by M. K. Hume
‘Aye!’ Constantine replied slowly. ‘I was a lucky lad when my father ordered me to learn my letters. Only the favours won in battle by my father secured my schooling among the group of lads who were the sons of senior officers in the Roman command. I was the token charity lad, and was made to feel like one. But when I seemed likely to become rebellious, my father told me that there was only one way to break out of the rigid class system. I took in my father’s common sense and ambition with my mother’s milk.’
This burst of candour embarrassed Paulus, although he recognised the reasoning and strength of purpose that had solidified Constantine’s fervent ambitions. The decurion mulled over his lord’s meaning with great care. But he kept his mouth shut and made no dangerous errors in judgement. A clever man knew when to listen in silence.
‘The empire will fail without us,’ he finally said. ‘Like it or not, Rome survives on our bodies; rises above the barbarians on the tide of our spilt blood and has only seen the wonders of a huge world through our eyes. Change is coming fast and we, as usual, will have to be in the vanguard. But what if the empire should ultimately fail? How will those of us who live in the West continue to stand without our withered and ungrateful mother to succour us?’
‘Fucked if I know, Paulus! But I don’t intend to fail in my ambitions, regardless of what happens to Rome. I’ve made an irrevocable decision to throw the dice, exactly as Caesar did all those years ago. Only God can know which way the dice will fall.’
Constantine’s rare confidences left Paulus with much to ponder. For the first time, the decurion was looking beyond the urgent demands of the present in order to consider what his actions of today might mean for tomorrow.
As the army gradually assembled in the bivouac outside the grimy walls of Gesoriacum, couriers and scouts began to return to Constantine’s war tent. The news they carried varied from man to man and was, predictably, mixed in its effects on the High King’s temper and plans.
Given its past history, Armorica remained stubbornly angry at the circumstances surrounding the death of Conanus. However, its young men would answer Constantine’s call for assistance, now that he had finally come to Gallia. Cledwyn made his feelings abundantly clear in a memorised message that was passed directly to the High King, late one afternoon just as the lamps were being lit. The pungent stink of fish oil had permeated every corner of the tent and set Constantine’s teeth on edge.
The courier began by begging Constantine to forgive him for the tone of the message that he was about to repeat. Although the High King readily agreed, his eyes snapped in anger at the expectation of an insulting rebuff.
But Cledwyn of Armorica was not so foolish. His message to Constantine was simple.
Hail to the High King, formerly the centurion, Constantinus.
I remember you well and I remain mindful of the circumstances of our last meeting. But nor has our province rested easily under the control of the emperor. Taxes are exorbitant and are taken from my people in a manner that offends them.
Therefore, regardless of our past history, Armorica will come to your assistance in the hoped-for victory over the rag-tag legions that are aligned against you. I do, however, reserve the right to leave your service at any time, if our safety and the benefits to Armorica are placed in jeopardy.
My warriors will pass through Lutetia within the week, and I will expect to meet with you in Arelate as summer ends. I trust that our association will be more mutually advantageous than our last encounter.
From Cledwyn of Armorica.
By his scribe, Demetrius of Antioch
No gracious welcomes! No respectful phrases! And definitely no hint of trust!
Any pleasure that Constantine could have hoped to receive from this curt message from Cledwyn paled into insignificance at its underlying tone. The High King bit on his lip and forced himself to ignore the thinly veiled contempt.
Meanwhile, cautious messages were delivered to Constantine from local kings and warlords, although no one was prepared to give unqualified support to a British High King who had once been a humble centurion.
Nor did they thoroughly trust him. The couriers reported that the High King’s marriage to Severa, daughter of Flavius Magnus Maximus, was probably the actual reason that no tribal leader refused to support Constantine’s ambitions. Maximus’s memory still held the power to generate favour, but the tribes were wary of the disruption that occurred after the great man’s demise. However, the tribal rulers knew that ruthless tribes of barbarians were clustered together in unholy alliances along the Frankish northern borders and these warriors were staring towards the soft, fecund lands of the south with avaricious eyes. And these were the same northerners with whom Constantine had made alliances. The more prudent kings called their men to war and, suddenly, the sluggishly moving army was swelled as the Franks made up their capricious minds.
Only a fool would give total trust to an unknown quantity such as Constantinus; but only a dangerously arrogant ruler would ignore a commander who possessed the golden touch.
And so a new feeling of confidence was conveyed to all the tribes and towns that were likely to supply men, gold and stores to the army from Britannia.
CHAPTER XX
A Woman’s Price is Above Rubies
Every day we die, every day we are changed,
and yet we believe ourselves to be eternal.
St Jerome, To Heliodorus, Letter 60
As her husband’s army began the long and arduous march through Lutetia, Severa waited, watched the regent carry out his duties and experienced the taste and smell of maternal fear.
Constantine had scarcely set sail for the continent when Vortigern began to strengthen the powers of the throne in Venta Belgarum, through the simple expediency of forcing the tribal kings to provide the High King, in absentia, with either men or gold for what he deemed to be an Army of Protection.
After the demands that had already been made on them, the kings resented Vortigern’s high-handed manner from the beginning. But even the most foolish of them looked to the empty Roman fortresses and the wide, deserted seas that surrounded Britannia and protected the Britons from their barbarian neighbours, and began to feel the first stirrings of alarm.
‘We’ve been open to attack from the moment that Constantine stripped the land bare to pay for his adventure in Gallia. It’s time to sacrifice more of our wealth to protect our lands and our citizens, until such time as the master returns,’ Vortigern explained with an understanding smile. ‘I must do my part as well as you, although the Demetae tribe is small and our lands aren’t fertile. No man shall be exempt and no tribe can expect to receive favourable treatment.’
Regardless of how the tribal kings felt about the High King, they understood the unspoken warning that Constantine might not return.
Each of the rulers knew that Magnus Maximus had sailed away from Britannia and had never returned. But, deep within their secret hearts, many felt that Constantine wasn’t comparable to Maximus, although the new pretender seemed strong enough.
And so the tribal leaders scoured their lands for youths who could be sent to Vortigern for training. In the process, they stripped their farming communities of the sons needed to work the fields and make them productive. Those tribes who had suffered the brunt of the barbarian attacks in the past, and who subsequently had no suitable men or boys to send, had to unearth their long-hidden gold so that mercenaries could be purchased. Forced to comply with these demands, the citizens were careful to ensure their masters’ backs were turned before treasonous words were uttered.
Consequently, farms were worked by wives and daughters, while old men were co-opted to toil in the fields long after the strength of their legs had vanished.
Across the land, hunger came before the onset of winter, for strong men were needed to till the soil, tend the crops and gather the harves
t. Apples rotted on the ground, while vegetables and grain went to seed unharvested. Small children worked like little adults and exhaustion fought with illness, as death came to the land before autumn was half gone.
Still, few new workers were forthcoming but the farming folk had to answer the demands made by the great ones, without complaint.
But should the rulers levy taxes on the crops and grain that were harvested with such painful effort and sacrifice? Even the most loyal of old men chafed under the injustices inflicted on Britannia’s poor. The growls that came from the peasantry were finally heard as they spread across the length and breadth of the tribal lands. Vortigern heard them and his eyes became glacial.
‘We’ve given our sons for wars that are of no concern to the people of these lands, so why should we starve for rulers such as Maximus? He is long dead and almost forgotten. Why should we suffer for a Constantine? Or a Vortigern? Neither of these men could stand in Maximus’s boots, and neither will work beside us in the fields or serve in the ranks of the army. These men who would be kings see themselves as too fine to suffer as we do.’
Occasionally, an old man would offer a variation on this tirade, one that boded no good for Constans if his father should perish in Gallia. Severa heard the whispers through the gossip of her maid, Dilic.
‘That Constantine isn’t even a Briton,’ one of the older folk was heard to mutter. ‘He’s Roman through and through, curse him, so why should he care what happens to us? His lady is half-British and is a good soul, right enough, but she’s only a woman! At least this Vortigern is a tribesman, albeit one from Cymru, the cesspit of rain and sludge.’
Severa saw the sullen resentment in gaunt faces that had once smiled with the joy of living. She was afraid of Vortigern’s plans, but she was unable to demur. No one would listen, regardless of her exalted status. After all, she was only a woman.
Yet Vortigern took pains to be respectful and gracious to Severa, deferring to her with open admiration as he displayed the outward loyalty of a devoted servant. He played with the boys and was a great favourite, even with little Uther who seemed to have been born with a natural distrust of human nature. To hear her sons chirping with laughter, as Vortigern tossed them high into the air and then, deftly, caught them as they dissolved into gales of giggles, made her frozen heart melt. But she could never trust the Demetae warrior, even though his desire to talk with her was more genuine than Constantine’s had ever been in the days before his departure from Venta Belgarum.
Constans admired Vortigern with a boy’s hero-worship and sought his opinion on all manner of subjects with a slavish devotion. Even when Severa attempted to warn Constans of the dangers posed by the Demetae kinglet, the lad refused to listen.
Into this world of resentment and bubbling tension came a number of dubious rumours warning the citizens that those who lived in the British lands were doomed. Severa heard the substance of this fear-mongering that terrified citizens of all ages and intelligences. Those families with means began to hoard food and coin for the troubled times that lay ahead; avaricious fortune tellers and charlatans convinced many of the citizens that the vagabonds who wandered through her lands were the true descendants of the Druids and, as such, were in possession of the Sight. The superstitious and the credulous became easy prey to these unscrupulous scavengers who sold dubious amulets, charms and worthless prayers.
Severa abhorred the activities of these obvious frauds. The educated persons in the community understood that their Roman overlords had twice ordered pogroms across the length and breadth of the British lands which ferreted out the last of these ancient lawgivers and religious leaders. For better or for worse, the Romans permitted none of the Druids to survive among the ancient groves where they offered prayers to their strange pagan gods in a doomed effort to save their people from the curse of history. Yet war and troubled times served to glorify their reputation and their demise erased the spectre of human sacrifice that had been an integral part of this ancient religion. The more gullible of the British peasants, fearful of the future, became easy marks for the rogues who wandered through their lands in dirty robes.
‘We were born too late, Constans,’ Severa told the youth after the first occasion when he delivered justice alone, Vortigern having undertaken a journey along the road to Calleva Atrebatum to meet with agents who would provide him with information on Tribune Maximo’s plans for Isca. She had been encouraged by Constans’s performance, although the boy was very conscious of his voice which, in the process of breaking, was occasionally unpredictable.
In response to the queen’s congratulations, the youth raised one eyebrow in the manner of his father. Severa felt the nape of her neck shiver.
‘If we had been born fifty years ago, we could have expected to live and die in relative peace and plenty,’ she explained. ‘But as God has decreed, Rome is failing in our time and the northern tribes of Germania are stirring from their dark forests to shatter the peace of our lands.’
‘Father says that the demise of Rome is only a matter of time. He’s been saying the same thing for as long as I can remember, but when last we spoke, he swore that the time had arrived when all good men must do their utmost to stave off that terrible day.’
Severa nodded in reluctant agreement. Although she was half-Roman, her sympathies were wholly with the tribes.
‘Yes, I suppose my Constantinus is right. He is wise in these matters. I suppose we must all try to halt the tide, although I fear we’ll fail in this unequal task. It’s easier to stop the sun from shining in the heavens than change the ambitions of avaricious and angry men.’
‘My father’s name is Constantine now, Mother Severa, and I’m sure that he has been chosen by Fortuna to become the next emperor,’ Constans chided her gently, for he had developed a strong and unexpected affection for his stepmother.
Severa hated that shorter, assumed name that gave her husband the pretence of a talent that he lacked. Still, in deference to the lad’s love for his father, she ignored her irritation and offered the boy proof of her own confidence in her husband’s abilities.
‘Aye, lad, I agree with you. But I fell in love with my Constantinus, a centurion, and the man who saved my life on so many occasions during our escape from Corinium. I loved the man who never thought to rule, although I suspect he may have cherished certain ambitions for a long time.’
She swallowed the words that came unbidden to her mind.
If the truth is known, I no longer love Constantine, for I know that he’ll do anything that assists him in his quest to become emperor and rule in Rome. One way or the other, he will never return to Britannia.
A week later, after a self-satisfied Vortigern had returned and commenced the training schedules for the steady trickle of youths sent to Venta Belgarum in response to his demands, a soothsayer arrived at Constantine’s palace with the haughty arrogance of a man with an important message to report to superiors. This verminous man, wild of hair and eye, and clad only in a goat’s skin, insisted on seeing the lords of the town. No threats, no cuffing about the ears or fierce promises of imprisonment deterred him in the slightest. After he had camped on the palace steps for two days, careless of where he urinated or moved his bowels, Severa finally ordered him brought before her, in order to warn the miscreant that he was risking her anger by persisting with his foolish and disgusting behaviour.
Unrepentant, foul-mouthed and with long hanks of grey, lice-ridden hair, the vagabond entered the King’s Hall with a swagger, although his naked feet were cut and scabbed from half-healed sores. He was forced to depend on the assistance of a rough-cut staff of oak when he stood, without bowing or recognising the nobility of Severa, or even Vortigern, who joined her to examine this strange outlander. The seer pointed one arthritic, malformed finger towards Severa and spoke with such venom that spittle stained his yellow-grey beard.
‘Beware, Woman of
Straw, for your husband has ignored the warnings from God and his fate has now been sealed. As a bitch born of a Roman, you have no right to lord your birthrights over the people of these lands, so you will feel the lashings of despair before your sons are half-grown. Nor shall you raise them to maturity. Those who live will be forced to beg for their bread and know the shame of charity before they become men.’
Constans had entered the hall on silent feet while the eremite raved his words of warning at Severa. Now, incensed at the insults directed at his stepmother, the youth took a threatening step towards the old man, who seemed much stronger and more terrifying than most of the usual charlatans who peddled their sick dreams for copper coins.
‘Shut your disgusting mouth, old man! Your diseased rantings will be the death of you, unless I decide to have your tongue removed at the root. How dare you insult the mother of the British people and threaten my brothers with harm?’
The soothsayer turned his fanatical eyes towards the youth and snarled like a rabid dog.
‘The gods have assured me, Constans, that you are the base scion of another base Roman. I warn you that you should heed my words. You must beware the man who smiles and smiles!’
Constans recoiled, but Vortigern drew his long knife from its scabbard. The soothsayer must have heard the hiss as the weapon was unsheathed, but he ignored the ominous sound to concentrate on the man who had drawn it.
‘Do you intend to help me to reach my fate, son of the Demetae? You are the one who will betray our people and open the doors of Britannia to the Brothers of Chaos, so heed my warning to you. You must beware a white horse running and the Demon Seed!’
‘By the name of Hades! What is this nonsense of which you speak?’ Vortigern snarled, but his eyes had darkened with something more sinister than simple rage. Severa knew then that the Demetae king was false. She shivered and her heart sank.
‘See! You’ve upset the queen, so take the fool away,’ Vortigern demanded. However, as the warriors on guard duty attempted to approach the fanatic, the old man skipped away from their outstretched arms with the dexterity of an agile child.