by Scott Hurst
Ascending the dais, custom demanded he kiss Calista and wish her well. As he stooped to place a chaste peck on her perfumed cheek she deliberately turned her head so that her breath was close to his mouth. Max immediately drew back, disturbed. Calista’s sexuality burned like a flame. She smiled up at him now, challenge in the tilt of her chin. ‘Welcome home, Maximus,’ she purred, aware of his discomfort. ‘You’ve been missed. I have thought of you often…’ Her allure would have been more tempting if not for the anger he sensed in her.
Laughter, high, clear, vaguely familiar cut through the noise of the crowd and Max felt his eyes drawn across the room. Sabrina again.
Angered, Calista followed his eyes. ‘I saw you looking at her earlier,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I hope you’re not planning to dip your wick in that skinny Dobunnic bitch. As a royal of the Catuvellauni you must mate only with the finest Catuvellaunian females.’ Calista reached down and touched his thigh. ‘As I’ve been telling the tribe, it’s like cattle, Max. You never mix superior breeds with inferior. We Catuvellauni have nothing in common with those Dobunni savages. We are the rulers and they are the ruled.’ She leaned in close and traced a line down Max’s chest with her manicured finger. ‘Think, Maximus. You could have had mated with me, a descendant of Catuvellaunian kings on both sides.’ Max felt her shifting, parting her thighs beneath her dress.
Very deliberately Max moved her hand away. ‘I wish you and my brother every happiness.’ There might be little love between them now, but he would never betray Dye.
‘Your loss was your brother’s gain, Maximus Vellaunus. And I don’t just mean my substantial dowry,’ she continued. ‘Now you’ll have to find some other Catuvellaunian aristocrat to bed. Just don’t go breeding with a Dobunni. They’re not fit to clean our shoes.’
He looked at her coldly. ‘If I want a Dobunnic girl, Calista, you won’t stop me.’
Those strange eyes changed. ‘You don’t seem to have much luck with them, do you, Max? What was the name of that Dobunnic princess? The one who drowned herself after you discarded her like a cheap whore?’
Again Morwen’s memory was as raw as the day her body washed up near the mill, long yellow hair spreading out around her like a halo in the cold river water. Even in death she’d been beautiful. Only the dark stain of her lips had marred her pale face, the flesh there already corrupt. Max felt the anger burning him. Calista was actually smiling, one eyebrow raised in amusement. ‘You remember her, Max? She was a little mouse of a thing? Morwen, that was it. The sister of our enemy, Lord Guidolin. The chief of the Dobunni almost went to war with us over her death.’
The barb bit deep. Max hissed at her, so low his father could not hear. ‘I had no hand in Morwen’s death, Calista, nor did I touch her when she was alive. Certain women do not appeal to me. I wouldn’t sleep with you, for example, if you were the last woman in Britain.’ It was a lie and he was fairly sure that she knew it. At least she was no longer smiling.
But Calista hadn’t finished. ‘Your mother hoped by sending you away that the tribe would forget. But they won’t forget, Max. Not while mystery still surrounds her death.’
Max turned away, aware that she had the better of him. Fortunately Severus chose that moment to call to her. ‘Here, child, receive your gift.’
‘Severus, you honour me!’ Calista seized the pouch he held out. Earrings to match her necklace tumbled out onto her lap. Why was Severus spoiling her too? And what did Rhoswen make of this? As though sensing his thoughts Rhoswen appeared. Tall and slender, she could have passed for a woman half her age if not for the wealth of silver hair which fell down her back. Hazel eyes, framed still by dark brows, smiled up at him as she reached for him, her gentle spirit visible in her smile. ‘It does my mother’s heart good to have you home, safe.’
Max pulled her into his embrace. He had missed her too, her wisdom and counsel. Drawing apart Max saw strain in her eyes. These last few months had taken their toll on Rhoswen too. ‘Now I’m home I’ll be able to take some responsibility from those shoulders of yours. Being away, I’ve realised how much you do for us all.’
Rhoswen waved his words away. ‘Here, child. I’ve brought you to eat.’
Max hesitated. If anyone knew what his father planned it was Rhoswen. But he hadn’t eaten since that morning. The conversation could wait a moment. Immediately he crammed his mouth full. Chewing enthusiastically, a morsel caught in his throat, making him cough. He looked up to see Sabrina eyeing him sceptically and made a moue at her. If a Dobunnic thought his table manners inadequate, then he really must be lacking.
Rhoswen saw the glances between them. ‘Sabrina has grown like a willow in the past year, Maximus. Perhaps you should get to know her better. She’s much admired among my people. Intelligent, a beauty - and good hearted. She is well named, is she not, after the river that flows through their territory? Many of the Dobunni see her like that river – powerful in her spirit, life-giving.’ Rhoswen smiled her astute smile. ‘Now you’re returned people will expect you to choose a bride. Perhaps taking a Dobunnic wife would help settle the discord between our two tribes? Help heal wounds? Sabrina would be a good match for you, my son.’
Max almost choked on his food again. Was Rhoswen mad? Even if the Dobunni would agree to give him a bride – doubtful after Morwen’s death - Sabrina, that harridan, would be the last girl he’d choose. Seeing his reaction, Rhoswen swiftly changed the subject, suddenly serious. ‘Another matter then, with a word of warning; the news from Father’s trip to Londinium is poor. A foolhardy errand, trying to win back the estates taken by Paul Catena as punishment for our support of Magnentius. And there’s the matter of outstanding taxes.’
Max registered the news. Life for the tribe must be difficult if Severus had humbled himself before the province’s administrators. Rhoswen leant in close. ‘You must speak with your father, Maximus. His stubborn pride is hurting us. He holds too strictly to the old ways, insisting the Catuvellauni may not trade. Instead of allowing us to make money he argues with Romans bureaucrats who have no intention of giving back what they have stolen.’
Severus turned his head. ‘Administrators? Bah! Brigands, more like. Racketeers! Seizing our land, extorting us with their taxes. They have the hearts of merchants, all of them. The shame, Romans dictating terms to the great Catuvellauni. God purge them of their wickedness to us.’ Max smiled sourly as his father wiped his face with his linen sudaria. Severus was always quick to claim God’s help against his enemies. ‘We are to be bled dry with yet more taxes. By the next census all we’ll have left is a few handfuls of barley.’
If this was how his father had spoken to them, no wonder the negotiation failed. Severus never seemed unable to control his temper long enough to achieve any good.
‘The Romans have none of our dignitas.’ Severus waved his hand around the room. ‘To them we’re just Brittunculi, but our tribes are separate nations, with histories every bit as ancient as theirs.’
Max braced himself for the next onslaught, having heard this speech a hundred times before.
‘Our tribe has formed part of every native rebellion against them and every army that ever left these shores to conquer Rome.’ Severus’ eyes were shining. ‘We Catuvellauni led the fight when the Romans landed under Caesar, and again under Claudius. We’d have led the fight against Nero too, if that crazy Icenian bitch Boudica hadn’t betrayed us instead of attacking the Romans.’ Severus warmed to his theme. ‘When Constantine the Great set off from Britain to take the Empire our ancestors marched with him! When Magnentius carved out his separate Empire we marched with him too. Yes, and paid a heavy price for it under Catena’s reign of terror! When the great Magnus Maximus raised his militia to conquer Gaul I myself marched under his banner, together with Calista’s father and Paulinus too, before he got soft. As noble Catuvellaunian warriors as any sung about by the bards!’ Severus grinned in triumph, ‘Even our patron saint, and the first martyr of this island, the holy St. Alban was a rebel aga
inst Rome!’
Rhoswen tried to quiet him. ‘Hush, Severus. The blessed St. Alban was a rebel for Christ, not for the Catuvellauni. And be more discreet. There are listening ears everywhere.’
‘Spies? Here? Not unless some of Max’s Bagaudae friends have made their way into our celebration.’ Severus hated the Bagaudae, those rebel peasants of their own and other tribes who had begun arming themselves against oppression and exploitation. He was of the old school; thought peasants had no needs but to serve their betters. In Gaul the Bagaudae had revolted, expelling the landowning class and appealing to Rome for aid. Severus clearly feared it happening here. ‘Revolutionary scum, you can’t trust them!’
Max caught his mother’s warning eye. Paulinus had introduced Max to Victor, one of the Bagaudae leaders. He’d found the man intelligent, interesting. His strange ideas about justice and equality for all people had intrigued Max, though they were more radical than he could stomach. Instead of challenging his father he allowed himself a simple, ‘Times are changing for all of us, Father.’
Severus eyed him squarely. ‘Indeed. Our tribe will be resurrected, now that Rome’s power is waning.’
There it was again, this great resurgence of tribal pride. When had that begun? It had a strange, menacing undertone.
Calista, at Severus’s side, spoke up. ‘We are a people born to rule.’
By now a crowd had turned to listen. Severus still had a sense of the moment and he seized it now. ‘The Vellauni were once Kings. We have not forgotten our birthright.’ The crowd was listening to him, rapt. ‘By that right a son of mine should be your next king.’
Dye had moved forward, captivated by his father’s rhetoric. Beside him, Max almost screamed with frustration. A son of mine, he’d said. But which son? Severus had called him the Prodigal. Had that been deliberate? In the parable the father had thrown a feast just like this to welcome the Prodigal home. But the story ended with the brother who’d stayed behind being told that all the father possessed was now his. The tribe…had he lost the tribe? Leading it was all he’d ever wanted. The thought of Dye, feckless, drunk Dye, taking on the responsibility for his people…Stricken, Max turned to find his mother, only to feel Rhoswen’s hand on his arm.
Severus’s voice had risen to a hoarse roar. ‘There are rumours abroad. Our new Emperor Constantine needs more men to conquer Rome. He may ask the tribes for volunteers. If that happens a Vellaunus will march with him!’ Severus proudly held out his hands towards his two sons. Dye leapt onto the dais, elated at this show of paternal pride. Reluctantly Max accepted his father’s hand too. The crowd roared their approval.
As they cheered it took all of Max’s strength not to run from the dais. Severus could have taken this chance to name his heir. Yet he’d chosen not to.
Maudlin, Severus was wiping away tears with the heels of his hands. He turned to face his guests once more. Whenever he’d drunk too much mead Severus became sentimental. And when sentimental he wanted music. ‘Let us honour our great ancestor, Caratacus.’
Max groaned inwardly. How he hated the Great Caratacus. All his life he’d been compared to the man whose bust took pride of place amongst the wax heads of their antecedents.
‘Bard! Sound your lyre! The Romans may prize every last siliqua out of us, but they haven’t put a tax on our songs yet.’ Turning to the musician Severus bid him begin. ‘Sing, Allectus. Sing of Caratacus, King of the Catuvellauni.’
Max settled back, letting the well-known lyrics flow over him. Somehow tonight the words had taken on a strange, threatening undertone. He had been raised on tales of Catuvellaunian victory, of lands seized to build their empire, tales of great defeats over the Cantii, Corieltauvi and the Atrebates. This was his tribe’s history. Now Paulinus had taught him a different perspective. Max looked around the room. His friends and family, jocose with wine, were singing to Allectus’s harp. But what about the other tribes across Britannia? What songs were they listening to tonight as they sharpened their spears? Songs of Catuvellaunian cruelty? Of lands stolen and never returned?
Felix and his son Aurelianus were busy ladling glasses of wine from the great silver crater as Allectus sang song after song. Across the room Max smiled at his Dobunnic grandfather, Owen. Owen raised a shaggy eyebrow at him, his mouth curling in a sardonic smile. Hard for the old man, hearing his enemies sing of their victories. Allectus’s voice was full of triumph now, recounting King Verica’s flight to Rome to beg the Emperor for help. His baritone deepened as he sang of Roman soldiers sweeping into Britain, softened to tell of Caratacus’ brother being killed, trembled as their ancestors were driven from Atrebatic territory.
But the bard’s voice filled the rafters as he sang of Caratacus uniting the tribes under the Great Torc, that magical symbol of power, unity and victory. The tribes of Britain had acclaimed his ancestor Caratacus Rex Britannorum – King of Britain.
Some said that the Great Torc was cast from the Golden Spear of the old god of light, Lug himself. That golden spear was what had made the Torc invincible, was what had made the tribe invincible. To the Catuvellauni, the Great Torc had become to be a symbol of might, of their invincibility. But only if it were worn by a man worthy of its power.
Max shivered despite himself. Many in the tribe believed that since the Torc had been lost, the whole tribe had lived under a curse. According to legends Lug had cursed Caratacus and the Torc itself because the king had destroyed his spear. Had not Caratacus, after rising to lead the tribes of Britain, been crushed by the Romans and dragged in chains to Rome? Ever since then the tribe had believed that a terrible fate would befall anyone who took the Torc and was unworthy of its greatness. Just as they believed that whoever wore it justly could not be beaten.
Severus lolled towards him. ‘That’s what’s missing, Maximus. The Torc. We have never been the same since we lost its blessing. If the Great Torc were returned to us so would the Catuvellauni Empire!’
For the thousandth time Max felt himself filled with longing. Longing to be the one to find the Torc and restore it to his tribe, to bring back the treasure that would heal their blighted land. Then there would be no doubt he was the rightful heir.
But would he ever be worthy to wear it?
The thought was shattered as, outside, a woman screamed. Max immediately stood up, gesturing to his parents that he would investigate. Felix met him in the vestibulum. ‘Master, Drusilla is here, half demented with fear.’ He ushered Max forward to where his son was trying to comforting a pitiful figure. Two small children stood, quiet and serious, beside a woman Max now recognized as the wife of Claudius, who farmed nearby. She looked insane with grief.
Concern sliced through him. ‘Is she hurt?’
‘There’s no sign of injury, Master.’
Drusilla began to speak, but was swamped again by emotion. Max’s mind started racing. Claudius, her husband, farmed the precious border territory between their tribe and their rivals the Dobunni. Land that had been a constant source of tension between their two peoples. Had the Dobunni tried to seize back territory? He braced himself. ‘Have the Dobunni broken our treaty?’
The children shook their heads. Aurelianus, Felix’s son, stepped forward. ‘There was an incident a few days ago, dominus. Drusilla’s husband was attacked - by three Dobunni. They threatened to seize his land and ran him off.’ Over the woman’s wailing, Aurelianus went on. ‘Claudius gathered his friends and his slaves together, armed them with knives and clubs. But the Dobunni had armed themselves too. Our men were lucky to escape with their lives. Claudius is still recovering from the attack.’
One of the children, the girl, finally spoke. ‘They were Guidolin’s men.’
Max felt his heart pounding. Guidolin.
His childhood friend, now his enemy. Years ago Max had ended their friendship, sickened by the violence Guidolin enjoyed. Now that sadistic boy was a man, and the new leader of the Dobunni.
As well as his mortal enemy.
As Morwen’s brother, Gui
dolin had wanted him dead.
The vestibulum had filled with guests. At last Drusilla’s sobs could be understood. Max bent to hear her. ‘My daughters! I can’t find them! The slave Cada was to keep them safe. But I came upon him as I was searching for my girls. Murdered!’
If it was true, the slave’s death was an act of war against the tribe.
Drusilla was sobbing again. ‘Guidolin is behind it, I’m sure – his wickedness knows no bounds. May the blood of my girls stain his soul forever…’
As Felix gently led the tormented woman off to be cared for Max sensed the need to take control, but it was too late. His father was already there, raising himself to full height. For a second his old spirit was visible and Max saw him as he had been; a majestic oak of a man.
‘This insult from the Dobunni must be repaid. Gather the men together. They kill one of our slaves, we kill ten of theirs. Lord Guidolin will pay the penalty for his arrogance and we will return those girls to the tribe. We ride out tonight!’
Max stared at his father, recognizing the same old arrogance, the same foolish lashing out. Despite the risk, he could not be silent. ‘Is that wise, Father?’ His voice wavered only slightly. ‘A reprisal? Over the death of a slave?’ Max felt every eye upon him. Severus himself was staring at Max, dumbfounded. But Max felt a new strength rising in him. All his life he’d yielded to his father. Where had it got him? Exiled, while his wastrel brother tried to take his rightful inheritance.