by Scott Hurst
For now he allowed himself to be distracted by the sights of the city. Arelate was fascinating and vast in comparison to home. Having grown up in one of the biggest towns in Britannia and visited Londinium with his father, Max had thought he knew large towns. But they were nothing compared to Arelate, with its astounding architecture, churches and markets. He passed the imposing amphitheatre with its fine stone columns; a powerful reminder of the might of Rome. Despite himself Max began to understand the locals’ attitude to Britain. To the inhabitants of a city like this, his home would indeed seem a strange, faraway place. And from what he’d heard even Arelate was nothing compared to the really great cities of the Empire.
The city was teeming; its narrow streets a multitude of nations. Everywhere he walked he saw faces and costumes from different countries. Some streets were covered by tapestries; white linens flew in the warm air which was filled with rich perfumes. Turning one corner a young girl, half naked, tried to lead him by the hand to her curtained place of work. Reminded of the girl from last night he hurried on. As he walked Max drank in the atmosphere, all the hustle and bustle, the shopkeepers advertising their wares. There was money here and business to be made. But there were also signs of the war. Refugees from the north of Gaul were everywhere, emaciated and grey, many of them begging. Some had taken over abandoned public buildings, several of the old temples which had fallen into disuse, erecting makeshift shelters inside them. Awnings had been strung across any available space to give shelter. A toothless old woman, begging with a small child, saw his military kit and spat just in front of him. He ignored her shouts of ‘Murdering bastards, all of you!’ But her reedy voice cut deep as he made his way through the crowds.
Murdering bastard. He had killed two men last night. At the time their deaths had been instinctive, self-defence, but he carried the shock of it with him still. Constantine’s words forced themselves into his thoughts. ‘Kill them all!’ The Emperor’s casual cruelty troubled him most of all. What kind of a man was he fighting for? He had believed in Constantine, had thought him the latest in a long and noble line of British rebels. But there had been nothing noble about Constantine’s murderous disdain last night.
Lost in his thoughts Max realised he had walked past the place he was searching. Retracing his steps he found the Street of the Carpenters, just next to the old temple of Isis as Sabrina had written. The address was not some church as he’d expected but a shop. Checking the sign Max parted the curtain and entered. There was the pungent smell of freshly-worked wood, the scrape of metal on wood. A gentle faced young man looked up, his curly hair decorated with woodchips. ‘Can I help you, sir?’
A fellow Briton, Atrebate from the sounds of him. More convinced than ever that Paulinus had arranged the meeting to help him, Max looked around to check there was no sign of anyone else.
‘Paulinus sent me.’
The man’s smile widened. ‘I guessed as much. Have you a message for me, from Paulinus?’
Surely he was here to receive a message, not give one? Max wasn’t sure what to say. What friendship bound Paulinus to this young man?
‘I have no word for you.’
Clearly disappointed the young man shrugged and turned back to his wood.
‘Paulinus sent me a message, that I should seek you out.’ Perhaps the message itself was the clue? ‘It was addressed the True One, Royal Catuvellaunian.’
Immediately the young man stopped work. He was no longer smiling. ‘What you seek,’ he said, ‘is being held by heretics. Men who mingle the Lord’s gospel with the old religion.’
Max was exultant. ‘So you do have information about the sect?’
The carpenter spat on the floor. ‘The Romans routed them, but there’s a small group of diehards who still worship in secret. The Great Torc is their most beloved object of veneration. Since moving back to the city they move it from house to house under cover of darkness, never hiding it in one place too long. Hunted as they are, they have no place of real safety. My best guess is that it will most often be in the Street of the Bakers in Massilia. The sanctuary there is overseen by the pater partum, their main leader. He never lets it far from his sight.’
‘But how shall I know this hiding place?’
The carpenter began to smile once more. ‘That is indeed a challenge, Maximus, is it not? I suggest you use your God given gifts. If He is with you, you will find what you seek.’ Picking up his hammer he began to chisel once more.
‘That’s it? You have no further message for me?’
The man seemed strangely bitter. ‘I have given you all the information I have.’
Their meeting was over.
*****
Back at camp, Salvius had the men gathered, ready to mount up. The men were changing, maturing and clearly as keen as he was to get out of the city again. Saluting them, Max led them out towards the city gates. Once through the encampment Salvius came alongside, grinning at Max, his brown eyes questioning. ‘So we are going after the Torc again? Is it Massilia this time?’
Max looked at him curiously. ‘How did you know?’
Salvius shrugged. ‘Just a guess.’ A half smile played on his lips.
For the first time Max found this ability of Salvius’s to read his thoughts unnerving. First Guidolin was a step ahead of him, and now Salvius too. A little flash of suspicion burst into flame in the back of Max’s mind.
He shook his head. Ludicrous. Salvius was the truest friend he had ever had.
The air of treachery that lurked around Constantine’s camp was getting to him.
*****
It was late the following day before they approached Massilia. Not far from the city walls a farm had been burnt down. As Max rode past he noticed fresh graves in the field and next to them a woman weeping. The reminder of home did nothing to sweeten his sour mood. Approaching the city he expected to be challenged, but the guards in the gate towers were ignoring the heavy traffic moving through it. As his troop entered one of the guards shouted down lethargically. When Max identified himself as an envoy of Constantine, a weather-beaten soldier rushed down to meet them. ‘Accept my apologies, sir.’
Max frowned, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be guarding this gate, soldier? Keeping out the enemies of our Emperor?’
The man scratched nervously at a boil on his neck. ‘Obviously we’re loyal to the noble Emperor Constantine. But there are so few of us guards and not everybody in there…’ he gestured with his thumb towards the port city beyond the gate, ‘…is as keen on Constantine as we are. There are still some in there who are loyal to Honorius, I’m afraid, and others,’ he shrugged, ‘who’d frankly rather not have any emperor. It’s gotten so, sir that if they leave us alone, we leave them alone.’ He offered Max a lop-sided grin. ‘That way everybody’s happy.’
Max grimaced. What a shambles. Disunity and division everywhere he looked, even in those places that should have been safe. How could people live their lives happily, make money and better themselves if they weren’t kept safe? Constantine’s solution to that disunity was slaughter in the streets. Max felt his growing frustration that such power was in the hands of a man too inhumane to use it wisely. What was needed was a man of integrity, a man of vision, who cared for the needs of his people. He’d follow such a man gladly.
The guard was still keen to smooth troubled waters. ‘Anything else I can help you with, sir?’
‘Direct me to the Street of the Bakers?’
The guard whistled through missing teeth. ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I were you, sir.’ Seeing Max’s expression he changed tack. ‘If you must, third left, then second right. Good luck to you!’ With that the soldier scampered back up his guard tower. As they rode under the arch, Max heard someone in the guardroom above call out ‘Pig Britons!’ There was a roar of laughter. Max gritted his teeth and urged Zephyr on.
After the guard’s warning, he was almost disappointed to find the streets of Massilia little different from Arelate. Just as crowded, with even
more refugees. There was the inevitable jostling and pushing getting his thirty horsemen through busy streets and people stared at his men more than they would have done further north. But they reached the street he needed with remarkably few problems.
Which was more than Max could say about finding any sign of the sun sect’s whereabouts. A secret hideaway full of heretics, hidden in a street full of bakers - Max found the idea laughable himself. There was nothing to indicate the existence of any sect, no strange men coming or going. Frustrated, he rode up and down the street several times, searching discreetly, knowing all the while that he was attracting more and more inquisitive looks.
Had he come all this way just to go home empty handed? He could hardly stop people and ask them if they knew where the sun sect met. Max searched his memory for clues. Heru had been able to tell him so little. The street walls were white-washed, covered in graffiti. Was the clue here? Finally, just as he was beginning to despair, he saw it. A tiny sun symbol over a cross, scrawled above the lintel of a low, non-descript doorway. Bidding his troop to wait for him he called Madoc and Salvius to him as he tried the door. It was locked. He knocked. No answer. Salvius looked at him, and Max nodded his head. Shrugging, Salvius charged the door with his shoulder. The door was old and frail. It gave way after his second assault.
In the darkness of the interior a young Massilian came towards them. Seeing their uniforms he stepped back in fear. Before he could scream out Madoc caught him, clamping his hand over his mouth. Leaving Madoc to silence him, Max moved away and stepped through the rear door. The corridor was dark, but he could make out the soft glow of lamplight down a corridor. He followed it, bumping into dark shapes and heavy furniture in the dark, sensing Salvius and Madoc on his heels.
This temple was different from any sacred space Max knew. What kind of people were these? The dark passages gave no clue to their mystical ceremonies and protocols. As they moved down the narrow corridors Max felt a strange fear. Rhoswen had always warned him away from any ritual frowned on by the church. What was this force that held these men from the True Faith? What promised them power and wisdom so strong they were prepared to risk their lives for it? He called on his own God to keep him safe.
The corridor came to an abrupt end. In the darkness Max could hear an incantation coming from the main chamber ahead. Moving silently the three friends moved towards the sound. Max reached the doorway and stopped, unable to believe what he was seeing. The incense told him it was some kind of purifying ritual. A dark figure stood facing them, silhouetted by lamps high on the altar behind him. The room was dark, but in his upheld hands the pontifex bore an object. It glinted in the light of the flames, an object of solid gold. In the flickering light Max could just make out the letters carved on its surface. CARA, the shorter version of his ancestor’s name.
Sweet Christ. The Great Torc of Caratacus.
Somehow, Max had never really, fully believed they would find it. And now here it was, solid, real. Almost within touching distance. Thinking of all the Great Torc stood for and all it had seen, Max felt shivers run down his back.
It was clear why they worshiped it. The Torc was wrought with golden spear heads emerging from the strands of gold. Turned wrong way up, it formed a radiant crown, like the sun.
How could he have ever doubted its power?
It was magnificent. Now he fully understood why it had become the symbol of their nation, the spiritual heart of their tribe. Why it had united tribes, led men to victory, promised invincibility. Once it was theirs again he would keep it safe, ensure it stayed always with his people, blessing them.
Mesmerized, he took another step into the room, Madoc and Salvius behind him.
A voice commanded, ‘Stop!’
Instinctively all three of them turned to the voice.
It spoke again. ‘You defile the shrine of our Lord Jesus, son of God, God of the Sun.’
Max’s own voice was strong and clear. ‘I am Maximus of the Vellauni, heir to Caratacus. Rightful owner of the Torc. I come to claim what is mine.’
The dark figure spoke again. ‘This holy object belongs to no man, Maximus of the Vellauni. It belongs only to God. I know who has sent you…’
Before Max could respond Madoc had lunged forward and grabbed for the Torc. The priest started screaming. ‘Blasphemy!’ In the darkness Max saw Madoc’s arm rise. The pontifex sacked to the floor, the Torc rolling from his grasp. Instinctively Max grabbed the precious treasure.
The priest lay on the floor in a pool of blood, his skull cleaved in two. It had happened so quickly. Taken aback by the ferocity of the attack Max stared at Madoc, bewildered.
Madoc saw his confusion. ‘I know what the Torc means to you, Maximus,’ he stuttered. ‘I owe you my life. Taking it for you was an honour.’
Further talk would have to wait. Slipping back the way they had come, they could already hear others running through the corridors towards them. All three bolted for the door and out into the street, saddling up at a run. Slipping the Torc into his saddlebag Max began pushing his horse urgently through the street. Behind them the sounds of pursuit behind them grew louder. The cavalry who had waited outside joined in behind the three runaways, creating more collisions, angering the locals. Several men in gold robes emerged from the doorway, rage and determination on every face. Max and his men picked up their speed. As they struggled through the crowds, their pursuers, unencumbered by horses, began to gain on them.
The street opened on to a wider thoroughfare, allowing them to make better progress. Still there were people everywhere. Speed was impossible; any forward movement needed strategic manoeuvring. Their pursuers were close behind. Max made a decision. If he couldn’t outrace them he could confuse them. ‘Split up!’ he yelled. Instantly his troops disappeared off into side streets and alleyways. Max rode on, cursing himself when he crashed into a basket seller’s stall, sending the wickerwork flying and drawing attention to himself. He looked over his shoulder. There were still several men in golden robes on his trail.
He had to get to the city gates. Praying hard, he stooped closer to Zephyr’s neck, willing the animal on. Crates with chickens, melon stands, rolls of cloth went flying as he picked up speed. Heart pounding, he risked another look behind him. Only one of the men was still keeping pace with him, running as though he could go on forever. Max had almost made it to the road leading back to the gate before his luck ran out. Madoc appeared from nowhere to ride alongside him. Normally so skilled in the saddle, the Dobunni somehow pushed his horse too far, colliding into a large man who grabbed at his reins. By now others had caught up with them. Seeing Madoc in trouble, Max’s cavalryman responded. In an instant the whole street was in turmoil. A variety of missiles, including vegetables, bricks and rubbish were launched in their direction.
Max’s troop fought their way through, as best they could, trying not injure anyone else for fear of making the situation worse. It was touch and go, but in the confusion, somehow, they made it out through the gate. They charged forward on the road only to find a crowd of travellers and carriages blocking it. Diverting onto the flat ground beside it, Max looked across at Salvius, whose face was split in a wide grin. His own joy rang out. ‘We have the Torc! The Torc of Caratacus!’
Salvius was looking not at but past him, a strange expression on his face. ‘But will we be able to keep it?’ His friend gestured.
Max looked up and realised what had been causing the traffic to come to a halt on the road. To his horror, approaching at the head of at least seventy cavalrymen, Max saw a face he recognized only too well and a shield symbol of the red, slightly angular, Dobunnic horseheads. He pulled up his horse.
There was a thin smile of triumph on Guidolin’s face as he rode up. ‘So good of you to locate the Torc for me, Maximus.’ Reaching over he grabbed Max by the arm, pulling on the leather amulet around Max’s wrist. Max put up his hand to protect it, pulling away. He had worn it since the noose as a keepsake since the day he had freed the be
ar. It had become a precious token, with its promise of his one day being truly worthy to be bear protector of his people.
Now Max’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know we were here?’
Guidolin seemed to be about to share something, then grinned. ‘A stroke of good fortune,’ he shrugged. ‘We were on a routine patrol, camped in woods nearby.’ Guidolin tilted his head on one side. ‘But enough of such pleasantries. Look around. You’ll see that we outnumber you. So kindly hand the Torc over and I might just let you and your Catuvellaunian peasants escape with your lives.’ He paused, smoothing his moustaches. ‘Or you can all die. I don’t mind. You choose. I can see advantages in both options.’
Max stared at Guidolin’s cavalrymen. Like themselves, the Dobunni men seemed to have acquired better equipment since their departure from Britain. They were outnumbered, as Guidolin said, but the thought of simply handing the Torc over…
He stared at his enemy. ‘The Torc is priceless, Guidolin. Priceless to Britain, priceless to the Catuvellauni and priceless to me. You will never have it.’ And wrenching his arm away he watched Guidolin howl in horror as the sharp metal of the bear noose ripped open his hand.
Suddenly the air was filled with roars of rage. A mob erupted from the city gates of Massilia. Another shower of missiles headed their way. Their pursuers had paused to gather strength and arm themselves with more weapons. Guidolin and his troops stared at the unexpected force headed their way. As missiles began to fall on them their lines disintegrated.
Max didn’t have to think twice. He turned to the Catuvellauni and shouted, ‘Charge!’
Guidolin whipped round, drawing his sword, but Max was too quick for him. Catching him a blow on his armour he knocked him from his saddle. Max just had time to see Guidolin picking himself up from the dust to run from the mob, before he had to deal with another Dobunnic. His opponent managed to turn his horse to face him, lunging wildly. Somehow Max ducked under the blade before turning and catching the man a glancing blow on the back. Though unsure how much damage he had done, he heard the man scream in pain.