left her with nothing to say.
‘You are welcome to share the bounty of Glastonbury with my people, noble Constantinus. My brothers will show your men the way to the stables and the comforts of the pilgrims’ quarters. We ate hours ago before the sun rose over the tor, but I’d like you and your officers to break your fast in a more congenial place than the gateway to our home.’
Constantinus glanced towards Severa, his mind already wondering how he could protect her in this strange place. Father Gregory followed his gaze and guessed at the problem.
‘You need hold no fears for the lady,’ Father Gregory responded smoothly, as if he read the centurion’s mind. ‘Our lay women will see that she is fed and housed in a suitable dwelling. All the necessary precautions have already been taken, so she can sleep soundly under the protection of Joseph the Trader of Blessed Memory while she dwells within Glastonbury’s walls.’
Then, with Paulus in tow, Constantinus found he had been adroitly separated from his troops as they were led into the heart of Glastonbury and a wooden
refectory building that was filled with soft golden light. Bemused, he followed Gregory’s portly figure without hesitation, as if he was already trapped within the glamour of this remarkable place.
‘Be seated, Constantinus of the Legions, for we have been waiting for you. Glastonbury offers sanctuary for as long as your need is great.’
CHAPTER VIII
A Holy Place
Ah! Gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Will thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with a wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
Hadrian, Address to his soul when dying
The refectory’s furnishings were simple and spartan. A roughly hewn table, capable of seating at least twenty men, filled most of the rectangular space. Attracted by the age of the timber and its solid design, Constantinus stroked the surface of the table and felt its smoothness, polished by years of oil from elbows and palms.
In the centre of the table, a large jug was filled to the brim with water. The priest filled three beakers and offered them to Paulus and Constantinus, while he took the third for himself.
The two Romans had always obeyed the maxim that soldiers and native Britons alike should only drink clean water that had been collected and boiled by their own hands. As water purity varied from location to location, the two Romans stared at this water with obvious scepticism, for they would normally have preferred to drink beer when they were in strange surroundings.
Surprised, Father Gregory gazed at the faces of his two guests before realising their reservations.
‘Oh! I see! There is no need to fear the quality of the waters that come to us from the holy earth of Glastonbury,’ he explained with a deprecating smile. ‘The water from a great underground river comes to the surface at this blessed spot. It is free of all ills and all corruptions, and some say it cleanses both the body and the spirit but, as educated men, you wouldn’t believe such myths.’