Authors: Paul Bannister
Arthur Imperator (19 page)
Our big horses ate up the miles at a canter and the occasional small town, farms and hamlets went by in a blur of halts and fodder, of watering the horses and snatching food for the men. People were there, too, incredulous at our news of invasion and war; folk who hurried away to bury their valuables and move their beasts to safety. Everywhere we stopped, I ordered able-bodied men to muster with their weapons in the west, at Caros’ Camp, the earthwork fort of the ancients that some premonition years before had caused me to reinforce. Then, I had seen the place as a strongpoint to withstand invasion from the west. Now, it would be a rallying point against the iron Roman tide from the east.
We
diverted to the coast at Portus Chester, to see what news there was of the fleet, and what infantry reserves we had there. With a bitter heart, I decided to leave the port to its fate and to move the foot soldiers back to my western hillfort of Caros’ Camp. I would need all my force in one place to hold the Roman threat and that would be a good place to meet it. I also had half a legion at Caerleon, directly across the Severn Sea from the hillfort, which was once called Cado’s Fort, or Cadbury. It had been renamed for me, as I was called Caros or Carausius when I rebuilt it.
We
burned the port facilities to deny them to the Romans, and I ordered the fleet to the safety of the Severn. They would be based at Abonae, a harbour on the Avon just west of Aquae Sulis. There, if needed, they could shuttle my force across from Caerleon, and importantly would have control over the Severn Sea. The irony was not lost on me when I learned that a second Roman fleet had just been destroyed in those waters, the very place where I was now gathering my forces. It had to be an augury from the gods, and a good one at last.
So,
within the week and on a beautiful spring day, I arrived to inspect the limestone hilltop fortress of Caros’ Camp. I was happy to see that the place was bustling with men and construction. It had been several years since I had ordered it reinforced with stone from Roman fortifications at their nearby lead mines. I thought then that the Camp would be a keystone to the western defences as well as a place of mystical power. Now, it looked like a bastion from which I could either begin the recapture of my kingdom or face my own death.
The
Camp is an ancient earthwork that rises to a commanding height above the rolling countryside around it, and is stepped upwards in four concentric rings of steep-sided ramparts and ditches. Each ring is topped with stout wooden palisades and fighting platforms, and has blind entrances that double back to trap an enemy in blank killing rooms. At the summit of this formidable series of obstacles is a large, smooth plateau that sits behind the rampart of the high stone wall fully 16 feet thick that I had ordered rebuilt. Ironically, we used their Roman-cut stone to make our last defences against them. An attacker who could somehow scramble through four sets of double-gated, defended earth-and-log ramparts would find himself gazing up at that blank stone wall he could not climb, and all the while would be under the deadly lash of missiles directed from the watchtowers and fighting platforms built at close intervals inside it.
I
entered that high ring of limestone through a double gate across a cobbled road twice as wide as a man is tall. It opened onto an enclosed, 18-acre expanse of turf, with stabling for beasts, a small stone palace, temple, military barracks, hall, shielded wells, granary, store houses, smithy and an armoury. The hilltop offers long views of beautiful countryside clear to the Severn Sea 30 miles away, or to the nearer Tor at Glastonbury. On the crest of the hill, a towering structure houses the iron cage, fuel and tinder that can send a blazing message across the land to warn in minutes of invaders and to call the region to arms.
At
the moment, refugees and troops could already be seen streaming in, black lines of folk moving along the Fosse Way seven miles to the west, trekking across the fields, small coppices and larger woodlands that spread like a carpet around the hillfort’s foot. Some folk were dragging carts, some droving their cattle or sheep. The warnings had spread, and the people were seeking refuge. They had been warned to bring as much as they could of their beasts and crops because we were going to denude the area of supplies, to deny them to the enemy. They knew, too, that Caros’ Camp was big enough to accommodate them, and was impregnable against even long siege. One especially large, solid-looking group caught my eye as it moved in a military-style phalanx from the north. I squinted and sighted glints of metal. Helmets, breastplates, weapons. It was a contingent that had made the long march from Chester, had halted in Caerleon and Aquae Sulis and would continue to the old stone fort at Ilchester, just nine short miles from Caros’ Camp.
In
Caerleon, the military group had collected my Guinevia, and with her came news of the tidal wave she had called up the Severn Sea to destroy the Romans. I sent word to the Chester troops to establish themselves at Ilchester, to make the place secure, to fill the granaries and secure the stabling. I ordered our heavy cavalry to Ilchester and gave their commander Cragus some specific orders about the horse herds south of us on the plains where the stone circles stood. Matters are looking better by the day, I thought. Truly the gods are with this place, and I glanced around to see if I could spot a white Rat…
Guinevia
arrived with her new female slaves Jesla and Karay, and with a large coffle of captives I needed for labour on the ramparts. Among them was the Pict bishop who had been captured with the women who now served Guinevia. One of my officers alerted me to the man, whom he said had certain qualities I might find useful, so I sent for him.
Candless
still wore the remnants of a monk’s cowled habit and the broad leather belt from which he had sported a serious-looking sword when he was taken. He was a fair-haired man of middle height, ruddy-complected where he had been working in the fields. He was strongly built and had a piercing, shrewd gaze that met mine in a way that few slaves dared employ. I questioned him, and he told me he was from the Pictish coast, quite near the ancient hillfort of Dunpelder that we had occupied before taking Eidyn’s burh. No, he was not an ordained bishop, despite his claims and the tau-rho cross he wore around his neck. He had been given the robes as a gift by a grateful admirer, he said, and people had chosen to accord him the role, so he had not demurred. He wriggled a little under my questions and admitted he was not actually much of a Christian, but he knew about them and had spoken with some of their churchmen.
An
idea was playing in my mind, and I asked this Candless what he knew about the things that motivated Christians. “They have a powerful weapon, lord,” he said. “They help those less fortunate. They routinely take in orphans, they ignore their own health to treat the sick in times of plague, they treat women as equals and even sometimes elect them as leaders.
“Pagans
want the Christians as their friends because they help others, and offer succour even to strangers. They make you part of their family and community, and that makes them popular with the common people who have no rights.” I thought about this, and asked Candless what moved the Christians most. “Their Jesus god,” he said at once. “He told them to do good to others, and they think he is a loving and merciful god. Anything about him is good.”
This
Jesus god, I asked him, isn’t he the one the Romans crucified for insurgency? “He was flogged and nailed up like a slave,” said Candless. “His death is so painful to his followers that they do not use the Roman crucifix as a symbol, but have another version.” He showed me the cross around his neck. It was a curious crucifix with an oval shape above the crosspiece, a sort of long-stemmed letter P crossed at about half height. “This is their lord’s sign,” he explained. “It is two Greek letters and it means ‘The Cross Saves.’ They believe that if you follow the Jesus teachings, you will go to the Christian feasting halls and will have a good life after death, a life much better than this one.”
This
gave me a flood of ideas. If I had managed to rally Britain’s tribes behind the symbol of a lost Eagle, maybe I could rally Britain’s Christians, and there were plenty of them, to fight behind a Jesus symbol. I would need something like the crucifix, or Jesus’ possessions, or something important. “What do the Jesus followers prize?” I asked this rogue bishop.
Candless
sighed. “Pedlars travel the world selling feathers from the wings of angels, churchmen claim that only they have pieces of the one true cross, or the original holy bush from which the Romans made the crown of thorns. I have been offered the fingernail clippings of saints, wax from the ears of Jesus’ mother, a piece of the linen with which the whore Magdalene wiped Jesus’ face and a miraculous, still-fresh fish that was one of those that fed the 5,000. It’s a whole industry, and the fish went bad, too.”
Nails,
I thought. The nails that held Jesus on the crucifix. My executioner Davius had a stock of them, he sold used nails from executions as amulets, and made huge profits he thought I did not know about. All I’d need was a few bloodied nails, a rogue bishop and a convincing tale. I could recruit some new forces, if I had the right story, and they’d be eager to fight Romans who persecute them… I told Candless he was not to leave the confines of Caros’ Camp, but he was relieved from fieldwork duties. And, he was to find some better clerical clothes than the rags he was presently wearing. I gave him a piece of silver, told him to keep quiet about our conversation and went to find Guinevia for a talk.
“You
can’t become a Christian!” she was shouting at me. “You’re the emperor of Britain! Who would stand for it?”
I
was conciliatory. “I know it’s a shock,” I said, “but what if a miracle struck me and I saw my way clearly? What if the Jesus god wanted me to drive out the Romans, to make this place a haven for Christians? Let’s face it, the chieftains wouldn’t care. They regard the Jesus as just another god, and they have plenty of those already. The ordinary people wouldn’t care either,” I said. “They aren’t concerned with those things. You care because you’re a Druid and it might be difficult for you to have to deal with me having a different religion, in public at least.” Guinevia pouted a little, and turned away, but I caught the scent of the crocus oil she dabbed on herself, and, inspired, I began a more persuasive argument to placate her.
My
enemy Maximian held Londinium and the south, and among his first acts he committed his greatest mistake. He too-quickly followed the dictates of his co-emperor and Serbian countryman, Diocletian and ordered the British Christians to be persecuted and their churches destroyed. The news went across the country like wildfire. After a period of relative calm, the Romans were back, rampant and brutal again. Maximian had even cruelly executed the few of my valiant Chevrons that he had captured. These were the elite guards who had been with me when we found the lost Eagle and the only reason he had for torturing and murdering those soldiers was to send a message to me of my fate should he ever capture me.
I grieved for the men, but had no time for much else. I was busy readying for the invaders’ assaults on our strongholds, but the opportunity Maximian offered by persecuting Christians was so good and so obvious, I seized it. I called in as many of the Christian leaders as I could find at short notice and introduced them to ‘Bishop’ Candless, a Pict I told them who held high office in the one true church north of the Wall.
We
were in the hall of the stone-walled fort at Ilchester on an achingly beautiful summer’s day. Outside, the jingle of harness, stamp of nailed boots and shouted commands of the officers reminded us that this was an armed cavalry camp, and that war was coming even to this lovely part of our island. I looked around the sunlit hall at the ragged assembly of shabby, suspicious bishops, fat priors and anxious-looking canons, and thanked them politely for their attendance, noting privately that many had brought their drabs of wives, probably in hope of receiving gold from their emperor. I made a note to do just that. I needed them.
I
had dressed impressively for the day, a warlord and Imperator in white tunic with purple trim, silver and amber badge of British office, imperial circlet, segmentata armour and the huge sword Exalter at my hip. I explained to the clerics that we were meeting in the cavalry fort as a more convenient place for them, because of the difficulties and dangers of ascending the earthwork of Caros’ Camp through the defensive construction that was ongoing. In fact, I wanted none of that untrustworthy motley viewing the preparations I was readying for the Romans, and I certainly did not want them anywhere near Guinevia, who might turn them all into toads, or worse.
An
intelligent prefect had decorated the hall with Christian symbolism, including a red cross on a white banner which hung suspended below the tile roof. It served at least to keep the falling dust and insects off us. ‘Bishop’ Candless was enthroned next to me, wearing over his cowled habit a fine green and gold surplice looted from some northern abbey. Guinevia had insisted on a full report of the proceedings, so had sent her female slaves Jesla and Karay to monitor the meet. She had cleverly dressed them in flowing white linen to suggest angels and they formed an impressive presence, towering over the superstitious canons and shooing their wives like chickens out of the chamber.
Recounting
the meeting is tedious, as the wrangling and counter-offers went on all day, but eventually, the bishops accepted matters, as they must. They knew that the Romans would crucify them, and had already begun their oppression; we needed the clerics to rouse the Jesus followers to our cause. In return, we would guarantee their safety and uphold their right to practise their faith. I did not foresee that one day they would deny us good pagans the right to practise ours, but that was in the future.
I
would publicly become a Christian because we needed the new Christian army to be led by one of their own, so I agreed to be baptized and was duly dunked in the willow-lined River Cam, which runs just outside the fort, while Candless droned some nonsense pig Latin over me. At least, standing waist-deep, he got his fine surplice wet. I also saw to it that my chief officers got a dunking, to share the grace, though I noticed that the Suehan sailor Grimr covered up the amulet of Thor he had around his neck before he went under, so I didn’t consider him as enthusiastic a convert as we all pretended to be.
Back
inside, with meat and mead filling and warming their bellies and softening their resistance, the bishops were given the knockout blow. Candless was superb. He stood, his tau-rho cross glinting in the firelight, and delivered a sermon of hope.
“Now
that we have a Christian king,” he intoned, “I can reveal the secret that will carry us to success over these invaders. I can show you the Precious Artefacts that guarantee the Hand of God is with us.” I could almost see the capital letters emerging from his mouth. At a signal, my tribune Cragus, still steaming damply from his immersion in the Cam, entered carrying a linen-wrapped silver casket.
Candless
opened it reverently, with a fair display of showmanship. Inside, carefully wrapped in embroidered linen, were four bloodstained, nine-inch iron nails that he’d obtained from my executioner Davius. “These are the very nails with which our Lord Jesus was fastened to the Holy Cross,” he declared. “His Holy Blood is on them, the blood He shed for us and all mankind.” My fake bishop was so impressive that even I gaped in awe, and most of those in the room fell to their knees, praising and praying aloud and calling out churchly phrases. Candless next spun an involved story of how the nails had been saved by a member of the Jewish Sanhedrin religious court who had taken down Jesus’ body from the Cross.
He
told at length a story involving the burial sheet, a palace called Britio Edessa and wise men from Mesopotamia who had brought the relics to Wales. An angel, and he glanced meaningfully at the two tall Celt women, an angel had come to him in a dream to tell him where to find the nails in their casket, safe in the fastness of Yr Wyddfa, Britain’s sacred mountain. I was stifling my yawns but the audience was rapt, and I noticed that one of Candless’ angels was blushing, which intrigued me. Then Candless reverently held up the nails. “Four,” he was saying, “four, like the gospel writers.” The assembly of churchmen nodded and muttered to each other.
Of
course, there’s a doubter in every group, and Cragus had seen to it that one of his officers was it. He called out: “Four nails? Four?”
Candless
was expecting the interruption and silenced those who hissed at the officer. “One through each forearm, one through each heel. Our Blessed Lord was nailed with his holy feet fastened to the sides of the upright, in the Roman manner,” he intoned. “The angel showed me, in the dream.”
I
thought it was time to get away from nebulous dreams and on to military matters, so I coughed meaningfully, silenced Candless with a look, and announced my plan. The four sacred nails would go out to be shown to the faithful in Britain’s north, south, east and west. They would be used to raise a Christian army, and I would supply spears and equipment from the armories in Eboracum, Caerleon, and Chester, where captured Pictish weapons were stored. The bishops, who received gifts of gold from the Ilchester mint, were to persuade their followers to gather at those three centres for training, and soon, under the holy banner of the cross of Christ, we would defeat the pagan Romans.
Then
we all knelt while Candless mumbled prayers and blessed us. Somewhere, Guinevia was spitting in fury, I knew, but now I had the promise of an army and a chance to save Britain. I’d done it once with an Eagle, now I had to do it again, with four bits of old iron. I glanced around the chamber and sure enough, a white Rat was sitting upright in the corner, cleaning its whiskers. Mithras didn’t, then, take my ‘conversion’ too seriously.
