Arthur Britannicus (22 page)

He sent the cavalry to the British right wing and detailed the harried Aemilius and the 20 or so slaves who were holding a pack of barking, yelping mongrels off to the left to face the war dogs he could see the bandits had assembled. At his trumpeter’s signal, the emperor’s infantry knocked their shield edges together and began a steady tramp forward, the heavy scuta forming a moving wall of elm, leather and bronze. At 100 paces or so, as he’d anticipated, the enemy made the first move and released their attack dogs.

Aemilius looked to his emperor, Carausius raised his arm, and the Britons’ ragged pack of mongrels was set free. Some ran at the oncoming fighting dogs, others simply stood and scratched, but the effect on the bandits’ canine corps was electric. In seconds, the war dogs had diverted their rush and were among the mongrels, snarling and snapping at their own pack-mates as they fought to mount the handful of bitches which were in heat. The emperor’s ranks tramped forward, past the humping, scrambling dogs, a ripple of laughter moving through the soldiers. They’d heard the story of the pagan priestess and her plan, and one wit shouted: “Tell Car the Bear that I’d sooner fuck than fight, too!”

The ranks roared, and the raiders’ horde, many of whom were half-drunk on honey wine or had heads spinning from the forest mushrooms they’d used to dull their fears, looked on in dismay. Their big attacking plan had been effortlessly frustrated. They muttered in anger and rattled their weapons. Then the soldiers were close, the centurions waved for the missiles to be launched, and the screaming started as the first javelins began thumping down on the unprotected bandits.

Most of the Bagudae were opportunist marauders capable only of taking on unarmed villagers. Lacking proper armour, with few shields, no training and little discipline, they could never successfully face professional soldiers. Not even their superior numbers could save them, and the predictable butchery began.

The weighted javelins came battering in, spearing and pinning the bandits, who howled and flinched away. A wave of movement started on their left side as a group of Gauls began to run for the ford, thinking to put the river between themselves and the bloody ruin they saw approaching. The soldiers came closer, and launched another volley of javelins, piling up Frankish wounded and dead and obstructing the struggling mob.  As the infantry got closer yet, they began hurling the heavy darts they carried clipped behind their shields. The retreating marauders seemed to swirl in confusion, uncertain where to turn to escape the deadly missiles. The decisive moment was now.

Carausius’ cavalry tribune waved his horsemen forward, and they swept in from the right in two waves, crouched over their horses, long lances levelled, boots dangling, swords still scabbarded and banging at the horses’ sides. The first surge crashed into the panicked mass of bandits, parting them like a wagon through a wheat field. The second wave, arriving moments later, brought with them infantry who clung to the cavalrymen’s pommels as they raced in. The initial impact of the battle-trained fighting stallions with their slashing hooves and snapping teeth allied to their riders’ spears and heavy swords shattered the mob. Then the second wave of foot soldiers crashed onto the panicked Franks like an Atlantic roller pounding on a rocky shoreline. The thumping impact of the infantry shook the marauders’ flank and the enveloping attackers cut off their retreat towards the ford. In moments, the action turned into a heaving slaughter.

As the bandits reacted to the flank attack, the shield wall of Carausius’ first rank arrived on their front in a wedge array that was shaped like the teeth of a handsaw. The piercing formation let the legionaries penetrate and break the ragged Frankish defences, and the bandits were cut down where they stood, backed up against the river. Lashed by the flail of a blizzard of arrows, forced into shrinking clusters of desperate men by the slashing, stabbing thrusts that came from the pressing shield wall, the Franks could hardly even see to fight as they flinched away from the horrors of death-dealing missiles and swords.  The river was streaked pink with skeins of blood by the time the survivors began throwing down their weapons and wading in surrender back to the riverbanks. Soon, the armourers were working with chains, and the ravens were gathering to feast on the dead.

XXVII. Dover

Axis the dog, leg cocked, was marking a stack of red clay roof tiles stamped with the ‘CLBR” of the Classis Britannica, the quartermaster’s mark for all British Fleet possessions, when Carausius came out of the barracks at Dover. “Good thing I’m the emperor, boy,” he grumbled. “That’s probably dumb insolence.”  The emperor was in a good mood. Guinevia was well pregnant and had assured him that the child would be a boy. She had cast rune stones and consulted an oracle, and the omens were excellent. “Caros,” she had told him, “this child will be an emperor, too. He will make this nation even greater.” A man needed to hear that; a son, and one with a destiny. Life was good. The pity was he was so busy he hardly had time to take it all in. Just look at all this muddle. Building materials were everywhere, he thought, great piles of squared stone, heavy timbers, kiln-fired bricks and corrugated roof tiles. Well, he’d ordered huge construction works done all along the coast, and the troops were getting on with it.  It wasn’t just roads and bridges, either. Carausius had been pondering the problem of supplying the garrisons along northern frontier, or at least creating a secure, speedy pipeline for heavy supplies, and remembered his youthful days on the great rivers of Europe, and how efficient it was to use waterways. The obvious need was for a river that ran north from Londinium to Eboracum, but they all seemed to run east and west. Then, inspiration struck, and he decided to build a canal. The idea was hardly conceived before he acted, and dispatched a full legion plus three times as many slaves to dig a ditch, a 130 mile canal that would run from Cambridge to Eboracum.

The inland waterway, ironically called the Caros Dyke by diggers who knew the emperor’s diminutive name, would supply the legions on the northern frontier. It would be used to transport heavy loads of wool for clothing, leather for shoes, shields and tents, lead and iron for the armourers, oil jars, salt, sacks of corn and barrels of salted beef and pork from the rich agricultural lands of the east and south. All of it would move by barge faster and safer than by it could go by road. It would need a handful of garrisons along the length of the canal to protect the precious cargoes from marauders and thieves, so the cargo barges’ first task was to carry building materials, and they were another of the emperor’s priorities.

The forts of the Saxon Shore were being rebuilt and reinforced, too, because Carausius knew that Maximian, just a score of miles away across the narrows, was progressing with his plans. The junior Caesar’s fleet was nearly ready, and spies reported that he had been moving troops to the coast between Ostend and Bononia, readying them for invasion. The British fleet would have to stop them at sea, and Carausius was confident it was up to the task. Years of fighting piracy in the waters around Britain had given him a skilled, toughened navy. He knew that Maximian needed a covering fleet to protect his invasion barges, and he knew too that his old enemy had a weakness. He was blinded by hatred of the Briton and would not wait a moment longer than he must before attacking, even if it was not the cautious option. Maximian would know he could not face the British fleet ship for ship, but he would likely gamble on a swift crossing before the defenders’ squadrons could be brought into play. Carausius, however, had spent gold generously to monitor Maximian’s movements and was sure that he would have full warning from his spies of the emperor’s moves. There would be no surprise.

The British ships, not the chalk ramparts of the southern sea cliffs, were the nation’s best defensive walls. So long as they were in place, they would dominate the Narrow Sea.  Rome, Carausius knew, could not overcome his wooden walls, but it would not hurt to make a pre-emptive strike before any invader got close to the beaches under the white cliffs. That needed planning.  Also to be considered was the matter of the devious Picts, who had treacherously broken their treaties after taking his silver. They’d long since crossed Antoninus’ wall, now they were in the buffer state, the land of the Four Kingdoms between the walls and threatened to breach Hadrian’s more southerly defences, too.  Carausius had ordered troops mustered at Eboracum to prepare for a campaign against the northern raiders and was wondering if he could stretch his naval reserves enough to send an expedition up there to provide seaborne support. He felt he had a breathing space before he needed to face Maximian, as he knew the Roman was not yet ready for him, and he had a plan to set back that individual’s invasion timetable even more.

Tomorrow, he’d begin the journey to Eboracum, get the legions organized himself and take them, under the sacred Eagle standards, to bring the Picts to heel. Get boots on the ground, he thought, it was necessary to mount another campaign to secure a kingdom. While he was up there, the tribunes Quirinus and Cragus would lead a surprise strike across the Narrow Sea against Maximian’s fleet.

Similar thoughts of aggression were in Maximian’s mind. His shipbuilding program was moving along well, and almost too quickly. He had been forced to move a number of finished transports away from the crowded quays at Forum Hadriani because he needed the dock space. He’d started sending the vessels west a short distance to an anchorage in the outfall of
the Scheldt river, using only skeleton crews because of his shortage of trained sailors. He mentally cursed Carausius again for stealing the whole damned British fleet and its valuable sailors, it was a setback to be overcome, and even if, during the invasion, he used only a handful of mariners on each loaded troopship to work the vessels across the straits, he still didn’t have enough trained sailors.

So, he had to wait a while longer, until troop transporters from Rome could bring him some skilled mariners, Phoenicians and Egyptians, most likely, who should have been recruited in answer to his missives back to Milan.

For now, Maximian’s newly-built invasion barges and their skeleton crews were using the summer’s fair weather to creep under their short sails down the Belgic coast and into haven in the estuary of the big river Scheldt. A temporary sail makers’ loft and makeshift shipyard was operating there, fitting cordage and doing all the dozens of commissioning jobs that a new ship needed.

There were other things, though. With all the distractions of equipping an invasion force, it was understandable that Maximian had overlooked a few details, and the junior officers who’d noticed them were too afraid of his savage temper to bring up the matter. Maybe he’d decided things should be run this way, they told each other, best not to irritate the boss by questioning his actions. They told each other how, only a week ago he’d found that a slave had stolen one of the Caesar’s imported Syrian figs. Maximian’s response was to spear another fig on the end of his sword, force it between the man’s teeth and order him to eat it. As the trembling slave bit down on the fruit, the emperor thrust the blade deep into the back of his throat. The man took ten minutes to die, choking and drowning in his own blood. Maximian ordered the fig to be retrieved and nailed to the wall of his palace kitchen. “Better than a notice to the others,” he grunted, handing his sword to a slave to be cleaned.

The message was not lost on the several troopers who saw that the new fleet anchored in the Scheldt was guarded only by soldiers on the river banks and a few watchmen on the vessels themselves.  A waterborne attack would leave the land soldiers as mere spectators. Who’d tell the bad-tempered emperor? Not our job to incur the boss’ wrath, the legionaries muttered to each other. Let the Ruperts tell him, they get paid for it, it’s their responsibility. But the Ruperts didn’t notice.

Spies brought the news of the vulnerable fleet to Quirinus when he sailed into Bononia from Dover, and he acted quickly. By morning, he had mustered six of the nimble, 30 ft. sailboats the army used on the bigger rivers, and tied them off, a pair to each trireme, to be towed up the coast. Taking an idea from the great Julius, who’d employed the technique
when he sent scout vessels to spy out Britain before his invasion, he ordered the ships, their rigging, masts and sails to be painted sea-green. Even the crews were ordered to wear green clothing and to smear their faces, too, camouflaging themselves as well as their ships. The slopped-on paint was hardly dry before they set sail at dusk, towing the still-tacky fire ships, which had been the last to be painted.

The convoy made good time with the easterly flood of the Atlanticus and, near-invisible and unchallenged, were off the mouth of the Scheldt before the first of the wolf light. Then the sailors began to carry out the careful instructions they had been given, instructions that had been repeated until their officers were convinced they were understood. First, they sluiced inside the fire ships’ hulls with a highly-flammable distillation of pitch called Greek
Fire. Next, they unwrapped lanolin-soaked wool and bundles of kindling that had been covered to keep them dry, and spread them along the length of the keel. When that was done, they stretched canvas tightly from gunwale to gunwale to cover it everything. Last, they poured oil over the sheets, which they kept furled, as the sailboats were being towed under bare poles.

Quirinus stood the ships in as the gloom lifted. In the minutes while they closed on the new fleet that was anchored and lashed together just off the main channel, he ordered the six river boats’ oil-soaked sails hoisted to catch the breeze off the sea. The gleaming new wood of the anchored invasion barges showed clearly through the dawn gloom. Flames flared on the raiders’ ships as sailors lashed the steerboards in place, lit the canvas-covered fuel, and scrambled overboard to swim back to the triremes, which stayed cautiously upwind. The fire ship squadron were carried in on the tide, pushed by the breeze, and sailed like ghosts, the flames in their bellies not yet burned through the covering canvas. When it did, the breeze fanned the flames quickly, they licked upwards with hunger, the sails caught, and moments later the fire ships were jostling the anchored fleet where a few drowsy watchmen were stumbling to find bailing pans to splash seawater on the fires.

It was all too little, too late. One fire ship wedged itself between the bows of a tethered pair of transport barges, and the fire spread at the speed of a cantering horse. Other blazing vessels scraped down the clean new wooden sides of the targets, dropping deadly embers and tangling their blazing spars with the anchored barges’ rigging. A fire ship was caught in a line of wicker fish traps and stayed fast, a blazing beacon that illuminated the scene.

One enterprising watchman found an axe and used it to chop the anchor ropes free on several tethered ships, but they simply drifted into the same long line of fish traps alongside the blazing fire ship blazed and were engulfed. From the shore, alarmed legionaries shouted
and ineffectively fired arrows, until two small rowboats filled with archers pulled out to challenge the raiders. Quirinus ordered his trireme to row straight at them, and crushed one under his vessel’s iron-clad forefoot. The other hastily turned back to shore. On the smooth waters that mirrored the blazing destruction, there was no real resistance possible.  Within an hour, when the retreating triremes had rounded the low Belgic shoreline, entered the open sea and caught the ebb tide west, most of Rome’s newest fleet had burned to the waterline and sunk, or was turned into beached, charred and ruined wrecks.

The raid had its effects. Maximian was incensed and had two prefects executed for failing to protect his lost ships. The Saxons on the Rhine were cheered and began a new series of harassments that diverted the Caesar into retaliatory actions that cost him dearly when half a legion was isolated by the enemy and froze to death in a sudden winter storm. And the garrison in Bononia received an unexpected legation.

The tribune Quirinus was at his writing table when the guard saluted and announced that there were visitors, lord. Probably they were local aldermen, the soldier thought, and they were waiting in the courtyard.  The tribune assumed it was a local magistrate and deputation come to complain that the men had stolen chickens again, and impatiently told the man to show them in. Instead, three Gallic chieftains strode into the chamber.

Briefly, they wanted a truce. They had, they indicated when a suitable interpreter could be fetched, been interested to hear that these soldiers of the emperor had destroyed the ships of those soldiers of the other emperor, his brother. One of the splendidly-moustached Gauls produced a coin to support what he said. ‘Carausius and his Brothers’ was the abbreviated legend over the images of the Briton, Diocletian and Maximian.

“Family squabble,” said Quirinus hurriedly. “All is well. In fact,” he had an inspiration, ‘look at this.” He rummaged through his purse to find another of his emperor’s recent mintings. “Rome Renewed,” said the legend on the coin he handed to the puzzled chieftains. “It’s a new age of Saturn,” he explained to them. “Says it right here. The bad, old Rome is gone. The brother emperors are all in agreement, and they are changing the ways people have been treated. This will be a time of cooperation, prosperity, that sort of thing.”

Quirinus glanced around. The propaganda seemed to have been accepted at face value. He called his servant to bring some of that very good Rhenish wine, several flagons of it, and quickly. The chieftains looked at each other warily. They had received news of the slaughter of the bandits, they acknowledged. It was better for all, they said
, if the brigandage was stopped. Now that they could see that Rome was having a change of heart, and the great Carausius was strong enough even to chastise his brother emperors, they would order a halt to the raids that reprehensible elements from Spain and Brittany had been conducting. Gaul would have peace, at least until the spring, if the legate agreed?  The four men drank to the new order, and to peace. Quirinus sighed inwardly, relieved. The dispatch to his emperor arrived in Eboracum within five days. Carausius already knew of the damage to Maximian’s fleet, now he heard with pleasure and some surprise mixed with scepticism that Gaul would be quiet while he turned his attention north to put down those treacherous Picts.