The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I am Gwydion of the Deceangli,’ he said loudly, ‘son of Hammer and I come in peace.’

  When there was no answer, he took a risk and threw the sword away from him. A movement in the bushes caught his eye and he turned to face the hidden warrior.

  ‘I offer no threat,’ he said, ‘and seek only to talk with the one called Prydain.’ Again there was no response, so he reached inside his tunic to withdraw the Wolf’s head Torc, the insignia of the Deceangli tribe.

  ‘I carry the true sign of Erwyn, chieftain of the Blaidd,’ he said, holding up the Torc, ‘and claim protection as is the way of all tribes of the Khymru.’

  To his front, more bushes moved and slowly a warrior stepped out to face him, aiming a bow directly at his chest. Gwydion held his breath. Should the warrior release his arrow, Gwydion would be dead within seconds.

  The warrior remained silent and they stared at each other across the clearing. Gwydion was about to speak again when he realised he had been tricked, as a spear point pressed against the back of his neck.

  ‘Get down on your knees, stranger,’ said a voice, and Gwydion did as he was told immediately.

  ‘Why do you trespass in our lands?’ asked the voice.

  ‘I only seek to talk to your leaders,’ said Gwydion, ‘I offer no threat.’

  ‘We agree there is no threat,’ the voice sneered, ‘just a solitary man who trespasses without invite.’

  ‘I agree I have no invite,’ said Gwydion, ‘but I have something greater, a debt that needs repayment.’

  ‘The Silures owe debt to nobody,’ said the voice, ‘tell me why I shouldn’t kill you right now.’

  ‘For I once saved the life of one of your leaders and would seek his aid in return.’

  ‘Name this man.’

  ‘He is known as Prydain and he is the son of a chieftain.’

  ‘I know of this man,’ said the voice, ‘and I hear he is a man of weak character and poor skills.’

  ‘Then it is not the man I seek,’ said Gwydion. ‘The man I know is strong of arm and rich with honour.’

  ‘Stand up,’ said the voice. ‘If you are who you say you are; you would know what his first meal was when he was released from confinement in the lands of the Catuvellauni.’

  Gwydion’s eyes narrowed in confusion and though he knew the answer, it was a strange question to be asked.

  ‘I gave him a wood pigeon,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘You did,’ said the voice, ‘and it was well received.’

  Understanding dawned and Gwydion spun around to face his questioner in disbelief.

  ‘Prydain,’ he shouted, recognising the grinning man before him and walked forward to grasp his friend’s forearm in recognition. ‘You jest with me.’

  ‘I couldn’t resist,’ laughed Prydain, ‘and I offer apologies. Gwydion, you are well met yet you took a great risk coming here. Not many get as far without feeling Silures steel.’

  ‘Then I am lucky I ran into you,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘There was no luck,’ said Prydain. ‘Our scouts have followed you for days and sent word to me about your arrival.’

  ‘How did they know it was me?’ said Gwydion.

  ‘Our spies are everywhere,’ said Prydain, ‘and I knew of your quest the same day you left Lanbard. It was simply a case of finding you.’

  ‘Well you found me,’ said Gwydion, ‘and I am grateful for it.’ He stepped back and looked Prydain up and down. The ex-legionary had changed a lot in the two years since last they met. His black hair now fell below his shoulders and he wore plaid leggings as well as the wolf skin cloak that typified his people. A Celtic tattoo sat on his right temple and a Silures Torc lay about his neck. A short sword hung from his belt and he held a wooden spear with a barbed metal blade in his hand.

  ‘You look well,’ said Gwydion, ‘like a true native of the Khymru.’

  ‘It feels right,’ said Prydain before adding, ‘I am sorry to hear about Gwenno. I share your pain.’

  ‘It is indeed a terrible thing,’ said Gwydion, ‘and part of me died with her that day. Yet I swear to make that man pay for her life. That is why I am here, to seek your help.’

  ‘I will do what I can,’ said Prydain, ‘but first let me offer you our hospitality. There is a place nearby where you can rest and get fodder for your horse. Come, we will ride together.’

  As they rode away, they were joined by Prydain’s comrades, as warrior after warrior emerged from the shadows to form a column of over thirty men.

  ‘Are these your men?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘Some of them,’ said Prydain, ‘though the main force isn’t mobilised unless there is a threat. These belong to the border patrol that has been following you these past few days.’

  ‘So,’ said Gwydion, ‘tell me about your life these past two years.’

  ‘Not much to tell,’ said Prydain. ‘These people have a very different way of life to any that I expected. In this part of their lands they allow the forests to run riot as a barrier to any large force, but further south, the hills are free from trees and we farm herds of sheep and cattle. Villages are many, but all are overlooked by hill forts populated by the young warriors of the tribe. At times of danger, the villages seek protection within the stockades.’

  ‘Similar to the Deceangli,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘There are similarities,’ said Prydain, ‘though our main strength lies in the forests and the hills.’

  ‘And what of you, Prydain?’ asked Gwydion. ‘Have you taken your place as chieftain?’

  ‘I am not the chieftain of these people, nor ever will be,’ said Prydain. ‘The identity of my father precludes that honour. To be honest I’m not sure they know what to make of me. They placed me in a village to learn the language and then sent me to the border patrols, learning their ways in conflict.’

  ‘But your grandfather is the chieftain,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘And that is acknowledged,’ said Prydain, ‘but holds little sway until I prove myself alongside my fellow warriors.’

  For the next hour they rode together, catching up on each other’s lives over the preceding two years. Finally the smell of wood smoke filtered through the trees and they broke into a clearing containing a long wooden cabin. A shackled man stood near a fire, roasting a forest pig on a spit.

  ‘This is it,’ said Prydain, reining his horse to a halt.

  More slaves appeared from the building and took their horses to the nearby stable while Gwydion followed Prydain inside. Inside consisted of one long room containing a large table, a giant hearth and rows of sleeping alcoves along both walls, these formed from bundles of dried straw and bracken. Several men were fast asleep in the bays, while one sat at the table sharpening his blade with a whetstone.

  ‘A warrior hut?’ suggested Gwydion.

  ‘Something similar,’ said Prydain. ‘There are many of these situated across our lands and are for the use of the men that constantly patrol our borders. They are open to any of our people as a place to rest during those patrols, as they can often last months. Slaves maintain them, overseen by two keepers, ensuring they are well stocked with food, water and bedding.’

  ‘An interesting concept,’ said Gwydion, ‘and the straw bales must prove a welcome comfort for those tired of weeks on horseback.’

  ‘They are,’ said Prydain, ‘yet that is their secondary purpose. The straw is nothing more than fuel for the flames that would engulf this place within moments should any enemy approach.’

  ‘You would burn it?’

  ‘In a heartbeat. Our strength lies in forests, not in buildings and we would deny our enemy any comfort it offers.’ Their conversation was interrupted by one of the slaves, entering the hut with head bowed.

  ‘Lord, the beast is done,’ he said.

  ‘Good, then bring it in,’ said Prydain.

  Ten minutes later the hut filled with warriors coming in from the rain, but despite the plates of steaming meat and pile of rough bread from the stone oven, all
stood back while the slaves filled a leather bag with the choicest cuts.

  ‘For the guards,’ said Prydain, answering the unspoken question on Gwydion’s face.

  Finally, when the slaves had run off to take the food to those still on duty, the remaining warriors took it in turns to slice slabs of meat from the carcass, before breaking chunks of bread and sitting in any space they could find against the wooden wall.

  ‘So,’ said Prydain between bites, ‘what is it you want from me, Gwydion?’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ said Gwydion. ‘When I set out from Lanbard I had it all worked out. I was going to come down here and ask you to ride north with me. A task similar to the one we carried out when we took Gwenno from the druids, though this time our mission would be one of death, not life.’

  ‘You seek the one who killed Gwenno?’

  ‘I do,’ said Gwydion, ‘and thought we could ride together. However, now I am here I see I have made a mistake and underestimated your role here. I had no right, Prydain, I see that now. It is good to see you again but our lives have taken different paths. So allow my horse to regain its strength and I will ride north alone.’

  ‘Do you know where this man is?’

  ‘All I know is he seeks protection in the lands of the Deceangli.’

  ‘Why would he go there?’

  ‘Because he knows they would kill me on sight should I pursue him. The gods play with my life, Prydain. I seek to kill a man who killed my woman, yet I am denied by my own people.’

  Prydain was quiet for a few moments before answering.

  ‘Not necessarily, Gwydion,’ he said, ‘this meeting could be advantageous for all. There are things afoot that may aide your quest.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘As you know, after his defeat at the hands of the Romans, Caratacus sought refuge with my people. During this time he has garnered favour with the elders and sought joint effort against those who drove him out. His request fell on willing ears and ever since he has been building his forces in the south. Survivors from Medway and Tamesas sought him out, as well as warriors from other tribes who share his hatred. Within two harvests he has built a formidable army with fire in their bellies, all willing to drive the Romans back to the sea or die trying.’

  ‘How does this help me?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘You could join with them,’ said Prydain. ‘He knows you and would surely give you command of a unit, for your hatred of the Romans is as strong as any warrior who stands beneath his banner.’

  ‘Make no mistake, Prydain,’ said Gwydion, ‘I too would love to see the rivers of Britannia run red with the blood of retreating Romans, but my desire to revenge Gwenno’s death burns stronger. To join Caratacus would cause distraction.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Prydain, ‘there is talk of taking his army north into the lands of the Deceangli to engage their support. Caratacus learned a lot from his defeat and seeks an alliance of all tribes. If you are with him, you can ride with head held high. Nobody would dare strike against you while you are at the side of the king and while you are there, you could seek this man and pour your revenge upon him.’

  Gwydion stared at Prydain, deep in thought.

  ‘There is merit in your words,’ he said eventually. ‘Though my heart burns enough to fight many men, I am outcast from my own people and sought by the druids but through my pain even I can see I would not get within a day’s ride of the Blaidd.’

  ‘Then take this opportunity,’ said Prydain. ‘Join with Caratacus and carve out your future. I am not saying forget Gwenno, for that would not befit you or your gods, but pause for thought. Instead of stealing that man’s life like a thief in the night, build the pathway to your revenge with sword in hand and honour in your manner.’

  ‘And if opportunity does not present itself?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘Then your quest becomes mine also and we will ride shoulder to shoulder into Hades itself. This I swear by my own gods.’

  Gwydion smiled at his friend’s intensity.

  ‘And I believe you will, Prydain,’ he said. ‘I accept this challenge and though it hurts to bend the knee to a Catuvellaunian king, I see it is for the greater good. Where can I find him?’

  ‘That part is easy,’ said Prydain, ‘I travel there myself. Tomorrow we will ride south, into the heart of my people’s homeland.’

  * * *

  Over the next few days, Prydain and Gwydion rode south, leaving the rest of the Silures warriors behind to continue the defence of their border with the Ordovices. The forests thinned out and meadows appeared, vast tracts of cleared ground containing herds of livestock under the watchful eyes of slave herdsmen and the obligatory mounted Silures warrior. Hills loomed before them and flocks of sheep covered them like a snowstorm. Occasionally Gwydion spied lone warriors shadowing their movements from afar, but Prydain reassured him it was the way of his people and nothing to worry about.

  ‘Tell me,’ said Gwydion, ‘why do the other tribes of this island hold the Silures in such awe?’

  ‘I am still learning,’ said Prydain, ‘but I don’t think we are that much different to anyone else. The clan leaders lead the people fairly and allow them to live their own lives in the hills and the forests. Seldom do the people take arms unless we are threatened by outsiders; when they do there is no quarter considered. Every man is called to arms and while they do field big armies if necessary, their strength lies in the tactics of the huntsman.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Many warriors take to the hills in small groups or even alone. Their task is simple and does not need coordination; it is to kill the enemy and then disappear like the mist to hit them again in a different location. Confrontation is avoided wherever possible and arrows are preferred over swords.’

  ‘Some would say it is a dishonourable way to wage war,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘Honour is in living to protect your people, not rotting on a battlefield floor,’ said Prydain. ‘Unlike other tribes, the Silures don’t collect the heads of their enemies as trophies to hang in our huts. Our homes are places of family and respect, not blood and warfare.’

  ‘It sounds like a peaceful existence,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘It is,’ said Prydain, ‘though it is hard earned. Our borders are permanently patrolled by our warriors and strangers are rarely allowed in. Kill one of ours, and we will kill a hundred of yours. Steal from our herds, and we will wipe out your village, every man killed without quarter and every woman sold into slavery, irrespective of age.’

  ‘But surely you must trade with other tribes,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘We do,’ said Prydain, ‘though always on our terms and on neutral ground.’

  ‘What about the Romans?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘They are a concern,’ said Prydain, ‘and despite their isolation, even the Silures see the threat. Allow the Romans to spread and it will only be a matter of time before their cloaks blow in the Khymric breeze. That is why my people have embraced Caratacus. In him they see a kindred spirit, a man who will fight to the death to protect Britannic lands. The fact that he is also a respected king adds to his value and they offer a sympathetic ear to his plans.’

  ‘And what plans are these?’

  ‘He wants to combine all the Khymric tribes under one banner and drive the Romans back to the coast.’

  ‘Will the Silures join him?’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ said Prydain and reined in his horse. ‘There it is; the seat of the Silures chieftains, Llanmelin.’

  Gwydion followed Prydain’s gaze. Before him a series of rolling hills had been cleared of all vegetation and in the distance, on the highest of them all, he could see a huge hill fort, dominating everything before it.

  For a few moments, Gwydion stared in awe. Even though it was still an hour’s ride away, its size was evident and though there were no roundhouses in the shadow of the fort, Gwydion could see a tented village less than an hour’s ride to one side.

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p; ‘Is that the camp of Caratacus?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ said Prydain, ‘and his numbers grow by the day.’

  ‘Why are there no roundhouses?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘Like I said, we are different to other tribes. The land around Llanmelin is kept clear of dwellings to not only provide clear line of sight for any defenders, but also to deny any attacker shelter or ammunition.’

  ‘Another strange concept,’ said Gwydion.

  As they approached, he eyed the fort with interest. The hill rose steeply before him and he could see several deep ditches running around the entire circumference, each being defended on the far bank with palisades of sharpened stakes and alert guards. Each ditch was crossed via a simple easily removed bridge and any visitor had to climb a formed path following the contours of the slope, before reaching the next bridge around the opposite side of the hill.

  Gwydion could see that any attackers hoping to breach these defences would either have to climb the almost vertical slopes, or use the paths to reach the access points, while running the gauntlet of any defenders manning the palisades above. It was simple but very effective.

  Throughout their ascent they were constantly challenged by guards, but eventually stood before the main entrance and waited while a messenger was sent in to seek permission for them to enter.

  Again Gwydion was impressed. High above, the almost vertical final rise of the hill was enhanced with a stone wall the height of two men and on top of that, one final timber palisade formed the last line of defence. Out of all the hill forts Gwydion had seen, this was surely the most impregnable and the magnificent entrance only added to that impression. A narrow roadway had been carved through the rock just wide enough for a single cart or two riders to ride alongside each other, a deliberate ploy to limit the size of any force lucky enough to have reached this far. On either side, the natural rock provided sheer walls, from the top of which defenders could unleash a hail of deadly rocks and arrows at any attackers assaulting the enormous oak doors that now blocked their way.

  ‘For a people who claim to be peaceful, this fort seems ready for war,’ said Gwydion.