Roman

by Kevin Ashman

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  Gwydion fought ferociously but knew it was only a matter of time before the battle was lost. He looked around frantically for Gwenno hoping that perhaps they could make a last attempt to escape but was shocked to see how few of the Catuvellauni were still standing. He ducked a blow from his opponent and swung his sword below the shield, cutting into the ankle, and, as the Roman fell in agony, disengaged to run back towards the king.

  ‘Gwydion!’ screamed Gwenno as he arrived and threw her arms around him as he addressed the king.

  ‘The day is lost, sire,’ he said, ‘If we fight our way to the trees we may yet escape.’

  ‘There is no escape,’ said Caratacus, ‘Our last stand will be here.’

  ‘Then we will all die,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Caratacus, ‘I recall you speak their tongue, translate for me.’

  He stepped up onto a boulder and addressed the fighting men directly to his front.

  ‘Romans,’ he screamed, at the top of his voice, ‘Hear my words.’

  Remus stepped back from the man he had just slain and looked up at the impressive king. He held up his hand to halt the attack, both sides taking welcome respite from the slaughter

  ‘Who speaks for you?’ continued Caratacus.

  Remus stepped forward but before he could speak, a voice rang out from behind the ranks.

  ‘I do!’ shouted a voice and Tribune Mateus rode his horse through the carnage to stop alongside Remus.

  ‘Sir, leave this to me,’ said Remus quietly.

  ‘I am in command here,’ said Mateus, ‘And it is I who will take this so called king back to Rome. Do not forget yourself, Centurion, I am a Tribune and this is my birthright.’

  Remus stared at him in disgust. The Tribune had once again stayed well back during the fight and now intended to claim the glory.

  ‘So be it,’ said Remus eventually and stepped back from the horse.

  ‘I am Tribune Gaius Mateus,’ he called, ‘And I am in command here. Do you lead these barbarians?’

  ‘I am Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni,’ came the answer. ‘You have come into my lands and slaughtered my people. Camulodunum is now probably in Roman hands yet still you pursue me. What is it that you want from us?’

  Mateus sat up straight in his saddle.

  ‘I want you, Caratacus,’ he said, ‘Bend your knee to me and I will spare your people. Fight on, and none of your men will see this sunset.’

  ‘You obviously do not know me, Mateus,’ said Caratacus, ‘I bend my knee to no man yet I have no desire for any more of my people to die in my name. I have an offer for you.’

  ‘State it?’ said Mateus.

  ‘Meet me in one on one combat,’ he said, ‘Two leaders in mortal combat before the sight of their gods. If I win, you let my people go but I will give myself up. If I lose, then nothing has changed. Either way your Emperor will have his prize.’

  Mateus’s face fell. He was in a situation he could not easily get out of. There was no way he would win a fight with this warrior king yet could not escape the challenge with any respect intact.

  ‘There is no merit in this challenge,’ he stated, looking around, hoping to see support in the faces of the legionaries at his back, ‘Your army is defeated. If you don’t surrender, your head will adorn my spear within the hour.’

  ‘It is a fair challenge,’ called Caratacus, ‘Or is the leader of such wolves little more than a sheep.’

  Remus hid a smirk. This king had talked to Mateus for only a few minutes but already had his measure. Yet he knew that Caratacus wasted his breath. There was no way Mateus would fight him.

  ‘Enough of this folly,’ shouted an enraged Mateus, ‘This is your last chance barbarian, ‘Either you surrender to me now or I will crucify every last one of you.’

  Silence fell as Caratacus stared at the Tribune. Gwydion drew his sword and stepped forward.

  ‘Let them come sir,’ he said, ‘We will sell our blood dearly and for every cross they make, they will dig twice as many graves for their own men.’

  Caratacus looked back at the two hundred or so men that still survived.

  ‘Do not dishonour us, sire,’ shouted one of his warriors, ‘I would rather die here than live a slave of the Romans.’ His shout was taken up by the remainder of his men and all started screaming their challenges at the enemy. Caratacus held up his hand for silence and addressed Mateus.

  ‘It would seem you have your answer, Roman,’ he called, ‘Look to your weapons.’

  ‘So be it!’ answered Mateus and turned to ride back through the legionary ranks. As he passed Remus, he turned to speak to him.

  ‘Kill them all,’ he said, ‘And bring me his head.’

  Remus’s gaze didn’t leave the face of Caratacus as he answered.

  ‘You had the opportunity to take it yourself,’ he said.

  ‘I could have lost my own,’ hissed Mateus.

  ‘You have lost more than that,’ spat Remus, ‘You have lost the men.’

  Mateus looked around at the legionary ranks. Most stared at him in disgust. He turned back to Remus.

  ‘You just do what you are paid to do, Centurion,’ he said, ‘Leave the men to me. When we get back to the legion I will have them dispersed amongst all the shit postings from here to Rome. Now I gave you an order and I expect you to carry it out. Do you understand?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said Remus, ‘But you should know this. After I take this king’s head,’ he paused before looking up to the officer, ‘I will be coming for yours.’

  Tribune Mateus’s face fell.

  ‘You dare to threaten me, Centurion?’ he gasped.

  Remus looked over at the waiting warriors.

  ‘Within the hour, those men will be dead,’ he said, ‘Yet every one of them is more of a man than you can ever hope to be.’

  Mateus’s face contorted with rage.

  ‘You will hang for this,’ he spat.

  ‘You have till dawn,’ came the answer, ’Now get from my sight or I’ll kill you where you stand.’

  Mateus wheeled his horse and rode back down the clearing towards the wood line. He knew if he could get to the legion, he could let Nasica know about Remus’s treachery. Nasica would back him up, after all, he was a fellow officer and their families were close friends back in Rome.

  Remus estimated the enemy numbers and ordered the cohort to surround those who were left. The six hundred men who were under his command encircled Caratacus’s two hundred survivors to prepare for the final assault.

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  The Romans started to bang their shields again, building up the tension before the final assault. Gwydion held Gwenno in his arms, staring at the front rank as they started to close in. A sudden movement caught his eye and he spun around to stare in confusion as a lone horse galloped out from the forest edge.

  The rider galloped hard towards the rear ranks of the Romans, his long black hair streaming behind him in the wind. The man was naked yet tattooed from head to foot in multiple designs of blue wode. In either hand he brandished a lethal double edged sword and raised them high as he closed on the unsuspecting cohort. A few legionaries heard the galloping hooves and turned to see the cause, but their shouts of warning were too late, as, at the last moment, the rider screamed a terrifying war cry and launched himself from his horse and deep into their ranks. In amongst the confusion, he managed to kill several legionaries before he was cut down. For a second Gwydion was unsure what had been the point of this lone assault by the strange man but any uncertainty was quickly cleared up, when another war cry came from the forest edge. The sound was repeated from all directions and soon the valley was echoing with terrifying screams from throats of unseen men. Roman heads were turning in confusion at the deafening sound and suddenly, over five hundred horses galloped out from the forest to bear down on the cohort of legionaries.

  ‘Who are they?’ shouted Gwenno, hope beginning to rise in her voice.

 
‘I’m not sure,’ shouted Gwydion ‘But I would guess Silures.’

  The riders smashed into the unorganised rear of the cohort, closely followed by hundreds of tattooed foot soldiers. Caratacus realised this was an opportunity and seized the chance.

  ‘Catuvellauni,’ he shouted ‘This is our time, pay them back for every drop of Britannic blood that stains their hands.’ He held up his sword, ‘For the dead,’ he screamed.

  With a deafening roar the remaining Catuvellauni fell upon the Romans to their front squeezing them between themselves and the Silures.

  The Romans were immediately at a disadvantage and the fighting broke down into a widespread melee of individual hand to hand conflict. Cassus fought furiously, slashing and hacking at anything that moved. The enemy were manic and yet skilled with their weapons, fighting like no one he had yet encountered. On and on they came and as soon as he cut one down another took his place, snarling and spitting their defiance as they pressed their assault. All around him men screamed as flesh was hewn apart, both sides uncompromising in their brutality. Cassus lost count of the men who fell before his blade but eventually realised that they were losing the fight as he and his fellow legionaries became isolated in half a dozen pockets of resistance. Remus spotted the risk and called out in Latin.

  ‘Cohort, to the outcrop,’ he screamed and all who heard, fought their way to a rocky mound to one side of the clearing.

  Finally Cassus found himself alongside Remus and fifty other survivors standing on a rocky knoll, completely surrounded by thousands of screaming warriors and realised that there was no way out. Death was inevitable.

  A haunting tone from an unseen horn echoed over the valley and the assault from the Silures eased. The lines of blue painted warriors retreated a few yards back from the bedraggled Roman survivors. To one side, Gwydion and Caratacus stood alongside each other amazed at the turnaround in their fortunes.

  ‘Why have they stopped?’ asked Gwenno, ‘Why don’t they finish it?’

  ‘Look!’ said Caratacus, and pointed down the vale.

  A column of horses rode slowly through the battlefield carrying more warriors towards them. Their long black hair fell down around their shoulders and they were obviously of the same tribe. Gwydion’s eyes narrowed as they got closer, focussing on the two lead riders. One was an older man wearing a multi coloured cape and obviously a chieftain of some sort, but the focus of his attention was the second man. He was stripped to the waist but his hair was much shorter and his skin was clear of any markings. Gwydion’s eyes opened suddenly as he recognised the rider.

  ‘By the god’s,’ he said quietly, ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Gwenno

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Alongside their chief, it’s the Roman.’

  The massed warrior infantry opened up to allow the column through and they pulled up fifty yards short of the isolated Romans on the knoll. Prydain dismounted and walked forward.

  ‘Cassus Maecilius!’ he called out in Latin.

  Centurion Remus made his way to stand alongside Cassus.

  ‘It’s him!’ he spat, ‘The slave-boy. Look at him, he’s even sided with the barbarians. I always knew he was scum, find out what he wants.’

  ‘I am here!’ shouted Cassus, ‘What do you want Prydain.’

  ‘I would talk with you,’ he said, ‘Leave your Gladius and step forward.’

  ‘I command here,’ interrupted Remus, ‘You can talk to me.’

  ‘My words are for Cassus alone,’ answered Prydain.

  Cassus looked at Remus.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked.

  Remus considered for a moment before answering.

  ‘Go and talk,’ he said, ‘But don’t be fooled by his traitorous words. Remember he deserted his comrades and joined the enemy.’

  Cassus walked forward and waited for the mounted Prydain between the two lines of opposing combatants.

  ‘Drop your sword, Cassus,’ shouted Prydain.

  ‘You come with an army of thousands yet are worried about a single Gladius,’ stated Cassus.

  ‘It is no secret I am no match for your sword,’ said Prydain. ‘I am just ensuring I live long enough for you to hear me.’

  ‘You have nothing to say that interests me,’ spat Cassus. ‘The boy I grew up with is dead to me.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Prydain, ‘But before we are finished here, you will at least know the truth.’

  ‘Then speak quickly,’ said Cassus, ‘There is killing to be done.’

  ‘Your sword,’ reminded Prydain.

  Cassus made a show of unfastening his belt and casting it away to one side. Prydain dismounted and walked to meet Cassus on one of the few patches of bare earth that wasn’t covered with the dead or dying.

  ‘And your Pugio,’ added Prydain.

  ‘It is on my belt.’

  Prydain closed within two metres and held out his hand in greeting. Cassus stared at it and looked into Prydain’s eyes.

  ‘You jest with me,’ he said, ‘I take the hand of no traitor.’

  ‘Traitor?’ asked Prydain, ‘Traitor to who, Cassus, my family, my people, my comrades?’

  ‘Everyone,’ replied Cassus, ‘You have turned your back on your very country.’

  ‘My country,’ said Prydain, ‘Let’s take that one first. I was born to a slave who was destined to die in the arena for nothing else but being unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rome is not my country and the Romans are not my people.’

  ‘My father brought you up and put food in your belly,’ snapped Cassus.

  ‘Karim brought me up,’ answered Prydain, ‘And it is he who grafted to feed me. Yes, your father’s intervention in the arena all those years ago saved my life and I will always respect him for that, but I have always known that I didn’t belong.’

  ‘Yet you joined up with me,’ said Cassus, ‘To serve in the Emperor’s name, you were as keen as I to seek glory across the empire.’

  ‘A boyhood dream,’ said Prydain, ‘The reality is much different and since we have been in Britannia, the endless killing of innocent people has sickened me.’

  ‘You have killed men in the past.’

  ‘Men yes, even women when the need was great, but the slaughter of countless innocents in the name of one man lies heavy on my conscience. To slay children who have done no more than stand alongside their parents is not what I joined up for. These so-called barbarians that we grew up despising, have culture, families, hopes and dreams, just like you or I.’

  ‘Then your comrades,’ answered Cassus, ‘You have turned your back on those who have fought alongside you in other battles. How could you betray them?’

  ‘I have killed no Roman.’ snapped Prydain, ‘Throughout all this I have not killed a single one of those I called comrade.’

  ‘Then what do you call this?’ laughed Cassus spinning around and indicating the carnage around him, ‘It may not be your blade Prydain, but you ride with them, your hands are as soiled as theirs.’

  ‘We rode into their country!’ shouted Prydain, ‘They are defending their lands and their families. You would do the same to anyone riding on Rome.’

  ‘And you,’ snapped Cassus, ‘What is your excuse? What do you defend Prydain?’

  Prydain paused before answering.

  ‘My home Cassus,’ he said eventually, ‘These hills are also the lands of my fathers.’

  Cassus stared for a long time in confusion.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, ‘You were born in Rome.’

  ‘I may have been born on the back of a slave trader’s cart,’ said Prydain, ‘But my mother was brought up here, amongst these hills. This is the place I belong, these are my family and these,’ he indicated the warriors, ‘Are my people.’

  ‘You don’t know that is true.’

  ‘I have never been more sure of anything,’ said Prydain.

  ‘How?’

  ‘My mother told
me.’

  ‘But you were just a baby when she died.’

  ‘I was, but she left me a sign, one that lasted through all these years.’ He lifted the leather pendant that still hung around his neck.

  ‘Remember this Cassus?’ he asked, ‘This was the only possession that my mother owned and she gave it to Karim when she handed me over. Look at the design.’

  ‘I am familiar with the design,’ said Cassus, ‘It means nothing to me.’

  ‘Look around you Cassus,’ said Prydain, ‘And open your eyes.’

  Cassus stared at the warrior nearest him, suddenly realising that the exact design was tattooed on his chest. He quickly scanned anyone else in range, only to see that the same design was borne by every man.

  ‘You see,’ said Prydain, ‘These are my people. My mother was taken by a Cornovii raiding party many years ago. The Silures pursued but by the time they caught up with them she had been sold to a Gallic trader who sold her on in the slave markets of Rome.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Cassus, ‘How can they be sure you didn’t just pick this up from some random body?’

  ‘You are right,’ said Prydain, ‘The pendant stopped me from being killed but did not prove who I was. But there was one more gift that my mother left me before she died.’

  ‘What gift?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘My name!’

  ‘What has your name to do with it?’

  ‘Before she was dragged off to her death, my mother made sure Karim understood the name by which I was to be called,’ said Prydain.

  ‘And I assume that your name is Khymric in origin,’ guessed Cassus, ‘Hardly proof of your identity.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Prydain, ‘But it is reserved for someone special, the first born in line to the tribal chief.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you also lead these people,’ sneered Cassus.

  ‘No, and I never will for there are others of pure blood before me, but, at the time, my mother was the chief’s only child and she bestowed the name on me as was the custom for the first born male child.’