The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘It will be done,’ said the Optio and vaulted onto his horse before galloping back down the hill to where the rest of the century were hidden deep in the forest.

  Lucius mounted his own horse before pausing one more time to stare toward the hill fort.

  ‘What’s it to be, Eadric?’ he said to himself. ‘Peace or war?’

  * * *

  The following morning the scout patrol waited in the treeline alongside the river while Optio Vetus and four men drew their Gladii and crept through the undergrowth to the original camp from the night before. The prisoners had been instructed to return with Eadric’s answer by dawn and should be there. However the presence of hundreds of hoof prints in the mud paid witness to far more visitors than Vetus had expected. Finally they came across the remains of their own fires and at first could not see any sign of the messengers, but a slight movement in the undergrowth caused Vetus to spin around and stare at the sight before him in disgust.

  The prisoners had indeed returned and though they were incapable of speech, the message was clear. Both men had been gagged, stripped naked and tied between two trees with their arms and legs stretched out wide. Their bodies had been cut just deep enough to allow them to bleed without dying and the scent of human blood must have been irresistible to the animals of the night. The lower halves of their bodies had been ripped apart and entrails strewn across the forest floor told the story of the carnage the predators had wreaked before being interrupted by the approach of Vetus and his men.

  ‘They were of the same tribe,’ said one of the scouts, ‘why throw them to the wolves?’

  ‘To send us a clear message,’ said Vetus, ‘let’s get out of here.’

  Chatper 8

  The Fort at Tamesas

  46AD

  The morning after his meeting with Ocelus, Cassus waited outside the gates of the fort as instructed. Though there was no sign of the Tribune, there was a man leaning against a tree wrapped in a waxed cloak against the morning drizzle. Cassus approached to address him.

  ‘Are you waiting for someone?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the man. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Cassus Maecilius.’

  The man nodded.

  ‘Then you are the man I seek,’ he said. ‘I have a message for you. You are expected at the village of the Ysbryd. Be there by sunset in three days.’

  ‘The village of the Ysbryd,’ repeated Cassus. ‘I do not recognise the name. Where will I find this place?’

  ‘I know not,’ said the man, ‘I am just a messenger.’

  ‘But it could be anywhere.’

  The man shrugged his shoulders and turned to walk away.

  ‘Wait,’ said Cassus, ‘what about rations, weapons, a horse. Surely Ocelus has left me these things.’

  ‘I am just a messenger,’ he repeated and without another word, strode away leaving Cassus staring after him in confusion.

  Cassus wandered back into the fort, not quite sure what to do next, but eventually he realised this was some sort of entrance test and turned his mind to the problem. Ysbryd was not a Roman word so therefore had to be the name of a local clan and though he spoke the language, it was not one he was familiar with. Looking around he saw a group of slaves unloading firewood from a cart and made his way over to talk with them.

  ‘Hold,’ he said, using the local language and all four stopped immediately, their eyes lowered to the floor. ‘Who of you are from these parts?’

  ‘I am, Lord,’ said one.

  ‘Good, I am seeking a clan,’ he said. ‘They go by the name of Ysbryd and their village lies less than three days ride from here.’

  ‘I do not know of this clan, Lord,’ said the man.

  Cassus cursed but continued his line of questioning. Having lived amongst these people for the past year, he knew they would never voluntarily give up any information that may help the Romans.

  ‘What about the rest of you, surely you know this place?’

  When no answer came, Cassus picked up a thin branch from the back of the cart. He stripped the twigs and flexed it between both hands.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said and all four lifted their eyes in fear. One of them was younger than the rest and little more than a boy.

  ‘You,’ he said, ‘remove your tunic.’ The boy whimpered but did as he was told. ‘Lean against the cart,’ ordered Cassus and as the boy did, Cassus turned to face the three men who now glared at him with hatred.

  ‘Right, I will ask again,’ he said, ‘but this time, you will give me the information I seek. If not, this boy will pay the price of your silence. Let’s try again. Where is the village of Ysbryd?’

  Nobody answered and without pause, Cassus swung his makeshift whip across the boy’s naked back. The boy screamed and fell to his knees as the blood started to flow from the stripe cut deep into his flesh.

  ‘No!’ shouted one of the men. ‘Lord, he is but a boy.’

  ‘Then answer my question,’ said Cassus. ‘Where are the people they call the Ysbryd?’

  Again there was hesitation but as Cassus raised his arm again, the man called out again.

  ‘Lord, stop. I will tell you what you wish to know.’

  ‘Good,’ said Cassus, ‘tell me about them and where I can find their village.’

  The man looked around nervously before answering quietly.

  ‘There is no clan called Ysbryd,’ he said quietly.

  Cassus raised his hand again but the man grabbed his arm and stared into his eyes.

  ‘Stop,’ he shouted, ‘I tell the truth, there is no clan called Ysbryd for the word means something else.’

  Cassus punched the slave with his free hand and watched in disgust as he scrabbled in the mud of the fort floor.

  ‘Touch me again, slave,’ spat Cassus, ‘and you will feel the point of my blade. Now explain your meaning.’

  The man looked up with blood running from his mouth.

  ‘Lord, the word you are saying means spirits or ghosts. There is no clan by this name but there is a place. Three days ride upstream lies a village that is said to house the spirits of our ancestors. I think this is the place you seek.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘Because it is a sacred place,’ said the slave, ‘and no man goes there; to do so would invite curses from the gods.’

  Cassus smirked. It made complete sense. If these Exploratores were so secretive, surely, they would use such a place as a base.

  ‘You could have saved the boy much pain,’ said Cassus and threw the branch to one side. ‘Now, see to the boy and get back to work.’

  Over the next hour, Cassus managed to swindle a food pouch from the fort quartermaster as well as rations, a Gladius and a waterproof cloak. He walked out of the fort unchallenged and followed the road into the forest, seeking a suitable victim. Within minutes he saw a lone trader riding toward the fort, followed by a group of manacled slaves.

  ‘Hail stranger,’ said Cassus, blocking his path, ‘what business do you have on the road?’

  The man eyed him suspiciously before answering.

  ‘I seek to sell these men,’ he answered. ‘I am expected at the fort.’

  ‘Then I need to check you for hidden weapons,’ said Cassus and approached the horse.

  The man was no fool and immediately drew his longsword, aiming it at Cassus’s head.

  ‘I have ridden this path many times, stranger,’ he said, ‘and have never suffered this indignity. Who are you to demand this of me?’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Cassus, ‘I did not mean to offend. It is just that…’ Without finishing the sentence, Cassus lunged forward beneath the man’s sword arm and punched him in the ribs, hearing the satisfying crack of a rib under his fist. The man cried out in pain and with a helping push from Cassus, fell off the opposite side of the horse.

  Cassus vaulted up onto the back of the horse before addressing the slaves looking impassively up at him.

  ‘Yo
u men,’ he said in Briton, ‘carry this man to the fort. Tell him that one day I will pay him fair price for his horse. Run if you dare but you will be hunted down and crucified, the choice is yours.’ Without another word he turned the horse and rode toward the river. He knew this village of spirits was three days away and he had already wasted enough time. Ocelus wouldn’t wait.

  * * *

  Three days later, Cassus sat upon his mount watching the evening mist rolling into the village at the bottom of the valley before him. He had ridden hard, following the river Tamesas as it got narrower toward its source, carefully avoiding the random groups of brigands who still made the forests their home since the defeat of Caratacus and the surrender of Camulodunum.

  The village of spirits, he said to himself. This had to be it. Night fell and though he watched for several hours, he saw no sign of movement. Finally he decided it was safe to descend, and slowly made his way down the slope.

  Apart from the sound of the river, the silence was profound and he knew that if there ever was life in this place, it had left long ago. As he swung around the outside of the hut, the horse pulled up abruptly, its nose flaring in fear. Before them lay a rotting corpse, held upright by a stake driven down through its chest and into the ground. The fleshless skull screamed in silent agony and beyond the corpse, Cassus could see a ring of small fires alight in the centre of the village. Though his heart raced, Cassus urged the horse slowly forward.

  As he went, Cassus started to make out the shapes of human corpses in the darkness, carefully arranged into poses of everyday life. The remains of a woman leaned over a long cold cooking pot, while another sat against her hut, alongside a dead dog. Rotting warriors leaned on their spears, every one with their heads stripped of flesh and the gleam of their skulls adding to the horror of the scene.

  Slowly he continued and when he reached the ring of fires, he dismounted from the horse before walking into the centre. The silence was absolute and the combination of the flickering fire light and the swirling mist cast an air of otherworldliness across the whole scene. Beyond the fires he could see glimpses of seated corpses, as if gathered to see a contest but before he could investigate further, the sound of a sword being unsheathed reached him through the gloom. Cassus quickly drew his own Gladius and seconds later a man appeared menacingly out of the rapidly receding mist bearing a sword of his own.

  Cassus adopted the defensive stance; feet shoulder width apart with the left foot slightly ahead of the right. He held his sword at shoulder height pointing forward while his left hand reached out as if judging the distance.

  The man kept walking silently toward him. He was dressed in leather scaled armour and a full faced Gladiator’s helmet. In his hands he carried a broadsword almost twice the length of a Gladius but Cassus knew it was also twice the weight and very unwieldy.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Cassus as he got nearer but the man didn’t answer. Within seconds he was upon Cassus and launched an overwhelming attack, swinging the heavy sword skilfully as if it weighed nothing. Cassus hardly had time to defend himself and was forced back under the ferocity of the attack. Frantically he used his sword to deflect the blows but without warning the warrior punched him across the jaw and Cassus fell to the ground. He knew he was in serious trouble but as he spun in the dirt to face up toward his opponent, he was confused to see the man walking quietly away into the mist, leaving the clearing silent once more.

  Cassus got to his feet and stared around in confusion.

  ‘What is this?’ he called. ‘Some sort of sick test?’

  When there was no answer, he bent down and picked up his Gladius.

  ‘Come on then,’ he shouted, wiping the blood from his mouth and raising both arms high, ‘here I am. What are you waiting for?’

  A whooshing sound whistled through the air and before he could react, his Gladius was knocked from his hand by an arrow from an unseen archer, causing sparks to fly as metal struck metal. The force of the strike jarred his arm and Cassus spun around as the sound of laughter whispered from the gloom.

  His mind raced. Surely this place was of the dead and the slave was right, no living man belonged here.

  ‘By the gods, show yourselves,’ shouted Cassus. ‘Face me on equal terms, or are you all cowards?’

  Another man emerged from the mist, though this time was dressed in a simple tunic and carried nothing but a wooden staff.

  ‘So you are the champion,’ Cassus sneered, bending down to pick up his Gladius again. ‘Well here I am, stranger, no more children’s games for I am insulted at your mockery, do your worst.’

  Cassus took the initiative and attacked the man only to find himself face down in the dirt, having been smashed across the head by the man’s staff. The man stepped away and Cassus picked himself up to renew his attack, embarrassed at how easily he had been bettered. Again, the man avoided his lunge and this time knocked Cassus’s feet away from under him so he sprawled in the dirt once more. Cassus picked himself up again and launched himself forward in a frenzy of aggression. At first the other man retreated, using his staff to deflect Cassus’s frantic assault, but within moments struck a crushing blow against Cassus’s ribs before knocking him sprawling again with a blow to the head. Like the man before him, the staff bearer walked across the clearing in silence and disappeared into the gloom, leaving Cassus alone once more.

  Cassus got to his feet and wiped the blood from his face as the sound of laughter once more rippled quietly around the arena. He looked around at the long dead audience, realising that this whole thing had been staged for effect and nothing more than some sort of initiation.

  ‘Enough,’ called Cassus, turning slowly on the spot, ‘you have made your point. I have been bettered. Show yourselves and stop this farce.’

  A murmur seemed to ripple around the long dead audience and Cassus’s heart missed a beat as he saw some of them start to move. Frantically he invoked the names of his gods and stared in horror as the dead got to their feet.

  ‘What witchcraft is this?’ he screamed and threw his Gladius toward the nearest approaching body, his heart racing in terror. As the shape stepped into the firelight, Cassus breathed a sigh of relief to see what he thought had been a corpse was actually a mere man dressed in the same manner of the staged bodies around the camp. The man walked silently forward passing close to Cassus before ducking into a nearby hut. Behind him, five more followed his steps and each stared at him as they passed without uttering a word.

  ‘Very clever,’ Cassus sneered as they passed, ‘a game for children, played by men.’

  ‘Yet a lesson learned,’ said a voice and Cassus saw Ocelus emerge from a hut, once more slicing pieces from another apple.

  ‘And what lesson is this?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘To beware of that which is hidden before your very eyes,’ said Ocelus, ‘to understand that no matter how good you are, there is always someone better; to beware the hidden assassin; to understand that the unknown can be a powerful weapon. Do you want me to go on?’

  Cassus considered what had just happened and realised there had indeed been lessons learned, though the delivery had been strange.

  ‘Your point is taken, Ocelus,’ he said, ‘but your methods are new to me.’

  ‘You will find many things different here,’ said Ocelus, ‘but come inside. It is time to eat and I will answer what questions I can.’

  * * *

  Cassus entered the hut and saw that three of the men were sitting around an enormous tree stump that served as a table. Each placed a bag on the table and were withdrawing whatever food they had stored within. Cassus sat to one side and waited as each man ate his meal in silence. Ocelus paused with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth.

  ‘Did you not bring food?’ he asked.

  ‘Enough for travel only,’ said Cassus. ‘I thought there would be food available here.’

  One of the men looked up at Cassus in derision.

  ‘We fend for ourselves here,’ he
sneered, ‘you’ll want us to wipe your arse, next.’

  ‘I expect nothing,’ snapped Cassus in reply. ‘Now I know what is expected, I will fend for myself.’

  One of the other men grunted and reached into his food pack. A moment later a piece of cooked pork slid across the table, closely followed by half a loaf from somebody else.

  ‘I don’t need your charity,’ said Cassus.

  ‘They are not gifts,’ said Ocelus, placing a skin of wine before him. ‘Tomorrow night you will provide the meal. Consider it a loan.’

  Cassus hesitated before reaching forward and breaking the bread in half.

  ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘who’s going to explain how it all works around here?’

  ‘Not much to explain,’ said Ocelus. ‘First thing, we need a name. It doesn’t have to be your real name; we are not interested in your past.’

  ‘My name is Cassus,’ he replied.

  ‘So be it,’ said Ocelus. ‘These are the men who will train with you over the next few weeks. This man here is Syrian born and the best bowman I have ever encountered. He spent five years in the Sagittaria until I rescued him from his life of boredom. He is known simply as Archer.’

  The dark-skinned man didn’t speak but nodded a brief acknowledgement toward Cassus.

  ‘The next is Terrimus,’ said Ocelus, ‘he is a native of this country and his role is to teach you how to live off the land.’

  ‘He is a Briton,’ said Cassus in surprise.

  ‘He is,’ said Ocelus, ‘is that a problem?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cassus, ‘can he be trusted?’

  ‘More than any man I have ever met,’ said Ocelus.

  ‘I trust no man who betrays his own people,’ growled Cassus.