by M. K. Hume
A small songbird broke into the conversation at this point with a sudden carol of twittering, so the happy sounds defused the hot words on the tip of the tribune’s tongue. Both men turned to watch the bird as it perched on the upper branches of the aspen.
A readiness in Constantine’s stance, something like the play of jaw muscles before a battle, warned the tribune that he must swallow all of the High King’s insults until he knew what the upstart expected of him. With admirable self-control, Maximo decided to use this small diversion of the bird to obtain what information he could glean.
‘I’ll never understand what that bird has to sing about, unless it’s pleased to be out of the weather,’ the tribune complained as he clutched his cloak around him and sneezed explosively. ‘It’s freezing out here, so I suggest we go indoors where the floors are warmer.’
Alerted by the tribune’s paroxysms of coughing, Constantine rose to his feet, his face radiating mock concern.
‘Of course, Tribune. I should have realised that you weren’t well. By all means, let’s go inside where your servants can see to your welfare.’
‘I’m not ill: I’m damned cold,’ Maximo protested.
‘Would some heated wine warm our innards? Our business can wait if you’d enjoy some warm gruel to put some colour back in your cheeks. I’ve been inconsiderate, sir, so I beg your pardon. Please ignore me.’
I’ll ignore you, you bastard! Maximo thought, hoping his face concealed his fury. Everything that this man had said was either a threat or an oblique insult. Nevertheless he controlled the words he would have liked to use in response to Constantine’s false concern.
‘I’m not an old man to be cossetted and fed gruel, Constantine. I have most of my own teeth and I still have my wits about me.’
‘Of course you have, Maximo. I meant no offence,’ Constantine added with a smile both indulgent and vulpine. The tribune wanted to spit at him, or smash his smiling and complacent face in.
Once he reclined on his couch with his cloak and a rug wrapped comfortably around him, Maximo sipped at a large goblet of mulled and spiced wine. He was beginning to feel more optimistic, and could almost imagine that he was the master of his house again, for Constantine had managed to puncture his image of himself as the supreme ruler of this remote province.
However the wine turned to vinegar in the tribune’s mouth as he considered Constantine and his damned delusions of grandeur. He snapped out an inquiry: why had Constantine made this unexpected visit to Isca?
‘I need the services of the remnants of the Dracos Legion,’ Constantine explained bluntly.
‘What in Hades do you mean?’ Maximo stuttered.
‘I’ve been made aware that the men of the legions, both in Britannia and in Gallia, are discontented beyond reclamation. The legionnaires are tired of persistent failures in policy and administration by their masters in Rome. The fighting men and those who support them in the field haven’t been paid for years and their conditions and rations would be laughable, if they weren’t so insulting. Meanwhile, their masters live in the lap of luxury while the men struggle to find the coin to feed their families and keep their kit in good working order. The patience of Rome’s legionnaires has come to an end.’
As the tribune opened his mouth to protest, Constantine raised a finger to order the older man’s silence. Somehow, Maximo forced himself to remain seated and obey, when every instinct urged him to strike out at the insolent cur.
‘To add insult to their injuries, any incursions by the barbarian hordes into the north is blamed on the ineptitude of the fighting soldiers, rather than the inexperience of junior officers, the incompetence of senior commanders, the lack of suitable reinforcements, or the poor quality of equipment issued to troops in the field. How can men fight when they are fed with rotten meat, spoiled grain and sour beer? The best warriors in the known world have been taken for granted by Rome’s greed and laziness. Perhaps the patricians are simply avaricious and palm off the worthless rations to the provinces in order to make huge profits. Who knows? Perhaps the senate is happy to begrudge their legionnaires the rightful payments and rewards to which the fighting men are entitled. Whatever their reasons, the legionnaires have decided to demand their rights.’
The tribune leaned back on his couch and pretended a lack of concern.
‘I’ve heard these arguments for years, Constantinus . . .’
‘Constantine!’ the High King snapped.
‘If you insist! The malcontents within the legions are often dissatisfied with the conditions of their service. If it weren’t for the legions, these self-same men would be starving in some filthy, diseased village in Hispania or Illyricum or Gallia. The legions are their father! Rome is their mother! We put food into the mouths of these ingrates and expect them to give loyalty in return. As a centurion in your recent past, you should know how certain traitorous individuals have always bitten the hand that feeds them and curse their betters who protect their worthless hides.’
‘A noble defence, Tribune, but I know how thin your argument is. You are blaming the victims of Rome’s incompetence. Rome would pull out of Britannia tomorrow, were it not for the trade in lead, wool, grain and meats that feeds the mob in the suburas of Rome and keeps the wheels of empire greased. And, for their service, our men are not recognised as worthy participants in the order of empire until such time as they’re needed to bleed on the frontiers to keep those same wheels of empire turning. You can’t even hope to justify the treatment that has been meted out to these loyal troops. Three years without pay? It’s a disgrace, Tribune! How many more years will it be before the legions see a copper coin from the bounty that is transported to Rome?’
‘It’s not their place, or yours, to question the decisions of the emperor, or the senate.’ Maximo’s lips had thinned to ugly slashes in his florid, angry face.
‘I could be swayed by your loyalty to Rome if you weren’t so snug and warm, fed on the best bounty of these lands and surrounded by the expensive art objects in your palace,’ Constantine snarled. Dismissively, the High King flicked a careless finger at the fine alabaster goblet he was holding in his hand.
‘You hardly live the same life as your men, so you’re in no position to make judgement on them or their motivation,’ he added. ‘You are paid for your services!’
Maximo spluttered with fury, upending his precious goblet in his anger.
‘The plight of my legionnaires has become my business, Maximo,’ Constantine continued. ‘Flavius Magnus Maximus was presented with the Grass Crown by Rome’s legionnaires when he attempted to force the senate to treat his troops with honour. Likewise, the kings of Britannia flocked to his standard in a concerted effort to win respect from the emperor and a place in the empire, an action that demonstrated their loyalty. Maximus won a crown but his ambitions pushed him too far and, like all men who become convinced of their own godhead, he failed at the very last. But his defeat doesn’t mean that he was wrong.’
Even a mention of Maximus’s name and his quest for the purple caused a bout of queasiness in the tribune’s belly. Maximus had assumed the gens of the Flavians to bolster his claims, just as this upstart, Constantinus, had insisted on being called by the praenomen of the great emperor, Constantine. But at least Maximus had been a scion of the patrician class. Constantine Minor was a plebeian and not even a Roman-born plebe at that.
‘You have no right to take this action, so you will ultimately come to ruination, just as Maximus met a dishonourable end. The fact that you married well and became the High King of a sad collection of pathetic and argumentative tribal kings doesn’t make you worthy of high command, least of all any elevation to the Palatine. I suggest you forget these ridiculous plans and go back to your comfortable dung-heap, where you belong. I will forget the treason that you have uttered today, for I have always admired your courage and your service to the
legion.’
Constantine’s smile would have curdled milk.
‘I should be grateful for the concessions you have offered to me, Tribune, but I choose to be offended at your description of my birth. My religion, and yours, preaches that all men are equal in the eyes of God, yet you persist with the old dictates of class warfare that have brought Rome to her knees. Competent men are overlooked in favour of fools, fakers and thieves whose only talent is that they were born into the patrician class. I’ll be taking your legion, although I’ll leave you with your personal guard as protection. The troops in the north have already sworn to follow me and they are marching into the south as we speak. You’d best say nothing more, Maximo, lest I be tempted to cut out your tongue. I might add that your man, Cassivellaunus, learned of my mettle when he eventually exceeded the limits of my patience. If you are still looking to him for reports on my kingdom, no further missives will be forthcoming.’
‘What do you mean?’ Maximo asked fearfully, for this explained the adviser’s long silence. ‘You haven’t . . .’ His words died away in his fright.
‘Yes, Tribune. Cassivellaunus believed that your patronage gave him carte blanche to speak treason against the person of the High King of the Britons. He has gone to his noble ancestors because, in his stupidity and total arrogance, he left me with little choice.’
Tribune Maximo had looked into the stern, uncompromising face of his own nemesis and felt the beginnings of a gut-wrenching terror.
Constantine’s eyes were black holes behind which flames seemed to be burning, although the tribune told himself they were merely reflections from the small brazier that warmed the triclinium. Constantine’s mouth was smiling, but only a fool would consider that respect or compliance lay behind that grimace. Gloating, disgust and an acute understanding of the tribune’s powerlessness added a cold dimension to the High King’s eyes, as if the man’s disciplined mind was the only leash preventing the mad beast within from breaking loose.
Where had this man been hiding? Or had he always been alive, but disguised beneath the centurion’s self-discipline and easy nature? What horrors had been released on Britannia when Constantine was given so much power?
‘I’m imagining things,’ Maximo gasped aloud, a statement that caused the High King’s eyebrows to rise. Finally, Constantine chuckled and the tribune’s blood ran cold.
‘I’m a reasonable man, Tribune, so I’ll not allow my men to take their revenge on those officers who have treated them badly in the past. We will wait here in Isca to reorganise our force, once the troops have arrived at the fort. Meanwhile, I will ascertain what supplies are available to us and what wealth is contained in your war chest. I have called for the tribes to levy their young men, for I mean to trade blows with Rome and her army in Gallia, much as Maximus did before me. Armorica will rise, as will the Frankish lands and the Hispanics, for Rome has been heavy-handed of late. The provinces will answer my call and cast off the yoke of their Roman masters. I’m certain that this plan will happen exactly as I have described it. As the Lord of Hosts is my witness, I will not stop until I become the Emperor of the West and the future of Britannia and my legions is secured.’
For one short moment, the tribune could imagine the wreath upon Constantine’s forehead. Then, like smoke, the phantasm vanished and the High King seemed to wear a diadem of blood. The tribune blanched and lowered his frightened eyes.
‘Whatever you desire, Constantine,’ he mumbled.
‘Now, Tribune, what delicacies can be found in your kitchens that can tempt our palates?’
The scroll came by courier at the start of the thaw, just as the fallow fields were thickening with spring flowers and new-born lambs. Venta Belgarum had experienced a vicious winter and, at times, the snows piled up around the houses so that families couldn’t open their doors and were forced to remain within their abodes until shovels could be used to dig them out again.
As was her habit, now that Uther was past the immediate dangers of the new-born and as Ambrosius had been weaned, Severa resumed her visits to comfort the poor within the township. Cold was the great enemy of the poor, while widows were often forced to risk freezing conditions as they sought firewood to warm their little ones.
Severa kept several warriors busy every day, hauling fallen trees from a nearby wood for grateful family groups to cut into kindling and logs for burning. She preferred to use trees that had collapsed under the weight of the unusually heavy snowfalls but, on occasion, she was forced to take timber from the palace supplies. Constantine had ensured that they stored sufficient firewood for four winters, as if he had wished to provide for his family during a prolonged personal absence.
The morning of the courier’s arrival was beautiful and balmy, after several days of rain. The sky had been washed clean in the laundries of heaven and even the bare trees responded to the unfamiliar warmth and light with a faint fuzz of bright green, yellow and russet shoots at the tips of every branch.
With an empty basket over her arm and her skirts raised decorously above the mud, Severa was returning to the palace when her maid, Dilic, came running towards her. The queen’s guardsman immediately lowered his hand to the pommel of his sword in case some danger threatened the queen.
‘Mistress! Mistress! The master will be coming by the end of spring. A courier has arrived with news of him,’ Dilic panted.
‘A courier, you say? When did he arrive?’ Severa asked in a calm voice, but her heart skipped several beats.
‘It was near enough to an hour ago, mistress. Your steward has seen to his comfort and his horse is resting in the stables. He’s a cavalryman, very fine and handsome in his red cloak.’
Dilic dimpled prettily and Severa sighed for her maid’s diminished reputation. Few attractive young men came to the palace at Venta Belgarum without falling into the girl’s soft embrace. Amoral as a cat in the town’s midden, Dilic saw no point in waiting for good men to offer their love, so she took up new men like gowns. However, once the novelty had worn off, she happily discarded them to search for another prospect.
As to the dangers of pregnancy, Dilic appeared immune, or at the very least knowledgeable as to which herbs would keep her waist slender and her belly flat. When Severa asked her how she managed this, Dilic merely winked and told the queen that her old grannie had taught her everything she knew.
‘Do give the poor man a chance to resist your charms, Dilic. He could have already been wedded to another fair young maiden, you know.’
‘I don’t believe so, mistress. He blushed like a boy when I asked if he was very strong. A married man would know women a little better, don’t you think?’ Severa noted that Dilic already had that sharp cat’s gaze of curiosity; it seemed that the fate of this young Roman cavalryman was sealed.
‘He won’t be staying in Venta Belgarum for long, Dilic, so I wouldn’t want your heart to be broken. Or his, for that matter,’ Severa gently reminded her.
‘Why! I’d never hurt anyone, Mistress. At least, not deliberately!’
‘Very well, Dilic. Take me to your handsome young paragon of virtue.’
The courier was a Briton with a jaundiced eye, a partially healed scar that bisected his eyebrow and ran down to his jaw, and a youthful, muscular body. His face exuded his irritation, for he felt that he had been kept waiting unnecessarily. When Severa entered the room, dressed in the old robes she often wore on her forays into the town, the courier’s eyes flickered over her dismissively.
He obviously thinks I’m one of the servants, Severa thought with a grimace that contained little humour. Her moods had become darker as the months dragged on into a dreary winter, with no word of her errant husband except that he was rampaging throughout the north near Hadrian’s Wall and, later, in the mountains of Cymru.
‘Where have you journeyed from?’ she asked in an imperious voice.
The co
urier was startled and looked puzzled until Dilic hissed a warning at him.
‘The queen has asked you a question, dolt! Don’t keep her waiting!’
I can’t see how Dilic is attracted to this sullen-faced man, although I’ll grant that he must have been handsome at some time in his misbegotten life, Severa thought, as she watched shock and horror play out across the courier’s face.
The courier blushed and sank down on to one knee in an impressive obeisance.
‘I meant no offence, Highness. I hadn’t expected you to be so young and beautiful.’
‘You’re a quick-witted lad, of that I’m certain. But I would still like to know where you left my husband, the man who happens to be your king?’
The courier apologised profusely, while Dilic looked skyward in exasperation. Severa waited patiently, but she permitted an encouraging smile to enliven her face. This young man, wounded and scarred so recently, was not at fault for her husband’s sins.
‘I left my master at Isca, which we call Caerleon. He is the guest of Tribune Maximo while he awaits the return of the Roman contingents that have been about the empire’s business in the north. The High King’s forces have swollen our numbers and they will have to bivouac outside Isca’s walls soon, for there will be a lack of space.’
Severa longed to scream out a long list of questions at the poor lad concerning her husband’s plans, but experience told her that Constantine kept his intentions close to his chest and a humble cavalryman would never be privy to his master’s thoughts. However, it seemed obvious that his future plans involved the movement of a large body of men, supplies and equipment.