Only long days later, as she was back in her palace in Milan and Candless was sailing towards the Gates of Hercules with his loot, did the queen find herself wondering about exactly what had happened and why did she have no idea if she still had the same relics she had retrieved so expensively from Jerusalem? One of her prettiest maids, diligently primed by Candless during several long and close encounters, soothed her fears. “Lady, “ she said, “only you have the secret. It is not worth putting a doubt into the minds of the faithful. Few people, if any, will visit your awe-inspiring basilica of the Holy nails and then make months of travel to visit another in the remoteness of Pictland. I would leave this as a secret between you and God.” And, after due consideration, she did, for ever.
*
Back in Britain, Myrddin was also considering gods and secrets. He had carefully made a stew of certain mushrooms, consumed it and withdrawn to his dreaming chamber with strict orders to his housekeepers that he was not to be disturbed. He knew what he would be undergoing, but grimly set about readying for his dream journeyings. He was about to visit the Underworld, to speak with the dead. It might lead to madness, or to giving up his life in this world. “The gods will come again to Iona,” he said aloud, “if I can do this correctly.”
The sorcerer sent his appeal to Kimro, goddess of the path between worlds, gentlest of the Norse deities and the leader of dead souls to their eternal homes. She heard his prayers and soon he felt the familiar whirling in his brain before he collapsed onto his pallet. He groaned, closed his eyes and sped into the depths of dark and light that flashed past his inner eye for an eternity of long minutes. Finally, he became aware of man shapes forming, a line of the dead stretching away into dimness. The reassuring presence of Kimro was at his shoulder, guarantee of protection against the hellhounds and gate guardians, and Myrddin turned his attention to the shadowy line that had formed before him.
The first figure, with long blond hair and a drooping moustache, had a familiar silver and amber clasp, the badge of a British jarl, pinning his cloak at the shoulder and Myrddin knew the ash grey face was that of Caratacus, dead these centuries, but immortal as the man who defied Rome’s legions. Behind him in the half light was a tall woman with a wild mane of rust-coloured hair. Boadicea: he knew the acclaimed queen. Her chariot-borne warriors had taken 70,000 Roman lives in the greatest rebellion the empire had ever known.
Others stood lined behind these spectres, others whose names Myrddin knew were Brutus Greenshield; Cyllin from the mountains of the west, Calgacus the Caledonian and Albanac and Oengus who ruled beyond the wall of Hadrian. Cunobelinus was there, who marched against Gaius Julius Caesar, Cogidunus ruler of the Iceni stood silent before the shade of King Pratsutagas, husband of Boadicea. The ghosts of the Brigantean queen Cartimandua and her husband, Venutius, were there, too. The column of cloaked and hooded figures, some with circlets of rank around their brows, others wearing the great brooches of office, others in simple helmet and war gear, were the spirits of rulers who had been forced to bow under the conqueror’s yoke or who had died on a killing field when they faced the iron-clad legions.
They did not shape words with their cold lips, but Myrddin understood the message. “You have summoned us from our long rest because you have the power over us,” they told him. “Tell us your will, we are mere shades now, and we have to obey.”
Myrddin heard his own voice addressing the spectres, yet it was without his volition. He may not even have spoken the words aloud, but the shades of Britain’s ancient leaders heard them. “You were close to the gods of Britain yet they allowed these invaders to take our land. You have been called to help Britain today,” was the sorcerer’s message. “You must tell Arthur how he can placate the ancient gods of our land, how he can harness their power to restore them and hold our islands safe for your descendants.
“Arthur knows he has offended. He has adopted the cross of the Jesus god, but you must take the message to Britain’s own deities that he did it only to save the land. Arthur Bach is still faithful to the gods of the woods and springs and mountains and rivers, to the soldiers’ gods of Mithras and Mars. He venerates the sea god Manannan mac Lir, and local deities like Mogon, Antenociticus and Arnemetia. His heart is true to Britain’s own gods. How can we tell them that?”
The necromancer saw the ranks of the dead, the kings and queens who had ruled and loved the green island of Britain but who had seen it taken from them. Were the gods displeased to have allowed that to happen? Somewhere deep in Myrddin’s brain he sensed they had sent an answer, that there was something the gods wanted.
He had delivered his message, he had seen into the long-ago eyes of the dead and had sensed their sympathy. He was the go-between, he was the bridge between the dead and the living, between the gods and his king. He hoped he could bring back a message from beyond the grave, bring a solution that would once again restore the old gods.
And, dispassionately, he also wondered if he would be allowed to leave the realm of the dead or if this had been a journey that could not be reversed. Will I, he wondered, awake in the Underworld, or will I be back on the slopes of Yr Wyddfa? It did not seem to matter. Everything was with the gods, but he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder and knew that the protective goddess, Kimro, would guide him safely home.
XIV - Agricola
The scent of white clover told Myrddin he was alive, the sound of his gardener, Pattia, sweeping a gravel path informed him that he was in his own square-built stone house. He stretched and swung his legs over the side of his narrow pallet. Something in his mind was flaring, burning brightly. It was as if he was consumed by an energy, a force of pure light and heat that wanted to explode from his brain. He moved swiftly to his writing table, expectant and calm. The gods had given him knowledge and had preserved his mind, despite what he had seen and learned. He must record it accurately.
The first nugget of information was a Latin word. “Agricola,” he wrote. The wizard shrugged. The word was Latin for ‘farmer.’ It would become clear, he knew. Then the words came one by one, staccato, definite, unmistakable. “Agricola, Deva, Tuathal, torc, Iona.” Names, a treasure, a place.
Guinevia’s image appeared in the green glass of a delicate Roman drinking vessel on his table, and as clearly as if she were standing in the room he heard her say: “The son of no father and a king who is false to his god will recover a Druid’s treasure for Britain’s deities. You must seek a farmer’s bull in his floor.”
Myrddin, who legend said was sired on a king’s daughter by a demon, knew. In a burst of intuition sent to him from those long ago rulers, he knew. “I am the son of no father,” he said aloud. “And Arthur is a king who is false to his god. The Druid’s treasure must be a torc, that word was one of the first. Who has a torc important to Britain? Of course!” The Druid slapped his thigh and his scholar’s robe gave off a puff of dust motes. “It must be, it has to be the Torc of Caratacus that Calgacus inherited.”
He recalled what Caratacus’ spectre had told him before: “It is in your mind, and a woman must answer it.” The woman, Myrddin guessed, had to be his protégé and fellow Druid, Guinevia. That would fit. He heard himself explaining matters to Guinevia as he would one day soon. “It starts with the Roman general, Gnaeus Julius Agricola, the soldier most responsible for the Roman conquest of Britain.
“He started his career under the colonia’s governor, Suetonius, and put down Boadicea’s uprising during his first tour of duty in Britain. Then he served elsewhere in the empire, and supported Vespasian during the turmoil after Nero’s suicide. That time was one of civil war, there were four emperors in a single year. During the war one of the rivals murdered Agricola’s wife, so it was easy for the general to move against him, and his forces helped Vespasian assume power. The emperor rewarded him by sending him back to Britain as military governor. The place was in turmoil, but Agricola put down a mutiny in the XXth Legion, headed off a civil war and instilled discipline on both the XXth and the Bri
gantes tribe up there in the northwest.
“He went away again, to serve in western Gaul, but was promoted to consul and sent back to Britain for a third time. He conquered the north and west, and came close to subduing even the northernmost tribes of Alba, whom he kept checked with a string of forts across that country.
“He built the great castrum at Deva because he also intended to invade and conquer Hibernia but first he had to suppress the Ordovices around here in the western mountains. They were fierce warriors and virtually destroyed the Roman horse squadrons, but Agricola stamped them down, then massacred the Druids on the island of Mona, something Suetonius was doing years before when Boadicea revolted and drew him away.
“The next part of his campaigning is of great interest to us today. Agricola looked north. It was before Hadrian and Antoninus built their walls and Agricola went into a trackless wasteland of heather and gorse so wild that even though he inflicted about 10,000 casualties on the Painted Ones for the loss of just a few hundred Romans, twice as many got away into the wilderness.
“It led Agricola to reinforce the western coast facing Hibernia because he did not want the tribes across that sea joining forces with the elusive Picts, and there was one other factor, Agricola had allowed a Hibernian high king who had been exiled as a child to join him. This man had raised an army of Celts and wanted to reclaim Hibernia.
“He agreed with Agricola that he would serve as a subject monarch if the Romans helped him reconquer the island and as a gesture of good faith betrayed where the Druids had hidden their greatest treasure, the golden Torc of Caratacus. This is a solid neck ring of great value and beauty, an open circlet of gold with a bull’s head ornament at each end, sign of Mithras, some said. Certainly, it was the symbol of office of Britain’s highest king.
“The Irish king in exile, whose name was Tuathal Teachtmhar knew it had been spirited away from the island of Mona when Suetonius went to slaughter the Druids there. First it went to Callanish on remote, northern Lewis and was concealed among the dance of standing stones left by the ancients, but its safety was threatened and it was moved again. Tuathal tortured a Druid into revealing the torc’s new hiding place on the island of Iona, in the sea isles of western Alba.”
Myrddin paused in his rehearsal of the explanation he would give to Guinevia and nodded. He was right, the torc was the most powerful symbol of Britain’s rulers. It had been worn by Caratacus when he mustered against the Romans, but he had hidden it in the guts of a dead horse on the battlefield when defeat was obvious. The Romans knew of the kingly symbol but did not find it, Britain’s iconic bull torc was smuggled to safety by women who came to treat the wounded, and years later Calgacus had worn it once more when he led the Britons in another losing battle against the legions.
The precious treasure had again been spirited away by Druids, who finally hid it on Iona. Myrddin shook his head and resumed his rehearsal.
“The treacherous Tuathal betrayed the treasure’s hiding place, Agricola took possession of it when he put down the Painted Ones, and displayed it as a trophy when he returned to his fortress at Eboracum. He expected to wear it as symbol of his conquest of the British kings on his triumphal entry into Rome, but the Emperor Domitian was jealous of his general’s success. He was also wary of Agricola’s potential challenge for the imperial throne, so never awarded his general the triumph and parade he richly deserved. Nor did Agricola ever again hold a military or civil post. He died at age 53, probably poisoned at his emperor’s orders.”
Myrddin paused again. He did not know how he knew it, but he had been given more knowledge of the man who conquered Britain. Agricola was bitter at not having his considerable achievements recognised and he had withheld the significance of the Torc of Caratacus from his emperor. “He kept it for himself,” thought the sorcerer, “but he must have handed over waggons full of other loot for Domitian to gloat over.” And the sorcerer understood something else: Agricola considered the torc to be ill-fated. It had been the prized possession of British kings who had lost their land or their lives, he himself had ill luck after coming into possession of it.
At that point, the sorcerer suddenly understood what had happened to the missing treasure of Britain. Agricola had left it in Britain.
Myrddin was pacing up and down his courtyard now. Agricola left it behind when he went to Rome. Where would he have put it? The general could not have publicly handed it back, he would not have dared to give it to any of Britain’s subject kings in case it was flaunted and word went back to Rome. Equally, he would not have wanted it with him, partly because it brought ill-fortune, partly because if Domitian found out that his general had kept back a treasure from him, Agricola would have faced the headsman. But Myrddin knew, he knew as a hard fact that the torc was somewhere in Britain.
“The general would not have cared if someone found it after his death, and he would possibly have even wanted it found, a sort of redress and restoration for the British freedoms he had taken, and the treasures he had plundered. His family had influence, his son in law, Tacitus, was a senator and historian and could easily have gone to Britain to recover it. But if he did not, how could Agricola tell someone years after his death where he’d hidden it?” he wondered aloud.
Then the words Guinevia had telepathically sent crossed his mind again: “Seek a farmer’s bull in his floor.” And Myrddin knew where to look. On Agricola’s floor.
XV - Milan
Milan was a busy place, a trade centre for fleeces, hides and livestock from the pastures of Gaul, Iberia and northern Italia; for metals mined in the uplands, for wine and oil from southern and western Gaul, olives from the grey-green groves of Iberia, grain from the Danube and timber, wax and pitch from the eastern forests.
Apart from all the commerce, for centuries Milan had been a favourite residence of the emperors who wished to avoid the summer heat and stink of Rome. Diocletian had considerably enhanced the palace and made it the centre of his western empire, Maximian had added to those improvements. Today, I was going there to meet the Caesar Constantine, a man whose grip on the imperial throne was shaky and contested by two rivals. I still had a twinge of unease about this meeting. Constantine had demanded I meet him face-to-face.
The request was polite, but it was an imperial command after all and it made me uneasy. He might wish to meet to solidify our unwritten treaty of peace between Rome and Britain, or it could be because he wanted revenge on me. I had defeated and then personally executed his father Constantius Chlorus when he invaded Britain.
I turned away from the wood-shuttered window where I had been watching the merchants in the streets below to answer a knock at the door. A courier was there, bearing the familiar small red leather cylinder that bespoke an imperial message. It contained a surprise.
Constantine had sent a hurried note: he had left that dawn for Verona on urgent business, and I was to follow him. “Do not enter the city,” the note said. “If you do not find me encamped there, go to Ostia and I will find you. Come. We can speak of peace, and I wish to see you with your heavy horses.”
I took a moment to untangle this. Ostia was Rome’s port city, 15 or so miles away from the city, I recalled, for I had sailed from there once, on my way to Massalia. It was many days’ march from Verona, which was in northeastern Italy. What did Constantine mean: ‘encamped?’ It suggested a military expedition. I questioned the courier and matters became clearer. The emperor had left the previous evening to join his legions, which held a defensive position a few miles out of Milan. He had news that Maxentius, son of my old enemy, had occupied Rome. Later, I would learn that Maxentius had turned back an attack by his co-emperor Galerius. He had persuaded Galerius’ general to surrender on promise of safe passage, bribed his army to defect to him and then had broken his word and had the losing general, Severus, beheaded. Finally in sole command, he had settled in behind Rome’s great walls.
The picture was becoming clear. On the face of it, Constantine should have take
n the direct route 400 miles along the Via Aemilia to Rome, but one of Maxentius’ generals held Verona with a sizeable force. If Constantine turned his back on it to hurry to Rome, he could easily be caught in a crab’s claws pincers. First, he had to neutralise the Verona force, which was under the command of the general Pompeianus. Only then could Constantine face Maxentius, and although he could not command my obedience, it seemed that the emperor wanted me and my heavy horses in the battle line at Verona.
He was offering a bargain: my military support and all that it implied, for a negotiation between Rome and its rebel colonia. This might mean peace for Britain, an end to Rome’s claim after four centuries of rule. Or it could be a trap. I hardly hesitated before I gave the orders. We would leave Milan the next morning, at first light. For Verona.
Meanwhile, in Rome, Maxentius’ bid to be sole emperor had been strengthened. He had his own troops plus those who had defected from Severus and it was common knowledge, said the courier, that the emperor was moving great quantities of food and supplies into Rome in preparation for a siege.
It was not enough that Maxentius had the greater numbers, about 40,000 men to Constantine’s 25,000, the fact was that a siege would heavily favour those inside Rome’s ramparts. The walls had been built about 30 years before by the emperors Aurelius and Probus and they were massive, impregnable-seeming works. I had viewed them myself when I went to Rome a decade or more previously, to receive my commission from Emperor Carus, called Persicus. That old soldier, one-time commander of the Praetorian Guard, had talked military matters with me and we had spoken of the walls. “The only thing wrong with them,” he said, “is that the Tiber’s banks inside the city walls are unfortified. It would only take a smart soldier with a few boats to float down and get inside that way. I’m looking into closing that water gate.” I had filed away the information. Tactical material like that can be valuable.
The King's Cavalry Page 8