by M. K. Hume
The crowd applauded eagerly, raising goblets and drinking vessels in their hands. A man with one living son was considered fortunate: a man with three was blessed by God.
‘And this fine lad is Ambrosius, who is my first-born in Britannia.’
Ambrosius stood and faced the crowd with all the courage he possessed. As his mother had taught him, he bowed his head low to acknowledge the crowd, until the warriors stamped their feet and shouted their approval.
Constantine put Uther back in Severa’s lap. ‘You’ve done well, Severa,’ he said quietly. ‘You have given me two more sons that will make me proud.’
Then he faced the crowd and raised his voice. ‘Where is my eldest son? Where is Constans?’
Constans, who had been waiting for this summons, pushed his way through the throng to reach his father, his face alive with joy.
The lad must have been practising his martial skills with the men-at-arms when his father arrived in the town, for he was still dressed in his practice armour. Once he arrived at the dais, the High King recognised his old, discarded sword swinging from the young man’s waist in an old, ragged scabbard. He grinned with delight.
Then Constans knelt at his father’s feet.
‘Rise, my son, for your diligence pleases me. You will soon be ready to do battle.’
The crowd cheered enthusiastically, making the lad blush scarlet, but Severa noticed that the cries of approval from the Britons in the audience were more circumspect.
Constans isn’t one with these people, Severa thought suddenly. He’s an outlander, so the Britons won’t tolerate him as their High King. Is Constantine aware of this small problem?
If Constantine noticed any British ambivalence, he gave no indication of it when he helped his son on to the dais. His steward hastily placed a stool between the two thrones.
When Constantine seated himself, the whole room erupted in cheers and barbaric war cries.
Then a single cry went up.
‘Imperator! Augustus!’
The crowd grasped eagerly at the title and raised their voices higher and higher, until the rafters began to shake with the sound.
Eventually, Constantine raised both hands and indicated silence. In totally manufactured humility, he rose to his feet. Raggedly, the crowd obeyed and Severa turned her eyes away from their obvious devotion to concentrate on her husband, his bowed head and the stern lips that still refused to smile. She knew him so well that she could feel his excitement and gratification rising like a tidal wave whose power was expressed in his voice as soon as he began to speak.
‘I haven’t earned the title of emperor yet, my loyal men. However, we will succeed in our endeavours if God continues to smile on us. And yours shall be the hands that lift us all to the heights. Yours shall be the voices that will shake the old senators of Rome and wake them from their long sleep. The patricians will be forced to accept that they have forgotten you and their ilk must understand that they have insulted their legionnaires for far too long.’
When did Constantine learn to manipulate fighting men so well? Severa wondered.
The assembled crowd adored Constantine and he bathed in the glow of their regard. But Severa, aware that two other men had sought this same crown in recent times, felt the prospect of widowhood staring her in the face.
‘With the legionnaires and the warriors of Britannia at my back, we’ll win an empire and make these isles safe forever,’ Constantine roared as he raised one fist towards the soot-stained rafters. The crowd stamped and then cheered, swearing that their loyalty would remain true until death overtook them. Then, drunk on the audience’s worship and bloated with their love, Constantine spread his arms wide to embrace all of his legionnaires.
Severa felt her gorge rise and slipped away from the dais with her children. In the privacy of her room, she vomited into a bowl until her stomach and throat were raw.
Later, the queen gently raised the sword-callused hand that was still clutching at her breast and, when he murmured and rolled over in his sleep, she sighed with relief when she was finally freed of his weight.
The king had come to her bed after a night of carousing, so she had hoped that so much wine would render him incapable of making sexual demands on her. Faint hope! He all but raped her, twisting her tender breasts and biting her neck until he drew blood like an animal. Constantinus had never needed aggression to arouse his lust, but Constantine felt a need to inflict pain and subdue her. Now, bruised and aching, she listened to his steady breathing and wished she could smother him as he slept. These sudden, murderous thoughts sickened her.
‘You’ve made monsters of us all, my darling,’ she breathed into the darkness.
The rational part of Severa knew that she lacked the physical strength to hurt this man. But, alarmed, she had felt a sadistic desire rising within her own flesh, so she bit down on her swollen lips until the moment passed.
Constantine’s drunken garrulousness had permitted his secretive mind to reveal his plans to her. He intended to emulate Magnus Maximus, her father, by forcing Rome to accept a system of joint rule over the Western Empire. Gallia and Hispania still remembered Maximus’s able reign, so they would welcome a man who was recognised as the High King of the Britons and was following in his footsteps. He knew that the Gallic tribes would rise to serve him, because his enemy was their enemy. They, too, hungered to destroy the rotting cesspit that was Rome.
As for Constans, Constantine’s heir, the lad would require a regent for a number of years if he was to be given the task of acting as High King during his father’s absence.
‘Constans is so very young, my lord. He’s learning fast, but he needs an adviser with ability,’ Severa offered carefully. ‘Your choice must be someone, other than me, who can guide him in the niceties of kingship,’ she added, for she was frightened of Constantine’s temper. Great power had made him autocratic.
‘I’ve already considered the matters that concern you, sweet girl, and I’ve made arrangements that I’m sure will please you. The young king of the Demetae tribe has served with my forces for some years now, and he’s capable of following our directions. In fact, Vortigern is everything I need in a regent. Unfortunately, he’s an ambitious man and that may become a problem one day. But not yet, so he’s ripe for use. I can trust him to obey me as long as I remain alive. But I don’t intend to die, so he’s the perfect choice to protect my family and assist my eldest son to control the tribal kings who rule the British dominions.’
Severa could clearly see glaring weaknesses in Constantine’s plans and she blenched at the dangers that might soon threaten the futures of her own children.
Vortigern is more acceptable to the people of Britannia than Constans could ever be, she thought, as her breath sighed to the beat of her husband’s snores. The ordinary folk of these isles would elevate a British ruler to the High King’s throne in preference to a Roman, especially if Constantine was killed while undertaking a foreign adventure. There would be no loyalty or gratitude in the hearts of the British kings, only self-interest.
Careful not to touch him, Severa slid away from Constantine’s prone form and stood beside the single window. Air blew into the room, heavy with the smell of the coming summer and the promise of rain before morning.
Vortigern will kill my children as well as Constans if Constantine should fail in his grand plan, her thoughts continued. Any ambitious young king would be unable to resist taking such a prize if it was dangled under his nose. And would Vortigern permit me to remain alive once he’d achieved his ambition?
The moon slid behind the lowering clouds as Severa racked her brains and considered the ways that future events might unfold. She wished, for a moment, that Endellion’s strange gift was hers so that she could part the heavy curtains of the future.
Yes! I am the daughter of Flavius Magnus Maximus and I r
emain fecund. I can bear the sons of Vortigern just as easily as I bore the children of Flavius Claudius Constantine. I will be permitted to remain alive, if such a fate is living.
Severa wept then and she wished she had the courage to open her veins if that dreary day should arrive. But she was also certain that she could never leave her sons without the protection of a mother. Unprotected, they would face certain death.
But you, Constantine, aren’t the only person in this world who can devise a plan. Given time, I will find a way to make my boys safe into the future. And I will bring about an outcome that has escaped your consideration.
The night wind had no answers, but Severa felt the first raindrops from the low, scudding clouds strike her face, as if the skies were also weeping.
A week elapsed. Then ten days, and the army continued to feast on Venta Belgarum’s supplies like a hungry cloud of locusts. The town elders were already talking of the shortages that would plague them during the next winter, while Severa shook her head reflectively whenever she saw signs of rapine and pillage in the peaceful town.
On the second day of the bivouac at Venta Belgarum, Constantine had presented Vortigern to Severa and Constans. The queen was forced to admit to herself that the young kinglet had surprised her. She had imagined him to be in his thirties like her husband, but his age was similar to her own. Vortigern’s curling mane of blond-red hair was very striking, as were his upturned lips, but his perpetual smile unnerved her because it never quite reached his cold eyes. Still, he was strong and gracious, and seemed to seek her favour. She felt a reluctant liking for this vigorous young man, despite the chill in his heavy-lidded eyes.
Vortigern was always kind to young Constans, even when no one was watching. He treated the youth as if he was his younger brother and displayed a companionable camaraderie, teaching Constans a number of tactical swordcraft ploys that might in future serve to save the young man’s life. Unsurprisingly, Constans quickly became Vortigern’s slave and Severa saw an occasional twist of jealousy on Constantine’s face when he watched his eldest son trailing after the young Demetae king.
Severa wanted to warn Vortigern, but she lacked the courage. Her husband would resent an alternative hero-figure presenting himself to the boy, but the Demetae was careful to insist that Constans should dance attendance on his father at every opportunity. Severa understood from the Briton’s machinations that he was manipulating Constans, but was unable to decide whether to be fearful, or to admire his diplomatic skills.
She concluded that Constantine was not as clever as he believed himself to be and, at times, an impulse to laugh at her husband’s ignorance was almost irresistible. But then she recalled that Vortigern would be in control of her destiny, if her husband were to perish.
At the end of each long and desolate day, she knelt beside her bed and prayed that Constantine would succeed in his quest. When he saw her dedication to the teachings of the Church he was touched, so he treated her with more gentleness than before.
Although he remained a contained husband, Constantine warmed to his boys until Ambrosius forgot his fear of this stern man and Uther bestowed his charming smiles on the man who was both his father and his king.
For a month, a brief period of healing, Constantine and his army rested in their bivouac at Venta Belgarum. And then, as quickly as they had arrived and with as little fanfare, they were gone.
At the door of the palace, Constantine had paused to kiss each of his sons. Then, as his persona of a good and kindly king dictated, he embraced Severa as he would have done in days of old, an action that almost caused her to weep. Earlier he had made his farewells in private and kissed her with a brotherly chasteness quite different from his public display of passion. He would beget children on her as often as he could, but the change in his circumstances had fed something calculating and cold in his nature, so she knew he would never love her as she desired.
All in all her life would be better after his departure, she decided.
Like a long and slender serpent, Constantine’s army marched through the fertile landscape of the south while swelling his war chest with tribute from the rulers and gathering hot-headed volunteers from the Regni, Atrebates and Cantii tribes. The men who joined his columns came with smiles, gratitude and a benign grace, but the kings sighed as they assessed their depleted winter stores, diverted to feed the High King’s ravenous warriors. However, being pragmatic rulers, they reasoned that Constantine would honour his debts and protect them when the Saxons resumed their incursions in the coming spring.
At Dubris, the army took ship in what became a long and tedious shuttle that took men, horses and supplies over the short stretch of the Litus Saxonicum to a landfall at Gesoriacum in the land of the Franks. An invading army of this size took weeks to move, even over such a short distance as this narrow strip of water, so the resultant delays in communication forced extended periods of inaction for the High King and his officers. Gesoriacum had seen armies come and go, and the population was unimpressed by this latest claimant who sought the throne of the Western Empire. Meanwhile, the merchants of the town fleeced Constantine and his men outrageously.
Once Constantine arrived with the advance contingent, he was forced to cool his heels in an unlovely bivouac that his advance party had prepared outside Gesoriacum, a port that was unapologetically devoted to trade and brisk, untrammelled commerce. Unfortunately, anything that disturbed business was frowned upon. The city elders knew that warfare would eat into their profit margins; warrior kings from Britannia caused trouble, so the presence of a foreign army was always accompanied by large ripples in the smooth-flowing river of goods that passed through the port.
Weeks passed as Constantine despatched scouts to assess the terrain and establish the presence of possible enemies along the probable route that would be followed by his army.
Then, while his army was assembling outside the port, Constantine despatched envoys to the Germanic tribes to broker meetings that could forge an alliance. He needed allies such as these barbarians at his back, fierce leaders who could secure the frontier and minimise the chances that his Romano-British force could be attacked by opportunistic savages when passing through the land of the Franks.
The Germanic rulers met with Constantine under leather in the far north of Gallia while his army languished in the bivouac at Gesoriacum. Fortunately these fierce warriors had the same resentments against Rome as the more civilised Franks, Goths and Visigoths. Truces were proposed and quickly agreed to.
In his triumph, Constantine had forgotten to discuss his plans with Britannia’s most pressing enemies, the Saxons, who were offended when they found themselves ignored by this new claimant to the purple. The river of blood that would flow from this oversight was an unfortunate consequence for the innocent victims who would suffer at the hands of the northerners in the coming decades.
Meanwhile, two messengers had also been sent to Cledwyn, son of Conanus, in his sanctuary at Armorica. Cledwyn had no reason to love Constantine or Severa, his father’s killers, but nor did he rest easily under the tyranny and taxes meted out by the decaying empire. As an intelligent young ruler, Cledwyn was ripe for alliances with any men of power prepared to assist the British presence in Armorica. Without a need to resort to threats, Constantine reasoned that its young warriors would flock to his cause, for his banner represented a victorious future rather than the demands of a dying empire that was Rome’s legacy.
Other couriers were sent to the Franks, the dominant tribe within Gallia. As most of Rome’s troops along the frontier were Frankish tribal warriors, Constantine appreciated the value of seeking favour with the many small kinglets co-existing within the Frankish lands. The warlike Visigoths of the south were also allies of Rome but they, too, chafed under the arrogance and pretensions of their Roman masters. Nor was their pay regular or generous. The emperor and the senate had bred slow-burning resentme
nt in Gallia over the past century and had been careless of the desires and aspirations of those Franks and Visigoths who were an integral part of Rome’s continued survival.
Yet here was a Roman, with an army at his back, who had the wit to make treaties with the greatest enemies of the Franks. The kinglets looked towards Constantine, remembered Maximus and decided to risk the enmity of Rome.
‘Those pretenders who rule us from Rome have always treated the tribal lords as stupid barbarians over the years,’ Constantine explained to Paulus. ‘The patricians persist in believing that all men and women within the empire are no better than slaves if they aren’t born into their exalted class. They also look down on any Romans who don’t reside within sight of the Palatine. We know the slurs that are cast upon us, without fear or favour, by any Roman with any pretence of breeding. You must remember Marcus Shit-head!’
‘Ugh!’ Paulus grunted. ‘My old pater served in the legions in Egypt, and his father served Rome before him. In the old days, some of us were born in Rome, but most of Rome’s soldiers drew their first breaths in some stinking hole on the very edge of civilisation. As we were classed as plebeians, we were fated to stand a bare step above the slaves who served our betters.’
‘Yet Roman soldiers remain proud of their legions and their positions within them,’ Constantine allowed. ‘At least our legionnaires know themselves to be the best soldiers in the world, regardless of the gratitude shown to them by the senate and the sodding patricians.’
Constantine had spoken with pride, but cynically too, as if men like him were fools to have spent their lives for so little reward or appreciation.
Paulus grinned in his usual dry fashion.
‘Yes, master, my old father always said he’d been all kinds of fool during his long life. He always thought it better to try his chances in the arena or hire himself out as a bullyboy, rather than die in some shithole over nothing at all.’