Copyright © 2015 M. K. Hume

The right of M. K. Hume to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published as an Ebook in 2015
by HEADLINE REVIEW

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About the Author

M. K. Hume is a retired academic, who is married with two grown-up sons and lives in Queensland, Australia. Having completed an MA and PhD in Arthurian Literature many years ago, M. K. Hume has now written a series of magnificent novels about the legend of King Arthur. For more information visit: www.mkhume.com.

By M. K. Hume and available from Headline Review

King Arthur Trilogy

Dragon’s Child

Warrior of the West

The Bloody Cup

Prophecy Trilogy

Clash of Kings

Death of an Empire

Web of Deceit

Twilight of the Celts Trilogy

The Last Dragon

The Storm Lord

The Ice King

Stormbringer’s Voyage (e-novella)

The Last Dragon’s Voyage (e-short story)

The Emperor’s Blood (e-novella)

Tintagel Trilogy

The Blood of Kings

The Poisoned Throne

About the Book

A decade has passed since the death of Caradoc, King of the Dumnonii tribe, and his friend, Flavius Magnus Maximus. Britain is battered by Pict invaders, and centurion Constantinus and his legionnaires are fighting them to the death.

Maximus’s daughter, Lady Severa, holds the key to the throne of the High King of the Britons and when she is threatened with abduction, Constantinus escorts her to the safety of Tintagel. Agreeing to marry her, he is crowned the High King, and Severa bears him two sons, Ambrosius and Uther. But, as the ruler of Britain, Constantinus is poisoned by greed and jealousy, and his thirst for greatness in the Roman Empire will cost him dear . . .

This book is dedicated to my son, Brendan Niels Hume, with my love and best wishes.

Brendan has experienced his fair share of life’s glories and adversities. With an adventurous bent during his youth, he lived the hard imperatives of military life and found a way to reconcile his ethical reservations about war with the demands of voluntary service in the armed forces. Later, he learned the harsh realities of surviving in the modern world of business and raising a family. Despite the difficulties he has faced, Brendan always reminds me of how much can be achieved if we nurture our ambitions and persevere with the pursuit of a good and happy life.

I am so very proud of him.

Ave, Brendan.

M. K. Hume
December 2015

Acknowledgements

As well as dedicating this book to my second son, Brendan, I would like to thank him for the enormous amount of his help with this novel. He has returned to the hearth at a time when I needed him most and assisted me with this book when I was lost in a wilderness.

I must also thank the girls and guys from The Coffee Club of Albany Creek in Brisbane. On too many days to count, I would arrive with writing materials in hand, and then order a Brekkie Hot-Pot (hold the chorizo) and numerous cups of English Breakfast tea. For the next three hours or so, I’d work like a demon while the staff saw to my culinary needs. Their friendliness, support and pure niceness helped me over a difficult time. Ave, The Coffee Club.

Clare Foss and Emma Holtz, my minders at Headline, have been very patient with me as this novel has unfolded. Unfortunately, I can’t flick the blame for my slowness on to the Roman, Constantine, because I’m afraid that the fault was truly mine. Although Clare and Emma could have been impatient at my tardiness, they have, as always, been wonderful. My thanks also go to the rest of the editorial staff, artists and cartographers at Headline who always manage to make sense of my meanderings. What can I say other than thank you!

As always the covers for these Tintagel novels are a dream!

My beautiful agent, Dorie, is always in my thoughts and I miss her gorgeous smile. Talking on a phone isn’t as nice as face to face chats.

My thanks also go to my older son, Damian, and my friends Pauline, Penny and Roger who helped to keep me sane during the hard times when the going got tough.

I also thank my little dog, Rusty, with lots of smiles and love. When the days were hard to face, Rusty’s unconditional love gave me the heart to enter the world of the Dark Ages.

That which doesn’t kill us, friends, makes us stronger.

Ave.

M. K. Hume

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

Adolphus (Father) The healer from the religious community at Glastonbury.

Aeron Aeron ap Iorweth. The king of the Dobunni tribe. He is married to Queen Endellion, and is the son-in-law of King Caradoc, the deceased king of the Dumnonii tribe. He is the father of Pridenow.

Andragathius A senior officer who served in Gallia under Flavius Magnus Maximus.

Ardunn (Queen) The wife of King Cadal, King of Cornwall. She resides at Tintagel.

Cadal The king of the Dumnonii tribe. The son of King Caradoc, he is married to Queen Ardunn. He rules Cornwall from Tintagel.

Cael A wagon driver who is hired for the journey from Corinium to Tintagel.

Calindre A special knife given to Severa by Cael for her protection.

Caradoc Caradoc ap Ynyr. The deceased king of the Dumnonii tribe. He is the father of King Cadal, Prince Cadoc and Queen Endellion.

Cassivellaunus An advisor appointed by Tribune Maximo to assist the newly crowned Constantinus in his role as High King of the Britons.

Cledwyn The son of Conanus and, later, the ruler of Armorica (Brittany) in Gallia.

Clidna The madam at a Corinium brothel where Marcus Britannicus is murdered.

Conanus A British survivor of Maximus’s campaigns in Gaul who becomes the ruler of Armorica (Brittany) in Gallia. Severa’s uncle, he is the father of Cledwyn.

Constans The eldest son of Constantinus who is domiciled at the legion headquarters in Cymru. He moves to Venta Belgarum to live with his father when Constantinus becomes High King of the Britons.

Constantinus Later, Emperor Constantine III. As a centurion in Roman Britannia, he is appointed as adjutant to Marcus Britannicus, the original suitor of Lady Severa. Constantinus accompanies Marcus to Corinium and assumes command of the detachment after Marcus is assassinated.

Constantius The general who escorts Constantine back to Ravenna. He kills Constantine on the orders of Emperor Honorius.

Crispus One of Constantinus’s junior officers.

Dilic Severa’s serving-maid after she arrives in Tintagel.

Drusus A Roman scout who accompanies Constantinus and Severa in their escape from Glastonbury.

Elen (Queen) Deceased wife of Magnus Maximus. She is the mother of Severa.

Endellion (Queen) The wife of King Aeron of the Dobunni tribe. She was the illegitimate daughter of King Caradoc and Saraid, the Wise Woman of the Red Wells.

Gerontius One of Constantine’s ex-Roman generals in Gallia.

Gregorius An advisor appointed by Tribune Maximo to assist the newly crowned Constantinus in his role as High King of the Britons.

Gregory (Father) The abbot of the religious community at Glastonbury.

Gwennan A prostitute in the brothel where Marcus Britannicus is murdered.

Hibernians The native tribesmen of Ireland.

Honorius Western Roman Emperor from 393AD to 423AD.

Jesus of Nazareth Icon of the Christian Church. He is reputed to have travelled to Britannia as a child with Joseph the Trader.

Joseph the Trader Joseph of Arimathea. A Jew who travelled throughout Britannia and is believed to have spent some time in Glastonbury. His wooden staff is believed to have been the source of the famed thorn tree of Glastonbury.

Justinianus A Frank who joins Constantine’s revolt against the power of Rome.

Lachie The kitchen-hand at the brothel where Marcus Britannicus is murdered. He is the brother of the simple-minded Nudd, one of two guards at the brothel.

Llian (Queen) The widow of King Llew ap Adwen of the Dobunni tribe. After Llew’s death, she continues to live with King Aeron’s family as a dowager queen.

Macsen Wledig The Celtic name for Flavius Magnus Maximus.

Marcus Britannicus A Roman aristocrat who serves as a senior officer in the legions. He is selected as a candidate for marriage to Severa, the only daughter of Flavius Magnus Maximus, who is unwed. If successful, Marcus will be entitled to claim the vacant throne of the High King of the Britons and, hopefully, unite the British tribes. Marcus is assassinated at a brothel in Corinium.

Maximo A tribune and commander of the Roman forces in Britannia. The superior of Marcus Britannicus.

Maximus Flavius Magnus Maximus. A deceased Roman tribune who became the Roman governor of Britain. He eventually became the Emperor of the Western Empire in Rome and was assassinated by Theodosius, Emperor of the Eastern Empire in Constantinople.

Nebiogastes A Frank leader who joins Constantine in his revolt against Rome.

Nudd A simple-minded guard who works at the brothel in Corinium where Marcus Britannicus is murdered.

Paulus Constantinus’s decurion.

Picts The native population of Northern Britannia.

Pridenow The son of King Aeron and Queen Endellion of the Dobunni tribe. He is an important personage as his line will lead to the birth of King Artor, High King of the Britons.

Rusticus (Decimus) A Praetorian who replaced Apollinaris as Constantine’s prefect.

Saraid The Wise Woman of the Red Wells. She is the birth mother of Queen Endellion but abandons the child as an infant. She is a white witch and a notable healer.

Sarus A Visigoth commander who fights for Emperor Honorius and Rome.

Severa The daughter of Flavius Magnus Maximus and Queen Elen. She marries Constantinus and bears two sons, Ambrosius and Uther Pendragon, who become High Kings of the Britons. Later, as a widow, she marries Vortigern, who also becomes the High King of the Britons. She bears him one son, Vortimer.

Stilicho A distinguished Roman general in the service of Emperor Honorius. He fought at the battle of Valentia in Gallia.

Vortigern A young British soldier of the Demetae tribe who serves under Constantinus. He later becomes the High King of the Britons.

PROLOGUE

‘My hands are filthy,’ Constantinus observed as he stared down at them, crusted and sticky with half-dried blood. The battle madness was gradually fading from his eyes as they scanned the field with the constant vigilance of a trained Roman cavalryman.

Critically wounded soldiers were moaning and twitching around him as large snowflakes began to fall and nature blanketed the gore and the filth of the pitifully small expanse of ground where the Picts had made their final charge. The commander rose slowly to his full height, stretching his back and shoulder muscles, cramped from crouching in the front line of combat for many weary hours. His sword arm was so tired he could barely raise it, but he masked his exhaustion. Erect, his tall frame towered over those of his soldiers who were still standing. Around the Roman fighting square, the defensive formation called the Tortoise, a swathe of Pictish corpses were lying in untidy piles.

‘Stand down!’ Constantinus ordered in a clear, steady voice, indicating he was in total control of the situation. ‘Drink and eat while you can. Paulus! Take four men and clear a path so we can carry our wounded on to solid ground.’

Several of his soldiers snapped to attention and began to clear a walkway through the tangle of corpses. As Constantinus calculated the numbers of enemy casualties, he estimated that the Picts had fielded a force of a thousand warriors. However, many of that number were lying dead on this small expanse of firm earth, surrounded by a dangerous expanse of swamp and sucking mud. Quickly, the disciplined legionnaires constructed a path through the corpses to allow the survivors of Constantinus’s three centuries to drive their trembling muscles into a determined trot.

A few crisp orders from the commander and his surviving men moved stolidly through the muck as they followed a pathway that Constantinus had marked out earlier in the day with strips of cloth torn from his own red cloak. When he had realised the size of the horde aligned against his force, he had selected the best place available for their stand, although many of his infantrymen were nervous about defending a solitary patch of firm ground so close to quicksand and treacherous swamps.

Only an experienced commander such as Constantinus, an officer who had been promoted through the infantry ranks, would have the imagination to appreciate the tactical advantage of such an unpromising area. Fortunately, his men trusted his agile mind and courage, so they had followed him into the defensive positions he had selected. Constantinus had always led his troops from the van so, like those legionnaires who preceded them in the days of the Caesars, these well-disciplined soldiers were prepared to follow their centurion to their deaths.

This strategy had provided his outnumbered force with a slight edge that had served them well against the sheer size of the Pictish army and the resources available to their king. Rome’s last major garrisons, apart from Venta Silurum in Cymru and the legionnaires of the reinforced Dracos Legion, had already been stretched thin when Constantinus made his valiant attempt to prevent the northern invaders from tearing the south of Britannia to pieces. The number of trained soldiers available to his command was insufficient to provide any worthwhile opposition to the Pict advance, or so it had seemed, so he was well aware of the inadequacies of his tactical position. Three hundred legionnaires, plus seventy-five native auxiliaries, were unlikely to mount a successful defence against a horde of victorious Picts who had gained confidence with each battle, destroying every town and hamlet in their wake.

The Picts had charged at Constantinus’s defensive lines in wave after wave as they tried to smash their way through the interlocked shields of the Tortoise manoeuvre in a vain search for weakness. It was one of a number of tactics that had served the Romans well for centuries, but it demanded grit, patience, stolid discipline and grim determination. During the many hours that they had spent in the cramped positions demanded by the Tortoise manoeuvre, Constantinus’s foot soldiers had proved themselves to be indomitable. Once again, their commander had demonstrated his ability to lead from the front.

‘I refuse to die in this pissant dung-pile at the end of the known world,’ he snarled until his words were passed onwards to every man in his force. ‘We are fucking Romans, and we’re proud to have been suckled by the She-wolf. My soldiers will not be defeated by bare-arsed savages with painted faces.’

A weak cheer was raised from the men around him, but Constantinus simply grimaced.

‘We are Romans!’ he yelled again in a louder voice. ‘We don’t run from anyone, regardless of how many of these blue-faced bastards are lined up against us.’

The responding cheer was louder this time, so Constantinus took the opportunity to scream the same words in their own tongue toward the Pictish warriors who were splashing around in the swamp, although the barbarians responded with catcalls and obscene gestures. Some of them had already been dragged down into the sucking sands after the Romans had pushed them away from their safe bastion, while a number of others had exhausted themselves when they tried to find some purchase on the firmer patches of ground. As Constantinus had hoped, the murderous swamp had killed scores of Picts before they had reached his defensive positions. Even more were to meet their deaths as they desperately tried to settle into their combat formations and join battle with the legionnaires. His fighting words were intended to antagonise the enemy rather than inspire his own men, who knew that angry men make mistakes – and sometimes reckless decisions.

The hours seemed to lengthen as the barbarians threw themselves against the slowly contracting Tortoise formation, but the Picts had been forced to absorb up to ten times the losses inflicted on the trained legionnaires whose weapons had been designed for confrontations such as this. The Roman gladius, or short stabbing sword, had no hilt that could become caught in woven shields or in cloaks. Without exposing themselves, and while their heads were covered by the second row of shields from the defenders behind them, the Roman infantry presented iron walls to the Picts, whose shields were made of wood or even light wicker.

‘We have to make ourselves hard to kill until these bastards are screaming with frustration and taking insane risks to reach the points of our swords,’ Constantinus reminded the men nearest to him. The commander had explained his strategy and tactics when they had first set foot on this small, oblong patch of dry earth. The legionnaires could make their own judgement of their success as the day wore on for, although the defenders could only concentrate on the men who appeared in the press of human bodies in front of them, the increasing frustration and desperation of the Picts was unmistakeable.

Finally the tattooed savages pulled back with the onset of dusk, but three-quarters of their number would never leave the swamp.

Behind the defensive line, a new perimeter was constructed on another area of firm earth that would protect the Roman force during the hours of darkness. Paulus, Constantinus’s deputy, would assume command while Constantinus had a short period of rest. Here, surrounded by earth and tree-trunk walls, the wounded legionnaires could be protected and the fitter of the infantrymen could gain a little much-needed sleep.

Meanwhile, scouts were despatched to keep track of the Pict survivors and, hopefully, gain intelligence on their intentions. Still more men were allotted the familiar and necessary task of stripping the dead of any valuables as well as any useful weaponry. By full darkness, a bivouac had been established. A number of tents and improvised shelters had also been raised for those men who needed cover from the elements. No Romans were permitted to sleep until their defensive position was prepared, regardless of the weather conditions or the surrounding terrain. Such attention to detail had long been the way of the Roman army, and lay at the very heart of their invincibility.

A light coating of snow had fallen during the late afternoon, sufficient to lay a thin shroud of white over the flat expanse of land that included the swamps along the coast near Metaris Aest. The nearest large town was Causennae, but the walls of this unfortunate township had been breached by the Picts, so its buildings had been stripped of their valuables. After their victory, the Picts had pillaged and burned nearby farms to the ground, while dragging away many of the British peasants as captives. But they sought no refuge behind the smashed gates of Causennae. Somewhere in this wet and wintry landscape, the northern invaders had hidden themselves among the networks of rivers, tributaries, marshland and the ever-changing coastline that shifted with the region’s heavy tidal flows. Here, trees were rare and troop movements should have been obvious in the grasslands and reeds, yet the Picts were adept at vanishing into them.

Despite the film of snow, the fields of sere grasses hid the tracks of the retreating Pict warriors. Constantinus’s forward scouts found their spoor heading into the north, for wounded warriors were abandoned if they were unable to maintain the pace of their comrades. Information extracted from those who had chosen to remain alive revealed that the enemy was hastening towards its refuge at the Abus Flood.

At dawn, Constantinus ordered his legionnaires to strike camp.

‘We’ll follow the Picts into the north, Paulus,’ he told his senior officer. ‘Those of us who are fit will chase them as far as the Wall, but I’ll not risk our wounded men. They can travel to Causennae where they can be cared for by our surgeons. The lightly wounded can travel with the wagons and supplies that will slow my fighting column. I want best speed, so our legionnaires will carry minimal loads.’

When the Picts had begun their retreat, they abandoned several wagons laden down with the spoils of Causennae and several other towns further to the north. One of the wagons contained dried meat, grain and other supplies to augment those necessities that they would normally have scavenged from the pillaged countryside. The Roman infantrymen would now take some to replenish their individual food stores.

One of the other wagons gave Constantinus cause for anger when a close inspection revealed looted spoils from churches, country villas and farmsteads. The hoard contained a large cache of women’s jewellery, and even the tiny bangles, birth gifts and bulla amulets of small children. Many of these precious objects were stained with dried blood, mute witness to the violence inflicted on innocent victims. Blood-spattered religious relics showed that priests had been cut down at their own altars. Constantinus, neither a romantic nor particularly religious, was even so a man of integrity, sickened by the deaths of innocent non-combatants. He accepted that civilians must die during times of conflict, even merchants and townspeople, but women and children should, ideally, be shown some mercy, even if indignities were inflicted on their bodies.

Still, he had won a remarkable battle and had acquired fresh reserves of food and a tidy sum in captured treasure. As his legionnaires had come to believe, he had been favoured by the smiles of Fortuna.

Paulus, his deputy, was one officer who accepted that his commander was a lucky man, an able leader and a courageous soldier, but in his view pursuit of the retreating Picts might be begging for trouble. These barbarians had inflicted massive losses on their enemy but, of the three hundred elite legionnaires who had woken to a bleak dawn a day ago, only one hundred and seventy remained fit for a forced march that would take them into harm’s way. However he knew better than to argue.

At the head of the Roman column, Constantinus led his men from their temporary shelter in the swamplands in the bone-jarring march favoured by the legions. These infantrymen could move with remarkable speed, considering that each man was required to carry his personal sleeping tent, digging tool, tinder box, cooking utensil, food supplies, beer and a small axe, along with a shield and spear, in a pack on his back. This fighting kit had scarcely changed since the time of the Great Caesar and, before him, Marius the inventor-consul, whose planning had turned the Roman infantryman into the greatest foot soldier of all time. Each step was in time, for Roman armies fought as a cohesive group.

By any yardstick, Constantinus was an unusual specimen of manhood, for his physique and colouring spoke of barbarian ancestry. He was tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped; his hair was neither black nor brown, but seemed to be the colour of rich mahogany, that exotic timber rarely seen to the west of Constantinople. Red lights, barbarian in colour, danced through his locks when the sun was reflecting light. Although he wore his hair in the clipped style of the military, a natural curl appeared when it grew to the length of a finger joint, a fact that annoyed him greatly. In contrast, he was smooth-skinned over the rest of his body, unlike many fellow officers who were forced to shave or pluck theirs.

His face was as handsome as that of a Greek statue, with a straight nose and high cheekbones above a well-shaped chin. His eyes were greenish-brown and he was fortunate enough to possess abnormally long lashes. Only his mouth, seemingly bee-stung in its fullness, might be described as a flaw. It was as mobile as his dark, arched eyebrows. All these exceptional features were offset by golden, easily tanned skin.

The men in the ranks often joked about their commander’s effect on women in every stratum of society. The camp followers fell over their own feet in their efforts to gain his attention, while the wives and women of his fellow officers were quick to invite him to any entertainment that was proposed within the garrison. Similarly, women of the British aristocracy clustered around him like moths to an incandescent flame. He also drove the effeminates within the Roman bureaucracy half-demented with desire. Oblivious to the blandishments of the lovesick and the lustful, he managed to pass politely through their ranks and caused no humiliation or pain to darken his reputation.

If only he had been born of patrician blood, his advancement would have been certain.

As far as Paulus was aware, his commander had no romantic entanglements and he never frequented the whores who flocked to the garrisons.

‘The man isn’t human,’ one of the young British auxiliaries stated pugnaciously when the subject of Constantinus’s love life was discussed during a campfire gossip. ‘Maybe he’s got no balls, although he’s like no castrato I ever met. In any event, I’ve heard he has a brat!’

‘I’d keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of our master if I were you. If he’s choosy, it’s just a sign that he’s a better man than both of us,’ his Roman companion replied. He gave his friend a light cuff around the ears, despite being a foot shorter than the younger man.

Now, with his armour dented and dull, the commander was still cutting a handsome figure in his helmet with its scarlet horsehair ruff, although he was grimy, unshaven and footsore from the many miles travelled each day in their pursuit of the elusive Pict raiders. The unlined skin under his eyes was blue and bruised with weariness, but his eyes were as clear and as sharp as ever; in them his men detected a fury, for this particular Roman hated to lose and the Picts were successfully eluding him.

The second day of their fruitless pursuit began to try Constantinus’s patience.

‘Send out the scouts again, Paulus. The Picts can’t have been swallowed up by the earth when they had so little start on us.’ He grinned then, with a sudden flash of wry humour. ‘I’d match our legionnaires against the barbarians every day and twice on Sunday, so the blue bastards must be trying to link up with the larger group of invaders near the Abus Flood. We’ll find them first. We’ll winkle them out, even if I have to wear my feet off at the knees.’

I know you will, Paulus thought sourly. As well as mine, so it’s best that we get on with it. ‘Should we continue to march into the night?’

‘No! Even the best of our soldiers have to sleep sometime. Exhausted men can’t produce sudden bursts of speed. Until such time as I decide otherwise, my men will rest, eat and sleep during the hours of darkness.’

During this long explanation, Constantinus scarcely looked at his decurion, but Paulus wasn’t insulted. Such occasional consultations were unusual within the Roman hierarchy and Paulus was always flattered by such intimate moments.

Constantinus was unique in one other quality. The Roman knew that destiny had promised him a future, one that could elevate him above ordinary humans for the rest of time.

Few educated men believed the maundering of prophets or crazed soothsayers, but many Roman legionnaires were superstitious, so Constantinus had achieved some fame within the ranks after a wise man had prophesied that he would rise far above the rank to which a soldier could normally aspire.

A year earlier, he had been part of a patrol that had ranged far from their home garrison at Venta Silurum. The legionnaires had marched north across Hadrian’s Wall and entered the dangerous territory ruled by the northern Celtic tribes. There, in a small, unnamed village beyond Castra Exploratorium, Constantinus’s troop had been halted by a capering travesty of a man, a Wilde Man from the Woods who foamed at the mouth as if he had the dreaded disease carried by crazed forest beasts. Normally, this lunatic would have begged for coin or food and would have threatened bad luck to his audience if his pleas were ignored. The pragmatic Romans would have given this strange creature a wide berth.

The Wilde Man had walked unerringly towards Constantinus, his scowl and his blank, unfocused eyes suggesting that he meant to cause some harm to the Roman commander. Two guardsmen stepped forward to restrain the madman, but the centurion stayed them with a raised hand when the hermit addressed him by name.

‘Constantine! Emperor that will soon be! Prepare yourself for a time when your soldiers elevate you to the purple! Take care whom you wed, master, for your son is in need of a true mother.’

The old man’s voice was cracked from disuse during his years as a hermit in the wild forests, so the words were dragged over his rarely used vocal cords as if a corpse was speaking from deep inside a grave. Constantinus was startled by the hermit’s reference to Constans, the lad of twelve years who lived in the centurion’s quarters at the garrison in Cymru. The boy’s mother had died during childbirth many years earlier.

‘I have no aspirations towards such a future, old man. Such ambitions are mere hubris and fire the blood with treasonous thoughts. Begone, unless you have something to tell me that might be useful.’

The Wilde Man grinned maliciously and Constantinus’s hair rose on the back of his neck. ‘You are marked for greatness, Centurion. The wife of your destiny will be one who is prized for her bloodline, for she is the child of Macsen Wledig, Emperor of Rome. Will you dare to take her to your heart? She is a briar rose, and only the bravest of men would dare to grip her thorns and the poison in them that sours the blood. But, if your heart remains free of greed and jealousy, then you will rule Britannia lifelong. If you should be poisoned by avarice, then you will have glory beyond your imagining, but your sons and their sons will be the greater men. You will lose the child you love best. Be careful, Constantine. For every step you take will be dangerous and every move you make will be measured against the judgement of the Lord of Order. Will you dare to stand in the clear light of His all-seeing eyes?’

‘I fear nothing that I can see, or hear, touch or taste, old man. If I can feel the hilt of my gladius in my palm, or smell the scent of battle on the wind, then I will believe I go to war. All else is nothing but idle talk.’

Constantinus lifted his handsome head proudly. The Wilde Man could see no fear in the dark eyes of the centurion, but he sensed a pulse in the throat of the Roman, an indication that he wanted to make his mark and ensure that his name would be remembered in the wash of time.

The old hermit laughed cynically, so the rattle in his throat sounded like the judder of dry bones in an earthenware mug. ‘You are fated to find glory, Constantine. But you must always consider the child of Macsen Wledig, for it is she who holds the key to your destiny.

‘I’ll leave you now, Centurion. I am done here, for the scent of human flesh sickens me.’

The Wilde Man turned away and took a single step off the edge of the Roman road, then with his next his figure blurred quickly into the background of trees and underbrush. Despite the many pairs of sharp eyes that followed his movements, he vanished into nothingness.

The impenetrable woodland swallowed the hermit into its dark substance as if he was made of earth and tree roots rather than flesh. The superstitious infantrymen crossed themselves surreptitiously and mumbled prayers to ward off evil, but the centurion laughed with genuine amusement.

Constantinus was left to wonder at the meaning of the Wilde Man’s prophecy. Nor was he alone in being struck by the strange promise of future greatness. Even when the incident seemed forgotten, the hermit’s words still lingered in the soldiers’ memories as the men waited for that time when Constantinus would claim his own.