Roman

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘You will always be welcome,’ said Gwenno and tiptoed up to kiss him goodbye.

  Without another word Prydain turned his horse and rode away. Gwydion and Gwenno watched him go until he disappeared from view.

  ‘Did you mean it, Gwydion?’ asked Gwenno eventually.

  ‘Mean what?’ he asked.

  ‘What you said about unfinished business. Will you return to the Blaidd?’

  ‘I gave my word to my father,’ said Gwydion. ‘I will gain revenge for both my family and yours, if is the last thing I do.’

  ‘Then there is something you should have,’ said Gwenno, ‘Wait there.’

  She ducked into the tent, quickly returning a moment later with the Hessian parcel given to her weeks earlier by the fisherman’s wife.

  ‘When you go back,’ she said, ‘You will need this.’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked as he opened the package.

  ‘It is the sign of our clan, Gwydion,’ she said, ‘The proof of who you are.’

  The wrap fell away revealing the golden Wolf’s head Torc he had paid the fisherman with.

  ‘How did you get this?’ he asked holding it up reverently.

  ‘The fisherman’s wife gave it back before we left,’ she said, ‘In honour of her daughter. Put it on.’

  Gwydion stopped her hands reaching to help him.

  ‘No Gwenno,’ he said, ‘At this moment I am not of the Blaidd. This Torc will not adorn any neck until the true clan leader once again sits in council. Until then, it will remain in my pack as a reminder of an unfulfilled promise.’

  ‘But Erwyn is dead,’ she said, ‘He cannot return.’

  ‘But his daughter still lives,’ interrupted Gwydion, ‘And will one day take her place as leader of the Blaidd.’

  ‘Me?’ asked Gwenno incredulously, ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing,’ said Gwydion, ‘It is your birthright. Erwyn had no sons so you are his rightful successor. One day I will place this Torc around your neck as a sign of your authority.’

  ‘What do I know about leadership?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing that I cannot teach you,’ he said, ‘But the time for such things is later. Until then, there is unfinished business to be addressed here.’

  ‘What business?’

  He swept her up into his arms and kissed her deeply.

  Gwenno returned the kiss until she finally broke away to catch her breath.

  ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘That this means that within the very near future, I will not be such an attraction to the Druids.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘Well, all their sacrifices need to be pure of body,’ she said with a mischievous smile, ‘Am I right in assuming that label will be denied me very soon?’

  He smiled.

  ‘Your assumption is correct,’ he said and carried her over to the stream, laying her gently on a patch of lush grass lit by the sun’s rays as it streamed through the ancient oaks.

  ‘Make it special Gwydion,’ whispered Gwenno as he disrobed before her, ‘We will remember this moment forever.’

  Chapter 47

  The twelve surviving leaders of the Catuvellauni clans lined up outside the gates of Camulodunum. They were dressed in their finest armour and flanked by five hundred horsemen as they awaited the arrival of the Romans. Behind them, two thousand infantry warriors stood in disciplined ranks, each bearing their tribal shields and standards. Behind them, the entire population of the city had gathered to watch the ceremony.

  Rebellon looked around at the remainder of the mighty Catuvellauni tribe and realised that it was still an awesome sight.

  ‘Who knows?’ he thought, ‘When they see this show of strength, the Romans may even realise that they are out of their depth and retreat to the safety of their boats.’

  Whatever happened, the tribal leaders had decided that they would not accept any terms that disadvantaged the Catuvellauni, and, if necessary, would take them on in battle before the gates of the city. Rebellion’s reverie was suddenly shattered by the long drawn out sound of a horn as it blasted across the valley from a lone rider high on a hill, and the gathering of over ten thousand Britons fell quiet. For a few seconds, nothing changed until someone shouted out from the gathered people.

  ‘Over there, look, horses are coming.’

  At first Rebellon was unimpressed, but, as events unfolded, his jaw dropped in awe.

  First came the Batavian cavalry, galloping from the tree line and lining the vale on either side. They formed a perimeter three deep and as soon as they were settled, the auxiliary cohorts, dressed in their finest armour, ran into position, resplendent in their finery.

  A deep rhythm echoed around the open expanse and the heavy infantry of the legions marched into the centre, to the beat of a thousand drums. Ten thousand men in all formed a half mile long honour guard, every inch of their uniform spotlessly clean and gleaming in the sun.

  Again the sound of horns rang out though this time magnified a hundred fold as the combined horns of three legions trumpeted their fanfare.

  Rebellon stared, expecting to see the Roman leader approach but was confused when he saw only a dozen men emerge from the tree line, running towards the Catuvellauni, each with a large dog on the end of a leash. He looked in interest but suddenly realised they were not dogs, but...giant cats.

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  The leopard handlers ran the full length of the escort and spread out along the front of the Catuvellauni leaders. Rebellon and his fellow tribesmen were astonished. The snarling beasts wore collars of gleaming gold while the jet black skin of every handler was draped in the brilliant white furs of animals unknown to the Celts. Every member of the watching tribe was in awe of the display but what came next blew their minds.

  A cacophony of sound erupted from the trees causing every Briton to stare in fright at the unseen terror, Even the leopards pulled nervously at their gilded chains as the unearthly bellowing reached a crescendo, and, when it seemed that there could be no more surprises, the source of the bellowing revealed themselves.

  From beneath the canopy of the surrounding woods emerged the most terrifying beast Rebellon had ever seen. The enormous animal plodded forward into the clearing, his tusks swooping low to the floor as he swung his head from side to side. Draped in a chain mail coat, the male tusker had lethal, multi pointed tips attached to his tusks and within a walled platform high on the animals back, four African warriors brandished their spears and bows in a display of awesome might that the Britons could never have dreamed of. If this was not enough, a further thirty African elephants followed behind, each as magnificent as the first and adding their trumpeting calls to the cacophony.

  A cohort of Praetorian Guard followed and lined the avenue of soldiers, their bronze ceremonial armour almost blinding in the morning sunlight, and, as the noise finally died down a column of young girls dressed in pure white robes followed them in, scattering rose petals along the path.

  At last came the moment they had been waiting for, and, to a final fanfare of trumpets, one more elephant entered the field, but this was unlike any that had come previously. Though it was smaller, it was twice as striking, and even though the blanket that hung from the platform was royal purple, it could not take away the effect of the pure white skin of the albino elephant.

  One man sat alone upon within the canopied platform upon the elephants back, and the awe inspiring display of strength, designed to install shock and awe into any that witnessed it, served its purpose as the leaders of the Catuvellauni finally realised that resistance of any sort was futile.

  The man descended from the kneeling elephant via a gilded stairway, carried especially for this purpose by a dozen slaves and sat on an ornate carved chair surrounded by a unit of Praetorian guard. At a signal from an accompanying senator the Catuvellauni leaders were summoned forward one by one to bend their knee before the most powerful man in the world, Claudius, Emperor of Rome. Within the hour, the ceremony had ended,
the Catuvellauni subjugated and the country absorbed into the mighty Roman Empire.

  Epilogue

  The year was 43 AD, and, to all intents and purposes Britannia had fallen, but despite the celebrations, General Plautius was subdued. Already he was hearing of other tribes right across this strange country, gathering their warriors and sharpening their weapons to confront his four legions.

  Claudius could crow all he liked and no doubt would soak up the plaudits back in Rome for conquering a complete country in her name, but Plautius knew different. He knew that a lot more Roman blood would stain this country’s soil before they could even begin to believe they were the victors. There were no doubt treasures to be uncovered, the tribute already paid was evidence of that but he knew that they would not be surrendered easily. The barbarians were ill disciplined but they were also fearless, and should anyone take the initiative to forge them into a united army, then Rome’s occupation of Britannia could be very short lived.

  He knew it was his job to ensure that did not happen and was impatient for Claudius to leave so he could start his campaign in earnest. He needed to find the missing Caratacus and kill him if necessary and there was the matter of those troublesome Druids that he had been hearing about. They seemed to have an influence over everything and everyone in this cold and misty land and could provide a dangerous focal point for barbarian resistance given the chance. Both threats had to be dealt with and he would make it his personal mission to deal with them once and for all, but despite his focus there were two other facts unknown to him at that time.

  One was that a complete cohort had just been slaughtered by a little known tribe called the Silures in a strange area of Britannia called the Khymru. The second fact, one he could never have imagined, was that less than a hundred miles to the north was a far greater threat than Caratacus had ever been.

  This was no six foot battle hardened warrior, this was an unassuming mother of two with no intention of opposing the Romans. On the contrary, she wanted a quiet life in which to bring up her two beautiful daughters and as wife to Prasatagus, chief of one of the smaller tribes, was happy along with her husband to accept the presence of the Romans.

  However, unbeknownst to her or indeed anyone else, fate would intervene and make this woman a pivotal figure around which the entire Roman occupation of Britannia would revolve. Her name was Boudica, queen of the Iceni.

  This was not an end for Plautius but just the beginning.

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  About the Author

  Kevin Ashman is the owner of Silverback Books and the author of three historical fiction books. He lives in South Wales in the UK

  WWW.Silverbackbooks.co.uk

  Other books by K. M. Ashman

  Savage Eden.

  An adventure based between ice ages, documenting the survival struggles of a clan of hunter gatherers and Neanderthal, during a time of cannibalism and terror.

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  Mortuus Virgo

  A modern day mystery that can only be solved by finding an ancient artifact that was lost at the time of the great flood over four thousand years ago.

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