The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  * * *

  It was obviously a challenge and though the man looked familiar, Prydain couldn’t place him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, ‘and what do you want?’

  The warrior sneered before answering.

  ‘You know who I am,’ he said, ‘and what I want is for you to die.’

  Prydain still couldn’t place him but as the man lifted his head, to face him head on, he recognised the person he had grown up with. Cassus Maecilius.

  ‘Cassus,’ he said eventually, ‘I thought you were dead.’

  ‘You thought wrong,’ answered Cassus.

  ‘What have you done with these people?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘They are all dead,’ answered Cassus, ‘you Britons sleep far too soundly.’

  ‘And the children?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘The girls died quickly,’ said Cassus, ‘as did the mother. The boy, however, is still alive.’ He nodded to one side.

  Prydain looked over and could see Taliesin sat against a tree, his tear stained face evidence of the fear that coursed through him. Prydain couldn’t believe his luck that the boy was still alive.

  ‘Why keep him alive?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘Because I wanted you to have a reason to stay and fight,’ said Cassus. ‘I tire from chasing you and this will end right now.’

  ‘What is it you want, Cassus?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘I want to kill you, Prydain,’ said Cassus menacingly, ‘it’s as simple as that. I want to pierce your heart with my sword and stare into your eyes as your life drains from your body.’

  ‘I once gave you your life,’ said Prydain.

  ‘Yet allowed all my men to die,’ said Cassus. ‘There is a debt to be paid.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right,’ said Prydain, ‘and it is my time. I could never better you with sword, Cassus, and probably can’t still. Why should I give you the pleasure of combat when the outcome is almost certain?’

  ‘Because of him,’ said Cassus, nodding toward the child. ‘Fight well and when you die, which you will, I will leave the boy at the gates of the village. Fight poorly and after I kill you, I will throw him to the flames. Is that reason enough?’

  ‘How do I know you will keep your word?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘You don’t,’ said Cassus, ‘now take your sword, slave-boy. I have waited for this moment for six years.’

  * * *

  Prydain walked forward and slowly pulled his sword from the soil. As boys, he and Cassus had played at being Legionaries within the vineyards of Cassus’ family farm, Cassus the son of a landowner and Prydain the adopted son of a freed Gladiator. Despite this, they had grown up as friends and even joined the Legions together as young men. Throughout that time, Cassus had always been the better swordsman but that was with a Gladius, the short stabbing sword of the Legions. These swords were different and Prydain had used one for six years. They were much heavier and needed two hands to wield them properly. He looked up at Cassus.

  ‘You choose a Barbarian weapon over a Roman one,’ he said. ‘That’s not like you, Cassus.’

  ‘Let’s just say I have had a bit of training, since last we met,’ said Cassus, swinging his sword back and fore in one hand. ‘Now enough talking, slave boy, it’s time to meet your fate.’ He stepped forward to meet Prydain’s advance and the clash of steel rang out across the forest.

  * * *

  Prydain’s own sword skills were excellent and he was considered an expert in his tribe, but the ability of Cassus took him by surprise. There were no brutal swings of strength, aimed aimlessly at his body but skilfully crafted swipes followed up by clever defensive strokes and sleights of hand to fend off the blows.

  Over and over again, Prydain took the initiative and forced Cassus back but at all times, he sensed Cassus was playing with him, allowing him the luxury of believing he had the upper hand.

  Prydain knew he was in trouble. Repeatedly he swung blow after blow at his opponent, but every time it was deflected with the skilful defence of Cassus. Finally he started to miss altogether and Cassus looked at him in derision as he stumbled and fell into the dust.

  ‘This is pathetic,’ snarled Cassus. ‘Call yourself a warrior? I feel I will have better contest from that boy before I burn him.’

  Prydain staggered to his feet but knew he was finished. His body ached and the strength had gone from his legs. He picked up his sword and raised it high above his shoulder before charging toward Cassus, screaming in rage.

  Cassus stepped to one side and spinning round swung his sword to cut through Prydain’s armour. Prydain cried out in pain and dropped to his knees, knowing his time had come. His sword fell from his hand as he awaited the final blow.

  Cassus threw away his own sword and pulled a knife from his boot. He kicked Prydain in the back sending him sprawling in the dust before rolling him over onto his back. He dropped down onto Prydain’s chest and stared into the injured man’s eyes.

  ‘You disappoint me, Prydain,’ he said. ‘I have waited six years for this moment and have barely broken sweat. What does it feel like, slave boy? What thoughts go through the mind of a man about to die? The pain, the afterlife; tell me, what is in your mind’s eye?’

  ‘Just do it, Cassus,’ said Prydain, ‘you’ll get no more sport from me.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Cassus, ‘I waste too much time. Goodbye, slave boy, I’ll see you in hell.’ He placed the point of his blade against Prydain’s chest and as he changed his grip, Prydain closed his eyes and braced himself for the pain that would precede his death.

  * * *

  ‘Stay your hand,’ said a quiet voice and Cassus spun his head around, thinking he was in danger. A few steps away, a pretty young woman wearing a hooded cloak stood motionless in the dust.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t you remember me?’ asked the girl. ‘We once spent several days together as I nursed you back to health.’ She lifted her hands and slipped the hood from her head.

  ‘Heulwen,’ he said, ‘the Shaman from the Asbri.’

  ‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘and if you recall, I told you we would one day reclaim the debt.’

  ‘Not now, Witch,’ he snarled, ‘I have death to administer.’

  ‘It has to be now,’ said Heulwen, ‘for the price demanded is the life of this man.’

  ‘That is not going to happen,’ said Cassus. ‘I have waited too long. This man dies here, even if it costs me my own life.’

  ‘Kill him if you must,’ said Heulwen, ‘but we demand a life in return.’

  ‘I care not if I live or die,’ said Cassus, ‘do what you must.’

  ‘Oh it’s not your life we will take, but that of another,’ said Heulwen.

  ‘Who?’ asked Cassus, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  ‘That of Sioned,’ said Heulwen.

  Cassus paused. During his time with the Deceangli he had grown very close to Sioned and intended to seek her out when this was all over.

  ‘You lie,’ said Cassus, ‘I have made arrangements for her safety.’

  ‘The man you knew as Dento is dead,’ said Heulwen, ‘and Sioned has sought safety with the Asbri. As we speak, she sleeps within the caves of my people. Take this man’s life and she will share his fate.’

  Cassus was in turmoil. At last he had the opportunity to kill the man he had hated for six years, yet the thought of Sioned being killed for his actions stayed his hand. Prydain stared up at him, holding his breath, not knowing what decision his attacker would take.

  Finally, Cassus roared his frustration and threw his knife from him before putting his face close to Prydain’s.

  ‘This isn’t over, slave boy,’ he spat. ‘You gave me my life once, now we are even. The next time we meet, one of us dies.’

  Without another word he stood up and, retrieving his sword, vaulted onto his horse before turning to face them once more.

  ‘I will kill you, Prydain,’ he shouted. ‘As the gods are my witness,
one day my blade will send you to hell.’

  Turning his horse, he galloped out of the clearing, leaving the girl and Prydain alone. Heulwen walked over and crouched down beside him to look at his wound.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said.

  Prydain’s eyes opened in astonishment as he recognised the face before him.

  ‘River girl,’ he said.

  ‘The very same,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Why were you at Caer Caradog and why did you disappear when you did?’

  ‘My people are tasked as healers across all tribes,’ said Heulwen, ‘and there were four sent to aid Caratacus in his campaign. Only I survived and that is down to you.’

  ‘But why did you leave when you did?’

  ‘Do you remember that second night after the battle?’

  ‘Vaguely. We were sheltered in a hut, if I recall.’

  ‘We were and you told me the tale of Gwydion and his son.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, I knew then that I had to tell the Asbri elders of his existence. The forest is my home and I travel faster alone. I knew if I explained, you would stop me going so I just left.’

  ‘But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I came to find Taliesin,’ she said. ‘When I told my people the story, they sent me after him, for the forest is no place for an orphaned king. We will take him, Prydain and make sure he becomes a good man.’

  Prydain winced as his body was wracked with pain.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Prydain.

  ‘He has already left,’ said Heulwen, ‘and is in the safe hands of my people.’

  ‘I never saw anyone else,’ said Prydain.

  ‘No, you wouldn’t,’ she smiled. ‘Now, let me see this wound.’

  ‘Am I about to die?’ he asked as Heulwen cut away his tunic.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she answered, ‘I guess the gods have plans for you yet. Now, enough talking, I need to see to this wound.’

  Prydain laid back, wincing as Heulwen administered her herbs.

  Around him the farm burned, and he knew he had flirted with death once again. He had survived the slaughter of Caer Caradog, been saved from death at the hands of Cassus and delivered a future king into safety. Perhaps Heulwen was right. Perhaps the gods did have bigger plans for him.

  …Only time would tell…

  Epilogue

  The Lands of the Brigantes

  51 AD

  Caratacus and his fellows were exhausted. They had hidden from the Romans for many months, hiding amongst the villages of those tribes that still resented the occupation. Most of the tribes were weak and Caratacus knew he couldn’t stay with them for they had no spirit, no fire to fight against the invaders. He had enjoyed many small victories against the enemy over the last seven years, sandwiched between two great defeats, Medway and Caer Caradog.

  Again fate had snatched defeat from the jaws of victory and he knew that with a bit more cohesion and a bigger force then the Romans would be beatable. With this in mind, he made his way through the country, hiding in the forests like a brigand but always with a greater purpose in mind – to join with the one great tribe left in Britannia, the Brigantes. The Brigantes were a powerful tribe and led by a warlike queen called Cartimunda. If he could persuade her to march to war then there was still hope and the Romans could still be defeated.

  Slowly they had travelled north, avoiding the Roman patrols and eventually rode up the gate of Cartimunda’s hill fort. Caratacus had sent one of his riders ahead a day earlier to announce his arrival and had been assured of a welcome fit for a king.

  The great gates lay open and Caratacus rode in, followed by the few dozen men who had stayed loyal to him over the past few months.

  Cartimunda’s people stood either side of the track, watching him silently as he rode toward the village centre.

  ‘They are strangely quiet, Lord,’ said a rider alongside him.

  Caratacus agreed but they kept going. Finally he reached the centre and as they dismounted, a group of men ran forward to take their horses.

  ‘Where is Cartimunda?’ asked Caratacus, ‘I was told I was to be met.’

  ‘She will be here,’ said one of the grooms and they led the horses away, leaving Caratacus and his men waiting.

  Finally a commotion caused them to turn and they saw part of the surrounding crowd open to allow someone through. A woman walked toward Caratacus, flanked by two lines of heavily armed warriors.

  ‘Cartimunda,’ said Caratacus, ‘it is good to see you again.’

  ‘I wish I could say the same,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Caratacus. ‘I sent word of my arrival and received a positive message.’

  ‘These are troubling times, Caratacus,’ she said, ‘and we need to bend in the wind if we are not to snap.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he answered, ‘what wind do you talk of?’

  ‘The storm that Rome has sent against us,’ said Cartimunda. ‘We cannot resist them, Caratacus.’

  ‘But we can,’ he said, ‘with your warriors and my knowledge we can take the battle to them. These last seven years I have learned so much about them and know their weaknesses. Nobody knows them as I do.’

  ‘Yet still you fell short at Caer Caradog.’

  ‘A twist of fate,’ he said. ‘If Idwal had sent his men or the Silures had sent their cavalry, then the outcome would have been so different.’

  ‘But they didn’t and it wasn’t,’ said Cartimunda. ‘It’s over, Caratacus. The Romans are here to stay and the best thing we can do is work with them rather than under them.’

  ‘No, you are wrong,’ he answered. ‘They can be bettered and with your help, I will be the one to defeat them.’

  ‘Not with my warriors,’ she said. ‘My people need corn and cattle, not blood and tears.’

  ‘You are refusing to help me?’

  ‘I’m sorry Caratacus, but I have reached an agreement with the Romans. They will let us continue to rule our own lands in return for tribute.’

  ‘You have bent your knee,’ he gasped. ‘The great Cartimunda of the Brigantes has given up without a fight.’

  ‘It was in the interests of my people, Caratacus, a trait that perhaps you could learn.’

  ‘Never,’ snarled Caratacus, ‘I will fight until there is no breath left in my body.’

  ‘Then you will fight alone,’ she said.

  ‘Where are my horses?’ shouted Caratacus. ‘The air stinks of cowardice; I need to get out of here.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that,’ said Cartimunda.

  ‘On whose authority?’ shouted Caratacus.

  ‘On mine,’ said a voice, and a man wearing the full polished bronze armour and scarlet cloak of a Legionary Legatus, stepped from behind a building.

  ‘Treachery,’ gasped Caratacus.

  ‘It is for the best,’ said Cartimunda, ‘too many people have died already. This is Legatus Scapula and he is here to accept your surrender.’

  Caratacus drew his sword and spun around frantically, looking for a way out but the crowd had opened up and hundreds of Legionaries marched forward with levelled Pilae. Within moments Caratacus and his men were hemmed in on all sides by the points of the spears and the king knew his time was up.

  Scapula stepped forward and spoke to him.

  ‘It is over, Caratacus. You fought and lost. Accept your defeat graciously.’

  ‘Never,’ scowled Caratacus, ‘I am a king and demand I be treated as an equal.’

  ‘You are nothing,’ shouted Scapula, ‘and I tire of your arrogance. I have won, Caratacus, Rome has won. Don’t you understand? You and your country have failed, it is over.’

  ‘It is never over,’ shouted Caratacus, ‘and as we speak, children nurture dreams of driving you out when they are men. Do your worst, Roman. Enjoy it while you can.’

  Scapula shook his head in derision.

  ‘Tribune,’ he called over his sh
oulder, ‘take these men into custody and chain them like criminals.’

  ‘And the king, my lord?’ asked a voice.

  ‘King?’ asked Scapula. ‘I see no king. I see a bitter, defeated man who puts his own glory above the lives of his people. Chain him alongside the others.’

  The Legionaries fell on the prisoners and chained them together as Cartimunda and Scapula looked on.

  ‘What will become of him?’ asked Cartimunda.

  ‘That is not my decision,’ said Scapula. ‘He will be sent to Rome to face the Senate.’

  ‘Really?’ said Cartimunda. ‘And who will have the final say?’

  ‘His fate will be decided by Emperor Claudius,’ said Scapula, ‘and history will show that he and he alone decided the fate of Caratacus, would-be King of Britannia.’

  Author’s Notes

  Caratacus

  After the battle of the Medway and the battle of the Thames, Caratacus fled with the remnants of his army to the lands of the Silures in modern day South Wales. There he eventually led the Silures and campaigned against the Romans along the Welsh/English Border and into the Midlands of England.

  Eventually, Legatus Ostorius Scapula led a campaign against Caratacus and though versions vary, it is believed that he defeated him at the Battle of Caer Caradog in Shropshire using the XIV Gemina Martia Victrix and the Legio Vigesima Valeria Victrix.

  Caratacus’ family were captured at the battle, and though he escaped to the Brigantes tribe in the north of modern-day England, he was handed over to the Romans by Queen Cartimunda.

  Exploratores

  The Exploratores were Rome’s equivalent of today’s Special Forces. They were known to sometimes join the enemy in order to gain inside information and often spent many years undercover.

  The Silures

  The Silures were a fearsome tribe based in South Wales and conducted an on-going guerrilla campaign against the Romans. They were never finally defeated but accepted Roman integration over a period of time. Their Capital was at a place called Llanmelin hill in Wales and the remains of their hill fort can still be seen today.