Authors: Paul Bannister
Arthur Invictus (16 page)
Arthur and Carausius: Legends 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, (monogram of the cross) or third century tau-rho cross of a Christian, the earliest ‘sign of the Lord’ found in Wales and one of only a dozen found in Britain (early Christians used this cross as their symbol, the current crucifix cross being regarded as a shameful symbol).
The
man memorialized in that cairn 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.’
Thanks for this book and for the others in the trilogy (
Arthur Britannicus
and
Arthur Imperator
) must go to the dedicated and professional staff of Endeavour Press, London, to editors Matt Lynn and Richard ‘less is more’ Foreman and to the always helpful publisher Amy Durant.
Thank
you, too, to Kelvin Jones of Barnstaple and Los Angeles, two cities that rarely appear together in a sentence, for the splendid maps, to my publishing professional daughter Rachel Williams for her input and research and to my legal eagle daughter Claire Bannister for some sage advice. Lastly, my gratitude and affection to my long-suffering wife Jennie who has had to contend with conversation about third century Britain for about, oh, XXVIII months.
Lege
felicter
!
Paul
Bannister, Oregon 2013.
If you enjoyed reading
Arthur Invictus
you may be interested in
Sword of Rome: The Complete Campaigns
also published by Endeavour Press.
Extract from
Sword of Rome: The Complete Campaigns
by Richard Foreman
Sword of
Rome: The Standard Bearer
The boats drew closer to the white cliffs. Sunlight glinted off a myriad of swords, breastplates and helmets. Spray from the turquoise channel blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened Lucius Oppius’ palms as he gripped the Tenth Legion’s eagle. His eyes were as blue and cold as the Mediterranean. His friend Roscius had commented, half jokingly and half in earnest, how Oppius would have been considered handsome – if he ever bothered to smile. A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier’s face as he gazed up at the jeering barbarians, their bodies smeared with woad, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, Oppius mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck a Roman scutum or the hull of a ship.
Oppius turned his gaze towards the lead trireme where his General, Caesar, stood at the prow. Did the standard bearer notice the hint of a wry smile upon his commander’s face? Caesar had encountered such defiance before. Many had rolled the dice against Caesar and the Tenth, but in the end the Venus throw always came up and Rome was victorious. His red cloak blew in the wind. Caesar was still handsome, whether he smiled or not. His hairline had been retreating of late more than the armies of Gaul but his body was still taut with muscle, his face clean-shaven. His eyes took in everything, yet often remained unreadable. Although brave, Caesar was not foolhardy, Oppius thought. Should he choose to attack now then the legions – the Seventh and Tenth – would be slain from a barrage of missiles before the boats could even reach the beach.
“If their blood lust is anything like their lust for alcohol then we could be in trouble,” the standard bearer heard a legionary mutter behind him, only partly as a joke.
“The one often fuels the other.” The knowing reply came from a man that the legion nicknamed Teucer, for his skill with a bow. The wiry, pale-faced soldier was a Briton, who had left his homeland and travelled to Gaul. Most Britons were recruited by Rome’s enemies on the continent but Teucer had chosen to fight for the Republic. Caesar himself had witnessed his abilities with a bow and bent the rules to promote him to the Tenth. Oppius liked the Briton – and not just because he had saved his life in battle on more than one occasion. He was amiable and intelligent, picking up Latin as quickly as he picked up the legionary’s black sense of humour. Oppius briefly wondered how his comrade was now feeling, as he journeyed towards invading his homeland. What was it like, to view your countryman as your enemy? Oppius hoped that he would never have to find out.
The standard bearer was far from the only Roman to focus his attention upon the figure of Caesar as the trireme’s captain approached his commander. Many of the newer recruits thought, hoped, that Caesar would point to the captain to sail back to Gaul. Yet Oppius had faith in his General that he would give the order for the fleet to sail onwards, along the coast, and discover another landing site. Indeed Oppius had more faith in Caesar than he did the Gods – and sure enough he observed his commander nod his head in the direction of Britain rather than Gaul. Onwards.
Not even the Gods could stop Caesar.
The previous night.
Through the flames and smoke of the campfire, through the blackest of evenings, through a sea of bobbing heads, Oppius could still see the precious, gleaming head of the legion’s silver eagle. The eagle nested in the sacellum, a sacred shrine dedicated to the standard. Even in the safety of the Roman encampment the standard bearer tried to keep an eye on the semi-divine totem. Oppius was one of the youngest ever legionaries to be awarded the honour of serving as an aquilifer – a standard bearer. Lucius sometimes missed being in the thick of the fighting however, owing his duty to protecting the standard rather than fighting alongside his friends and comrades. Although the eagle had tasted blood a couple of times recently when an enemy had been a glory-hunter, or just plain mad. Gore had smeared the eagle’s beak and talons as the aquilifer had fought off the barbarians. Oppius was honour bound to sacrifice his life rather than the standard.
His attention was taken away from the shrine when Teucer handed him a plate, with a charred piece of venison on it. Oppius drained half his cup of wine and poured the remainder over his plate, to soften and moisten the meat. At the same time however he watched Roscius down his cup in one and quickly refill it.
“You should pace yourself Roscius. We have a long day ahead tomorrow. You don’t want to spend the voyage forever emptying your guts over the side of the boat,” Teucer remarked, full-knowing how his warning would probably fall on deaf ears. As their General often exclaimed that “Caesar must be Caesar”, so too Roscius was Roscius, a drinking and killing machine.
“If I am ill tomorrow or go weak at the knees, it’ll be due to sea sickness rather than any hangover,” the hulking legionary replied, wine dribbling down his stubbled chin. “If man was meant for the sea, the Gods would have given us gills.”
“I remember the last time when you went weak at the knees, when you fell for that whore in Massilia,” the Briton remarked, smiling and taking a swig of watered down acetum from his own cup.
“Aye, I nearly lost my heart to that girl. I also nearly lost a more important part of my body, due to the itch she gave me,” Roscius replied, laughing at his own joke.
“So what is Britain like Teucer?” Marcus Fabius asked, when the laughter had died down. Marcus Fabius was a teenager, a new recruit. He was the son of a merchant who had once been Oppius’ centurion, when the standard bearer was a raw recruit himself. The elder Fabius had asked Lucius to keep an eye on Marcus. The youth’s ambition was to be a poet, but the father had entered the son into military service. “I want to put some steel into his soul. I just don’t want some Gaul putting some steel between his ribs.” Combat had yet to scar his body or war ravage his features and innocence. “The enemy won’t know whether to fuck you or fight you lad,” Roscius had commented upon first being introduced to the sensitive looking adolescent.
“There are parts of my homeland that are green and lush but that’s partly because it rains so much. The people can be friendly, especially when they’ve had a drink or two. Yet my people can also be violent, especially when they’ve drunk too much. The tribes are forever squabbling between themselves, although our imminent invasion might just unite the usually fractious tribal leaders. Caesar must aim to divide and conquer. He also needs to avoid a pitched battle on open ground, as the enemy archers and charioteers might pick us off in a piecemeal fashion,” Teucer posited, picking at his venison in an equally piecemeal fashion.
“And what of your people? What are they like?” Fabius asked, his eyes filled with curiosity, although his heart was somewhat filled with fear in regards to the strange barbarian race.
“My people can be proud, rapacious, ignorant, brave and noble – in short, they are much like everyone else Marcus.”
“But will you consider them just like everyone else when you pull back your bowstring tomorrow and they’re in your line of sight?” Roscius gruffly asked.
“No, but I’ll still know which side I’m on, don’t worry about that Roscius. A Briton will still receive an arrow in his front, as opposed to a Roman receiving one in his back. In fighting for Rome though, I believe I will also be fighting for my homeland and its people still. I have little doubt that Rome will subdue Britain eventually – and unfortunately that subjugation may well be bloody, as our experiences in Gaul have proved. But it also may be a price worth paying. Rome will tax Britain and mine it for its tin and take a share of the harvest, but in return we will receive laws, security, increased commerce and advances in the arts and sciences. Tin and corn are a fair trade for a more civilised society.”
His voice was clear and confident, but Oppius couldn’t help but notice how the Briton appeared troubled, or pained, as he spoke.