Free Arthur Invictus by Paul Bannister

robe. Marcus Aurelius Valerius Maximianus Herculius Augustus, Emperor of the West, commander of 22 legions and lord of all he surveyed, had just had bad news. He wanted to beat the messenger about the head with his ivory baton of office. He wanted to clench his hands around Arthur’s thick neck. He wanted to hear that it was a mistake and his invasion fleet and precious shipyards had not been destroyed, again.
    “When did this happen?” he demanded. Three days before, lord, came the answer. “And how long...” he was choking. “How long,” he repeated, “does my legate think it will take before the damage is repaired?” The messenger, who had discussed this point with friends, wisely denied all knowledge. He had heard of Maximian’s temper, of how he had once knocked out his horse’s teeth with a single blow of his fist, how he had beaten a slave to death for stealing a beaker of leftover wine. This messenger stayed woodenly ignorant, and undamaged.
    Maximian bellowed for his tribunes, who came at the run. They were able to tell him that the attack had come from the landward side, not from the sea, and that Arthur and his men, about 50 of them, they estimated, had marched away along the valley of the Meuse.
    Maximian stilled. “Marched away?” he demanded. “Did they march in?” No, said the tribune who had viewed the message and questioned the messenger before he got to the emperor. No, the raiders had sailed down river, then burned their boats as they left. So, Maximian pondered, only three days before, Arthur and his pirates were on foot in Gaul. They would be making eventually for the coast and a ship home, the march south was merely a ruse to fool him.
    Within a half hour by the water clock, messengers were leaving to alert garrisons and watchtowers along the coast. The command was simple. Find Arthur, capture him, bring him to the emperor alive, understand, alive?
    Two weeks later, word came back to Maximian. A troop of either Celts or British, to judge by their dress and armaments, had arrived at the stronghold of the Queen of Armorica and were being billeted there. Two turmae of cavalry, about 60 men, were being hurried secretly into the area from Bononia. They did not yet know if it was Arthur but spies inside the island fortress would soon be able to confirm or deny his presence. They were also instructed to determine the Briton’s purpose for his visit. The emperor allowed himself a sour grin. Instinct told him: this was Arthur. The upstart would be in his hands, and soon he would know what he plotted with this Roman vassal queen...
    In Britain, the enchantress Guinevia Avenae was healing slowly. Her mind had been unhinged by her kidnap and abuse, and by the threats to her child, who had been taken with her. The ordeal had taken its toll over the years and afterwards, vulnerable at Samhain, the one night of the year when the souls of the dead are loosed, she had allowed herself to channel her goddess Nicevenn. This cruel, cold mistress is the witch leader of the Wild Hunt that pursues the souls of the dead on that Samhain night, and if the goddess’ hell hounds take such a soul, its torment until the next Samhain is indescribable.
    When she had control of Guinevia’s mind, the goddess had directed the druidess to revenge herself on those who had harmed her. The last uncaptured kidnapper had died of poison as Guinevia exulted, and the druidess had also cut out and burned the heart of the murderer who killed her father and betrayed her lover, Arthur.
    But now, the darkness was lifting from her soul and she prayed to her second deity, the god Ogmia, scion of dangerous, persuasive words that can enchain, to lighten her load. She also sent out her thoughts to her mentor, the powerful Druid sorcerer Myrddin Emrys. “Son of no father, sired by a spirit, Myrddin aid me,” she begged. The silver pentagram ring on her finger throbbed with light and she heard a thin whistling in her ears. The power for good