Lady of Avalon (31 page)

Here, said the clothing, was a chieftain of rank and power, no sly Roman who would sell his honor for gold, but a king and ring-giver with whom a free fighter might honorably make alliance. But as he watched his guests march toward him, it was not of the outfit’s symbolism that Carausius was thinking, but of how much more comfortable it was than Roman gear.

In the basilica they had set up a long table for feasting. Carausius sat at its head with the German chieftains on either side. Their men sat on benches farther down the table, where the slaves kept them well supplied with Gallic wine. The British were accustomed to think of all the pirates as Saxons, but in fact they were from several tribes. The tall man on the Emperor’s right was Hlodovic, a saltwater Frank of the breed who were even now causing such trouble for Maximian. Next to him, a thickset man with a grey beard was one of the last Heruli remaining in the north, who had joined his warriors to those in the following of the Anglian leader, Wulfhere. Last came a dour Frisian called Radbod.

“Your wine is good,” said Wulfhere, draining his cup and holding it out to be refilled.

“I drink to you,” answered Carausius, lifting his own. He had taken the precaution of having the depth of his own cup decreased by filling it partway with wax beforehand. He had learned to drink deep in the Navy, but the capacity of German warriors was legendary, and to win their respect it was essential to keep pace with them.

“We will drink your wine gladly, but we have amphorae that are just as good at home,” put in Hlodovic.

“Paid for in blood,” said Carausius. “Better to receive such wine as a gift, and spill your blood on nobler quarrels.”

“Is it so?” Hlodovic laughed. “Does not your wine come from Gallia? Are not your stocks grown lower since you became unfriends with Maximian?”

“For the past few seasons your cousins have kept him busy in Belgica.” Carausius laughed. “He has neither the ships nor the men to impede trade with Britannia.”

“Wine is good,” agreed Radbod, “but gold is better.”

“I have gold…for my friends. And silver from the Mendip mines.” Carausius signaled, and the slaves began to bring in baskets of bread and platters with eggs and cheese, and oysters, followed by joints of veal and venison.

“And what gifts do you expect your ‘friends’ to give you in exchange?” asked Hlodovic, slicing another chunk from the shank before him. They sat at table in the barbarian fashion, but the chieftains, who valued such things as much as any Roman, ate from silver plates and drank from glass goblets.

“Let your young men seek glory on other shores. The rewards will be even greater if you yourselves go against those who would attack us by sea.”

“But you, lord, are a noble fighter. Why should you deprive yourself of such a challenge?” asked Wulfhere, laughing and draining his cup again.

“It is true I would rather fight upon the sea. But now that I am High King here, I must spend much time in the north, making war against the Painted Peoples there.”

“And you would set the wolves to guard the sheep while you are gone?” Wulfhere shook his head in amusement.

“If the wolves are honorable beasts, I would place more trust in them than in dogs,” Carausius replied. The first meats served had been devoured, and now the warriors were working on the whole roast boar glazed with honey and surrounded by apples.

Wulfhere stopped eating to look at him. “You are no Roman, for all they call you Imperator…”

Carausius smiled. “I was born in the Menapian fens. But I belong to Britannia now.”

“We wolves are hungry, and we have many cubs to feed,” put in Radbod. “How much would you give?”

As the meats were replaced by dishes of stewed fruit and sweetened breads and pastries, the discussion became more specific. One after another, the amphorae of Gallic wine were emptied. Carausius matched his guests cup for cup, and hoped he would remember all that had been said when morning came.

“So now we have a bargain,” Hlodovic said at last. “And I have only one more thing to ask of you.”

“And what is that?” asked Carausius, feeling the wine sing in his veins, or perhaps it was victory.

“I want you to tell us all the tale of how you defeated the fleet of the Emperor Maximian…”

Carausius stood up slowly, holding on to the table until the world stopped whirling, then, taking each step with conscious care, began the long journey toward the door. He had done it! In the name of Jupiter Fides he had sworn to pay the tribute, and the barbarian chieftains had pledged troth to him, swearing by Saxnot and Ing, and by Woden of the Spear. Now they lay at the table with heads pillowed on their arms, while their men snored on the beds that had been spread for them on the floor of the hall. But he-Carausius-was the conqueror, in drinking as in negotiation, for he was the only one still able to walk under his own power from the hall.

He wanted his own bed. No-it was Teleri’s bed he wanted. He would come to her straight from his battlefield and offer her his victory. At the door, Aedfrid, the youngest of his Menapians, was waiting. He leaned on the boy’s shoulder, laughing as he found himself stumbling on the words. But he had made his meaning clear enough for the man to guide him along the corridors and across the road to the nearby house, belonging to the leading magistrate of the city, where the imperial party had been lodged.

“Do you need any help, lord?” asked Aedfrid as they neared the bedchamber. “Shall I call your body slave, or-”

“No…” Carausius waved genially. “’m a sailor, y’know? In th’ Navy they’d laugh at a man…couldn’t hold his wine. I’ll get m’ clothes off-” He missed a step, and reached out for support to the wall. “Maybe m’ wife will help me…” He laughed again.

Shaking his head, the warrior opened the door to the Empress’s chamber, holding up the torch so that the light streamed past Carausius across the floor.

“Teleri!” he called. “I have done it! I have won!” He lurched toward the bed, and the flickering torch sent his shadow in distorted waves before him. “The sea wolves have sworn alliance!” He had been using the German tongue all evening, and did not realize that he was speaking it now.

The bedclothes heaved; in the torchlight he glimpsed her white face and widening eyes. Then she screamed.

Carausius took a step backward and felt himself falling. The last thing he remembered, as all the wine he had drunk at the feast finally caught up with him, was the terror in Teleri’s eyes.

In the morning the Emperor woke with a pounding head and a mouth like the kitchen midden. He grimaced, hoping the German chieftains felt worse. Was he getting old, that one night’s drinking could make him feel so ill? Then he opened his eyes, and saw that he was in Teleri’s bed. Alone.

He groaned aloud, and the door opened. Deft and tactful, his body servant got him out of his wine-stained German clothing, washed him, and put him into a clean tunic.

Carausius found Teleri in the smaller dining chamber, where they often breakfasted. She looked up as he entered, and he stopped short, for what he saw in her face, as he had seen it the night before, was stark fear.

“I apologize,” he said stiffly, “for disturbing you.” Teleri stared at her platter and did not answer. “I wanted to tell you about my victory. We have a treaty. The German chieftains will send warriors.”

“Saxons…” she hissed, fists clenching in the skirts of her gown.

“Frisians and Franks and Heruli,” he corrected, wondering what was wrong with her. She had known they were coming here.

“They are all Saxon wolves to me! I thought it would not matter-that enough time had gone by-” Teleri shook her head, and he saw that she was weeping.

“Teleri!” he exclaimed, moving toward her.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, rising so quickly the bench crashed over behind her. “You’re one of them! I thought you were a Roman, but when I look at you it is
his
face I see now!”

“Who, Teleri?” asked Carausius. His voice shook with the effort he was making not to shout.

“The Saxon…” she answered, so quietly he had to strain to hear, “the man who tried to rape me when I was eighteen years old.”

Summer drew on, and with it a year for the southern part of the province more peaceful than any its people could recall. The Saxons, with their oaths still fresh on their lips and their purses full of British gold, turned their attention to other shores. But the Irish had no such inhibitions. They began to raid into the lands of the Silures and Demetae, and the Emperor and his household rode westward to defend them.

Teleri had asked to remain with her father, but the Emperor, knowing the value the western tribes placed on their queens, judged it wise to show his confidence in his ability to defend them by bringing his wife along. Teleri thought that perhaps he had hopes that if she came he might woo her to his bed once more. She had tried to discipline her feelings, but since the feast at Cantiacorum she had not been able to bear his touch. Even when he was not wearing his Menapian clothing or surrounded by his barbarian bodyguard, when she looked at him she still saw an enemy.

As Empress, she had her own servants and household. She rode in a horse litter with her people around her, and if she did not share her husband’s bed it was easy to say that she had been tired by travel and needed to sleep alone. When they reached Venta Silurum they would be expected to live together, and explanations would be more difficult. And so, as they neared the mouth of the Sabrina, she begged permission to turn south to Aquae Sulis and take the waters there. Carausius, perhaps hoping that time would heal the rift between them, agreed.

The night before the two parties were to separate, they rested at Corinium, the old capital of the Dobunni, where the Fosse Way intersected the main road to the west. The town was small but wealthy, famous for the artistry of the makers of mosaics who based their industry there. The
mansio
was positively opulent, thought Teleri as she settled onto one of the couches. Surely Rome itself could produce nothing more luxurious. It was all the more disconcerting, therefore, when the door opened and Dierna walked into the room.

As always, the High Priestess dominated her surroundings, which seemed abruptly overdone, even tawdry, behind the classic simplicity of her blue gown. Then Teleri remembered that she herself was now an empress who must outrank any priestess ever born, and sat up, demanding to know what Dierna was doing there.

“My duty-I have come to speak with your husband, and with you.” The priestess settled herself on one of the benches. Teleri gave her a narrow look, and saw that the older woman’s hands were clasped tightly, belying her air of calm.

“Does he know you are here?” Teleri sat back again, adjusting the folds of her crimson palla to fall more becomingly.

There was no need for answer: the door was opening again and Carausius himself came through, with Allectus at his heels. Behind them she glimpsed the tall figures of his barbarian bodyguard and tensed involuntarily. Then the door shut the sight away.

The Emperor stopped short, staring. He saluted Dierna. “Lady, you honor us.”

“It is true,” she answered, “I have honored you, but you do not honor us by those barbarian garments you wear.”

Teleri took a quick breath. This was getting to the point indeed! Carausius glanced down at his German breeches and flushed, but when he looked up again, there was no yielding in his gaze.

“I was born a barbarian,” he said quietly. “These are the garments of my youth, and comfortable. And they are the clothes of my allies.”

Dierna’s eyes flashed. “Do you, then, reject the gods of Britannia, who have raised you so high? It is no shame for a pig to rootle in the mud, but a man knows better. You have stood upon the Holy Tor and heard the singing of the summer stars. You bore the dragons on your arms before Atlantis sank beneath the waves. Will you deny the wisdom won through so many lives and sink back into the mire where infant races strive? You belong to them no longer, but to Britannia!”

“Indeed. But what is Britannia? The tree that shelters the peoples lifts its arms to heaven,” Carausius answered slowly, “but it must be rooted in the earth or it will die. Britannia is more than Avalon. In my travels around this island I have seen men from every corner of the Empire whose sons cherish this land as their own. I will protect all of them-all those who have been given into my hand. You must not blame me if I take what comfort I may where I can…” His gaze sought Teleri and then fell away.

“Your support comes from the princes of Britannia,” exclaimed Allectus, “from the men of the old Celtic blood who made you Emperor! Will you give their gifts to slaves?”

Carausius straightened, the high color flaming into his face once more. “Do you attack me as well? I thought that I could count on
your
loyalty!”

“Then perhaps you had better reconsider your own,” Allectus said bitterly. “If you are determined to revert to your roots, you must not complain if I remember that my fathers were kings among the Belgae!”

For a long moment Carausius stared at him. His gaze passed to Dierna, and then to Teleri, and she had to look away. At last he sighed.

“You will do as you must. But you are wrong. I remember very well who made me Emperor-it was the soldiers and the men of the fleet who first acclaimed me, not the British princes, who no longer bear arms. Britannia was Celtic once, but that is so no longer. In Moridunum there are men-of many races-who are spilling their blood to defend you. My place is beside them. I will leave you to debate philosophies.”