The King's Cavalry

by Paul Bannister

  Myrddin was unhappy, even distressed. The necromancer had been communing with the dead and he had received several doom-loaded warnings. Britain’s ancient gods, he heard, were disturbed that the emperor they had led to his throne had turned his back on them. Arthur of Britain was a Christian ruler and that, the shades of Boadicea and Caratacus, of Albanac of Pictland and Brutus Greenshield all warned him, could mean the gods would withdraw their support from the island. The sorcerer had begged for the ghosts’ help. What, he asked them, could he do?

  It was the shade of Caratacus, a British king who had fought the Romans and lost that gave an answer. The warrior king had lost his last battle and was taken in chains to the emperor in Rome for execution. But he fought on with words, not swords, and was reprieved, although he had to live out his exile away from his conquered, native island. His wistful ghost supplied a partial solution to Myrddin’s question. “It is in your mind, and a woman must answer it,” he said. Myrddin could get nothing clearer than that from the spirit and finally, exhausted, gave up. But the sorcerer’s message went out to his protégé, Guinevia.

  *

  The Druidess was sending her mind afield, viewing her mentor Myrddin’s square stone house on the slopes of the sacred Welsh mountain, Yr Wyddfa. She was sitting in a throne-like, high-backed chair, in a darkened chamber above the harbour at Bononia. Guinevia was quite relaxed, hands along the armrests of the chair, fingers curled, eyes now closed. Beside her a scared slave crouched, ready to scratch on a wax tablet the words her mistress would mutter as she psychically viewed the distant hillside.

  It was a sorcerer’s potent magic, this ability to send out a mental eye, but Guinevia was a powerful Druid in her own right, and had been endowed by Myrddin as well as by her own sufferings and studies. She used a smooth block of glassy obsidian as a device to focus her mind, gazing into it until images swam into view, and she would send out her powers to see her target, however distant. The caveat she had learned was not to interpret her visions while they were happening, but to speak aloud her impressions and only later attempt to understand what she had viewed.

  This day she had been moved by her instincts to send her mind to meet Myrddin’s, and had composed herself into the familiar distraction-free mode, gazed into the obsidian and emptied her brain. Now the images flowed.

  She was aware of the brisk wind that moved the grasses and heather of the hillside and she had a hawk’s view of Myrddin’s house and high-walled courtyard as she seemed to swoop down towards it. There was the sorcerer himself, in a scholar’s grey gown, his dark hair neatly braided, walking across the courtyard. He seemed fretful, as worried as the Druid had ever seen her usually-composed mentor. Guinevia could see this as clearly as she could see his gardener, a freed slave she knew was named Pattia, grubbing up weeds from the sun-warmed soil. It was a domestic scene, tranquil and routine, but instinct told her she urgently needed to view what she would see.

  Myrddin seemed to sense her presence. He raised his head sharply, snuffling at the air like a scenting hound. In that moment, Guinevia felt the magnetic force of his mind seeking, projecting to her and his voice sounded in her brain. Tonelessly, she repeated aloud what she heard, and the nervous slave’s stylus skittered across the wax, recording it. The Druidess uttered the phrases she heard, sensing their importance, then the vision was fading, Myrddin’s voice was fading away and her mind and physical body seemed to meld in a gentle fusion, and she was seated in the stone chamber with the harbour sounds murmuring in through the window and the squalling, raucous gulls’ harsh calls echoing.

  She took several deep breaths, aware of a dim sense and shape of what she had witnessed but reluctant to consciously call it up until she heard the thoughts she had been given. “Read it to me,” she told the slave, leaning back to rest her head.

  From behind the sanctuary of her closed eyelids she heard: “The son of no father and a king who is false to his god will recover a Druid’s treasure to mollify Britain’s deities. Seek a farmer’s bull in his floor.”

  The slave repeated the words several times until Guinevia was sure she had them secure in her mind. “Smooth them from the wax,” she commanded. “And never, ever repeat them, on your life.” The slave bowed her head. She knew that her mistress was an adept of Ogmia, god of the power of words as well as a follower of Nicevenn, the terrible witch goddess of the wild hunt. She would not, from terror, consider spilling this secret…

  Her mistress viewed the slave thoughtfully. What, if anything, did this riddle mean? She went to her library of scrolls to seek some answers.

  XII - Summons

  The courier arrived, as messengers with bad news always seem to do, just as I was feeling good about things. I had my horses, the men and their mounts were moving along with the training, Maximian’s forces were seemingly not a threat to King Stelamann or his allies, so I could withdraw, and the road seemed open for a return to Bononia and Britain.

  The messenger caught me as I was crossing the courtyard and scrambled from his spume-flecked horse. He had been riding hard and was gasping as he handed me the familiar red leather cylinder with the emperor’s seal. The epistle within it was unusually long and told me that Bishop Candless had arrived in Rome, that the queen mother would see him concerning Christian relics and that the emperor himself was now in Milan and requested my presence there before the feast days of Pomona, goddess of autumn, arrived. We should, said Constantine’s missive, be face-to-face to discuss the futures of our empires as there were matters of great import in train.

  This I understood to be Constantine’s concern over the rival claims to the throne that were being presented by Maxentius and Galerius, who seemed to have greater favour than he with the legions and with a conference of senators who had several years before appointed them as augusti. Constantine had been fobbed off with the junior, caesar role. Civil war was in the offing.

  For me, the politics were tangled. I had personally executed Constantine’s father, Constantius Chlorus after he led an unsuccessful invasion against me. Spies told me, however, that Constantine seemed not to hold any animosity to me. First, it was a decision of war, secondly, he hated his father.

  The other side of the coin was that I had thrown Maxentius’ father, my lifelong enemy Maximian, to his death off an aqueduct near Nimes. I had defeated him in battle and then hunted him down across Gaul. This I knew was only one of the reasons Maxentius hated me and wanted revenge. He had not only lost a father, he had also been insulted by a renegade who stole a part of the Roman empire his father ruled. He had to regain his dignitas by executing me.

  So far, I had no killings to my account against the family of Galerius, but to have the deaths of not one but two Roman emperors by my hand had certainly raised my profile in the forum.

  I had done some things to improve my standing with the wily Constantine, however. He had turned away from the old gods when he realised that Christianity was a growing force. I had been forced to a similar understanding, and raised a Christian army to defeat Maximian, so when Constantine announced that Christianity would be tolerated in the Roman Empire, I had ordered a public display of loyalty to him by my troops in Eboracum, the empire’s garrison in northern Britain. It was an easy decision: one emperor hated me, one said he didn’t. Even if I did not have full faith in the second, allying with him was still the better wager.

  Now I had to consider whether to put my neck into Constantine’s noose. Perhaps he wanted to lure me to his palace in Milan to execute me, perhaps he simply wanted to cement the alliance. Certainly it was not the first time he had politely requested me to visit him, and an emperor’s request is not lightly denied. I was pacing up and down, thinking the problem out. Eventually, I opted to go. If I insulted the emperor, he might resume hostilities with Britain - he had all the excuses he needed to invade – but if I could agree a peace, face-to-face, it could be a lasting one.

  Lastly, my squadron of a 500 heavy horsemen and I were already halfway to Milan. We m
ight never be so close again. The itinera, said the messenger, showed it was 500,000 paces away, or 32 days at a gentle tempo. The roads, he said were good until we met the Alps, and were fine again after that. Three weeks at a brisk pace of about 25 miles a day would do it, I thought. We had the heavy horses, we had experienced campaigners on their backs, we should go. It was summer now, we would be in the northern Italian city, Mithras willing, in fine weather and would have time to conduct our business and recross the Alps on our homeward trek long before the first snows.

  I told the messenger to go and rest, I would send a reply with him tomorrow. The decision was made. We were going to see an emperor who would either help me secure my kingdom or who might take my head.

  Two days later our fine new mounts, knowing that the big forage bags slung behind their saddles presaged a journey, were fretting and champing to start and we rode out as a cavalry force like none the world had ever seen, on huge, strong, heavy horses that could smash through infantry or crush conventional cavalry with its sheer power. We rode under my personal false flag, the red and white banner of Christianity and we carried a red cross on our white-daubed shields. I knew that many of my men were still openly pagan, but they cheerfully carried the Jesus god symbols, reasoning that he was just another deity in a whole pantheon of them.

  “Shake it off,” said Grabelius. He had seen my brooding expression and correctly guessed the reason. “The gods won’t punish you for saving Britain. They’re probably drinking wine and laughing at how you’ve outwitted the Christ god. He’s just another one with his own temples. Anyway, what’s the itinera for today, you old donkey walloper?”

  We did not know it but we would follow in the dusty tracks of Bishop Candless, whose route we joined at Basel, trailed him through Brigantia and over the summer-lovely passes of the Alps. We trotted smoothly and unhindered through those imposing mountains, and descended from their folded ramparts to travel alongside the deep blue of Lake Como and into the vineyard-dotted plains with their vast herds of sheep and pigs outside Mediolanum, as the Romans called Milan. The city had long been a favoured residence of the Caesars, and my old enemy Maximian had ruled the western empire from here, building in the city some huge monuments to his own glory.

  We came in sight of the walls, passed the arena and rode through one of the western gates, an entry which breached the 35 feet high defences under the protection of a pair of 24-sided towers of red brick and tile. Here, we passed in alongside one of Maximian’s memorials, a vast circus, in full 500 paces long and about 100 wide, elaborately finished to make it the rival of any in the whole empire.

  The guards questioned us about our business, but were respectful and eyed our magnificent steeds warily. These were infantrymen, and they knew what trained horses like these could do against them in battle. Soon, with a pair of guides sent by the imperial household, we headed for the accommodations we were offered, to rest and refresh after our long journey. In a day or two I would meet Constantine and see what the Fates had plotted for me. These might be, I thought gloomily, the last days when my head and shoulders were connected.

  Then the news came from a major domo of the imperial staff. Constantine was in Milan and had been there for five or six days, but he had been busy before we arrived. He had struck the alpine garrison town of Segusio which guarded the Italian side of the passes before Maxentius knew he was even on his way.

  Constantine had opted to storm the walls, as he had no time for a siege and had used my own old technique of employing Byzantine fire against the city gates. His ‘wild ass’ catapults hurled pot after ceramic pot of the sticky incendiary to shatter on or over the gates. The inferno inside the walls kept the defenders back and, while they were desperately fighting to save the place, Constantine threw a mass of ladder-borne infantry across the walls. The city fell within the day.

  Next, he had turned his forces towards Turin, to meet Maxentius in full force on the plains outside the city. The messengers who brought me the news told me some interesting facts about the battle. Maxentius had employed his elite cavalry in a wedge which broke his rival’s ranks but Constantine had kept his foot soldiers in deep skirmish order, enveloping the horsemen and bogging them down. Then he threw in his light cavalry, armed with iron clubs, against the static horsemen. The more mobile units overcame the heavy dragoons, who could not employ their charge-and-crush tactics and the infantry quickly destroyed Maxentius’ horse. I made mental note of the tactic.

  Maxentius, defeated, had fled south and Constantine found himself the master of almost all of northern Italy. He had returned to Milan, said the messengers, just six days before and seemed ready to move soon. It seemed that my fateful meeting with the victorious emperor would be in the next day or two.

  Grabelius and Quirinus were eager to explore the city, and as we were staying conveniently close to the palace complex, between the forum and the famous theatre, they had plenty to see. For myself, I had dispatches to read and consider, orders to give, and a steady stream of supplicants eager to present their petitions and vent their grievances to the emperor of Britain.

  I stayed in my airy quarters, ate a fine meal of roast chicken and truffles and worked late, occasionally raising my head to the bleating of sheep, an unusual sound in a city. Milan was a centre of the wool trade and herdsmen brought in their flocks after dusk, when they and waggons were allowed on the streets. The rumbling of the waggons and the sounds of the flocks trotting and bleating under my window was strangely soothing, and I soon rolled myself in my cloak and sank into the pallet. Tomorrow, I’d deal with the business of keeping my head on my shoulders.

  XIII - Helena

  Emperor Constantine’s mother, Queen Helena Augusta was delighted to meet Bishop Candless, who gave her the full force of his roguish charm and tickled his forefinger meaningfully across her palm when she greeted him.

  The queen was spreading her wings, as she had not enjoyed her marriage to Constantius Chlorus and after decades of being treated as an appendage and mere military wife, living in campaign tents in Germania and Gaul, her new existence as the honoured mother of a caesar was decidedly liberating. She had influence at court, even if she was holding her court in Rome and her son was in Milan. Plus, she was indulging her new passion for collecting Christian relics and she had just enjoyed an adventure, sailing to the Holy Land and visiting Jerusalem as an important guest.

  Now the emissary of the British king had arrived and was flattering her, and he was a fine figure of a man, not at all like the simpering, whey-faced clerics she’d met before. So what if he was younger than she? She wasn’t exactly a dried-up old trot, she told herself, and he wasn’t acting much like a bishop, either.

  Candless was speaking and she dragged herself back to the present. “A wonderful sculpture of a young woman,” he was saying, indicating a bust of the queen herself. She preened.

  “No young woman,” she said girlishly, “it’s actually one of me.” Candless assumed a shocked expression.

  “Aye, so it is, so it is, your majesty, I was concairned to enjoy the beauty and ovairlooked the close similairity.” Candless’ Pictish accent broadened on occasion. It was a deadly weapon with women and he knew it. Combined with his scholar-warrior image, it made him irresistible.

  The queen eyed him sidelong as she explained that she had been testing some of the marble wigs she had ordered for the bust, trying them on it to see which she liked. The sculptures were of different hair styles that would be fitted over the funerary bust to keep its appearance fashionable long after the queen’s death. Romans believed in having sculptures made and portraits painted for display by their tombs so future generations would know just how they looked, and the wealthy matrons didn’t want their hair to look dated, so ordered a dozen or more styles for their descendants to fit, and keep their stone memorials current.

  Candless made courtier-like noises about how nobody would notice the hair, so taken would they be with the visage below them, the queen simpered and ha
d the grace to blush and Candless moved in for the kill.

  “You have done wonders for the church,” he said gravely, patting the back of the hand which the queen had left conveniently close, “aye, with all your sacrifices and arduous travels to retrieve the precious treasures of our Saviour.” The brilliant blue eyes gazing into hers with doglike devotion, the hand casually left covering hers, the rogue bishop’s obvious virility all combined to burst the queen’s dam.

  She poured out the details of her travels to Jerusalem, she told Candless how her investigators had pinpointed the place of execution of St Peter next to the artificial lake, the Naumachia, how the saint had been buried under a sacred terebinth tree there and later his remains had been secretly moved.

  His bones, the queen told the eagerly attentive bishop, were now in a bronze casket she had labeled with ‘Peter is here.’

  “In Greek,” she explained, “so only an educated person would understand, and a common thief would not know.” She had plans for a vast bronze-covered sarcophagus and a 150 lbs cross of gold to contain the relics, all to be installed in a magnificent basilica. “We have even recovered the skull of the blessed Saint Paul, and will put them both together,” she confided, and Candless gulped. If he could get his hands on a few of those bones, he thought, his church would be a centre for pilgrims from all over Europe.

  Queen Helena was still talking. “And we have the nails, the holy nails from the One True Cross,” she said, “which I personally brought back from Jerusalem.” Candless saw his moment. In a short spell of inspired oratory, he convinced the queen that the brutal soldiery had tortured Christ by double-nailing him to the crucifix, and he, Candless, had miraculously obtained the other set of holy nails.

  As he had taken the precaution of obtaining some nine-inch iron spikes that had actually been used in the crucifixion of an anonymous wretch, he was able to persuade the queen, who was more interested in Candless’ thrilling gaze than in the smooth words pouring from his mouth, to produce the holy relics. He swiftly had them mixed and muddled with his own fakes, had talked his way into obtaining a few sacred bones of unknown provenance and had given the queen such a deep blessing and lifetime supply of indulgences that she walked in a haze of sanctity for a week.