Authors: Paul Bannister
Arthur Imperator (24 page)
Arthur and Carausius: legend and links
There are connections between Carausius and many of the traditional Arthurian sites, and Carausius’ triumphs are closely echoed in the legends of Arthur. The monk Gildas (circa 500-570AD) created Britain’s earliest written history and described a ‘lord of battles’ and ‘outstanding ruler’ whose triumph at Mount Badon was the decisive, culminating victory to rout the Saxon invaders.
The
triumph was so celebrated that Gildas did not bother to identify the location of Badon or even to name the victor, noting only that ‘Arth’ – Celtic for ‘The Bear’ - was such a great overlord that King Cuneglasus of Powys humbly acted as his master’s charioteer.
Gildas
was writing a century or two after the events and muddled his calendar. He wrongly dated the construction of the walls of Hadrian and Antoninus by two centuries, but he likely got the sequence right: the walls were built, the invaders came, a leader arose and drove them away. It suggests that Arthur may have lived earlier than believed, at a date that fits with the actual reign of Carausius. Many scholars think that the Badon battlefield may be at the Iron Age hillfort at Cadbury South, (‘Caros’ Camp,’) some think it could be Buxton, in Derbyshire.
There’s
a great poverty in the era’s history and some of it was written 800 years after the event, but folklore often holds remarkably accurate memories. One such tale is that the Pict Ossian’s son Oscar was killed when he attacked the emperor ‘Caros’ as he rebuilt Hadrian’s Wall.
Carausius’
image on his fine coinage shows him as a thick-necked, bear-like man and the British for ‘bear-king’ is ‘Arto-rig,’ and language experts say there are links between ‘Caros’ and ‘Artorius.’ Even the hill fort at South Cadbury that tradition says was the castle of King Arthur was once ‘Cado’s Fort.’ Certainly, there was once a mass slaughter there, and there are stone foundations of a palace on the site.
A
significant part of Arthur’s legend is his Christianity. Welsh tradition holds that Arthur ‘carried the cross of Christ on his shield,’ and was mortally wounded at Camlann. That conflict site has been placed in Gwynedd, where a very early Welsh ‘Stanza of the Graves’ says Arthur was buried. In the 19th century an antiquarian described the discovery of a Roman grave there at the head of a pass, a place where a ruler might be buried, overlooking his lands.
The headstone is inscribed ‘Carausius lies here in this cairn of stones,’ and carries the staurogram, or third century tau-rho cross of a Christian, the earliest found in Wales and one of only a dozen found in Britain.
The
man memorialized was so important that the stone and maybe the bones were moved to the nearby church of St Tudclud, in Penmachno, which is an important early Christian site and reputed burial place of Iorweth ab Owain Gwynedd, father of Wales’ greatest king. This, then, is a royal graveyard. The fact that Carausius was so famous that he needed no ‘Soldier of the XXth’ style of identification could therefore be highly significant.
The
only other known memorial to the Lost Emperor is in the Tullie House museum in Carlisle, on a milestone that was inverted and reused. The buried portion concealed the honorifics the Romans elsewhere redacted after they re-invaded Britain in 293 AD. That glorious title reads: ‘Imperator Caesar Marcus Aurelius Mauseus Carausius, Dutiful, Fortunate, the Unconquered Augustus.” It should add: ‘The Forgotten.’
If you enjoyed reading
Arthur Imperator
by Pail Bannister you may be interested in
Roman Arms: Huntress
by Ingrid de Haas, also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from Roman Arms: Huntress by Ingrid de Haas
Diana was sitting on her usual oak stool, her unstrung cornel-wood bow and her painted quiver on the ground. She had been hunting in the forests of Greece all day and was ready to spend some quiet time resting on lofty Mount Olympus. As she was removing her second hunting sandal, her beloved nymph Opis came in through the colossal double doors and knelt next to her.
“Jupiter is in one of his moods again,” she said, straightening the goddess’ diadem. “I heard that our mighty ruler went off to sit by himself on the farthest peak of Olympus again. He boomed instructions to Mercury that he should not be disturbed, especially in matters relating to his wife, even if the pits of Hades were to freeze over – again.”
“And how is that different from the way my father, the hurler of thunderbolts, behaves every day? But I don’t want to hear about him. Opis, I need you to go down to my sanctuary on Mount Algidus and inspect the recent offerings. I want to make sure that those pathetic, miserly mortals are taking me seriously. There is nothing more annoying than to be shortchanged by those who demand a favor, but are not willing to spend a reasonable amount on their offerings. And come back and report to me as soon as you can.”
It didn’t take the nymph long to fly down the mountain with her winged ankles. It was an exceptionally clear day, and as always on such a day she greatly enjoyed taking in the breathtaking view. There was a sea of green – in myriad shades, all the shades of the trees that grew in those mountains – as far as the eye could see, punctured by the occasional plume of smoke rising from a sacrifice to one of the gods. From the types of smoke she could tell that few of them were blood sacrifices; it was a serious hardship for most people to find and offer an animal, even a small one. No, most sacrifices were simply grains and fruit, with the customary libation of wine. Opis half expected to find only a handful of offerings at Diana’s temple on Mount Algidus. Because she interacted with mortals more than her lady did, or at least got a lot closer to them, Opis knew that many people were not being stingy when asking a god for favors; they simply could not part with what little they had, even if they were desperate for divine assistance. So, as usual, she would tell Diana that there were countless votive offerings – bronze statuettes, and silver ones too. She did not want Diana to be offended or, worse, angry. Jupiter was not the only ambrosia-eater and nectar-drinker who could throw a tantrum of epic proportions and cause some serious damage by flinging something with a sharp point. The last such incident was still fresh in her mind.
As Opis overflew Privernum, she saw several mortals scrambling about outside the palace of King Metabus. She descended a bit and hid among the foliage of a lofty oak tree, pricking her ears.
“We need to find that mid-wife quickly,” said a frail-looking woman to a tall, thin girl. “Master is going to kill us if Lady Casmilla has to give birth without her assistance. He thinks we are not good enough to help the Queen with that. And her sisters haven’t arrived yet.”
“But nobody has seen Ilithyia in days,” answered the girl. “Not since the heavy rains that burst from the stormy clouds made the river swell and it flooded the north side of the village. All of it!”
“Don’t argue with me, just take your sister with you and go! Find her, for Juno’s sake!” she yelled in a shrill voice.
“Yes, mother,” she replied. The young girl ran to find her sister and then they both headed for Ilithyia’s hut.
Up on her arboreal perch, where she heard and saw all, Opis realized that she felt sorry for Casmilla. Not only was she married to a wrathful old man – who sometimes reminded her of Jupiter, lord of cloud and storm – she had already lost three babies during childbirth, all of them boys. But there was nothing Opis could do. Besides, Diana expected her to go back home with a report, and she hadn’t even been to the goddess’ temple yet.
Meanwhile, the girls’ mother invoked Lucina, goddess of childbirth, raising her arms to heaven.
“O venerable goddess, hear my prayer,” she began, “for labor pains are your peculiar care. In you, when stretched upon the bed of grief, women view relief. With births you sympathize, always pleased to see the numerous offspring of fertility. Women invoke you when racked with labor pangs and distressed, for you alone can give relief to pain. Goddess, venerable power, who brings relief in labor’s dreadful hour, please hear me and come to the assistance of my Queen Casmilla.”
Suddenly a nearly invisible blanket of fine mist crept over the palace, and Opis knew that Lucina had arrived. The nymph only hoped that the goddess could lend assistance to the queen even without the presence of a mortal midwife with her drugs and incantations. She lingered a few more minutes hidden among the branches, and then quietly took off in the direction of Mount Algidus.
It wasn’t long before the girls came back to the palace with bad news. As they had suspected, Illythia had died during the floods, and her body, swept away like debris, had been found several miles away, along with some of the remains of her straw hut. The girls and their mother rushed to ask one of the male slaves to inform King Metabus that they were going to be on their own.
Meanwhile, Lucina, who was already in Casmilla’s birthing room, unseen by all – the mother-to-be and her newly-arrived sisters – pulled an invisible vial, filled with powdered sow’s dung and the fat of a hyena, out of the white, ambrosial robe which the Graces had woven for her. As she was placing it on a tripod, she froze. Atropos, wearing her cloak, red with fluid blood, had appeared out of nowhere and was standing in front of Lucina, frowning, with her left hand resting on her hip.
“This is not meant to be,” said the oldest of the ruthless Fates, shaking her torch which was reeking with gore. “Casmilla’s baby may come into this world, but as for Casmilla, I will cut her thread of life with these pretty, shiny shears of mine as soon as I see the head of the wrinkled little one appear.”
“When did you change your
modus
operandi
, daughter of eternal Night?” asked Lucina. “Did you visit Casmilla earlier in a dream and warn her about this, as you are supposed to do? I wouldn’t have bothered to come if I had known that today you would be sending the woman’s shade to the Underworld.”
“Oh, give me a break!” said Atropos with a sneer. “You know that my sisters and I call the shots among both immortals and mortals. Isn’t that why we are called the Fates? And we play by our own rules. So today I am cutting Casmilla’s thread,” she added, combing black vipers from her hair. Some were lying about her shoulders, some gliding around her temples, and all hissed and darted forth their tongues. Then she tore away two snakes from the middle of her hair, which, with pestilential hand, she threw on the floor in front of Lucina. The goddess of childbirth found it wise to take a few steps back.
While the immortals were busy arguing, Casmilla’s sisters and the slave-women, all with their hands wrapped in papyrus to get a better grip, had helped with the delivery of a beautiful baby girl, who clearly came equipped with a very powerful set of lungs. It was her crying that made Atropos and Lucina turn and look. Atropos, who greatly enjoyed the task that she had been performing since the first generation of humans had been created, immediately held up her shears. Then, shaking her head and throwing back from her face the snakes crawling over it, she cut the thread that she was carrying, measured out by her sister Lachesis. In the blink of an eye, and before Lucina could ask her about the baby’s destiny, she was gone. Casmilla’s sisters began wailing, and the young slave-girls panicked, well aware that Metabus might take his wrath out on them. Only their mother remained composed enough to clean the baby with sea sponges and olive oil and then swaddle her in clean wool bandages.
Lucina knew it is never allowed for a god to annul the acts of other supernatural beings, and was very upset because she could not frustrate the iron decree of the aged sister of Clotho and Lachesis. So, realizing that she was of no use in the palace, she decided to leave and go to visit other mothers who were ready to deliver their babies – and hopefully to live long enough to raise them. As she flew out of the birthing room, King Metabus came charging in, drawn by the baby’s cries.
As expected, Metabus was furious. Not sad about the death of his wife, but really, really angry. At that moment it did not matter that his baby daughter was fine, and no longer splitting everyone’s ears but happily cooing in the slave-woman’s arms. He barked at Casmilla’s sisters, telling them to scram. He threatened to kill the slave-girls, who quickly bolted out of the room. Finally, he calmed down enough to sit next to his dead wife, whose body had not been removed from the crested birthing chair.
“Why have you abandoned me today, Fortune?” he asked, looking at up at the heavens. Then he turned to the queen, tears streaming down his face. “I was supposed to be the father of many children, tiny princes and princesses. But now you, Casmilla, are dead, dead like our three little boys.”
Metabus turned his gaze toward his bundled-up daughter, whom the slave-woman had placed on the floor near him. Wiping his tears away and walking over to her, he picked her up.
“I will raise you to be a magnificent queen such as your mother was,” he told the baby, who yawned several times. “And I will bestow on you the name Camilla, which will remind you of the mother you won’t be able to meet until your time comes to go dwell in the realm of Pluto.”
Not much later, Opis was flying over the palace on her way back from the sanctuary, thinking what to tell Diana instead of the truth about the paltry offerings, when she saw preparations being made for a funeral. Convinced that it was for the new-born, she got closer anyway and found out that, instead, the preparations were for Casmilla. She was so shocked that she almost forgot to wave her wings in the air. But she quickly came to her senses and hastened home, going straight to Diana.
Diana had just begun spreading out her new hunting-net and admiring it, a gift from Minerva, made of gold and silver thread. When she saw the look on the nymph’s face, she knew it had to be very important, so she dropped the net and went to sit down. She invited Opis to do the same.
“My lady,” said Opis, as she pulled up a stool and placed it next to Diana’s, “first some bad news. I will give you the report on the sanctuary in a moment. The wife of the tyrant of Privernum died today giving birth to a daughter. Surely you remember Casmilla, for there is … uh, sorry, there
was
no Volscian more pious than this woman. She always offered abundant sacrifices in one of your sacred groves, always knew the appropriate rites and prayers during your annual festival, and she could invariably be found at the head of every one of the sacred processions.”
Diana sat on her stool without saying a word, staring straight at the clouds through the stately columns of radiant gold and polished ivory. After what seemed like an eternity, she turned to Opis.
“I want you to go back to Privernum and look after Casmilla’s daughter,” she said. “Keep an eye on her, but don’t ever intervene – you know as well as I do that we have certain limitations imposed upon us by the Fates, and also by the acts of the other deities. Now go, and, except for special circumstances, you will only come back every time the moon gathers her four horns and forms a perfect orb, to tell me how the girl is doing. I swear by the waters of the River Styx that I will make her my protégé.”
Out of nowhere, and while Diana was still speaking, the goddess Iris appeared, holding a cup filled with water from the River Styx. She poured it out, catching it in a golden jar that she held in her left hand. This she would save in case the goddess needed to be reminded of her oath in the future.
Once the oath was taken, Opis, who was never slack to do the goddess’ bidding, took off, and arrived just in time to see a number of armed mortals, men and women, approaching the palace. Perched on a high oak tree, she noticed that some were carrying knives, others rocks, and a few of them had spears. She knew that the people of Privernum, the most ancient town of the Volscians, had long complained about Metabus’ tyrannical ways. Now that she came to think of it, Opis was surprised that it had taken them this long to do something more than simply complain. It was clear that they were now ready to resort to violence.
The group was headed by Metabus’ own brother, Hostilius. Long ago the two men had been on good terms, but that had changed after their father passed away. Hostilius, being the older of the two, was meant to inherit the throne, the rich grain fields, and the flocks. He would have received the vineyards as well, which produced one of the best wines in the region. But Metabus had spread the rumor that his father’s death had not been natural. Instead, he had sworn that Hostilius had poisoned him by pouring wolf’s bane into his wine. Accusations of poisoning are not easy to disprove, but they are equally difficult to prove, as Privernum’s elders knew well. So instead of being condemned to death, Hostilius was allowed to keep his head, on condition that he let his brother become king. But even after twenty years his hatred for Metabus had not abated; quite the contrary, it had increased over time, and now Hostilius found an opportunity for revenge. The fact that Metabus had gradually morphed from a somewhat good ruler into an iron-fisted tyrant was a perfect excuse for Hostilius to further incite the already discontented people of Privernum and volunteer to lead a revolt, one that would finally put Hostilius on the throne that was rightfully his.
The group of mortals arrived outside the palace just a few hours after the baby was born. Metabus’ most trusted slave, Puer, was busy with Casmilla’s funerary arrangements, when he spied them through one of the windows. The slave needed no explanation as to what was going on. He had often heard his master referred to as a “cruel despot,” and the weapons that the group carried spoke volumes. Puer rushed into the room where his master was listening to his flute players, one of whom had just composed a sad, new tune, which was meant to be played at the Queen’s funeral.
