Spears of Britannia

by Scott Hurst

  Constantine appraised him before responding. ‘Agreed, young Maximus. You show initiative. I like that. And it’ll give your men a flavour of what to expect. My men had to subdue a sect down that way recently. Savages, all of them. Be on your guard.’

  *****

  The following morning Max set out at the head of a small scouting party. He made sure the party took pickaxes with them, though he got some strange looks when he gave the orders. Madoc grinned. ‘Are we going to dig the enemy to death?’

  Although it galled him to do so, Max didn’t head directly for the site on Heru’s map, a small village deep in the south close to the harbour port of Massilia. Instead, to make their mission seem legitimate, he headed south east, to where cavalrymen loyal to Honorius were said to operate. For three days his men endured long days marching through war-damaged villages, being stared at by a sullen, hostile population, an experience that angered them.’ No wonder,’ Salvius commented. ‘Setting out we had visions of themselves scattering the enemy and saving grateful civilians, bringing home prisoners and trophies, days of cavalry charges and dramatic action. Not this surly reception.’ Wherever they went they found the same mistrust. No wonder, when every family had lost members to Roman brutality.

  The time wasn’t completely wasted however. There was a band of brigands active in the area, men who had sworn swore allegiance to Honorius. Max lost his first casualty to them, the young scout, Marcianus, cut down silently as he went to find water. The loss shocked them all, cut deep, subduing the men and fortifying Max’s resolve to protect those left in his command. They buried the lad quickly, desperate to find his killers. For days Max and his men hunted the assassins down.

  Now each morning when the men armed themselves, it was for an ordeal. They had a sense now of the obstacles and challenges that faced them and they would face them as a group. This was preparation, Max knew, for the life and death struggle to come.

  Frustration harried at them. Whenever their troops approached somehow the killers were always able to slip away. Locals had to be supplying their enemy with information. The tribes didn’t care who won - Constantine or Honorius. All they cared about was food in their belly and a safe place to sleep. But Max knew he couldn’t let compassion stop him extracting the information he needed – the safety of his men came first.

  Two days later they’d captured two of the brigands, just lads, young, emaciated. It was pitiful, watching them beg for mercy but when they refused to betray their comrades, after losing Marcianus, Max felt he had no choice. He let one of his veterans deal with them, looking away as their throats were cut. Afterwards, the whole troop was subdued. This was not the kind of victory they had envisaged.

  Gradually, just as they grew closer to their real goal, Heru’s map no longer seemed to match the terrain. Max was driven mad with exasperation. It had seemed too good to be true, and now it seemed it was. Had the little Egyptian’s memory played tricks on him? Or had he deliberately mislead them, wanting the Torc for the Arians? Max desperately needed more information – and that meant asking direct questions. In the next village he called for its chieftain. An old man emerged reluctantly from the communal longhouse. All the other men of the village stopped their stonework, gathering around, staring at Max belligerently.

  ‘You men are far from home,’ the old man taunted. ‘Why are you down here, fighting other Romans, instead of pursuing the barbarians who have broken through up north, crossing the Rhine border?’

  The hordes were still ravaging northern Gaul. Who knew how far south they would get? Max felt duty bound to defend Constantine’s tactics. ‘Honorius is weak, old man. Constantine intends to deal with him before tackling the invaders.’ Even to his own ears, the argument sounded feeble. The longer he was out here the weaker it sounded.

  The old chieftain was unconvinced. ‘Why must Constantine bring men such a long way to fight his battles? Where are you from?’ Hearing the answer, Max saw scorn in his eyes. Only fear of retribution stopped the other villagers openly showing their contempt. But it seemed the chief was past caring. He spat on the ground, muttering, ‘Dirty Britons!’

  There was uproar. Immediately the men seized the old chieftain, forcing him to kneel. After long hard days and having lost one of their own, the men were unpredictable and on edge.

  Madoc spoke up. Face sweating in the Gaulish sun, his temper had the better of him. ‘The bastard needs making an example of, Maximus. I say we execute him.’

  In his mind’s eye Max saw the two young brigands who had died the day before. Then he’d had no choice. Now he did. Might or right. ‘I didn’t come to Gaul to slaughter an old man,’ he said quietly. Ignoring the men’s anger, he dismounted, ordering the chieftain into his longhouse. If the old man knew how close he’d come to death, he didn’t show it.

  Pulling the map from his saddle bag Max rolled it out before the sullen chief. ‘I’m looking for an abandoned stone mine in a village, built somewhere around here,’ he pointed at the map, ‘this spot low in a shallow valley, near the fork in the river.’

  The old man looked at him morosely. But Paulinus had taught Max patience. And he had no intention of taking his men off on a wild goose chase in this heat. ‘A couple of leagues from Massilia? You owe me a favour, old man. One I can easily revoke.’

  Slowly the chieftain nodded. ‘My ancestors worked those stone quarries. I know the place you describe.’

  *****

  The sun was blazing. They rode the length of a winding gorge, seeking shelter where possible, anything rather than ride out there on the burning sands. In places the gorge became so narrow and tortuous any progress was difficult. Riding through the barren landscape, Max longed for home. Only the thought of what might be ahead kept him forcing his men onwards. The Torc was worth any price, any sacrifice.

  The old chief’s directions were good. Max recognized the village from afar. Grabbing the map from his bag again he could make out the same landscape on its surface. Close to, stone walls and foundations clearly showed where village life had once been. Another sharp bend and there it was, the stone quarry, rent out of solid rock as though by nature rather than thousands of slaves. Excitement coursed through him. Jumping from Zephyr he called Salvius and Madoc to him. Finally he’d be able to let them in on his secret. ‘Grab your pickaxes, boys.’ Finally he could reveal his secret. His face split with elation as he put his arms around his two friends. ‘I believe this mine holds the Great Torc of Caratacus.’

  Salvius raised his eyebrows in a look that conveyed scepticism. Did he not know what this meant? How close they were to a treasure that would sway the whole future in their favour? But Madoc amazed Maximus. The Dobunnic could barely contain himself. He began shouting orders to the men to start digging. Some of the men looked excited, some cynical. Some looked like they thought he’d lost his mind.

  ‘But where should we dig, Maximus?’ Madoc shouted, barely able to contain himself.

  ‘Over by that egg shaped rock. It’s just as Heru described it.’

  Immediately Madoc began digging. Only a few shovels down he hit wood – a man-made roof followed by layers of bricks. There was no longer any doubt in Max’s mind. The entrance had been covered over. Why would the hidden temple be blocked up if something was not still hidden there? Grabbing a shovel he joined his men.

  The digging lasted an hour and a half. They worked hard, as a team, showing the spirit that was beginning to forge them together as a unit. When they finally unearthed the entrance stone, Max gagged as they rolled it aside. Stale air escaped. Salvius looked at Max sceptically, but Max was already covering his nose and mouth with his neck cloth he lowered himself down into the mine itself, Salvius and Madoc close behind. Ten paces in they came across another stone, part of the stone roof of a tunnel. Crawling below it in the near darkness, unable to light a torch for fear of the fumes, they were about to turn back when the tunnel gave way to a huge space, where the air was sweet.

  Blood of Christ, this must be the
sect’s worship sanctuary.

  Max entered the room in amazement. Perfectly rectangular, it had been carved from the rock by expert stone cutters. They lit a torch. Above their heads Max could made out a large symbol, a sun surmounted by a cross, radiating out of the rock into which it had been carved. Below the sun was carved a warning, in Latin.

  ‘Beware you who reach this place. It is dedicated to our Lord Jesus Christ and to the Sun that is his face shining on the world. A painful death awaits those who disturb it.’

  Ironic that the sun should worshiped here where no sun ever penetrated. No warning was going to stop him now. Ignoring it, Max stepped forward, throwing his neck cloth down in elation.

  Below the warning stood an altar, and on the altar was a wooden box, a great Torc drawn on its side. Max felt his heart beat so hard all he could hear was the blood rushing from his heart to his head and back again. With trembling hands he lifted the box and, heart almost bursting from his chest, he opened the lid.

  It was empty.

  *****

  All the way back to Arelate disappointment thrummed in him. He could barely raise his head so great was his disappointment. Salvius had tried to comfort him, saying they now had proof Heru’s story about the Torc was real. But if it still existed where was it now? And with whom? Had the Sol Invictus sect closed the mine themselves? Or were they the sect Constantine’s men had so recently suppressed? If so, perhaps, as Salvius suggested, they’d simply taken the Torc with them, to keep it safe in such dangerous times?

  The not knowing almost killed him. How could he have come so close, and yet be returning empty handed? Was this some omen, some sign that he was not meant to find it?

  Even as the thought formed, he knew he would never give up.

  What now? Sol Invictus was their only link with the Torc. Massilia seemed a likely place to seek them out. It made sense for heretics to hide out in the backstreets of big cities. But the city was dangerous territory these days. The large trading port, always vulnerable to thieves and pirates, was now filled with spies for Honorius or receiving the rough attentions of Constantine’s men. For now Max had to head back to camp and wait for his chance again.

  Back in Arelate there was some comfort waiting - his first letter from Sabrina. Somehow Rhoswen must have managed to have it smuggled over with official dispatches from Britain. Thanking Thanos, the young Greek clerk, Max tucked the letter in his belt and headed straight to his billet in the house of the widow Antonia. Grateful for the cool of his room, he took the precious parchment from his belt, still sealed with wax and bearing the Vellauni seal. Fingers trembling he slipped it from its string, heart thumping.

  It was a disappointment. He read and re-read it, hoping every time for some message from her he’d missed between the lines. But there was none. She began formally, in the usual way, sending her greetings, and hoping his journey was not too arduous. After greeting him on behalf of his mother she shared news of home.

  Dye is taking his responsibilities as protector of the Vellauni seriously. He and Calista spend a great deal of time with their friends and advisors, holding meetings long into the night, planning for the future of the tribe, though they share not what they discuss. To my regret it seems Calista and I will not be sisters. Despite my best efforts and the support of your mother, Calista has made it clear that a Dobunnic sister-in-law has brought shame on your family’s name.

  Sabrina was obviously being tactful. No doubt Calista was doing everything in her power to make life difficult for her. Max felt grateful to Rhoswen for defending his wife. No doubt that support had cooled her relationship with Calista too. And what of these secret meetings? What were Dye and Calista up to? Max felt the frustration of being so far from home, so powerless to monitor the machinations of his feckless brother and his ambitious wife. No good would come of it, of that he was sure.

  At the bottom of the letter Sabrina also included a message from his mentor. To Max, True One, Royal Catuvellaunian. Paulinus asks that you visit an old friend of his in Arelate who has news of a holy relic worth visiting in Massilia. Curiously, no name was given for the friend and no explanation for the visit. Sabrina had included brief directions. No doubt some dusty old monk he’d have to tolerate whining on about the bones of martyrs. That joy could wait.

  Her short letter asked for news of him and ended with a brief farewell. If anything the letter, written in her own hand, left him confused. Sad that she was so far away, frustrated at the horrible formality between them. How would it be when, if, he saw her again? Sitting at his desk he tried several times to respond before giving up, despite his promise to her.

  Had she found writing to him just as difficult? Perhaps Salvius would have some advice for him.

  Heading back to headquarters there was a great commotion in camp. Max spied his friend exiting the Greek clerk’s office. ‘What’s all the noise about?’

  Salvius was solemn. Max noticed again his listlessness. Perhaps the strangeness of this place was affecting Salvius too. ‘Gerontius and his retinue have arrived from Spain. For a strategy meeting with Constantine - about the invasion of Italy.’

  Strategy meeting? Max raised his eyebrows. ‘Could this mean action at last?’

  Salvius shrugged. ‘I’ve orders for you from Constantine, asking you to attend the meeting. Apparently he’s received word that an old friend of yours is accompanying the general.’

  The hairs on the back of Max’s neck stood to attention. ‘Guidolin?’

  Salvius spat his disgust. ‘Guidolin. It appears he’s become a trusted advisor to Gerontius.’

  Max’s mind was racing. Not even Salvius knew of the terrible new reason Max now had to hate his enemy. To tell him would be to betray Sabrina’s trust. He had to school his features to stay calm.

  Salvius hesitated, then offered, ‘Be careful, Maximus. If your feud with Guidolin causes problems for Constantine, the Catuvellauni will suffer.’

  Salvius was right. The tribe had to come first. But could he do spend time in the bastard’s presence without killing him? It would take every ounce of his strength, knowing he’d put his filthy hands on her…for a fleeting second Max thought about not going, but dismissed the idea. If anybody should hide, it should be Guidolin.

  Revenge would be all the sweeter for waiting.

  Besides, he wanted to know what the bastard was up to. He put his arm around Salvius’s shoulders. ‘Let’s get ready to welcome our guest.’

  *****

  Compared to the burning heat outside the air inside the basilica was cool. Tall columns, their crowns decorated with carefully carved foliage, framed the approach to Constantine’s throne. Light shone from high windows, picking out the rich marble in the interior gloom. Not the atmosphere one would expect to greet an ally.

  There was the sound of marching. Gerontius’ entourage entered the building. As they appeared the General was at the head of his party. To his right walked Guidolin. All around him, almost closer to Gerontius than the general’s own bodyguard, were men of Guidolin’s militia, recognizable now by the bear markings on their shields. As the impressive faction swept through the basilica Max could not take his eyes off Guidolin. Every part of him longed to draw his dagger and lunge at him, but there was too much at stake. As his enemy passed, Guidolin’s head swivelled briefly in his direction. Those eyes had followed Sabrina, those hands had pulled at her, that cruel mouth had tried to kiss her. The thought enraged him till he feared he’d lose control.

  Max had expected a look of hatred. Instead Guidolin wore a strange half smile, something resembling triumph.

  Constantine was already on his feet. A convivial smile on his face he spread his arms to welcome his general. ‘Most Excellent Gerontius! I hope your journey was an easy one.’

  From where he was standing Max could only see the general’s profile. Even so his fury was obvious. ‘Enough deceit, Constantine! That you plot against me is bad enough. Do not also insult me by thinking me brainless!’

  T
he smile left Constantine’s eyes, to be replaced with a dark fire. Slowly he moved down the steps towards Gerontius. ‘You forget yourself, General. Whatever mistaken ideas you have about any conspiracy, you will address me with the respect owed your Emperor!’ His point made, the expression on Constantine’s face softened a little and he held out his hands to the older man. ‘Whatever misunderstanding there has been, I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t put right.’ He paused before hissing, steel in his voice, ‘in private.’

  Gerontius laughed, the sound bitter and angry. ‘Don’t give me that ‘Emperor’ crap, Constantine. When I found you, you were a common soldier. I made you once and I can break you. If you think you can dump me now to replace me with your son, you have made an error of judgment.’

  Men on both sides stood edgy and alert, fingering their knife handles.

  Max alone stared at Guidolin, transfixed. In contrast to everyone else, his enemy was elated. Immediately Max realized he was behind this dissension and conflict. What lies had the crooked bastard been feeding Gerontius?

  The general’s voice boomed across the basilica. ‘You are a disgrace to our cause, Constantine. I came here to help you take Italy, yes, and Rome itself. And this is how you repay me? Usurping me with your whelp?’

  There was naked fury on the Emperor’s face. Constantine lurched down the steps towards Gerontius. ‘Your spies have misinformed you. I am planning to send my son Constans to Iberia. To serve alongside you, Gerontius. I had no thought of replacing you.’ The Emperor paused briefly, his eyes on the general’s impassive face. ‘Until now.’

  To Max’s astonishment Gerontius turned to have a brief, whispered conversation with Guidolin. Turning back there was fresh anger in his eyes. ‘We have proof of your duplicity. Letters, intercepted on the road here.’

  Constantine looked genuinely confused. ‘Forgeries, not from my hand.’