Read Online Arthur Britannicus by Paul Bannister - Free Book Online Page A

back with a leather lace, and in his broad belt he had a knife of Roman make whose handle was wrapped in kidskin held under gold wire. A war axe with runic inscriptions on its yard-long handle dangled casually from his fist.
    Carausius, too, was a big man, and was professionally equipped for war. He had long since discarded the heavy mail coat favoured by most legionaries in favour of the expensive lobster-segmented armour that was much lighter. Internal leather straps held hoops of iron that overlapped horizontally around his torso, front and rear hoops laced together. His shoulders were protected by hinged iron plates and under the protective metal he wore a padded leather jerkin to absorb some of the shock of a sword blow or spear thrust. The leather was liberally smeared with lanolin taken from new fleeces, to allow the armour to move freely over it, and, where it was more exposed, was smeared with beeswax to waterproof it from the constant north European rain.
    Like Beobwill, Carausius wore a Roman helmet, but his was an indulgence; a cavalryman’s parade piece, with a silver gilt Eagle standing before the polished crest. Over his shoulder, ready for a right-handed draw, was his gladius stabbing sword, of the shorter Mainz armoury variety. A bone-handled dagger with a long, slender, ribbed blade hung at his left side. He had, as was his custom, rubbed sticky pine sap on the handle to improve the grip, a trick he’d learned from the instructors at the gladiator school in Carnuntum. Carausius nodded almost amiably at Beobwill and dropped his great shield to the ground, but retained the heavy javelin with its shaft of squared ash and long bodkin head of needle-sharp iron. His teeth glinted through his dense curly beard as he laughed at his opponent. “Nancy boy, eh? You’d like a man up your arse again, eh, you mincing bum boy?”
    The Briton was watching the Saxon carefully and saw the man’s eyes narrow and face redden deeply at the insult. ‘He can be goaded’, Carausius thought calmly. ‘I can incite this one to fury’.  He turned to Juventus and the line of legionaries and put a hand on his hip. “I think thith one’th a Greek”, he lisped, “a proper bum chum.” He kept his voice loud enough for both Beobwill and the nearer barbarians to hear. A growl from the mob of tribesmen, whose rough tongue sounded to civilized ears as if they were saying ‘ba-ba-ba,’ hence the ‘bar-barian’ tag, told him they may not have understood his words, but they’d certainly picked up on the gesture. The shot had gone home; the disrespect for their champion was assailing their pride. As a few of the legionaries laughed, and the Saxons muttered to each other, the growl spread. Carausius watched carefully as his opponent moved across the trampled, soggy leaves and mud of the clearing. The big barbarian seemed to step very deliberately.
    The Briton noted salt stains on the inside of Beobwill’s brown wool trews and what looked like a string of dried spit on the outside of one massive calf.  “Trews?” he thought. Then the realization hit him. The man was an equestrian. The stains were from his horse. His fighting was not usually done on foot. Carausius’ appraising eye took in the man’s tight-laced boots with their smooth soles, and he turned quickly away, dropping his javelin, kneeling and pretending to fumble with the weapon. Surreptitiously, he slid out his punching knife and slashed the laces of his marching boots. As he stood, snatching up and brandishing his javelin high to attract Beobwill’s furious gaze, he kicked off the footwear. He’d fight barefooted for surer grip in the slippery clearing.
    The Saxon saw Carausius’ bootless feet as he stepped forward, and recognized that the tactic would give the Briton an advantage in the uncertain footing, but it was too late and he was too proud and suspicious of a trick to stop and unlace his own boots. Instead, without hesitation he roared and rushed