The Poisoned Throne: Tintagel Book II

by M. K. Hume

  Saxons, Romans and Britons alike were falling around him, but Constantinus seemed to be fighting inside a bubble of invincibility. The Saxon leader, a huge thane with an unpronounceable name, emerged from the steaming mists of early morning, his axe swinging high to cleave the man who was standing beside Constantinus. Then, with a courage which he never knew he possessed, Gregorius struck the thane across the knees to cleave away the warrior’s kneecap, a blow that brought the giant to his knees in the mud. Surprised at receiving such an opportunity, Gregorius struck off the monster’s head.

  Bemused, he crouched among the press of struggling men with his face freshly sprayed by the arcing blood that escaped from the thane’s severed neck arteries. Constantinus grabbed him by his tunic and lifted him upright.

  ‘Now is not the time to dwell on the permanence of death, Gregorius. You can fight, or you will soon join your Saxon friend.’

  Constantinus neatly evaded a wild swing from a Saxon axe and eviscerated the warrior from under his arm. Still grinning, Constantinus thumped Gregorius on the shoulder until the adviser finally responded to his ministrations.

  I’ve killed a man, Gregorius thought as he parried a wildly swinging sword in the hands of a wounded behemoth with bright, carrot-red hair.

  ‘I’ve killed a man,’ he repeated aloud, as he lunged at the Saxon’s wounded side. He buried his sword deep into the giant’s vitals and then twisted the blade before removing it in response to some half-forgotten memory of past training.

  ‘Hades! You’ve killed two of the bastards now!’ Constantinus panted absently while making a mental estimate of his tactical position on the battlefield. Vortigern’s men had cut a swathe into the western flank but their momentum had also slowed.

  Constantinus came to a decision.

  ‘Back! Back! Back! Return to your lines,’ he shouted. ‘Back to your own lines and repel any stragglers who try to outflank us.’

  Halved in number, Constantinus’s men fought their way back behind the British-Romano lines, leaving the concealed archers to pepper anyone who tried to follow them with their dwindling supply of arrows. Vortigern’s men smoothly repeated the same manoeuvre. Then, once the Demetae had resumed his position at the top of the knoll, Constantinus forced his way through the decreasing number of defenders to the very front of the defensive line. The Saxons still possessed a slight advantage, but defenders and attackers had both fought fiercely and were weakening, especially the Saxons who had been forced to waste so much of their strength on combating the swampy terrain. Meanwhile, the loss of their thane also disorganised the Saxon force, so Constantinus knew that the battle could be won if he took decisive action. Now was the time to mount a counterattack.

  Would his men have the will and the ability to make a desperate charge at their Saxon enemies?

  The High King roared out a challenge in the British language, as well as in Latin, to the weary men who continued to fight among the press of bodies around him. Their faces were streaked with blood, mud and the detritus of battle, but their eyes brightened at the knowledge that he would personally lead the charge. Constantinus’s head swelled with pride and gratification as he heard the voices of his surviving warriors rise in volume.

  ‘Are we men who hide behind our shields? Now is the time to face our enemy, my brothers. It is time to be breast to breast, and sword to sword. Who will follow me? Who will follow Constantinus into the abyss?’

  Many of the men were carrying minor wounds and the High King could feel their physical aches, so he was uplifted by the manner in which they unhesitatingly roared out their defiance.

  ‘Then crush these animals and make them fear to ever set foot on our soil. For God and Britannia,’ he roared. And then he repeated the war cry once more until he thought his voice would fray away to nothing.

  ‘For God and Constantinus,’ the warriors answered as one.

  The front line opened and the men began to move forward, step by step and with shields still overlapping. The remaining Saxons were suddenly faced with a wall of iron that was firmly set on driving them back into the murderous swamps. Desperately, the Saxons redoubled their efforts, but the Tortoise was on the move now and the great size and weight advantage of individual Saxons was as nothing when compared with the combined weight of one hundred men who were moving ponderously against them as a single unit.

  Gladiuses caught the sunlight as they sought out Saxon weaknesses. Roman sandals and boots struggled to find purchase on the bloody earth and slurry that was littered with the dead and the dying. The Britons raised their voices in fierce battle songs that were as old as the isles themselves, while the Romans countered with their own songs of victory. And so the morning rang with the triumphant sounds of fighting men as they pressed at their enemy, until the remnants of the Saxon force was driven into a final defensive position.

  For the Saxons would retreat no more.

  Constantinus stood upright and lowered his shield.

  The surviving Saxons had found a small hillock of dry ground in the expanse of swamp. It was now the turn of the Romano-British legionnaires to stand, knee-deep, in mud and filth. But the small, dry space was holding the last of the Saxon force. There could be no escape for the seventy warriors, the survivors of a two-hundred-strong force.

  No quarter was asked. None was offered – and none would be given.

  Yet, as the sun burned off the last of the morning mist, the Saxons took heart from its warmth and screamed their own defiance at the Britons. They must have known that their tactical position was untenable, but they were determined to die at the greatest possible cost to Constantinus’s legionnaires. There would be no surrender.

  Constantinus ordered his men to surround the small island of earth, while he sent the archers to recover whatever arrows they could on the recently vacated battlefield. His veterans were also recovering the short spears that had been used to such effect at the commencement of the battle. As the remaining Saxons screamed out to their enemies to come forward and fight, Constantinus ordered his men to ignore their pointed insults. The High King was determined that there would be no further risk to his men, no matter how much the Saxons howled for hand-to-hand combat.

  ‘Let them die like the dumb beasts in the fields, or the priests who were slaughtered at their prayers,’ he snapped to his officers. ‘None of them will be turned into Saxon heroes.’

  ‘Is this the way to treat a courageous enemy?’ Paulus asked at Constantinus’s shoulder as his veterans surrounded the hillock, armed with their throwing spears. Even as he spoke, the archers were finding appropriate vantage points from which to unleash their fresh supply of retrieved arrows.

  ‘When these bastards burned our abbeys and killed the churchmen, were the Saxons honourable and courageous? Were they brave and noble when they killed simple farmers and their families? Just because they have met us on the field of battle with valour changes nothing.’ Constantinus’s voice grated with his promise of retribution. ‘I refuse to permit one more legionnaire to be wasted in killing these glory-hunting savages. I shall let them die with the same respect and nobility as the manner in which they killed the abbot and the priests of the religious community of Durovernum.’

  Then he gave the order to the legionnaires to throw their spears into the packed Saxon force. And the archers nocked their arrows and began to fire their barbs at the remaining warriors.

  A howl rose up from the hillock. This primal scream was a cry of rage and despair that they were being slaughtered like pigs rather than true men. No warrior woman would fly on the storm winds to carry the souls of these Saxon dead to the Land of the Gods. No glory would come to these men, and no songs of valour would be sung to celebrate their deaths. The swamps would devour their bodies and the mud would choke their mouths.

  Some of the warriors attempted to force their way out of the killing circle as they struggled t
o find a better death than the ignominy of being cut down like beasts. But they were given no opportunity of escape. Their bodies lay in swathes and their blood ran in rivulets into the shallow waters of the bog to stain the feet of their enemies, who set about the grisly task of killing the last of the wounded.

  By noon, the bloody battle was finally completed to Constantinus’s satisfaction. As the scavenging birds circled and squawked out their impatience to eat their fill of the corpses on the battlefield, the High King of the Britons smiled a tight little grin of satisfaction and ordered that the arduous task of burial and incineration should begin.

  He gave no thought to the old hermit and his ridiculous, terrifying prophecies. The old messages failed to disturb his pleasure. He imagined his path was now open and, with joy and anticipation, he could begin the long journey that would take him to the pinnacle of his secret desires.

  He thought little of Severa, or Constans, or the two new babes who were safe behind the walls of Venta Belgarum, other than to imagine their pride when they heard of his victory. As for Severa’s warning, when it finally arrived in the hands of his young courier, her words were forgotten within moments, now that his journey into history had finally begun.

  As the black birds settled down to feast their fill on the dead Saxons before the battlefield was cleansed, Constantinus returned to his tent and, safe under the watchful eyes of his faithful decurion, slept the peace of the innocent.

  But the gods were laughing.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  To Serve in Heaven? Or Reign in Hell?

  Romanus orbit ruit et tamen cervix nostra erecta non flectitur.

  The Roman world is falling, yet we hold our

  heads erect instead of bowing our necks.

  St Jerome, To Heliodorus, Letter 60, AD 396

  ‘When will our king return? Where is Lord Constantine?’

  The refrain ran throughout Britannia’s south. The war with the invading Saxons was fading into the stuff of memory and winter was coming fast on icy feet. But Constantine’s palace in Venta Belgarum seemed empty and unloved without his quick, impatient footsteps.

  The guards at the gate must watch in vain for the return of their comrades and the High King, who would be mounted on his showy white horse in the vanguard of the victorious column. Word had reached the citizens of Venta Belgarum that he was crushing a minor tribal skirmish near Causennae, or riding towards the Antonini Wall to punish a Pictish raiding party that had left Blatobulgium in ruins. Couriers came rarely, so the queen must weep into her finely embroidered pillows, or sit in the High King’s Hall of Justice in her lord’s place when she was instructing the master’s eldest son in the finer aspects of ruling a kingdom. She, alone, continued to refer to her husband by his birthname: to all others, he was now known as Constantine.

  The winter city of Venta Belgarum might look in vain for its master, although her citizens muttered that they had been abandoned. But in all other parts of the isles, the common people were happily singing his praises. Like the unpredictable wind, Constantine seemed to arrive with his troops, so peace seemed to follow in his bloody footsteps. Meanwhile, the local kings complied if the High King required men, although there were times when their smiles of welcome and compliance were forced. Then, after the demands for men were met, Constantine made further demands for supplies, gold or coin.

  Few souls among the wealthy were inclined to voice their disapproval at the higher taxes. Peace was a scarce and highly-valued commodity and was the lifeblood of trade within the British lands, so Constantine was hailed as a saviour, albeit an expensive one. If the price of doing business was a contribution of gold, grain and men, then he earned it.

  The church also paid its share of the expenses because their gold ensured that the abbeys and churches were protected from pillage. The word of the Lord could not nourish the converted if pagans destroyed God’s priests and turned His houses to ash. As the freezing winter gripped Venta Belgarum, Constantine rode into the fortress at Isca, in Caerleon, where the nucleus of Rome’s last legion in Britannia had made its home. The remainder of the Dracos Legion had been spread thin as its commander attempted to keep some sort of order throughout Britannia.

  Like a born emperor, Constantine arrived with a column of two battle-hardened centuries and British cavalry to demand the time of Tribune Maximo, the Roman commander. Maximo was roused from the arms of his Brigante woman to answer the High King’s impatient request for an audience.

  The tribune considered staying in the arms of his mistress while the presumptuous ex-centurion was allowed to cool his heels in the cold. Then, belatedly, Maximo reconsidered his position. Most of his forces were detached to Deva and Ratae, where they were mopping up the human detritus that remained from a vicious barbarian summer. Would his small force of garrison troops have the competence to defeat this upstart if they were ordered to throw him out of the gates of Caerleon?

  Probably!

  Would his men obey his order to lay hands on the High King and his officers, most of whom were ex-members of this Roman legion?

  Possibly!

  The tribune reluctantly decided not to push his luck by initiating a confrontation that could strip him of his post as governor of Britannia, as well as military commander of the province. Unfortunately, he was aware that the legionnaires in the ranks loved Constantine, not only those who had served with him, but also those who loved the idea of such a vigorous, victorious commander. How often did a centurion manage to rise so high in the service of Rome? And how frequently were senior commanders and patricians forced to bow their heads to a man of no birth and little influence, a true warrior whose sheer ability had made him the most important man in this benighted Roman possession?

  Of course, marriage to Maximus’s whelp had helped the centurion to achieve a meteoric rise in status, but not all of his subsequent successes could be attributed to his choice of a marriage partner. The tribune reluctantly accepted that this new Constantine must be an able-enough fellow.

  Resentfully, Tribune Maximo wished that some of the plump, supercilious politicians in Rome were here to solve the problems associated with the rise of Constantine. The senators were solicitous in their advice given from a distance, but the governor doubted they would be equal to the task of controlling this particular High King.

  Maximo joined his visitor in the central, open-air garden that had been built into his quarters. A particularly fine aspen raised its naked branches and silvery trunk towards a grey, winter sky. A carved marble seat faced the central pool where water vegetation grew and occasional ripples hinted at domesticated fish that lived within the roots of the vigorous water plants. The occasional water insects were making nonsense of winter’s chill by skimming over the water’s surface. Constantine realised they were alive and healthy because of the comforting warmth generated by heated floors and the hypocaust, the outward signs of the tribune’s wealth and influence.

  One of Maximo’s junior officers had ordered wine and sweet cakes for the visitor and had arranged for these delicacies to be placed in the triclinium that opened onto the courtyard. As the tribune shivered in his fur-lined cloak, he was surprised to see that the High King was wearing a sleeveless tunic over his mail shirt and his cloak was cast carelessly over a couch. Was this man inhuman, if this cold left him unmoved?

  ‘Aren’t you freezing, man?’ Maximo grimaced as he sat down and wrapped his cloak around him so that most of his head was covered, except for the reddened tip of his nose. Maximo had a head cold, an affliction which added to his discomfort.

  ‘A man would have to be moon-mad to go riding around the countryside on such an inclement day,’ he added in response to Constantine’s sardonic smile.

  ‘I don’t care about weather when there’s work to be done,’ Constantine replied crisply.

  The tribune noticed that none of the centurion’s previous diffid
ence could be detected in the High King’s response. The man had the gall to speak to his erstwhile commander like an equal, damn it, or even as a superior.

  ‘The weather to the north of the Antonini Wall is truly cold. It would freeze the tits off the empress and I’ve heard she’s fairly frigid already. But those Picts who dared to attack one of my tribal towns are very, very dead now, so the ravens and crows are dining on their corpses. Their bodies will endure, frozen, until the spring, so their widows can wail in vain for their return. Their king can collect the bodies of their kin when the spring thaw arrives and he has paid a ransom for them.’

  The governor knew that commanders occasionally demanded payment from vanquished armies to release the bodies of dead combatants, but the practice was unsanitary and, to Maximo’s mind, not the action of a true gentleman. However, he decided to keep his opinions to himself.

  Instead, he opted to discuss the matter of jurisdiction, for peace within the isles was still the business of the Roman occupiers. As governor, Maximo felt he should be involved in the decision-making processes if war was to be declared against the Pict tribes in the north.

  ‘Why were you so far distant from your normal sphere of influence, Constantine? Venta Belgarum is in the south and any marauding Picts should, by rights, be my problem. Why am I only hearing about your expedition and the activities of this war band after their incursions have been fought off?’

  The tribune was trying to present a facsimile of anger, but Constantine saw through his bluster with ease.

  ‘Perhaps our northern tribe, the Novantae, believed that I would move with speed if I already have a seasoned force in the field? I don’t consider the ifs and buts when my subjects ask for help, Tribune. I consider myself morally bound to crush barbarians if they threaten any of the villages or towns within the British tribal lands. Perhaps the Novantae king has been made aware of my determination to serve my people. Regardless of their reasoning, the deed has been done! The war party was destroyed and every Pict who crossed the Vellum Antonini is dead. Like it or not, the Picts will learn to stay in their pestilential mountains while I rule Britain. If they refuse, they will die.’