Arthur Britannicus (14 page)

The province was growing richer, attracting invaders as well as the greed of Rome. That wealth, Carausius reasoned, would sustain the island once it became independent of the empire. Affluent Britons were tired of being taxed by remote rulers, and they needed protection from barbarians. The role of protector and liberator appealed to the bear-like soldier and the military possibility of keeping Rome at bay with his skilled fleet was obvious to him. He had discussed the idea with Allectus, now it was time to persuade the legions to muster behind him, and he finally had the bullion to do that.

Carausius set out on a series of visits to garrison towns to hand out generous donatives to the troops, coins that carried propaganda slogans announcing the arrival of the new saviour. “Old Julius knew the tactic,” he confided to friends. “He paid his troops from his own coffers, and they backed him all the way to the imperial throne.” Privately, though, he remembered that the donatives paid by emperors to the urban plebs could be a two-edged sword. When Marcus Aurleius ended a long absence to make his triumphal entrance into Rome 100 years before, the mob had held up eight fingers and chanted ‘Eight, eight, eight!’ at him, demanding and eventually forcing him to hand over the eight gold coins they had decided would be a suitable gift to each of them to mark his return. 

Carausius resolved that he wouldn’t be dictated to by the stinking unwashed. He’d enter the city with a show of force at his back. He’d hand out tokens for food, as happened at some of the games, but he was not inclined to empty his treasury to just anyone. The troops had earned his loyalty, the mob had not.

By the time the emperor Diocletian donned the laurel crown and began his long reign, the legate Carausius had sailed all around Britain. He had made alliances and reconnoitred the strategic routes and places for his legions in any future campaign against the Picts who lived beyond the Wall.  He had travelled inland several times to meet local chieftains, to give them gifts of silver and to enlist their aid. ‘Help me throw off the Roman yoke that is bleeding Britain white, and I will keep the peace in the south, and give you large land grants north of the wall of Antoninus.”  The chieftains had listened warily, and when they had questioned why they should need him to give them land held by Picts, the big general had allowed his battered face to break into a smile. “This,” he said, tapping his sword, “is one reason. And those,” gesturing at his warships off the beach, “are another.”

On the way along the coast south through the German Sea, the legate ordered his shipmaster to land him and a party of marines at a certain ravine by a great chalk promontory. Carausius was going to see again the place where he had once been the boy affectionately nicknamed Caros. The trireme closed on the land in the lee of the cliff while the other three ships of the squadron stood offshore, and Carausius, armour discarded, splashed ashore through chest-deep water. A slave hurried to the legate, carrying his dry cloak, and he pinned it with the amber and silver replica badge of a British jarl that a woman had given him, to replace his father’s lost symbol of office. The legate and his escort walked through the overgrowth and tumbled stones that had once been a settlement and scrambled up the slope to a small headland. Carausius looked north and east, where a smear of smoke showed, and told his aide Quintus: “This is Brigantia. My father was killed
here, my mother and brothers were taken captive here. I ran that way as a boy, to save my life.  There was a forge over there, and the smith took me to safety, across the German Sea.”

“There could be a forge there today, lord,” said the aide. “That’s smoke all right.” The legate nodded. “I could use a stretch of the legs, even with my bad foot,” he said. “Let’s take a walk.”  From the shadows under an elderberry bush, a white rat watched, eyes bright, as the big warlord strode by.

Few things surprised the burly commander, but the sight of Gimflod working the bellows in the old forge came as a major shock.  “I came back. Couldn’t stand the Belgae,” the big smith confessed after the initial greetings and assessments were done. “It was a good choice for me, Caros. I have plenty to do, and the garrison at Eboracum is my best client. I make weapons now, beautiful swords, no more boring work churning out ship’s nails and bolts.”

Carausius picked up a sword the smith had made, tested its balance and admired the swirling feathery patterns in the steel that spread elegantly from the central channel down the blade. “It’s a fine weapon,” he told the smith.

“It’s just five strips of iron, a lot of hammering to fold them all together, over and over, and a lot of reheating,” grinned Gimflod. “The strips give it strength,” he explained. “The channel reduces weight and makes it stronger, while the hammering produces a friction weld and takes out the impurities. It gives you a sword that’s strong, not brittle. It flexes, it holds an edge and it will completely ruin your opponent’s day.” 

On impulse, Carausius demanded: “Make me one. Make me a sword at least two hand spans longer than this,” sliding out his regulation gladius from its scabbard to demonstrate, “with just the exact balance you have in that,” he pointed to the masterpiece the smith had made.  He continued: “Make a ricasso here,” pointing to the part of the blade just below the guard which he wanted left unsharpened, “so I can grip it with my other hand, and swing it two-handed. How long will all that take?”  Gimflod looked at the pile of cast iron blooms waiting to be worked, and grimaced. “For you, Caros,” he said, eyes closed as he thought, “ten weeks.”

“Take it to the palace at Eboracum then,” said the legate. “I can’t wait. I’ll see you, and it, there around the Ides of August.”

XVIII
. Colchester

Back in Colchester, the legate was making his plans. “We’ve got to subdue those cattle thieving oat-munchers up there, trans vallum,” Carausius grumbled to Allectus. “They pushed us back from Antoninus’ wall, and they’re lapping at the foot of Hadrian’s defences. He had 12,000 men to keep the bastards out; he had Dacians, Tungrians, Spaniards and Gauls. He even had hundreds of those excellent Hamian archers. All I have is a handful of auxiliaries only good for exacting customs duties. I get reports all the time of cattle raids, of Roman citizens and locals taken for slaves, settlements burned.  If they breach the vallum, we’ll have more than our hands full to round up and contain the bastards, they’ll spread everywhere. We need to go up there and put about the lash, and for that, we need more troops. Those Picts aren’t all rubbish; we’ll need a decent force for a foray.” He paused, then smiled quietly to himself as he remembered a joke.

“Did I tell you about Hadrian on the day he finished the wall? He was walking along it, proud as could be, when a small Pict came out of the woods and challenged him to fight. Hadrian sent out a guard detail to bring the impertinent fellow back alive for a flogging. They vanished into the woods, there was a horrible clanking and screaming and the little Pict came out dusting his hands. “Send out some good ones this time, Roman!’ he shouted.”  Allectus
nodded, intent on the story.

Carausius took a swig of wine and continued: “Hadrian sent out 20, then 50 men, but none came back until finally, one bloodied legionary staggered out of the woods, battered and limping. ‘Look out, Hadrian,” he shouted. “It’s an ambush,
there’s two of them!’ “

Allectus laughed at the tale, as Carausius took another draught of wine and asked: “How’s the coinage going?”  Allectus nodded. His mint at Lyon was productive, and the two men were in Colchester to establish a second mint there. The treasurer planned a third money-making operation in Londinium to create more of the good coin that attracted and kept recruits. “The metal’s the thing,” he said. “The head that’s stamped on it doesn’t matter. If the weight of silver’s right, the coin is worth its value and is acceptable. We do have a reasonable supply of bullion, lord,” he told Carausius, “but we could always use more.”

“We’ll have to take more Picts and pirates to market,” grunted the legate. “The trouble is, too many captured soldiers kill themselves before they’ll go under the crown, and many of the ones that do submit are rebellious.” The two men shared the same thought, of the dangers of unrest. Two centuries before, the gladiator Spartacus had led a slave uprising that cost Rome dearly before it was put down. The empire had reacted brutally to deliver a message to would-be insurgents. In one day, the legions hoisted 6,000 rebels on crucifixes that lined 130 long miles of the Appian Way, all the way from Capua to Rome. People said the screams of their ghosts haunted the road for a hundred years.

Carausius knew the story, and changed the subject. “Next week, I’m off north. I want to take a look at the garrison at Eboracum, see what we’ll need to improve if we’re going across the Wall to stamp the bastards down. But right now,” he said, “I’m going to the baths.”  Which was where, at that exact moment, Fate was taking the trader Mullinus after his long afternoon spent poring over dusty tax records.

The limping, thick-necked soldier with the mutilated face and crushed cheekbone collided with the smooth-shaven, clerkish escaped slave as they rounded a limestone column outside the baths. Mullinus recovered first and apologized, Carausius was waving away the polite words when his eyes locked on Mullinus’ brooch. At the same time, the trader saw Carausius’ near-replica of the badge. The soldier’s hand shot out and grasped Mullinus’ cloak. “Where,” he said, in a voice that promised murder, “did you find that?”

Mullinus took in the purple-striped robe, the battered face and the inherent menace of the big man. He spoke placatingly. “This came to me, lord, in the land of the Belgae. I am a negotiator there, I trade in fine goods.”

“That,” said Carausius thickly, stabbing with a blunt forefinger at the brooch, “was taken from my family. It is the mark of my rank, and it was stolen in blood.”

Mullinus thought quickly. He wanted no inquest into the history of the brooch or of himself. The soldier was obviously powerful and important, he could be either fatally dangerous, or a fine ally. He spoke smoothly before the other man could call for the vigiles to arrest him as a thief. “If it is yours, lord, it would be right and just, and I should be pleased to reunite you with such a valuable piece of your family history, as my gift,” he said slowly, his mind churning.

He was unpinning the brooch when the thought hit Mullinus with almost palpable force. His hand shook as he fumbled with the bodkin pin. “Your mother,” he said, a quaver in his voice. “Is her name Clinia?”  Somewhere, the Fates who control the threads of men’s lives paused in their spinning, glanced at each other and smiled grimly.

Once she could comprehend the lightning strike shock of the situation and had dried her tears, Clinia could not tear her eyes away from her fine son. A legate, commander of a fleet
and of legions, the child Caros she had long mourned was not only miraculously back with her, but was taking charge of her quest and had promised to find and free her twins.  “Mother, I’ll gut this Belgic merchant who holds my brothers slave. I’ll strangle him with his own guts if he resists me,” Carausius growled. “I’ve sent plenty to the crucifix, and if he doesn’t cooperate, I’ll take such action against him that he’ll be grateful to be crucified.” The big soldier had already dispatched messengers to Eboracum and Londinium to locate the merchant Gracilis and his twin slaves. “We’ll have Domnal and Mael safe in this villa before any of us are a month older,” he promised.

The quest was more pressing than finding the Eagle, but Carausius didn’t ignore that mission. He sent Mullinus and a handful of slaves, with soldiers to watch them, back to the treasurer’s house. There, Mullinus had been combing the scrolls for mention of this mysterious Lutudarense, the first clue in the search for the Eagle. “Keep a sharp look out for this fellow Gracilis,” he told Mullinus. “He might also come to Colchester to search the tax rolls. He probably knows all that we do about where the Eagle is hidden.” To his orderly, he quietly directed, “Watch Mullinus closely. He might be playing his own game here. We don’t want him locating the Eagle and slipping away alone to collect it. Any problems, chain him up. I’ve dealt with his type before.”

The search for Lutudarense took two days, and the place name finally turned up in an invoice. The document was for the sale of a 200lbs pig of lead, and it detailed the markings stamped into the ingot.  A literate slave found the invoice, and brought it to the magister. “Could this be it, master?” the slave said, showing the papyrus of river-grown reeds that said “TI CL TR IVT BR EX ARG.”   “I read it as ‘Tiberii Claudi Trifernae Britannicum ex Argentaris:  ‘Product of Tiberius Claudius Triferna, Lutudarensian British lead from the lead-silver works.’ ” 

Lutudarense, it seemed from the buyer’s paper trail, was north, a place near the limestone peaks and the spa town of Aquae Arnemetiae in north-central Britain.  Carausius weighed matters. The lost Eagle was most important, and it might be several more weeks before the twins were located and recovered. He opted not to wait, but to go north at once.  Carausius, his mother Clinia, Mullinus and an entourage of soldiers and slaves readied for travel.  At that exact hour, the merchant Gracilis was haunting Roman tax offices in Londinium, seeking to decipher the map, and Maximian’s hired killers were on a Colchester quayside, asking questions and seeking Carausius, Mullinus and Clinia to steal it.

Preparations were slowed, but several days later, a spacious four-wheeled raeda, a covered carriage pulled by four horses, was ready to convey Clinia and her body slaves, while the men would ride horseback, and the household slaves, soldiers and baggage mules could trot behind.  “We’ll go via the military road to the west as far as the Ryknield Way and go north on it,” Carausius decreed. “That will bring us close to this lead mine, and we can find more when we are there.”

The group was readying for the road when the tramp of nailed military boots sounded outside their compound. The gate guards challenged the newcomers, who responded, and the gate was opened to reveal Mael and Domnal grinning excitedly at the anticipated reunion with their mother. A shackled Gracilis trailed miserably behind them, under the eyes of a file of soldiers.  “We have your man, lord,” said the centurion who headed the detachment. “Found him in a brothel with a young boy, the dirty pederast.”  Carausius grunted his approval at the catch and his disgust with the Belgic trader.

“Did you search him?” he demanded.  The twins knew what the centurion wanted. “We have it here,” said Domnal, producing the scrap of scratched lead. “Give it to me,” Carausius ordered.

“Who are you?” said Domnal truculently.

“Ah,” said the legate, bulking large over the man. “I am your small brother.”

He quickly untangled their stories, and pondered whether to execute Gracilis.   “He doesn’t deserve to die. He did nothing wrong,” Clinia insisted to her sons. “He bought you honestly; he didn’t abuse you until you stole from him and tried to run.” “We didn’t ask to be slaves,” said Domnal, angrily. “We were stolen, and he paid off the thieves.” At the end of the argument, Carausius ordered his soldiers to free the Belgic trader and take him back to the Colchester docks. “Put him on the first ship to anywhere,” he instructed them. “He probably knew they’d been captured. He shouldn’t have bought them. If he comes back, he’s to be nailed up.” Gracilis nodded, white-faced and accepting. He knew how close he’d been to suffering the brutal legate’s wrath.  He’d make his way back to the Meuse, grateful just to be alive, but he might also have a word with a connected trader he knew. Information could be as valuable as goods, sometimes…

For Clinia and her sons, the journey north went quickly, as the big carriage ate up the miles of metalled road. On the fourth day, 140 miles into their journey, the group rolled up to the great mansio and staging post at the crossroads town of Letocetum, where the military road met the Ryknield Way that ran diagonally across Britain from Gloucester to the moors and wolds of the north east. They spent two nights at the crossroads mansio to rest the soldiers, mules and slaves, change horses and allow Carausius to discuss military matters with the garrison commander. The next stages of the journey were not as swift as the great high road had allowed, because the route crossed hilly ground, but still the road was to exacting Roman standards, as Carausius proudly pointed out to his twin brothers.

“Twelve feet wide, six layers deep, and where we can, we use iron ore. It rusts together to make a metal surface that will last a thousand years. And there’s 50,000 miles of these roads in the empire!”

“Just counted the mileposts, did you?” Mael joked. He didn’t care where they were going, or how fast. He and Domnal were blissfully happy to be free men again after long years of slavery. All three brothers spat on the ground, shook hands and vowed to make a new future. Reunited, they were going in search of a gilded silver Eagle that could make one of them into an emperor.