To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Eighteen: Camulodunum Success

       Raphael and Gaio, having left Nottingham before the war on Volodion was declared, traveled south unaware of the battles to take place. Raphael had adjusted to the weakness of his right hand and was able to mount and dismount from his spirited horse without awkwardness. He was in a cheerful mood. He was in command, though Gaio was a worthy companion.

       He was profoundly affected by his Arabic traditions, though he didn't accept the Bedouin belief that the man who saved one's life owned that life. Still, he knew he could never harm Carl or Rebecca. He owed both of them his life, Carl for saving him from the river and the Ggaron, and Rebecca for saving him from a well advanced infection.

       Raphael was intelligent. It was his ability to analyze, as well as his contacts, that had made him so valuable to the terrorists. Those analytical skills were proving a hindrance to him, for he could find few people who had similar interests. He had hoped that Gaio, being Greek, might share his interests, but Gaio was filled with contradictory notions of gods and goddesses and of budding scientific methods. He had not yet grasped the scientific concept. Though he followed the methodology of science, testing and measuring, weighing carefully, he assigned the results to his gods. Raphael was willing to allow Gaio to believe in whatever gods he chose, except his patience was sorely tried when Gaio couldn't grasp the real magic that lay before him in applying a scientific method to the discovery of medicines.

       "Master Raphael, why do. . ."

       Raphael interrupted. "Gaio, call me Raphael. You aren't a slave any longer, and I am uncomfortable with the title 'master'. When we are with others, you can call me Excellency, for that is proper to my title, but when by ourselves, it is Raphael."

       "Yes, mas—yes, Raphael. You understand I am not used to calling someone by his name."

       "You will."

       "To begin again, why do you not eat pork? King Carl and Queen Rebecca eat it. Do they come from a different part of heaven?"

       "Gaio!" Raphael almost gave up. "The Prophet told his followers not to eat pork. It is a religious duty. We also don't drink alcoholic drinks, such as wine or liquors."

       "Why then does King Carl make you keep count of the hogs and cattle we have, surely someone else can do so." It was an opening jab.

       "He doesn't. No man tells me what to do. But it is a part of my job to keep 'inventory' of all the crops, farm animals, and other products we produce in Nottingham. I can count pigs. I can't eat pork."

       "King Carl has a book in a strange language that tells him about his God. Do you have the same book and the same God?" Gaio was genuinely curious about Carl's Bible, but he already knew it was a source of irritation to Raphael

       "I also have a book, called the Qur'an, but I didn't have it with me when... when I came here." It had put Raphael in a very difficult position. He knew only a few parts of the Qur'an by heart. In any case, it would be six hundred years before it was written. At least Carl had the Old Testament, and books of the New Testament would be written within a hundred years.

       He had already explained the differences in gods to Gaio, but the Greek couldn't grasp the distinctions. He tried once again.

       "There is one God in heaven, Gaio. We . . . I call Him Allah. Carl and Rebecca believe in three Gods, although they say they are all in one. Their Gods are named Jehovah, which is the same as the God of the Jews, Jesus, supposedly His son, and Holy Spirit, though many Muslims say Mary is the Third Person. We don't believe that Jesus is God. He is a prophet, but Carl and other Christians made him into a God."

       Gaio was querulous: "You mean he's a man who became God, not a God who became man?"

       "No, I mean he's a man his followers made into a God, he was not a God who became man."

       "But King Carl says his God is stronger than yours, or you would not have lost the use of your hand and must serve him."

       "Carl said that? It doesn't sound like him." But Raphael mused on the information. It might be true, or Gaio might be trying to drive a wedge between the Carl and me. I had better be wary of Gaio. His scheming is too close to home.

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       Raphael's entourage passed north of Verulamium, the capital of Chief Epaticcus of the Catuvellauni, and a very large town. It wasn't as rich as the port city of Camulodunum, but it had been the most important kingdom in the country before his younger brother Cunobelin had subdued Camulodunum, the home of the Trinovantes, and made it a part of the Catuvellanian kingdom.

       Cunobelin now was the most important ruler in the country, and his capital was Camulodunum on the coast. It took another day of travel, but Raphael wanted to make an impression on Cunobelin first.

       The long entry into Camulodunum was a disappointment to Raphael. He once had visited Essex' Colchester, which was built over the site of Camulodunum, and he had expected something more. His first glimpse from the distance was of a city of low lying buildings built on the plateau between two rivers, both of which poured into a bay facing the continent.

       But the closer he got the more impressive it became. It was huge, with large earthen and wooden embattlements protecting it. As Raphael moved into the city he saw a cleaner layout, wide streets, and some two-story rectangular brick buildings. They reflected a Roman influence. The buildings were primarily wood, however, and the streets were wide but muddy from the spring rains.

       He felt his mood lift for there was an energy in the city that caught his attention. There was an intensity of movement. People were active, less prone to allow the rural pace to control them. It was a vital city with great potential.

       The leaders of Camulodunum were landowning princes, merchants, and traders. King Cunobelin was Gaelic, as were the Trinovantes, but he wanted the trading riches created by Camulodunum's seaport, so he had driven Addedomarus, then the Trinovantes king, into exile, despite the king's treaty with Rome. It might one day prove to have been a reckless decision, but Cunobelin had tried to assuage Roman anger by rescuing Roman legionnaires when their boats were blown off course onto Britannia. He had returned them unharmed and sought no ransom from Rome.

       Raphael was at home in the city's environment. He was a trader and merchant among traders and merchants.

       He and his entourage were greeted by guards and escorted to the palace where they were given rooms befitting a visiting dignitary. The mansion was impressive, with high, thin windows covered with a superb translucent skin. These were the things Raphael noticed first of all. He noted that the pieces of skin were blotched, and that no piece was larger than any glass pieces they had brought with them.

       The chief and his minions were in the great dining room. The high ceiling was smoke blackened with wooden beams crisscrossing, each anchored on a wall. The large fire pit for cooking and heating in the center of the room was a fire pit similar to that in Nottingham, except that slaves slowly turned large spits laden with great slabs of venison and boar.

       Chief Cunobelin was regally dressed, with a soft cap much like a beret pulled forward to cover his receding hairline. A rich, warm gown was drawn close across his rugged form by a broad leather belt inlaid with pearls and gold and fixed with a gold buckle.

       The chief was still a rugged, handsome man somewhere in his forties. The soft tan of his face bespoke a Latin heritage, but Raphael didn't think that possible because he was Gaelic. His eyes were nearly black, and they reflected the yellow flickering light from the fireplace, which Raphael found disconcerting. Gaio translated though Raphael's Gaelic was good enough for the task.

       "Your majesty," Raphael said, "King Carl would like to present you with a gift of a wondrous new material. It is as clear as water but stiff as stone. It stops the wind but allows the sun to shine through. And if carefully handled, it will never change color or need to be replaced. It is as eternal as porcelain."

       Gaio paused at the word.

       Raphael was stumped, then elaborated. "It is as eternal and as brittle as hard fired pottery."

       The chief and his ministers looked skeptical. One spoke aloud. "He has been drinking too much wine, I think." His sally was met with laughter.

       Raphael pretended not to understand, but reaching into a carefully constructed portfolio he pulled out a piece of glass large enough to fit in a window in the chief's study.

       The ministers recoiled, as though fearing sorcery.

       "Your majesty, be careful when you touch the edge as it is as sharp as a knife."

       Holding the piece in his left hand, he turned to the audience of ministers and leaned the glass against his forehead. Gaio, seeing the motion, threw a cup of wine full in Raphael's face. It splattered on the glass and dropped into a small pool on the uneven wood floor.

       Every adviser spoke at once.

       "It's magic!"

       "It's a clear as the air yet it stop wine."

       But one remained skeptical. "It's nothing but ice," and he reached for the sheet of glass.

       Raphael could not resist the temptation. As Gaio cleaned the wine from the glass, Raphael asked in Gaelic, "Did I understand you correctly. You think this is ice?" He stared the black-browed adviser in the face.

       Something in Raphael's demeanor gave him pause, but he had publicly committed himself.

       "Yes," he wavered. "It might be ice."

       Raphael marched to the open pit and held the glass high over the hot coals. He held the glass in a glove specially prepared for the journey. "Do you see water dripping into the flames?"

       The minister peered closely. "No."

       Then Raphael carried the hot glass to the table, placing it upon a level, velvet-like cloth. "Carefully put your full hand on this and tell me if it is ice."

       "Ow!" The surprised minister jerked his hand away and blisters immediately began to form. Gaio stepped to his side and plunged the burned hand into a bucket of cold water, then took grease from table scraps and liberally daubed it on the wounded hand, wrapping it with a piece of cloth. The adviser was as pleased at Gaio's treatment as he was surprised at the heat of the glass.

       "Sire," Raphael turned again to the chief. "This is called window glass." He used the English words. "It is made only in Nottingham and nowhere else in the world, not even in Rome. I would like to show you how to cut it and to put it into a window of your plans room so that you can see the moon at night and the sun by day without fear of cold and wind or of opening the window for light and letting bugs in. May I?" He felt as though he were in the merchant shops of Damascus again, extolling the virtues of a piece of cloth or a garment.

       "Thank you, Raphael, but I already have a very thin piece of skin across the window in that room. Will this be an improvement?"

       "Yes, sire. I have a man with me who will carefully replace the skin in your window and then put the window back as it was before. May I have your permission?"

       The chief was dubious, but he also was eager to be the first person in his kingdom with a piece of glass in his window. He waved approval. After all, the glass could be removed if he didn't like it.

       Illios, a trusted servant, had accompanied Raphael. He had practiced glazing by putting glass into all the windows of the Nottingham mansion, learning how to cut, fit, and glaze in the process. In just a few minutes, he removed the window from its frame and inserted a new frame with the glass installed.

       Meanwhile, Raphael entranced the audience with explanations of the new material's properties. All retired to the chief's plans room to see the narrow piece of glass carefully fit into the window. Cunobelin reached to touch the glass, then quickly withdrew his hand, recalling the experience of his adviser.

       "Your majesty, the glass has cooled and no longer contains the heat of the fire. When the sun hits the glass during the day it will not get hot for the rays of the sun will pass through the glass and warm your room. Neither will the cold blasts of the north wind penetrate, although the class will grow cold to the touch. And, as you saw with the wine, a little vinegar and a cloth will wipe clean any dirt. You may press lightly against the glass, but a hard pressure or a hard blow, such as a thrown stick, will break the glass, just as it would break the window skin."

       Raphael stood back and like a good salesman allowed the wonders of glass to penetrate their minds. He could read their thoughts on their faces. How can we get more of this material? What is it made of? What is the secret formula so we can make window glass ourselves?

       They returned to the Great Room where a banquet was set up. Raphael reached into his bag and pulled out a special gift for the chief's wife. It was a hand mirror, the size of a salad dish, enclosed in bronze attached to a rosewood handle. It was beautifully burnished, although a plain piece of work.

       As he presented it to her, a woman in her thirties, but developing a second chin, he remarked, "This is a gift from Carl of the Long Reach, King of Nottingham, to a beautiful woman, whose image alone will adorn the plainness of the mirror." He handed her the handle with the glass turned away from her, then told her to turn the other side toward herself.

       "Great Lugus!" she shrieked when she saw her face so clearly She would have dropped it except Raphael had anticipated her reaction and kept his hand near the edge of the mirror. She asked again for the mirror, then showed it proudly to each of her retainers so they could see themselves.

       Raphael smiled to himself. Carl was right. A gift such as this is worth a thousand billboards proclaiming the superiority of my wares. A gaggle of voices were raised about the mirror itself, how it was made and whether other mirrors could be had. Raphael said, "A mirror made of glass is as superior to a bronze mirror as the sun is to the moon, but there is one thing you must remember about a glass mirror. It breaks if dropped or hit sharply."

       He preyed on their superstitious nature. "To break a mirror means seven years of bad luck, so it must be handled carefully. But it's easy to clean and will not tarnish as a bronze mirror does."

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       Equipment was stored away, and men were still entering the barracks when Carl had a long, private talk with Catuvolcus. His reluctance to follow orders in the attack on the Belgae had rankled. Carl was past trying to teach him the reasons for his tactics on the field. "Catuvolcus, you are a good general, a man who can lead Nottingham's infantry well. But you still haven't learned why we do what we do. You want to fall back on the old way of battle, when you should see that your ways are for losers."

       Catuvolcus was unrepentant, but nervous, a condition that caused his right eye to blink rapidly. He had been willing to follow the tactics learned on maneuvers, but battle was something else entirely. He was a general. He would command his troops his way. "Battle pits men against men, with the better men winning." How far can I go in opposing Carl? "Those who are strong can stand against the Belgae, but they do so with their own strong swords."

       Carl's chin jutted slightly; the line of his mouth grew tight, a warning sign to those who knew him well. Catuvolcus had not learned to read the signs. Carl's voice was tight when he spoke. "Not any more. The reason Gaelic tribes lost when Caesar invaded is they fought the way you want to fight—individually. The Romans have shown that battle isn't individual, it's collective. Didn't your experience against the Volodion Belgae teach you that? They lost, don't you understand?"

       "It's no disgrace to lose that way."

       "Tell that to the dead! It's a disgrace to lose if your tactics are out-dated. It's no disgrace to lose only if the enemy is better organized and has more powerful weapons, and you have done all you can to combat him."

       Carl looked carefully at Catuvolcus. Was he contesting for the throne? "In the future, I expect all of my officers to obey my orders without comment to their men, such as you made when I refused to destroy the Belgae."

       His anger flared again when he recalled Catuvolcus' comments. "You may disagree with me in our war meetings. I welcome it. But when a command is made on the field, you will execute that command, or I will put someone in your place who will do so without comment. Is that clear?"

       Catuvolcus was affronted, and he let Carl know it. "I am general of the army. My opinions should count."

       Carl's temper flared, a problem he had never overcome. "You are relieved of your command. You may return to your village and rule it. You are general of the army because I made you one. Have your aides clean out your rooms in camp and remove your goods to your home."

       Catuvolcus realized he had gone too far. He had lost everything including his name. He was humiliated beyond belief.

       Carl quickly assigned Brogitarus to replace Catuvolcus. He had reacted too fast, perhaps, but the die was cast. Insubordination by a commanding officer could no more be accepted than insubordination by an underling.

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       Raphael was in the midst of demonstrating the wonders of window glass when a courier, windblown and sweating, was led into the large dining hall where he knelt before the king. After the courier was led away to dinner with the staff, a hurried but muted discussion took place between the king and his advisers, while Raphael fumed in silence. Like all salesmen, Raphael hated to be interrupted, but he wisely paused until the king had finished.

       With a nod in Raphael's direction, King Cunobelin stood and raised his brass goblet preparatory to a toast, causing the noisy guests to quiet down.

       "I have just heard of a great battle in the homeland of our honored guest. Carl of the Long Reach, lord of Nottingham, has destroyed a Volodion Belgae army three times larger than his own and returned the Coritani to their former lands above the Wash. We must congratulate our visitor from the north."

       After the toasts had been downed, with Raphael drinking a diluted wine, the king directed a question to Raphael through Gaio.

       "My courier says your king surrounded a large number of Belgae but refused to attack and destroy them. He killed Volosios with a thunderbolt from a great distance. But he did not slaughter the warriors, who were allowed to return to their homes. Can you explain his strange behavior with such a fierce enemy?"

       Raphael was not surprised, if the information were correct. "Your majesty, you have me at a disadvantage. I have not heard the courier's report, although it sounds thorough and accurate, so my answer must be tentative. If Carl of the Long Reach had a large force of Belgae surrounded, it means they should be asked to surrender and to pay compensation for the war. Carl, King Carl, will not recklessly risk the lives of his men in destroying an enemy for he believes that a trained man is valuable and hard to replace. It is not only humanitarian, eh, good, to save his men, it is good military strategy because those men have been trained at great expense."

       Heads nodded in agreement. The military leaders could understand such logic. All had lost good warriors unnecessarily in an effort to wipe out enemy forces when a surrender should have been sought. But none of these commanders had invested time in preparing footsoldiers for battle. Those they could waste.

       Raphael became the toast of the city, because of his window glass, mirrors, and commodities, and especially because of Nottingham's victory. A few of the Trinovante and Catuvellauni leaders were distantly related to the Volodion Belgae, but they shared no close tribal relationship, and they could savor Carl's victory as their own. The young ladies of the city were attracted to Raphael and to Gaio. The latter plied his medical and physical wares freely. But Raphael was disillusioned. The young ladies were uninformed and delighted to stay that way. Court intrigue and rumor occupied their attention. A fertile thought died quickly in the sterile ground of their minds.

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       Visiting the wharves to talk with merchants and traders introduced Raphael to the seedier side of Camulodunum. A few Arabs had settled into a small enclave, venturing forth only to do needy business with the Gauls and Latins of Britain. No one trusted anyone else in such a racial climate. Raphael became a part of that culture by personally vetoing any visit to the few Jewish traders.

       Several Arab traders, who did not know Raphael was Arab, hosted a dinner for him. In their culture, dinners were for social and cultural matters and for ogling the young men and women who served the spicy meals. Business was conducted away from the table. Raphael's knowledge of Aramaic may have been rusty, but he could follow broadly what was said, a fact he kept from his hosts.

       The traders were a disreputable lot and only one or two seemed cultured. All possessed household gods and worshipped idols, but those idols were ineffectual in Britannia, so most of them had been left at home. Their gods were many, even though they claimed Abraham as their father.

       Raphael for the first time realized how much Muhammed had done for his people by focusing their attention upon a monotheistic Allah, eventually creating a climate for science, beauty, and worship, though the penchant for young boys and girls by some Arabs did not diminish over the centuries. Before the dinner had ended, all but Raphael were drunk and fondling the young slaves of Camulodunum.

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       Raphael and two of his guards left the banquet late in the evening. He would conduct his business the next day having made his contacts that night. On the way back to his lodgings, which were in the center of the city, he was attracted to a shop in the Greek district, which was located west of the Arabs. The Greeks traded pottery from the Aegian for iron and copper from the British isles. The bronze shields of ancient Greek warriors had been an important weapon in their conquests of the Mediterranean world, but imports now supplemented Greek copper mines.

       Only one shop was lighted, but Raphael glimpsed the proprietress through the open door and decided to see what goods she had available since she worked so late. The guards glanced at each other, but their duty was not to seek a warm bed, so with him they slipped from their horses into the dark dirt street.

       "Good evening, madam," Raphael said in his best koine Greek, a smattering of which he had picked up from Gaio.

       His Greek startled her, even though she was aware of his presence from the noise of the horses.

       She's beautiful! he noted as he entered the shop. The light was cast by a wick sticking from the mouth of a bronze fish filled with oil. The flame fluttered in the slight movement of the air caused by his entrance. Shadows filled the shop, but Raphael saw a man watching from the back entrance. A large black dog, invisible except for the amber reflection in its eyes, was sitting, no, now standing beside the table on which the woman was writing.

he noted as he entered the shop. The light was cast by a wick sticking from the mouth of a bronze fish filled with oil. The flame fluttered in the slight movement of the air caused by his entrance. Shadows filled the shop, but Raphael saw a man watching from the back entrance. A large black dog, invisible except for the amber reflection in its eyes, was sitting, no, now standing beside the table on which the woman was writing.

       Her black hair was long, but tied into a bun resting against her neck, not topping her head. Her eyes were wide spaced, graceful eyebrows arched above them, and her lips were full. She had regained her composure.

       "Good sir, my shop is closed this evening. If you'll be so kind as to return in the morning, I'm sure we can help you."

       Raphael was smitten and showed his emotions with a grin that split his face. "Madam, my Greek is insufficient to do you justice, but I will return in the morning. Is this your shop, or is your husband the owner?"

       She glanced at the dog then murmured softly, "This was my husband's shop and trading house, but he died two years ago, and I now run its affairs."

       Raphael was careful to move slowly toward the table, not wanting to cause dog or man to react. "I am a merchant from Nottingham with some of the new treasures of that fabled city. I would like to show them to you in the morning. I see that you read, is it figures or Greek or Latin?"

       Raphael should have moved on by this time, but he wanted to capture as much of her essence as he could. This was the first ancient woman he had seen who could read, even if it was Roman numbers.

       "I am but a humble tradeswoman, not a scholar, but the heritage of my people is such that I read, though poorly, in three languages." She was made nervous by his interest and the presence of two guards outside. "Now sir, if I may, I must close for the evening. The oil burns low."

       Raphael picked up a bronze lamp similar to the one that lighted her manuscripts. "I will show you lamps that will turn this shop into a sparkling lighthouse."

       The sweep of his arm embraced the shop, but the sudden movement brought a "woof!" followed by a low growl and a slight shifting of the figure in the doorway.

       "Thank you, madam. Until the morrow." Raphael turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "For whom should I ask?"

       "My name is Messalina. Our shop will open when the sun is two fingers high above the watertower over the Arab quarters."

       With the aid of his good arm, Raphael literally leaped into the saddle and galloped off down the narrow streets, scattering those few people who frequented the streets at night. The guards soon recovered the distance and slowed him to a walk. Night in Camulodunum streets was no time to gallop, even if one's heart was singing.