by Scott Hurst
‘Then you must trust all the harder in Our Lord. He knows the truth.’
Max sighed. ‘Thank you, Paulinus, I’ll remember that. I still wish it was you coming with me, not my father.’
The old monk turned to him, trying to judge his expression. ‘Try to accept your father as God made him, Maximus. He has been very hard on you. Sometimes that harshness is a man’s only way to show love.’
Max felt himself choke up. He turned away, but Paulinus wouldn’t let him off the hook. ‘Our mistakes can become our greatest teachers. If we fail to learn from them, they keep returning, until our poor pride takes a beating.’ He smiled. ‘Know your father’s weaknesses. But love him despite them, as your mother does.’
Max looked Paulinus full in the eye once more. ‘You take his side against me, Paulinus?’
Paulinus gently shook his head. ‘Of course not, Max. You are one family. I do not have to choose sides.’ He sighed. ‘Your last argument with your father cost you a year of his life – a year in which he has grown weaker. You have a difficult lesson to learn now; how to respect your father and still be the man you are destined to be. Severus is a man of great principle and of great arrogance. As are you. Unchecked in you, that arrogance could cost you your destiny. If you would but learn some humility, Maximus, I know God has great things in store for you.’ The words hung in the air. Here again was one of those moments where Max felt Paulinus had so much more to say. Instead the old monk surprised him again. ‘Perhaps one day you may even help your father. He too needs to unburden himself from past mistakes…’
Max looked at Paulinus sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
But Paulinus would not be drawn. ‘I’ll let your father tell you his story himself.’
Max smiled wryly. ‘Father believes that the missing Torc of Caratacus is the key to us regaining regain the power we once knew as a tribe. Perhaps even to regaining our position at the head of the British tribes, when Rome abandons us. Perhaps if I were to find it, bring it home, that might win me his approval. ’ He smiled wryly.
He had expected Paulinus to smile with him. Instead the monk looked into the middle distance. ‘You imagine a thing of metal, a trinket. But the Great Torc is much more than that. When Caratacus led his alliance of tribes against Rome he did it not just for the Catuvellauni, but for the other tribes as well. Legend has it its strength lay in its design – many strands woven around one another, unified, as one, stronger together than on their own. Will you remember that, Maximus?’ The old man eyed him levelly. ‘For now concentrate your energies on the difficulty before you. There was something strange about that attack on the farm last night, Maximus. It did not look to me like the work of the Dobunni – they have not hidden their border raids till now. Your father is right – the Dobunni are not to be underestimated.’
*****
Rhoswen looked up from where she was weaving the bright cloth she favoured. Her loom stood under an awning, a brilliant purple and blue striped affair that gave her shade. As Max approached her busy hands fell still.
‘You wanted to see me, mother?’
‘Come sit beside me, my son.’
Rhoswen had planned this part of the garden to catch the sun. It was beautiful here.
‘You slept well? Have you broken your fast?’ With a tiny hand signal Rhoswen had a maid bring him his favourite buckwheat pancakes. She smiled fondly at him. ‘I wanted to talk to you alone before you set out. I know these last days have not been easy. I imagine it could be,’ she paused, obviously choosing her words carefully, ‘difficult when you and Guidolin set eyes on each other again.’
‘Difficult’ was in no way an adequate word for the challenge ahead of him. Max rubbed his face with his hands, fighting the urge to beg her to make his father see sense. The thought of the impending ordeal made his blood turn to ice.
Rhoswen put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t you see? This is a chance to redeem yourself.’ She looked at him. ‘Do not allow anxiety to cloud your thinking. I think your father sees the next few days as a test, both for you and for Dye. You have the upper hand here. Dye could not conduct such a… delicate task. His strengths lie… elsewhere. Safer to leave him in control here whilst you and your father are in Dobunnic territory.’
Max exploded in frustration. ‘Dye was never meant to be heir. Why this competition between us now? Am I not to be forgiven? Why can father not understand my stubbornness – when I have it from him?’
His mother regarded him calmly. ‘Your father’s stubbornness has the same root as yours, Maximus, a shared love of the tribe. Be patient with him.’ The household was coming to life and preparing the wagons for the delegation. ‘Walk with me, son.’
Max could contain himself no longer, ‘Tell me the truth, mother. Does Father favour Dye now? Have I lost my chance?’
Rhoswen wiped her hands and sighed, knowing the pain he was feeling. ‘Your brother,’ she paused, seeming to choose her words carefully, ‘has been a great help to your father in your absence.’ She met Max’s eyes. ‘Yet I do not believe your father has decided to make him heir, much as Dye, and more especially Calista, would wish it.’ Almost in a whisper Rhoswen betrayed her true feelings to her oldest child. ‘Your cause is by no means lost, Maximus. But I suggest you use this time alone with your father well.’
Rhoswen changed the subject as a short, stocky, flamboyant figure entered the courtyard. ‘Have you met Heru, our new Egyptian friend? Your father has become very fond of him. He’s an expert weaver. I’m learning a great deal from him. The purple and blue awning you saw earlier, that’s his work. He’s a strange bird, with all those collars and rings and things he wears to ward off evil spirits. Despite the fact he claims to be Christian.’
Max was astonished. ‘I had him for a heathen with all those strange markings on his eyes.’
Rhoswen hesitated a moment, then shook her head. ‘Not heathen. Arian.’
Arian. No wonder Severus relished time with the curious little man. The Arian controversy had divided the whole Empire. Any discussion of it between Severus and himself ended in an argument. Was Christ of the same nature as God, homoousia, or merely of a similar nature, homoiusia? For Max Arianism sought to diminish Christ and was therefore heresy. Severus could not be persuaded of that. Recently anger about it had again caused riots and rebellions throughout Egypt. The Arian leader had been expelled from Alexandria. No doubt the little Egyptian was fleeing for his life.
Rhoswen put a hand out to him. ‘For some reason your father’s still Arian in his heart.’
‘And now Heru has ingratiated himself as a fellow seeker.’ This was dangerous. In certain places such beliefs meant death. ‘But why did he come here seeking asylum? You’re sure there’s not more to him than that? We know nothing about him – he could have committed some unlawful act.’ Clearly Heru was being given refuge.
What was that hesitation in Rhoswen’s voice? ‘All I know is that he is a welcome member of our household, Maximus. Calista adores him…’
That at least made sense. The Egyptians were wonderworkers with gold. Doubtless this Heru character was the creator of her magnificent collar. ‘So she champions him for the baubles he makes her?’
Rhoswen quelled him with a glance. ‘Heru is our guest, Maximus, even though he is so deeply in error on our Lord. Instead of criticizing him, your time would be better spent making peace with your father.’
Max knew better than to argue with Rhoswen. Besides, Felix had arrived. ‘The wagons are ready to leave, dominus.’
Members of the household had gathered to wave them off. Dye was looking sullen. Calista was not there at all. Max guessed she was in her room, sulking because Dye had been left out of the negotiations. His brother would no doubt later feel her wrath. Looking at his face perhaps he already had.
The little Egyptian at least had the good grace to call out a blessing and wish them, ‘God speed’. Max gave him the barest nod of his head.
Rhoswen accompanied him to the wagons.
Severus was already waiting atop the leading cart, mood as black as thunder. The attack on the farm had convinced him more than ever that the Dobunni were preparing for war.
Max turned to embrace his mother, only to find her donning her travel cloak. ‘You didn’t think I’d allow you two fighting cocks to travel to my people alone?’ she smiled at him. ‘I have no doubt you’d be at knives drawn before sunset.’
‘It’s too dangerous, Rhoswen.’ Severus was adamant.
Rhoswen’s brown eyes brooked no argument. ‘Quo vadis, Severus. Wherever you go, I shall go with you. I think of it as an opportunity to visit my kinfolk. And a chance to make smooth the path between Lord Guidolin and our son.’
*****
Guidolin’s settlement was not far off now. Although a messenger had been sent ahead, this was potentially the most dangerous part of the journey. The closer they came to Caer den Arth the darker Max’s thoughts became. Since crossing the border he’d heard more wretched stories of Guidolin, tales of unusual executions and torture since his rise to power. And now they were walking into the man’s lair. Max was honest enough to admit he felt afraid. But there was another feeling inside him, one that prevented the fear becoming too strong – anger. After Morwen’s suicide Guidolin’s accusations had almost destroyed his life. The letter Morwen had left him had almost been his undoing, with its talk of shame. Small wonder the shadow of doubt hung over him still.
He had no idea how Guidolin would react to seeing him. He looked down their column. On his orders, Salvius and Decentius had issued stout staffs, knives, and a number of hunting spears to the able-bodied free men in the party and to trusted slaves. If they had to defend themselves, they would.
Corinium, the Dobunni capital, was a match for anything their own town of Verulamium had to offer. And in a better state of repair. The militiamen guarding the gates wore shiny little brass horse heads on their buckles, intricate geometric designs of diamonds and wheel designs stamped on the buckle plates to match those surrounding the large red horse heads on their new shields. The horse heads themselves had an angular geometric feel to them different to the more Roman way Catuvellaunian craftsmen portrayed them. As well as knives the militia also carried darts weighted with lead, like those used by the Romans, a weapon that required no small training and unit discipline to employ effectively. Even more worryingly, Dobunni cavalrymen were practicing wheeling in tight formation on the training ground outside the city walls. Guidolin was preparing for combat.
When they were told to seek Guidolin at his family’s stronghold in the remote west, a place little touched by Rome’s hand, where the old beliefs of the Dobunni continued, Max suspected a ploy to lure them even deeper into Dobunni territory. A voice in his head told him to go home, to send word that Guidolin should come to Verulamium, that to continue on was foolishness. But still he turned Zephyr towards Caer-den-Arth and that moment when he and Guidolin would come face to face once more.
Progress there was slow. Severus was still in a black mood, as black as the cloak Rhoswen had laid round his shoulders. They’d barely exchanged two words since setting out. Severus moaned as they went over a wheel rut. Max felt a surge of compassion. His father was still so weak. In an attack he would need protection.
The ground began to rise upwards through woodland towards the hill fort. Idly Max wondered if Sabrina would be there. Her home was in Corinium, but her father Donocastus had strong connections with Guidolin.
Wading through the chill grey of the river water, Max saw the landscape changing, green pines rising on the hillside either side. As they neared the hill fort his feeling of being somehow trapped within its majestic beauty grew. Guidolin had chosen his lair wisely. The stony bed of the river was treacherous underfoot. Walking his horse gently forward, Max avoided the white swell of the water that told of higher, sharper rocks beneath its surface. As children he and Guidolin had taken stones out of that very river for their slings, stones smoothed by that icy current. That same summer they’d learned to throw a javelin together. And that same summer their friendship had been lost.
Max lifted his face to the sun again, letting the forest light dance across his skin. He loved the blue greenness of the forest, the sun’s dappling light through the branches overhead. Those shifting leaves were often the only movement, other than the steady beat of the horses’ hooves on the well trodden path. Max thoughts ran in rhythm with them, as he practiced the words he’d use to greet Guidolin. So much hung in the balance.
A sudden commotion to his left made Zephyr start. As he brought the stallion under control, a flight of wood pigeons erupted into the air, squawking and fluttering. Something had panicked the birds into flight. Stopping, he stared deeply into the dappled light and shade. What had caused their fright? For the briefest moment he glimpsed a dark motion, the ripple of fur. Saw shiny eyes over a black snout, staring at him, curiously.
A bear. A young one.
Max instinctively swivelled on his saddle to check his hound Bruno was still with the caravan. The hound would give chase immediately. When he looked back the bear had disappeared.
Curiously deflated, he turned Zephyr back onto the path. His Dobunnic mother had taught him to study living things, to learn from them. She’d shown him their traits and habits, taught him about the spirit of each animal. Max had seen the intelligence in the bear’s eyes, the wisdom in his watching him…thoughts of the magnificent beast stayed with Max until the hill fort came into view, high above them. Caer den Arth – ‘the fort of the bear’. How strange that he had just glimpsed such a beast. He half expected to see Guidolin standing on the ramparts hurling spears at them. But there were only lazy wisps of smoke.
Built high on a hill top the fort was strategically placed at the meeting place of two trade routes. Oval in shape it was defended by an enormous bank and ditch with an entrance on the eastern side. Guidolin had added a new stone rampart to reinforce the old wooden palisade. Salvius, riding at Max’s side, suddenly leant over to him in his saddle and whispered uneasily. ‘Are those human heads pinned to the ramparts?’ Max saw them now too. Severed heads, now little more than skulls, nailed to the wooden palisade. He shrugged. The Dobunni had thought the head the seat of their soul, linking them to the powers of the Otherworld. They had enough to worry about, without some antique curiosities. ‘The heads are old, Salvius. Dobunnic head hunting died out a long time ago; the Romans wouldn’t stand for it. Times have changed, Salvius. Most of the Dobunni are as true believers as we are. Or at least claim to be. See, they have crosses pinned to the ramparts too’. Strange though, that their new priest hadn’t insisted on the heads being taken down.
Dobunnic militiamen carrying the large shields with those red Dobunnic horse heads stood guard, wearing a strange mix of Roman and British equipment. Forming a natural line to either side of them the Dobunni warriors eyed them suspiciously as they allowed them to pass. They were completely outnumbered. How would the knives and staffs and hunting spears of his men do against them in combat? And how many of these men shared Guidolin’s hatred of him?
It was too late to back out now. Trumpets sounded as they entered the camp and Max shuddered at the eerie sound of the carnyx wail. He took a second glance at the decapitated heads. Close to, one looked somehow fresher than the others. There seemed to be dark stains on the wood beneath it. Some natural marking, no doubt. Max shivered and looked away.
Life here in the west was hard and uncompromising. These Dobunni clung to communal living, their homes little more than huts with thatched roofs. Everywhere he saw their elaborate intertwinings of their artwork, intended to guard against evil.
A large marble statue stood incongruously amidst the wattle buildings. Max stood a moment, recognizing a monument to Guidolin’s ego. As they rode through the people’s midst cooking pots were bubbling over open fires. Max watched a young woman hook a piece of meat out of the sizzling stew. Animal bones were piled around the campfire. As they passed the woman drew a circle around herself
with the index finger of her right hand.
Salvius saw it too and laughed. ‘I once saw a Dobunnic man turn round sun-wise, all the while praying to the Holy Trinity for protection. As though some magic circle could protect anyone. Faith in the One Lord is what they need. I wonder that their priest allows such contamination of the true message.’
Even though Christianity had been declared the Empire’s true religion, out here many of the older Dobunni had continued to worship their old gods in secret. It seemed to Max that the church had simply overlaid many of the beliefs they sought to replace. He needed to warn Salvius to keep his opinions in check. He didn’t want the parlay threatened. ‘Don’t preach at them, Salvius. There will be time for that later, if we can save the peace.’
Salvius shook his head. But his smile told Max not to worry.
They were met by Rhoswen’s aunt, Gwen. She and Rhoswen fell around each other’s necks, launching into excited conversation. For a moment Max felt glad for his mother. She was happy to be amongst her own people, even for a short while. Severus and the rest of the delegation followed them into the main building; Guidolin’s great house. The meal had been already been cleared for the evening, but within moments a simple but savoury stew was served in deep bowls, along with dark bread. Max looked around him as he ate. Like his own people, the Dobunni had never allowed themselves to become fully part of the Roman world. If anything his mother’s tribe had resisted more. The Catuvellauni dressed in the Roman fashion. The Dobunni in Corinium wore the same Roman styles, but here, in the remote west, the men were wrapped in thigh length cloaks with leather or fur footgear tied around the legs. Each warrior wore a moustache and his hair shoulder length. Their women wore huge rectangular cloaks, pinned at the shoulder, woven in bright plaids or stripes. Some of the younger ones had reddened their cheeks with roan and darkened their eyebrows with berry juice. Their hair was worn long and braided or piled up on their dark heads. Max felt some of them watching him.