Spears of Britannia

by Scott Hurst

  Sensing Sabrina’s quietness, Maximus pulled back from Adrastia, who’d finally realized Sabrina was standing beside him. ‘Beg pardon, my Lady. I am Adrastia, daughter of Trenius. And you are?’

  Max coughed, trying to hide his discomfort. ‘May I introduce Sabrina, my wife?

  The girl’s expression said it all. The look she drew Sabrina told her that Calista was not the only one who had set her cap at Maximus. Somehow Adrastia gathered herself enough to kiss her cheek in congratulations. She smelled of smoke and the long journey and her heart went out to the girl. What had she gone through these past days as she’d been preparing for a wedding?

  The womenfolk had already started to lead Trenius’s people away to give them something to eat. Severus called out to the company. ‘My guests, continue the celebration as we take care of our family. There is food enough for all.’

  As he led him away Trenius looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Severus, what will become of us? To the north, the Corieltauvi threaten us, and to the east the Saxons. We will be crushed, like a nut between two stones.’

  Severus frowned. ‘Be strong, Trenius. Now is not the time for weakness. We Catuvellauni ruled this island in the past. We will again. A truce is being put in place with the other tribes. Max and men of the Catuvellauni will enter Rome at the side of Constantine. Then we will see the power of the Catuvellauni rise again.’

  *****

  Several hours later Maximus carried Sabrina to their wedding couch. She slipped from his arms to the floor to stand before him, looking uncertain. Though the wedding veil had been removed, there were still flowers in her hair. She was so beautiful, but he could see she was frightened. He smiled at her, willing her to know that he would be tender. ‘Don’t look so afraid’, he said, kissing the tip of her nose. Her simple robe of pure white, to be worn only on that day, was bound with a woollen belt. Smiling at her, Maximus caught it in his fist and began untying the complicated marriage knot, which was his alone to undo. A ritual he could have done without. He was impatient to see what lay beneath. The knot untied, he moved to remove her linen shift. Sabrina pulled it tight around her. Lifting her chin, he could see real fear in her eyes. They glistened in the candlelight, as though tears were close.

  ‘I will be gentle,’ he promised softly, pulling on the cord.

  Sabrina shook her head. ‘Men are not gentle.’

  Backing away from him she stood in a darkened corner, looking like a hunted deer, trapped but poised for flight. The same way she had looked the night of the feast.

  Max was confused. What did she know of men? What was coming would be wonderful. He’d felt the thread that had connected them. Their kisses had awoken passion in them both. Until, he remembered, he’d tried to touch her.

  What could have happened to make her react like this?

  He was her husband. Tomorrow he would leave her. Was she not to know him, love him? As though she was willing the fear away she moved a step towards him, her eyes on his. ‘You have been so kind to me, Maximus. I want to be fully yours. So that nobody can ever take me away.’

  Was that what she wanted? For the marriage to be consummated, so it was fully legal? Max looked at her intently, needing a sign that she wanted him the way he wanted her. Sabrina took another step towards him. The first touch of her lips was tender. Not a kiss full of wonder, not the way they had kissed before. This kiss was hesitant. Uncertain. But then he felt her fingers at his waist, lifting his tunic.

  ‘You’re sure?’ His voice was deep in her ear, his breath warm on her neck. Please God, let her not refuse me.

  ‘I am sure.’ Smooth and warm, his skin felt like silk under her fingertips. Sabrina slid her hands up his back, exploring the muscles and the strength of him. The pressure of his hands on her was light but firm, his touch soothing one second, terrifying the next. She willed herself to give in to his caresses. Gathering her courage, she kissed him, her tongue tentatively entering the sweet, dark cavern of his mouth. Sighing, his hand rose to her breast, pressing the round, full flesh. She felt his pleasure and the warmth of his shaft against her thigh.

  He heard her breath catch. What would she be like if he unleashed the full force of his passion? This was a mistake. He would wait.

  Sensing him hesitate, she reached up and touched his face, her blue eyes dark.

  She pulled him towards the bed. Sabrina felt his weight upon her, felt him lift her tunica above her hips. He felt her legs part, and felt himself nudging against her belly. He used his fingers to spread apart her tender flesh, guiding himself, pushing as gently as he could, then stopped when he felt her trembling. He felt the resistance and saw the fear on her face. There was no way to do this without hurting her. Eyes shut, she whispered, ‘Don’t stop.’ As he pushed himself into her, he felt her delicate membrane tear. He stopped again, to give her time.

  She whispered, ‘Please, Max, keep going.’ So he did. There was more pain on her face and then he was completely inside her. When he opened his eyes again she was biting her lip, so as not to cry.

  ‘Shall I stop?’

  ‘Finish it.’

  Frustrated, he concentrated on ending it as quickly as possible. He began driving into her in solid, rhythmic strokes. On and on it went, thicker, harder. Other than her gasps of pain there was silence. Sabrina had clamped her eyes shut. Max felt a searing flame of pleasure which didn’t make up for its cost. She rolled away from him. In the darkness he heard a sob. Lifting his hand from her hip, he felt her cheek wet. He kissed her shoulder tenderly, lost for a way to help her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Maximus. I know you are disappointed. I wanted it to be …different.’

  Different? Suddenly he knew. ‘Has someone already…did someone try to hurt you?’

  She turned towards him, dark eyes pleading and then the crying began in earnest. ‘I had to fight him off. He was like an animal.’

  Max closed his eyes.

  Guidolin.

  Chapter Seven

  Max sat on the stone steps outside Constantine’s headquarters in Arelate, kicking his heels. The sandstone steps were hot under the fierce European sun. Leaving home he’d expected that by now the rebel Emperor would have led them victoriously through the gates of Rome. Instead they were stuck here in southern Gaul, in this alien part of the world, far from home and all that was dear to him. New rules had had to be learned, new duties taken on, and quickly. New responsibilities had forced him to find inner strengths and resources, to adapt to this strange new life as a soldier and all that was required of a leader, so that his men might thrive in this strange environment.

  He’d left for Gaul the day after the wedding. He’d been up early, ill slept after their awkward lovemaking. Sabrina had refused to speak of the attack she’d suffered at Guidolin’s hands. Instead he’d lain awake, filled with useless rage. Constantine’s interdict prevented revenge for now, but one day, soon, he’d make Guidolin pay. That he had harmed Sabrina changed everything – any pity he had felt for Guidolin at losing Morwen, any lingering traces of sorrow at the path his old friend had chosen, any hope that the two tribes might one day be united by a common need to survive what lay ahead…gone. To be replaced by a need for revenge so deep it staggered him. Above all else Max wanted to take away the hurt Guidolin had caused her. But revenge would have to wait. Guidolin’s Dobunnic unit had joined Gerontius’ forces in Iberia. Who knew what mischief he was getting up to there, whilst Max’s unit languished here with the flies and heat? The only good news was that the truce between the tribes back home was still holding. Pressure from Constantine and pressure from the Church were playing a role. But Max believed it had another cause: so many of the tribes had sent their best fighting men to the armies of Constantine and Gerontius. Occupied here on the content, they couldn’t cause trouble at home.

  And Sabrina was safe from Guidolin for now…

  He had parted from her in the company of his family and hundreds of militiamen. A thousand thoughts had whirled round his head but
their goodbye had been stilted, awkward. They’d stood looking at each other, unsure what to say. Now he was stuck here in Arelate, unable to speak to her. And what had all the hurry been for? Max slapped away a fly in irritation. His men had raced south through the searing heat of Gaul to reach Constantine’s army in Arelate. Leaving home they’d been the pride of the Catuvellaunian nation. Fathers and elders had hailed their courage; womenfolk had wound flowers round their weapons or showered them with petals. Well, that euphoria was long past. Once in the encampment, the waiting had begun.

  At least the extra time had allowed him to continue training his men. Had he done enough to give the men a chance of surviving their first battle? The ghost of Decentius was his constant companion. Yet now, baking under the Gaulish sun, Max found himself longing for battle, just to relieve the monotony. No doubt his men felt the same. They’d be sick of living under canvas. At least he had a good billet in the town with the young widow Antonia. Max saluted Amax, one of his more promising recruits, before shifting himself irritably into the shade of a tree, seeking shelter from the relentless sun. Young Amax was proving himself a sound leader, good at motivating the men in his command. Over the weeks he’d come to know all his men better, discovered their strengths, their weaknesses. They’d become a unit. But as militiamen yet untried in battle, they were still to prove themselves to the other units in Constantine’s army.

  Most frustrating of all, his responsibilities had kept him in the camp, unable to manufacture a reason to follow Heru’s map to the Torc he longed for with every sinew and fibre of his being. Keeping the map a secret was becoming more and more difficult, but to disclose it was to risk the chance of someone else finding it first.

  As the long hot days wore on, Max had come across several units from other British tribes, similarly seduced by Gerontius’ ‘offer’. There was a large contingent of Atrebates, along with smaller contingents of Iceni, Silures and Corieltauvi. In the first few days the smallest conflict over a cooking pot would lead to tribesmen punching each other, brawling or sometimes even drawing knives. Even now Max would hear a shouted insult, or there would be mention of some past tribal grudge. Living cheek by jowl with the Corieltauvi was difficult. A group of them stared at him every time he passed as though waiting their chance to run him through. If his men were drawn up in battle next to them, or a bunch of armed Atrebates, Max wasn’t sure whether he should have an eye on the enemy opposite, or on the tribesmen beside him.

  That thought drove him to seek out the other tribal leaders, encouraging his men to do the same with the lower ranks. The camp had been a revelation. There were men here from all over Western Europe and far beyond. Iberians, Illyrians, Syrians…even Saxons from beyond the empire’s borders. From the tales he’d heard back home he’d expected them to be ferocious giants, ready to remove his head. But here in Arelate the Saxons were just spears for hire like the rest of them. He’d even managed to find a few who spoke a little Latin. Yesterday he’d played dice with their leader, Sigwulf; a quiet, brusque fellow, well respected by his men. Living in this melting pot of peoples had been salutary – and humbling. To these men the Catuvellauni name meant nothing. If Max identified himself by his tribe they stared at him blankly. If he said ‘British’, understanding flashed in their eyes, though few seemed impressed. Most of the men here saw Britain as an uncivilized outpost. But at least they knew where it was. Sometimes from personal experience; the Saxon Sigwulf had admitted to raiding their coastline. By tacit agreement, they’d discussed it no further. It hadn’t seemed good manners, somehow.

  He enjoyed sitting with the other leaders, enjoying their slow, sparse speech, even the coarseness of their jokes. He came to appreciate the ribald humour that kept the strong man humble and challenged the weak to become stronger. In all the trials and challenges of this new place, their company became a highlight of his day. Gradually an uneasy truce had developed among them, a reluctant acceptance that they were all in this together. What began as a shared joke became the occasional meal together and then the sharing of their stories and hopes. Somehow, being surrounded by soldiers who cared nothing about the tribes’ past history, men who knew them simply as Britons, made the differences between their tribes seem less important. As the weeks passed Max met with the other leaders often and came to know them better; Eppilus the Atrebate, as decent a man as they came; Brennus the Silurean, as dark-haired as the rest of the men from his home region, known as a man of great courage; even Sigwulf the Saxon, so well respected by his men. It was too much to say they forged a friendship, but there was mutual esteem at least.

  Their stories fascinated him – as well as the way each tribe’s stories linked. Caratacus’s memory still resounded for many of the other tribes too. Naturally many of the Atrebates hated his ancestor; Caratacus had tried to rule them. But most of the other tribes knew of his Great Torc. One night by the camp fire, a little the worse for wear and no doubt homesick, Eppilus the Atrebate recounted the story of the goldsmith who was ordered to make the Torc, for Caratacus’s wedding. ‘As a symbol of the union between himself and our Atrebatic princess, see. The union of two tribes.’ It was now clear to Max that all the tribes understood the Torc’s real significance – that whoever held it would be Rex Britannorum, ruler of all Britain.

  Back home Paulinus’s ideas of unity had seemed like impractical nonsense. Here in Gaul that unity seemed somehow possible. Necessary even.

  Everywhere he went there was bad feeling in the camp. At times waves of a strange, hostile energy ran through the camp, setting the men on edge. Salvius had noticed it too. ‘The men are complaining – and they’re afraid.’ Max knew its cause. The Emperor they had come to fight for. In Constantine they had a leader they couldn’t trust and an uncertain future. Constantine rarely showed face amongst the men. News circulated frequently of the new Emperor’s random acts of cruelty, intended to keep his men in line.

  Max shook his head in the heat and waved away another fly. The relationship between Constantine and General Gerontius was strained. Strange, given that Gerontius had raised Constantine to power. Considering all the great general had sacrificed for him and continued to sacrifice, the Emperor’s arrogant attitude to his right hand man seemed ill-advised.

  He would have to tread warily, but somehow he needed to make himself known to the Emperor himself. Here he was no longer the spoiled scion of a royal family. He was a soldier, like everyone else. But he needed to be seen by Constantine somehow. How else could he get permission to leave the camp with his men?

  Heru’s map of the Torc’s whereabouts had softened with his constant pouring over it. Until now his men’s safety had taken precedence. But now he was ready to start searching for its great treasure.

  First he’d need an introduction to the Emperor.

  *****

  In the end it was their shared British background that allowed him to get close to Constantine. It was easy enough to wangle an invitation to the formal dinner the Emperor held nightly. Max was unable to hide his surprise at the rebel Emperor. For some reason he’d presumed Constantine would be more of an aristocrat. But his low background showed; the Emperor ate and drank like the peasant he had once been.

  Constantine’s story was well known. When the Roman forces had begun collapsing at home the legions had taken matters into their own hands, elevating one of their own to Emperor. ‘Plucked from obscurity by Gerontius and his fellow generals to be groomed for greatness,’ Constantine told him defiantly the first night Max was introduced to him. Almost despite himself, Max found himself warming to the man’s rough charisma, as he watched Constantine’s dark eyes, intelligent and astute. ‘I was chosen because of my name, of course, rather than my connections.’ Constantine continued. ‘No doubt they considered it an omen of success for their rebellion; a hundred years after the first Constantine started his bid for imperial glory. And so this obscure soldier became the mighty usurper, setting up this centre of power here in Gaul – with the help of those loyal to
him.’

  Looking around him, and knowing the unsettled atmosphere in the camp, Max couldn’t help wondering just how loyal those supporters were.

  He must have made a good impression. At dinner Maximus found himself lying on the same lectus as Constantine himself, an honour and sign of imperial favour. Over their meal the Emperor, spearing highly spiced, slippery snails into his mouth, asked several questions about his people back home.

  Reaching for another piece of bread, Max almost laughed to hear the name of the Catuvellauni. ‘It’s a relief to meet someone who has actually heard of us.’

  Constantine’s laughter sounded bitter to Max’s ears. Looking at the men around him, men from all over Europe, Constantine tapped the side of his long nose. ‘My ancestors came from Gaul, but because my father and I grew up in Britannia, most of these bastards still regard me as an uncivilized Brit, even though I’m their Emperor.’ He suddenly leant in close. ‘Don’t be fooled, young Maximus. They don’t say it openly, but most Romans despise us, think we’re barbarians. Young Honorius cares nothing for our country.’ Constantine downed his wine in one draught, immediately holding his glass out to a slave to be refilled. ‘We’ll show them who the Britons are when we take Rome from that spineless little shit. Get our own back for Boudicca, eh?’

  Max shook his head in astonishment. Back home Boudicca was seen as an enemy. The warrior queen had attacked Verulamium. Her attempt to overthrow Rome ended in isolation and disaster. Yet somehow here, in Gaul, all that mattered was that she was British and had taken a stand against her oppressors.

  Sensing the moment was ripe, Max decided to ask his favour. ‘Sir, now that I have your ear, might I have your permission to take out some scouting parties? My men are unpractised and need the experience.’