The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘Of course,’ said Caratacus, ‘I forgot about him. Where is the Roman? I need his perspective.’

  ‘He is out on patrol, my lord,’ said Gwydion, ‘and won’t be back until daybreak.’

  ‘Shit,’ cursed Caratacus, staring at the far mountains once more. ‘As soon as he is back, bring him to me, I need to make sense of this.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Gwydion and watched the king storm his way back up the hill.

  * * *

  Across the plain, Cassus and the scouts returned to the treeline and their horses. For the last few hours they had been out on the forward slopes of the hill, running from fire to fire making sure they kept burning through as much of the night as possible. The previous day had been spent collecting firewood and throughout the night, each man tended ten campfires, sending their light across the plains and reinforcing the false image of an entire army camped on the slopes. Now the sun was rising, they were happy for the fires to go out as their light would soon disappear with the dawn. But their work wasn’t done yet. Quintus and Drusus, the centurions in charge of the two scout units, joined Cassus to discuss the events of the night.

  ‘Do you think it has worked?’ asked Quintus.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ said Cassus, ‘it has been a long night, but the air was clear so hopefully we have given Caratacus pause for thought. Tell the men to grab some food for there is work yet to do. If they see no activity, they may suspect something so it is important to reinforce their doubts. Quintus, as soon as the sun is up, send patrols twenty men strong out onto the plains between us and the ridge. Make no attempt at concealment for we want them to think you are advance patrols of a Legion, scouting a route forward. Drusus, you take your century and head beyond the ridge to carry out the same task to their rear. They need to think that Vespasian is also to hand and think twice about retreat.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Drusus, ‘what rank were you in the Legion?’

  ‘Decurion,’ said Cassus.

  ‘For such a lowly rank, it seems you enjoy commanding your betters,’ said Drusus.

  ‘I no longer have rank, nor indeed a Legion,’ said Cassus, ‘and work outside of their constraints. I understand your frustrations, but there is much at stake here and I speak with the authority of Scapula.’

  ‘Fret not,’ laughed the centurion, ‘we will see this task completed, but when this is over, if you want to return to the comforting embrace of a Legion, seek me out. You would make a first class Optio.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Cassus, ‘we will see.’

  Drusus mounted his horse to return to his men. Half an hour later he watched them gallop into the distance while the other century split into four patrols of twenty and spread out on the plain below him. Cassus chewed on some dry meat and stared over the rapidly lightening plains. He was looking for dust trails, a sign that Caratacus was on the move but as the sun appeared and the plains stayed empty, he knew the subterfuge had worked. Now all he could do was hope the messengers sent out by Scapula had made it through and the Legions were truly on their way.

  * * *

  Five miles away, Gwydion approached the hut occupied by Caratacus only to be stopped by his guards.

  ‘Hold,’ said one, ‘the king still sleeps.’

  ‘Still sleeping,’ sneered Gwydion, ‘the sun is almost over the horizon and his army chomps at the bit. Let me through.’

  The guards looked at each other nervously, unsure of what action to take.

  ‘Listen,’ growled Gwydion, ‘there are probably up to ten thousand men in those mountains before us, each sharpening their swords and relishing the opportunity to spill our blood. What king would sleep through such dire threat? Now let me in.’

  ‘Let him through,’ shouted a voice from within.

  The guards stepped aside, relieved that the decision had been taken from their hands. Gwydion walked into the dimly lit hut expecting to see Caratacus sitting on a mattress, still struggling to wake. Instead, he found the king fully dressed and at a stone table, though obviously worse for wear. Several empty wine jugs stood testament to the long night’s drinking behind him.

  ‘Your men thought you were asleep, my lord,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘My eyes haven’t closed throughout the night,’ said Caratacus, ‘though I now regret that decision.’ His voice was slurred and his eyes were bloodshot. He lifted a goblet to his mouth before throwing it away in disgust when he found it empty.

  ‘You haven’t slept at all?’

  ‘Nope, nor do I have strategy so I sought the answers in this excellent Roman wine. Did you know this wine comes from the Roman slopes overlooking the sea they call the Mare Nostrum? That’s a full season’s march away yet they deliver it to Britannia for their officers as fresh as the day they picked the grape. How do they do that, Gwydion? How does one nation grow so strong and become so advanced, that they can devote entire ships to delivering wine to mere men at the far side of the world? What gods enable such power?’

  Gwydion was concerned. The king was obviously drunk, and in no state to lead the army.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘the men are impatient and seek direction. What are your orders?’

  ‘Orders?’ Caratacus sighed. ‘My orders are to kill every Roman, drive them back to the sea and fire their cursed fleet with flaming arrows, as they flee with tails between their legs. How about that, Gwydion? Do you think the men will carry them out?’

  Gwydion knew he had to do something. Men being drunk in battle was normal for the tribes but for a king to make decisions that could affect an entire army whilst in such a state was dangerous.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘you need to rest. I will speak to your warlords. When you are awake, we will make the decisions that need to be made. A few more hours will make no difference.’

  ‘You are probably right,’ said Caratacus. ‘A few hours are all I need.’ He staggered over to the cot in the corner and collapsed onto the dirty straw mattress. Within minutes he was snoring loudly and Gwydion left the hut to find the warlords.

  Within the hour all the warlords with the exception of the absent Silures chiefs gathered on the ramparts of the hill fort. Voices were raised regarding what to do next, with some advocating an immediate assault while others suggested they withdraw until the situation became clear.

  ‘We can’t go forward,’ said one of the warlords, ‘we will be marching into the unknown. There have already been reports of Roman Scout patrols between us and the Wrekin; by now they surely know we are here and have constructed their defences.’

  ‘And yet we have come so far for this opportunity,’ said another, ‘what honour would be in our retreat when finally faced by those whom we sought? No, we should wait until Caratacus regains his mind and heed his words. He is a great king and will know what to do.’

  ‘So we should just stay here and wait?’ the first man sneered. ‘What sort of plan is that? The Romans make their strategy while our drunken king snores and our men sharpen already sharp blades in boredom.’

  ‘No,’ said Gwydion. ‘While we wait, we get busy. This ridge is covered with loose rocks. Instruct our men to pile them into defensive walls in case of attack. Take the opportunity to form a defensive system. We may not need it but at least it keeps idle hands busy.’

  ‘Build a temporary fort that we probably won’t need,’ sneered the warrior. ‘Where is the sense in that?’

  ‘There is every sense,’ said Gwydion. ‘The Romans build a new fortification every night, and they march and destroy it again the next morning before they leave. By using this tactic they are never taken by surprise and have become the greatest army in the world.’

  ‘We are not Roman,’ snarled one of the Warlords, ‘we are Celts and fight in our own way.’

  ‘I accept this,’ said Gwydion, ‘all I am saying is this; until Caratacus is able to take command again, at least do him the honour of protecting our men from unexpected attack. I’m sure that on the morrow we will confront the foe head on but until
then, we need to cover all possibilities.’

  Finally they all agreed and they set the men to building lines of loose stone walling around the base of the hills. With a workforce of thousands the results were soon visible and by the time midday passed, the walls were already waist high. Caratacus was still absent from the defences but by the time night fell, Gwydion at least felt they had done everything they could do to protect the army. Throughout the day, more and more reports came in about Roman patrols on all sides and by the time Caratacus emerged from the hut, the news waiting for him was grim. Gwydion was summoned by the king and walked around the hill, examining the defences from the higher ground.

  ‘You have done well, Gwydion,’ he said, ‘though it saddens me to have put you in this position.’

  ‘To be honest, my lord, I think you would have done the same. The situation is still veiled and there are reports of Romans in all directions.’

  ‘Who brings these reports?’ asked Caratacus.

  ‘Our own patrols,’ said Gwydion. ‘There have been skirmishes all day and we have managed to kill three of their number.’

  ‘What about prisoners?’ asked Caratacus.

  ‘None, my lord.’

  ‘How about the Legion on the Wrekin?’

  ‘There has been no sign, my lord,’ said Gwydion. ‘They seem to have disappeared.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Caratacus. ‘It makes no sense. Why would they withdraw unless they are up to something?’

  ‘I have no idea, my lord.’

  ‘Has Prydain returned from Patrol?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘Then have him attend me immediately,’ said Caratacus. ‘We have wasted too much time.’

  Gwydion sent a runner and five minutes later Prydain came into the hut.

  ‘Prydain, yet again I seek your counsel,’ said Caratacus. ‘It seems there was a Legion encamped in the foothills of the Wrekin yet they have disappeared. I would know what tactics are these that play on my nerves.’

  ‘I have just heard the rumours of a Legion on the Wrekin,’ said Prydain, ‘but paid it no heed. On what basis have these conclusions been drawn?’

  ‘We saw them last night,’ said Caratacus. ‘The lights from their fires covered the hill like fireflies.’

  Prydain shook his head.

  ‘My lord, whatever force was on those hills, it wasn’t Roman.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ asked Caratacus.

  ‘My lord, the Romans camp on relatively flat ground and always build a marching camp for protection. Even if they were on the Wrekin, their campfires would have been hidden by the earthen banks they would have thrown up around them. To be honest, it seems there is something else afoot here. What army broadcasts its presence with hundreds of campfires unless they want to be seen?’

  Caratacus stared at Prydain in horror as the realisation sunk in. He stood up and stamped around the room, muttering under his breath. Finally he returned to face the two men.

  ‘You are right,’ he said, ‘I don’t believe there ever was an enemy force on the Wrekin and I have been taken for a fool. We have wasted a whole day on this ridge and need to get off it as soon as possible. Pass word to the warlords, keep alert on the defences but prepare to move out at first light.’

  ‘Which way, my lord?’

  ‘Nothing has changed,’ said Caratacus, ‘our path lies northward to meet the Victrix head on. Their trickery has gained them a day but no more and I swear that before this day is out, our blades will still taste Roman blood.’

  Both men left to spread the word while Caratacus called his warlords, knowing that one way or another, his destiny was now upon him.

  * * *

  A few miles away, Cassus met with one of the scout patrols in the shelter of a small ravine.

  ‘Drusus,’ he said, ‘well met.’

  ‘Cassus, it has been a long day.’

  ‘You are wounded,’ said Cassus.

  ‘A mere scratch,’ said Drusus, subconsciously touching the open wound on his face. ‘Luckily their archers are not as good as ours.’

  ‘And the rest of your men?’

  ‘We lost three,’ said Drusus, ‘though they sold their lives dearly and I feel the task is well done. But my men need rest, Cassus. We have seen two nights and three days without sleep. Our senses are dulled and the horses are exhausted.’

  ‘Your work here is done,’ said Cassus, ‘and I will see that Scapula hears about your part in this. Grasp this opportunity to rest; we are far enough from the ridge to be troubled by their patrols.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Drusus.

  ‘There is one more thing I have to do,’ said Cassus, ‘but I would ask that you pass on this message to Scapula. When battle is joined the tribes will wear their hair loose as I do now. If your eye is caught by one amongst their ranks whose hair is tied back, pause before you administer your death blow, for you may be slaying a fellow Roman.’

  ‘You are returning to the enemy’s ranks?’ asked Drusus in disbelief.

  ‘I am,’ said Cassus, ‘there is one more task that demands my attention. Fight well, Drusus,’ he said, turning his horse, ‘and perhaps one day, I may just take you up on the position of Optio.’

  ‘May the gods be with you, Cassus,’ said Drusus and watched in admiration as the Exploratore rode back toward the ridge and into the ranks of an entire army.

  Chatper 20

  The Forests of the Cornovii

  50AD

  Geta wrapped his waterproof cloak tight around him as his horse plodded onward through the Khymric rain. In front of him was a cohort of cavalry while behind him marched an entire Legion. Over five thousand soldiers of various disciplines, each exhausted after a full day’s march with little rest. They had received the message from Scapula the previous day and had immediately turned south into the path of Caratacus’s army, marching all day at double time.

  The pace was beginning to take its toll so centurion Rufius, the Primus Pilus of the Legion rode up to the Legatus and paced his horse alongside him.

  ‘My lord, the men need to rest,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ said Geta, ‘but there is no time. Scapula could be fighting with Caratacus as we speak and may need our swords.’

  ‘My lord,’ said the Primus Pilus, ‘unless these men get some rest, those who reach the field will be in no fit state to fight and will be fodder for the enemy arrows. Surely Scapula will need fighting men, not exhausted boys too tired to wield a sword.’

  Geta stopped his horse and looked across at the senior centurion in the Legion. His Primus Pilus had served with him for three years and Geta valued his opinion in all things military.

  ‘Rufius,’ he said, ‘I know I push the men to the limit but this whole Britannic campaign may rely on our presence in the field. If we fail in this, our names will go down in history as the Legion who failed Claudius.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Rufius, ‘I know the men. They are at the end of their strength. Allow them a few hours to catch some sleep and some hot food and I promise you we will make up the lost time. We will forego the marching camp and strive through the night if need be. Keep up this pace and tomorrow you won’t have more than a cohort still able to fight.’

  Geta considered carefully. He knew Rufius was right yet it was a wager he was reluctant to take. Finally he relented and turned to the Tribune on the other side.

  ‘Rufius is right,’ he said. ‘Fall the infantry out but order the non-combatants to remain on duty. The engineers and the medics, the Immunes and the orderlies, all will remain on duty to cook hot food in the communal pots while the Legion sleeps. The cavalry will guard our flanks while all this happens.’ He turned to the Primus Pilus. ‘Rufius, the men have four hours before we march again. Let them sleep for the first three and wake them to eat. After that, the next time we stop will be on the plains before the Wrekin.’

  ‘It will be enough, my lord,’ said Rufius and turned to gallop back down the line. Five minutes later over
five thousand men lay wrapped in their cloaks to either side of the path, most of them sleeping within minutes. All those tasked with cooking forced themselves forward to a clearing, where a group of slaves were already seeking the drier firewood from the forest to feed the cooking fires.

  Geta dismounted and realised that despite riding most of the way, he was also exhausted and needed to sleep. His second in command walked over to speak to him.

  ‘My lord, do you want your tent erected?’

  ‘No,’ said Geta, ‘I will sleep with my Legion.’ He walked back down alongside the never-ending rows of sleeping Legionaries until he found a space. Without a fuss, he pulled his cloak tighter and lay down between two sleeping soldiers, just one more Legionary in the armies of Rome.

  * * *

  After what seemed like only a few minutes, Geta was woken by an orderly with a bowl of soup.

  ‘One between two, my lord,’ said the orderly quietly.

  Geta sat up and took the bowl of hot soup gratefully. More bowls were being handed out down the line as the Legion was woken by those still on duty and Geta realised he must have been asleep for at least three hours. It had seemed like three minutes.

  The soldier next to him sat up and for a moment stared at the Legatus in confusion and disbelief. The commander of the entire Legion was sitting next to him in the drizzling rain, sharing a bowl of soup with a mere Legionary. Geta smiled at him.

  ‘Dig in, Soldier,’ he said, ‘or I may just eat it all myself.’

  Nervously, the Legionary retrieved his own spoon and shared the soup with his commanding officer, a story he would tell many times over the next few years.

  * * *