Spears of Britannia

by Scott Hurst

  Within moments Macha and the mistletoe had unlocked him. Colours, sounds, shapes appeared, many of them distorted. Fantastic images, extraordinary outlines… and then it came, the rush, the feeling of power that pushed him over the threshold into Oneness where he could sense everything, see everything.

  There it was, walking slowly towards him, through a haze of smoky colour.

  The bear, inviting him to follow.

  It seemed he saw it not just with his imagination but from outside himself. Lupicinius knew Artur had given him this mysterious moment, which belonged to neither past nor present, to neither this world nor the other. In his vision he drew closer to the bear. The great, powerful beast was wearing a shining amulet around its neck, an amulet formed of spearheads, a great circle of gold.

  Heart pounding, fear gripping his belly, Lupicinius struggled to breathe. In the vision, he drew back. He’d been shown the bear wearing the great Torc of Caratacus.

  What was Spirit saying? Ever since Paulinus had banished him from the Guild he had been seeking to make himself a conduit for Spirit, knowing he had a destiny to fulfil. Here was the sign he had been searching for. That certainty grew stronger. He felt it beginning, the process of transformation, the transition, the shift, leading him from one place to the next.

  In that moment his psyche snapped.

  Spirit was calling him to cast off the limitations of his own body and take on other dimensions.

  The transformation itself took but a moment. He could see himself walking through the spirit of the bear, see himself emerging the other side, transformed, having shaken off the entrapment of his own body, to slip into that place where he was aligned with the truth, the golden Torc around his neck. He felt its power.

  God was calling him to take on the spirit of the bear, to lead the Dobunni – he felt the flow of its courage and strength. Lupicinius emerged from the trance with utter clarity. It was God’s will was that he becomes the tribe’s Protector. To do that, he was to resurrect the old, bear cult, dedicated to Artur.

  Caught up with his need for revenge, in his vendetta against the Catuvellauni, Guidolin was leading them down the wrong path. Kingship was not hereditary for the Dobunni. Men were chosen on merit.

  The tribe would follow him.

  Artur would give him the power he needed.

  If Guidolin found out, it would mean his death. God’s ways were mysterious, and for now would have to remain hidden. Soon, soon.

  Artur had promised.

  *****

  There was a stale smell in the room where they had laid Cada, the young slave. Looking down at the corpse an old proverb filled Max’s mind: Life is short and the grave is long. He felt filled with sorrow for the young lad. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. The attack had been bloody. Three stab wounds to the neck, layered almost, one on top of the other. The lowest slash the fatal one, longer and deeper than the others. He’d been clubbed too, his skull split open to reveal the thin layer of skull, dark blood congealed around the brain mass. The body had been dumped in a ditch, the perpetrator’s footprints lost in the muddy byway where he had been dumped. There was no clue to motive or the murder’s identity. Crucially, there were no clear links to the Dobunni. But also nothing to prove anyone else was responsible.

  For now that mystery would have to wait. The vital thing was to find the missing girls.

  By first light all the neighbours gathered at the Vellauni household for the search. Rhoswen, who had been readying supplies for the search party, brought him a warming cup of spiced conditium. ‘Well watered, the wine. I know you need your wits about you. Pointless asking if Drusilla could give you any further clues. The poor woman is no more than a half step from madness. Have her neighbours been questioned?’

  Max nodded. ‘The girls were last seen late yesterday afternoon, walking along the old woodland road. They went to gather wild garlic for their mother and flowers for last night’s feast.’

  Rhoswen crossed herself unselfconsciously. ‘I pray you find them, Maximus.’

  The search would cover woodland as well as the swampy areas which covered the land behind the girls’ farm, an area the girls knew like the back of their hands. Swamps, the perfect place to dump bodies. Max brushed the thought away. He’d take that area for himself. As one the men moved off, their dogs barking at their heels. Taking his beloved wolfhound Bruno with him, Max made for the northeastern corner behind the girls’ home. From his memory of her that plain girl, the second eldest, Anastasia, was a comfortable creature who didn’t like walking too far. Soon another dark thought crossed his mind. At least if their bodies were found Drusilla’s grieving could begin. For now she was caught in limbo, and the whole tribe with her. All morning as he searched Drusilla’s words to him rang through his head: ‘Bring me back my girls.’

  As he searched each hedgerow and ditch, Max’s mind turned over the possibilities. Had there been a tryst between Cada and one of the sisters? There were other dangers of course. Terrible things that happened to children with no sense of how young and beautiful they were.

  Dye finally joined him, complaining of a monstrous hangover. Max greeted him sourly. ‘You’re letting your sword sleep in it sheath today? The Dobunni can feel safe then?’

  Dye looked defiantly at his brother. ‘Somebody had to take a stance.’ As if less brave without Calista, he tried to change the mood, sharing his doubts that the girls would be found. ‘Pretty wenches like those? Either the Dobunni have them for mating stock or they’ve been sold as prostitutes. They should have been more careful.’

  ‘Those girls are our people, Dye. Was all that ‘Long live the Catuvellauni!’ last night for your wife’s benefit?’

  Any attempt at civility was gone now. ‘While you were playing chapel boy to old Paulinus I was helping our father govern this tribe. That’s what really matters here, Maximus, though you seem not to see it. What matters is the tribe itself. That’s how a leader thinks.’

  Max shook his head. ‘True leaders think of all their people.’

  Dye grinned disarmingly. ‘Indeed. So let’s look for those girls instead of arguing.’ He paused nonchalantly, stroking the ridges of the scar on his face. ‘Bad things can happen so quickly, can’t they? ’

  Max turned away. The wound of his guilt was as great a scar as Dye’s. And Dye knew it.

  After another hour of desultory searching Dye announced he was going home. Saddling up, he turned to Max. ‘I almost forgot. Mother asked me to give you this.’ He held out a blossom, a flower as precious and fragile as the girls who were missing. ‘A bluebell. Her maid found it in his tunic when she was preparing him for burial.’

  ‘The slave boy’s?’

  ‘Tucked into his pouch. Still fresh. One of the girls might have given it to him.’

  ‘You fool!’ Max snarled. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this an hour ago?’ The only place bluebells grow alongside wild garlic is near the old woodland road, not too far from their farm. They had cleared it of oaks three years before to build a barn. It was a mile’s walk away. Taking a small search party he set out, glad to be free of the cramped woods. Max and his men made good pace, arriving out of breath, their hearts filled with hope. There was the wild garlic. And there, beneath the remaining oaks, was a carpet of bluebells. Such vivid, life-affirming colour.

  And in their midst a blood spattered tree trunk, hair the colour of Cada’s, matted in the brown-red crust.

  *****

  If the girls had witnessed the Cada’s savage murder they would have gone with his killer without a murmur. Or perhaps they had hidden themselves, terrified? Hope flamed. Max shouted their names into the woods, but no answer came. Any optimism he had been clinging to disappeared when they found a small, bloodstained green sandal. The girls had been taken by force.

  On Max’s orders the men covered the ground again, carefully. Lying next to the blood spattered tree trunk they found a talisman. Made of thin, beaten metal, its design was roughly punched out in points.
Too crude and too large to be anything the girls might wear, the markings were distinct, a rough bull’s head and a cross. Max remembered seeing something similar once, worn around the necks of a peasant family with Bagaudae connections. When he turned it he saw bloody fingerprints.

  It made no sense. Victor, the Bagaudae leader in these parts, was a good man.

  Could it have been rogue revolutionaries?

  Wearily, Max turned homewards, bracing himself to face the girls’ parents.

  *****

  It was so simple, so obvious. The bear bones should be lying within the old bear cave deep within the tribe itself. They belonged at Guidolin’s hillfort – even its name, Caer den Arth, spoke of their true resting place. Arth was their word for bear. No doubt these bones had lain in that sacred place and been removed for safety. Without them in their rightful place the tribe was suffering.

  With its five oaks facing in five directions north, south east, west, and centre, the old bear cave was focal point of the tribe’s sacred energy. Yet the tribe members never came to this thin place, where the two realities were separated by a veil. Lupicinius could feel it now, not an impenetrable barrier, but a gossamer thing which could be lifted, a place where the natural and the supernatural met. Lupicinius began digging, working quietly. He must be quick. Spirit had not come of its own bidding. He had called the god, needing his strength, his wisdom. He had disturbed Artur before he was ready. Now he could feel the god’s displeasure in the cauldron of his heart.

  He would show the god that the Dobunni needed him now. Prove he could reawaken the tribe to their old beliefs. Feeling the chalky soil under his fingernails, Lupicinius almost smiled. All these months he had faltered, without direction. Now he felt the bear’s instincts inside himself, teaching him. If he listened well its spirit would guide him through the challenges to come. Soon he would be leader of this pathetic people. He would become the god-manifestation in their midst, Artur, the peerless warrior, reincarnated.

  Till then he would keep the bones secret. For now he had brought only a few of the treasures. Most important was the bearskin, enclosed in tightly woven burlap. He would bury it as he had buried its secret deep within himself. Spirit reminded him of the water under the earth. He must be careful. Dig too low and the pelt would be damaged.

  They would have a great celebration when he revealed the bear bones. That would placate Artur, the beginning of a new cult symbolizing his strength and protection. He would have to be careful. There would be those who denied the power of Artur. The church, seeking converts, had denounced their beloved old gods, calling them demons. Even as a young monk he had sensed the tensions between the beliefs of their forefathers and the mystery of the new faith. Still confused between the past and the present, many Dobunni lived an outwardly Christian life. But at heart Lupicinius knew they were like the Dobunni of old – superstitious, fearful, still seeking answers.

  Guidolin ruled them with fear, but they did not trust him. The bear would take them back to the safety of the familiar. And when he took over the tribe Guidolin would suffer as he had made him suffer. In the night Lupicinius had dreamed of birds, messengers of change, shredding Guidolin’s rotting flesh. His face had been covered with maggots. The memory made Lupicinius squirm with pleasure. Carefully he placed the treasure in the hole he had dug and covered it reverently with the soil.

  He was just stamping it down when noises outside filled him with terror. In an instant the cave was filled with Guidolin’s followers. Powerful men, handpicked for their loyalty, they dragged him to the back of the cave, pinning his arms to the cold rock. In the shadows cast by his lamp a greater shadow formed on the cave’s wall.

  ‘What are you about, priest?’ Guidolin growled from the shadows, menacing.

  In the torchlight the emaciated priest was even more anxious than usual, his pupils in the lamplight tiny in his fevered face. From the shadows Guidolin watched him impassively, enjoying his fear. The priest had helped him establish his reign of fear, had been adept at finding reasons to kill anyone who spoke out against him. But times were changing. There was upheaval as the Romans weakened, fear, and unrest. Lupicinius was becoming a liability. Should he rid himself of him now? For some reason the fool had fallen back into his ascetic practices. Whatever yearning it was that drove him had made him erratic. Or maybe his judgment was becoming impaired by those potions he brewed.

  Anything that got in the way of his revenge on the Catuvellauni, had to be eradicated. Maximus had returned to his tribe. At the thought of his enemy Guidolin felt the fire of vengeance burn in his belly, a fire Lupicinius had held in check till now.

  In the darkness his grey eyes stared at Lupicinius, defying him to tell untruth. ‘Talk priest, or I’ll have your tongue and burn it.’

  One of his thugs moved his knife across Lupicinius’s throat. Guidolin felt himself tremble at the sight of the single drop of blood that escaped from the priest’s flesh. He felt his men’s eyes on him, revelled in their recognition of his cruelty.

  Desperate thoughts whirled around Lupicinius’s head. He needed an excuse, something Guidolin would believe. ‘A gift, Great One. For you,’ he stuttered. ‘I was hiding it, until the auguries were right.’

  Guidolin stabbed a finger at the ill-disguised hiding place. ‘Find out what this leech has hidden from us.’ Two of his henchmen scrabbled to obey the order. Within seconds they had laid the sack at Guidolin’s feet.

  Lupicinius’s mind screamed. If Guidolin didn’t believe what he said next he’d be whipped. But if he made a wrong move, Artur would be angered. In desperation he ground out, ‘There has been a …development.’

  Guidolin knew men and this man was hiding something. Perhaps the sack contained his first challenge to him. That would explain his fear. He would permit no threat to his leadership. He hoped the priest had not underestimated him or he would discover the depths of his cruelty. Guidolin’s voice was low, menacing. ‘For your sake I pray it is something worthwhile, Lupicinius.’

  The priest’s voice trembled. ‘The sack contains new hope.’

  With a sweep of his hand Guidolin signalled his henchman to empty the pack out over the flattened earth. Its contents tumbled out. Guidolin stared at the bearskin. Once, as a boy, he had once seen such a thing worn by a signifier in the Roman legion at Deva Victrix. He had coveted it then. The gleaming fur, the sheer power it emanated. What use had the ascetic priest for such a luxury? It should be his. ‘What were you planning to do with this?’

  Lupicinius bowed low. ‘To elevate you, Lord Guidolin. You tasked me with keeping down insurrection. Dissent has been repressed. But at great cost. The tribe will not accept violence in their leader indefinitely. Spirit has shown me a better way.’ He pushed himself forward. Guidolin allowed it, intrigued. Bending, Lupicinius lifted up the gleaming pelt and held it out to him. ‘This is my power tribute to you. God has a purpose for you; he would have you resurrect an old way, a way pleasing to the people. We at Caer den Arth are to become the People of the Bear once more – with you, my Lord,’ he choked out the words, ‘as our leader.’

  Something stirred within Guidolin. This fort had once been a centre of the bear cult, one which had made his people powerful. The bear had been revered back then as a fierce protector. He nodded to Lupicinius to continue. The tribe needed a new spirit of protection. Guidolin sensed the power in the idea, though he doubted God’s hand in it. The tribe was unsettled. The transition between the old and the new was not yet complete – the old beliefs had never fully died out. This rededication to the bear god, Artur - was it the way to bridge the two?

  What Lupicinius feared most in him was his unpredictability. He could see the Dobunni chief needed more convincing. ‘I offer not just to this bear skin, but the very bones of a bear – the same bones that were removed from Caer den Arth, O Guidolin. When it is returned its spirit will give power to the tribe – the power that has been lacking. Those bones, sanctified to Artur, will bring his spirit to you - give you, o
ur mighty leader, even greater strength and wisdom.’

  Still Guidolin eyed him with suspicion. He would appeal to his vanity. ‘Just think how magnificent you would look, clothed in its strength. The location of the bones was given to me as a way to bring you honour. And the love of your people.’

  Guidolin hesitated. ‘You are suggesting a return to the Old Ways – the Church and our new Emperor Constantine would never stand for it.’

  ‘Overtly we would present no threat – until we have sufficient power. Any rituals would be secret.’ Even as he spoke anger burned in Lupicinius – this plan was meant to be his, the power his. How could he suffer it? The Shadow loomed, loose, dim, mocking him. ‘This new source of strength would remain our secret. Think, Lord Guidolin, a new source of strength. Just as Maximus Vellauni is again within your reach.’

  Finally their eyes met. Guidolin hated that Lupicinius understood him so well, understood the hatred he felt for the man who had stolen Morwen from him. No one else had ever cared for him as she had. And Maximus had taken her from him. Bile rose in his throat and he looked away. Something else glinted dully from the sack. ‘What else have you hidden there?’

  At his signal one of his thugs emptied the sack out fully. A small bronze sculpture tumbled onto the earth. Two figures, a large bear facing a woman seated in a chair. The woman seemed to be holding fruit in her lap and was feeding the animal. Guidolin stared at her. She looked familiar – the perfect features, the haughty expression.