The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  Paulus paused before making his final comments.

  ‘Drusus is an excellent scout who is hard to fool, my lord, as you will be aware from personal experience. I have complete faith in his observations.’

  Constantinus nodded, but the advisers refused to accept Paulus’s professional summary of the Saxon’s intentions.

  ‘They’ve fooled you as well,’ Cassivellaunus sneered, while Vortigern felt the palm of his right hand itch to strike at the Roman’s smooth, scornful face. As always, he was suggesting that the warrior class of Britannia couldn’t be relied upon to make rational assessments on strategic matters. Vortigern had heard rumours of Cassivellaunus’s antipathy for those men, especially Britons, whom the patrician considered to be his inferiors.

  Fortunately, Paulus ignored Cassivellaunus’s bad manners and continued. ‘It is true that the Saxons caught us napping for a time . . . but men afoot can’t mislead good horsemen forever. I’ve been a Roman officer for too long, gentlemen, to put my trust in what the enemy appears to be doing. Anyone who trusts to luck when making assessments of their enemies is bound to fail.’

  ‘Good man!’ Constantinus murmured. His voice was soft but, nonetheless, Paulus flushed with pleasure at this compliment from his master.

  ‘We followed the pack of men that was led by a tall bear of a man, who stood half a head taller than his fellows and outweighed them by the weight of a ten-year-old child. But he moved as fast as any of his warriors and was always at the forefront of each column. I took him to be the thane, even when the columns divided again and the larger group left him behind.’

  Cassivellaunus clicked his tongue in dismissal but, true to his name, Gregorius the Watcher fixed his gaze on Paulus as the scout went on.

  ‘Eventually, except for one of the token forces that Vortigern had pursued by accident, the different bands combined once again, turned in a new direction, and set off towards Durovernum as if Satan was pursuing them. We couldn’t be certain whether this change of direction wasn’t another ruse, but we kept to whatever cover we could find and followed them as closely as possible. I hazarded a guess that their ultimate destination was an abbey situated some distance beyond the walls of the town.’

  ‘Did you warn the abbot that his flock was in danger?’ Cassivellaunus demanded.

  ‘When I became certain that Durovernum was their target, I sent a courier directly to the abbot to warn him that an attack was imminent. My man, a sturdy young Briton who is an excellent horseman, barely got away before the commencement of the attack. The abbot refused to budge and averred that his duty was to guard his church. According to my lad, the abbot had called the whole community together to discuss the matter within the confines of the church. They were wasting valuable time, but he gave his people the option of staying with him when he attempted to reason with the Saxons . . . or they could travel to safety! Several of the laymen chose to escape, but fifty men chose to protect their church with their prayers.’

  Cassivellaunus spat on the bare sod in disgust, although the king raised an eyebrow at the crudity.

  ‘So you left those brave men to perish without attempting to stop the Saxons,’ Cassivellaunus snapped. ‘For shame, Paulus! Although I can’t fathom whether more can be expected from men whose origins are so deeply rooted in the lower ranks.’

  The temperature in the tent seemed to drop at this; Vortigern was surprised that the adviser’s breath didn’t freeze in the resultant chill.

  ‘My own origins lie in the lower ranks of the Roman legions,’ Constantinus stated with a mere hint of anger in his voice. ‘Just like those of Paulus, Drusus and their forebears. Are you suggesting that we are lacking in courage and loyalty?’

  Constantinus spoke with such silky and careful courtesy that only the most foolish of men could mistake his dulcet tones for a genuine inquiry. Cassivellaunus began to stammer out an apology, but the king waved it away.

  ‘Continue, Paulus.’

  ‘I was heavily outnumbered, my king, and the deaths of my lads would have been of no material advantage to you or to the brothers who were determined to remain inside the abbey. Some of my men had already been despatched on scouting duties, for we were still trying to locate our elusive enemies. I decided to wait and follow the Saxons once they left the religious community. The abbey was situated outside the walls of Durovernum and was some small distance into the countryside, so I hoped that the people of the town might go to the defence of the abbot and his flock, but this hope was doomed to disappointment. The fire at the abbey was very fierce and the flames lit the sky throughout the night, so none of the town’s citizens could ever state that they had no knowledge of the fate inflicted on the good brothers. They knew what was happening, but they had no wish to join the priests in death. After all, they are civilians.

  ‘Along with my two remaining scouts, I spent the night on a wooded rise beyond the abbey’s boundaries. Shortly after dawn, we saw four wagons travelling along the track that led away from the abbey. These were so heavily laden with plunder that the carthorses struggled to haul the weight. I reasoned that our best chance to find the Saxon’s temporary base would be to follow the wagons. We gave them a few hours’ start and then followed the wheel ruts.’

  ‘So you know where the Saxons are camped?’ Constantinus breathed.

  ‘The Saxons’ baggage train has grown in size, sir. They’ve thrown together stolen wagons and enough horses to transport all the precious objects and they’ve begun to move, slowly but steadily, towards the coast.’

  Constantinus’s black eyes burned and, despite his fierce courage, Vortigern felt the palms of his hands grow damp as the High King turned towards him.

  ‘Where are they headed, Vortigern? Only madmen would dare to sail through the Litus Saxonicum and the oceans beyond it in the gales of winter, and the Saxons have proved they aren’t fools. What say you?’

  Cassivellaunus muttered something in a strangled exhalation of annoyance. Constantinus’s eyes flared for a moment in response to the rudeness of the interruption, but he chose to ignore it

  Meanwhile, Vortigern licked his lips in an unattractive way that reminded Constantinus of a snake or a lizard tasting the air for danger. With some reluctance, the Briton began to explain.

  ‘I’m prepared to hazard an opinion, sir. Portus Lemanis is a likely township that lies in a direct line with the general route that the Saxons have been following. But the thanes would have to be crazed if they tried to load their ceols with plunder at a functioning British port. I’d be prepared to guess that they’ve found a suitable isolated cove within the difficult terrain that lies to the west of Portus Lemanis where they could beach their ceols. Once established there, they could load their plunder without harassment or threat.’

  ‘I agree with your assessment, Vortigern. You’ve salvaged some useful intelligence out of the chaos, mainly through the efforts of Drusus. Still, I’m indebted to you for your advice . . . and I don’t forget my friends.’

  The unspoken phrase, and my enemies, was as clear as if he had uttered it aloud.

  ‘If we are going to filch their supplies, we’ll have to attack the wagon train while we can,’ Cassivellaunus stated decisively, as if no other option was available for consideration.

  ‘Is that your recommendation, Cassivellaunus?’ Constantinus asked quietly.

  ‘Absolutely!’ the adviser exclaimed. His patrician nose was raised into the air as if something putrid had fouled the space around him.

  ‘And you, Gregorius. Do you agree?’

  Gregorius felt the firm sod beginning to open up under the heels of his sandals, so his voice sounded hollow and indecisive when he finally cleared his throat to speak.

  ‘I’d need to know the location of the main body of Saxons before I committed myself to capturing and protecting a slow-moving baggage train. If our intelligence indicate
s that we can overpower and capture those wagons without any real difficulty, logic suggests that the Saxons can just as easily take them back again when our own escape had been slowed by the weight of so much silver and treasure. There’s no point in risking our warriors for the gains are minimal.’

  Cassivellaunus was furious at this assessment.

  ‘I hadn’t thought to hear such cowardly caution from you, Gregorius. When did you trade your balls for a grand-dam’s bonnet or an old man’s slippers? You’re suggesting that our troop of Roman-trained legionnaires and warriors can’t protect a baggage train from a few Saxon guards and wagon-drivers. For shame, Gregorius!’

  Gregorius flushed, but he refused to be cowed.

  ‘The baggage train is so slow that they can’t possibly escape us. Why should we have the speed of our cavalry impeded by lugging such an unwieldy burden behind us? As I’ve already explained, we’d almost certainly lose it again as fast as we capture it.’

  Cassivellaunus stuck out his bottom lip and jaw aggressively.

  ‘We must take it because that wealth is ours. Those wagons contain our spoils! And these Saxon bastards must be taught that they can’t pillage Roman possessions with impunity.’ Gregorius flinched, but refused to back down.

  ‘You’re wrong, Cassivellaunus,’ Constantinus interrupted. ‘Those spoils are ours. They are the property of the good people of Britannia who were robbed, killed and enslaved by these particular Saxons, rather than yourself or the Roman legion. Rome and her last British legion that sits in bivouac in the north have nothing whatsoever to do with the carnage that these invaders have inflicted on Londinium and the Cantii lands. Nor is that stolen wealth the prize of Rome or the tribune who governs my lands from his sanctuary in Isca. Perhaps I will send a share to our Roman governor from the people of Britannia as a gesture of good faith, but I’m not obligated to give Rome a cracked copper. I am the High King of Britannia and I’ll decide when my force attacks this baggage train. Meanwhile, I can assure you that I have no intention of riding blindly into strange hills and areas of dense forest without intelligence obtained by my scouts, warriors who are already seeking out the enemy while we sit here in relative safety.’

  He stared directly at Cassivellaunus until the adviser dropped his eyes; Constantinus permitted himself a brief smile.

  ‘Do you accept my decision, Cassivellaunus?’

  Vortigern recognised the danger immediately and lowered his own head in total acquiescence.

  Constantinus’s tone was friendly and reasonable, but the most junior officer present knew whose authority was paramount within this campaign tent.

  An unlovely shade of purple began to stain Cassivellaunus’s neck and his pale eyes flashed with anger. Even as Gregorius tried to catch his compatriot’s eyes to urge caution, Cassivellaunus launched himself into a provocative speech.

  ‘You forget yourself, Constantinus. You have no gens that will render you superior to your tribune, the Roman who is the legally appointed governor of this province. You’ve been permitted to exercise the privileges of your current position because of your superior officer’s generosity. Had I been the man to choose Maximus’s successor, I wouldn’t have chosen a landless, nameless man who can’t even be sure of his parentage. Your pater probably tilled the fields of Italia or Hispania?’

  The silence inside the tent was gelid with danger as Constantinus carefully and quietly rose to his feet.

  Gregorius could see that disaster was imminent, and knew he should keep his mouth firmly shut but, for once, the Watcher inside him chose to act out of character.

  ‘Cassivellaunus is speaking without thought, sire,’ Gregorius stuttered, his heart pounding as he searched for some way to save the skin of his fellow Roman.

  ‘I spoke the truth, and I’ll not resile from anything that I’ve said,’ Cassivellaunus repeated, unaware of the sudden space around him as every officer in the room moved away from possible contamination.

  ‘Sire,’ Gregorius began again. ‘Forgive him if he has caused offence, because he doesn’t really understand the true political situation, either in Britannia or in Gallia. His opinions are those of a bone-headed patrician, sire, and he’ll cease to offer threats or insults if you should accept his apologies . . .’

  ‘I don’t apologise to anyone, least of all to the bastard Roman king of a backward province like Britannia.’

  ‘Enough!’ Constantinus’s voice would have broken stone. The single word cracked like a heavy blow of an axe.

  For the first time, Cassivellaunus really looked at the king and, all too late, realised he’d gone too far.

  ‘Paulus! Oblige me by taking my adviser into custody and chaining him carefully. This man speaks open treason and has insulted my person, my throne and the kings of this land. I’ll pronounce judgement on him when I have the leisure to bother with this trivial matter.’

  ‘You can’t . . . !’ Cassivellaunus began, while his face whitened around the gills.

  ‘As the High King of the Britons and Dux Bellorum of these lands, I think you’ll find that I can do anything, and everything, that I wish,’ Constantinus answered dismissively.

  Paulus attempted to lead the adviser out of the tent by his elbow. Then, as Cassivellaunus tore his arm from the grip of the decurion, two more legionnaires entered the flap of the tent, moved forward and pinioned him by both arms. Cassivellaunus’s rage was so intemperate that he tried to kick out at his captors.

  ‘What shall I do with him, my lord?’ Paulus asked.

  ‘Send him back to Durobrivae under guard. You won’t need more than a couple of men if they ensure that the prisoner’s arms and legs are manacled. He has the manners of a pig and the fighting skills of my old mother, so he’s likely to hurt himself if he is given any freedom. The magistrate at Durobrivae, who owes me the freedom of his city, will oblige me in this matter. When I have time, Cassivellaunus, you’ll be judged, found guilty and executed. I have no doubt that everything I have done in past months has been reported back to Isca, and thence to Rome, from the first day you were inflicted upon me. I detest traitors at the best of times and you are one of the vilest traitors that I’ve seen. You’ve also proved to be one of the most arrogant and stupid men to serve under my command. You should be executed for your incompetence as an adviser, but I’ll stay with the greater charges of treason. I don’t need a hammer to crush an ant.’

  Cassivellaunus snivelled and tried to offer an explanation as he realised the danger of his situation. He scanned the room as he sought a means of escape or some ally who might be prepared to save him from the wrath of the king, but found neither.

  ‘You won’t execute me, Constantinus! Tribune Maximo would march against you if you harmed me in any way. He knows that I have an uncle in the senate and my family has served the empire for generations. Rome would never tolerate the murder of one of her sons.’

  ‘Rome isn’t Britannia, Cassivellaunus. Your tongue became the death of you, so I’ll bid you good riddance. Remove him, Paulus, before I lose patience and cut his throat immediately.’

  Arguing, struggling and crying out for rescue, Cassivellaunus was dragged away, leaving a nasty silence in his wake. For his part, Gregorius tried to look insignificant. He knew that something important had occurred before his eyes but, as yet, was unable to arrive at a rational analysis of the events that had taken place.

  In truth, he was terrified. Meanwhile, Constantinus sat back in his folding camp-chair and examined the surviving Roman adviser through his dark, basilisk eyes.

  ‘I have no argument with you, Gregorius, as long as you understand that I am the High King of Britannia and I intend to be treated with respect. The pleas you made in defence of Cassivellaunus have done you no harm in my eyes. In fact, you showed unusual courage when you tried to provide the fool with an opportunity to back down without too much shame. But you would b
e unwise to push your supposed superiority at me. And you should avoid lecturing me on decisions I might contemplate when you are speaking on behalf of your Roman masters.’

  Gregorius wondered what had happened to the capable and reasoned centurion who had been elevated to the throne of High King in the teeth of his tribune’s objections. At first he had considered Constantinus to be a harmless, easily guided choice, a man who would follow the orders of his Roman masters to the letter.

  The advisor’s thoughts were interrupted when Constantinus cleared his throat impatiently. The other officers were staring at Gregorius, waiting for a response from him. He gulped.

  ‘I cannot justify my compatriot’s actions, my lord. We both know that he has spoken imprudently on a number of occasions and he cherishes many of the prejudices that are common to his class. Unfortunately, Cassivellaunus has little understanding of the politics that he espouses. He’s a babe in the game of diplomacy, so I’d be failing in my duty to my Roman masters if I hadn’t asked you to show a little clemency towards him.’

  ‘Would you have me show weakness to a man who speaks treason? Too many legionnaires and warriors have heard Cassivellaunus’s insolent comments about the way I’ve conducted this campaign, but tonight’s insults finally sealed his fate. He chose his own pathway to the shades, and so will you if you demonstrate that you can’t be trusted. The question I am now asking is whether your allegiance is to me as the High King of the Britons, or to Tribune Maximo and the patricians of Rome?’

  Knowing that Gregorius was an honourable man who took any oath seriously, Constantinus had manoeuvred him into a position where he could either swear his allegiance to the High King or risk execution by revealing his true loyalty to Rome. Constantinus was prepared to accept that Gregorius would consider his oath as binding if he swore to serve as Constantinus’s vassal.