by Tony Bradman
Caradoc spent most of his days with the other chiefs, making plans, but in the evenings he feasted with the warriors. It was high summer now, the days full of sun, the nights warm, and they ate outside, sitting round great fires where whole pigs and cows were roasted. People laughed and joked, and one night a warrior sang a song of ancient battles, a tale of heroes who had fought each other long ago.
Marcus listened, enchanted, his mind suddenly full of Homer’s poetry: those scenes of battle in The Iliad. The memories made Marcus wonder whether grumpy old Stephanos was still alive somewhere, being horrible to another Roman boy. Then Marcus thought of his Roman father, and realised Gaius Arrius Crispus might still be in Britannia, helping to plan Caradoc’s defeat.
‘This could be our last chance, Marcus,’ Caradoc said quietly. Marcus had been lost in his own thoughts and hadn’t seen the chief sit down beside him. ‘We might be able to chase Rome from our lands forever if we can defeat Scapula now.’
Marcus turned to look at Caradoc. ‘What happens if we don’t?’ he asked.
‘I think you already know that,’ said Caradoc, glancing at his wife and daughters. They were sitting on the other side of the fire, talking and laughing. Sparks rose into the night, and Marcus was suddenly aware of the darkness surrounding the Dun.
‘I do,’ he murmured, thinking of the reports that had been coming in. The legions were burning villages as they marched west, slaughtering the old and any younger men who had failed to join Caradoc, and enslaving the women and children. That was the Roman way, of course, as Marcus now knew. Rome offered free peoples a hard choice – accept that you have been conquered, or be utterly destroyed.
Marcus hated the idea that Alwen and Cati might be sold into slavery. The slaves at his father’s villa had always been reasonably well treated, especially the women. Yet even so, the few who had tried to run away had quickly been caught and punished, usually by being whipped and branded in front of the rest. And Marcus knew also that there were owners far more brutal than his father. And men who were taken as slaves might end up working in the salt mines, or chained for life to the rowing benches of a trireme, or even fighting as gladiators in the arena.
‘But we are not finished yet, Marcus,’ said Caradoc, smiling, ‘so you can stop looking so gloomy. We will have a great army, and we will be like a wolf pack fighting to protect its young. It might turn out that Rome will regret coming to these islands...’
Marcus stared into the red heart of the fire, and didn’t answer.
He only hoped Caradoc was right.
* * *
Three days later the army was ready to ride out. The warriors lined up in the open field beyond the Dun’s gate, a mass of men on snorting horses, the early-morning sun glinting off swords and shields and the leaf-shaped blades of spears. Both men and horses were impatient to get going, but there were still farewells to be made. Women and children came running to say goodbye to husbands and fathers, brothers and sons.
‘I wish Caradoc would let me come with you,’ said Cati, looking up at Marcus on his horse, her small hand on his foot. ‘I’d soon see off those horrible Romans.’
‘I’m sure you would,’ said Marcus, smiling. ‘But then you would put us men to shame, so it’s better if you stay and protect the Dun. And Mother, of course.’
‘Hey, not so much of that, Marcus!’ said Alwen. ‘I know how to use a spear.’
She was smiling too, but Marcus knew she was deadly serious. A few of the older men and the young boys were staying behind to guard the Dun from any raids, and a lot of the women would be part of the same force. Marcus felt pretty sure that any Roman legionary or auxiliary who tried to hurt Cati wouldn’t live very long.
‘Just remember what I told you, Wife,’ said Dragorix, who wasn’t smiling. He towered over her on his horse, a huge figure stripped to the waist like many of the warriors, Marcus included, his muscles lithe under his blue tattoos.
‘I will, Husband,’ said Alwen, her eyes fixed on his, some message passing between them. Dragorix nodded and kicked his horse forward, reaching down to ruffle Cati’s hair as he passed her. Gwyn did the same, and Marcus followed the two of them.
They joined the rest of the army, which had now formed into a column. Dragorix was to ride beside Caradoc at the front, with Gwyn and Marcus and the rest of the war-band, which was a great honour for them all. At last Caradoc gave the order to leave. A warrior raised a great horn-trumpet bound with gold and silver and blew into it, the blaring sound like a giant bull roaring as it charged. Other horns replied, men whistled and cheered and the horses stepped forward proudly, tossing their manes.
Marcus felt a surge of pride himself as the column moved out. It felt good to be a warrior of the Catuvellauni going on the war-trail. Then he thought of that exchange between Dragorix and Alwen, and it was like a shadow passing over the sun.
‘What did Father mean?’ he said to Gwyn. ‘What must Mother remember?’
Gwyn turned in his saddle to look at him. ‘Nothing much,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Just what to do if the Romans beat us and he is killed. He wants Mother to take Cati north, to friends of ours in the far lands beyond those of the Brigantes, and we are to meet them there.’
Marcus held Gwyn’s gaze for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder back at the Dun. A line of older men stood on the palisade, spears raised in salute. Below them the women and children were watching the column, Alwen and Cati at the front. They looked small and distant already, and soon Marcus could see them no more.
He gripped his spear and urged his horse onwards.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Death to the Romans!
They rode north along the western bank of the Sabrina, to a place where the great river could be forded. Then they headed east, moving as quickly as they could. Caradoc’s plan was simple – he wanted to attack each Roman force separately.
‘That will give us the advantage of numbers,’ he explained. They had stopped for the night and made camp on a hill. Marcus was standing with the chiefs and the leaders of the war-bands outside Caradoc’s tent, listening to him. The rest of the army was sitting around campfires.
‘We have to strike fast and hard,’ Caradoc went on. ‘And we have to make sure Scapula does not bring together all four legions into one force.’
But that was easier said than done. Scapula sent out lots of auxiliaries as scouts ahead of his forces. Caradoc countered with the war-bands, and for a few days Marcus lived in the saddle, getting into skirmishes with auxiliaries, chasing them off, and trying to keep an eye on the northern Roman force at the same time. Then news came at last that both Roman forces were turning towards each other.
‘Scapula is a wily old fox,’ muttered Dragorix at the council Caradoc called that night. ‘Some of his scouts must have seen us, and he has guessed your plan.’
‘Yes, it is too late to stop him uniting his legions now,’ murmured Bedovir of the Ordovices. ‘They are the jaws of the wolf, and we will be the wolf’s prey.’
The army had made camp again, this time in an ancient abandoned Dun, a hill fort with a meadow in front of it descending to a river and a dark forest beyond. The Dun’s earthen ramparts were still solid, but there was no palisade topping them.
‘Well then, so be it,’ Caradoc said quietly. He looked around the circle of men, his eyes finally coming to rest on those of Marcus. ‘It is time to stand our ground.’
‘What, here?’ said Conor of the Silures. ‘This is where you mean to fight?’
‘It is as good a place as any,’ said Caradoc. ‘We just need to make some preparations.’
Caradoc gave orders for all that he wanted done, and work began before the sun rose the next morning. The men collected rocks and used them to make the Dun’s ramparts higher. In the meadow they dug long ditches that were deep enough to swallow men and horses. Then they filled them with sharpened wooden stakes and covered them with branches cut from the forest so they couldn’t be seen.
Marcus
spent the day with Gwyn and a few other men of Dragorix’s war-band, scouting beyond the forest. They returned late that evening, swimming with the horses across the river then riding up to the Dun as the sun set in a blaze of fire. Caradoc was sitting on his horse, a powerful chestnut stallion, in front of the Dun’s gate, his eyes fixed on the darkness in the east, with the sky blood-red behind him. It was an image that Marcus knew he would never forget.
* * *
The Romans came at sunrise the next morning.
The waiting warriors heard them long before they could see them, the thud-thud-thud of their marching feet filling the world like the sound of some huge beast’s heart beating. Caradoc ordered the warriors to form up in battle lines in front of the Dun, while a small force was kept inside to look after the horses. The battle would be fought on foot, and the horses would be used only to pursue a defeated enemy.
Dragorix’s war-band stood in the centre of the front line, with Marcus and Gwyn on either side of its leader. Marcus looked left and right at the thousands of warriors standing in line. Like him, many were stripped to the waist, their hair teased into spikes or braided. Most carried shields and spears, although some, like Dragorix, were armed with only a sword. All were grim-faced and silent, staring at the forest.
Voromagos and the other druids stood in front of the warriors, holding their arms up to the sky and chanting prayers, calling on the gods to give them a great victory. Marcus shivered and felt sick, his stomach churning with fear, but he was determined not to show it. Eventually the thud-thud-thudding stopped, swallowed by the forest, and it seemed for a long while as if everyone was holding their breath.
Then a flock of startled birds burst upwards from the forest canopy, shattering the peace. Marcus could hear rustling now and he gripped his spear more tightly. He gazed at the shadows between the trees, remembering the day Sabinus and the Batavians had been slaughtered. And suddenly the Romans appeared from the darkness, thousands of legionaries noiselessly stepping out of the forest.
The warriors before the Dun exploded into noise, yelling curses, screaming war cries and brandishing their weapons. The Romans took no notice, concentrating instead on quickly forming their own lines, a solid mass of men between the forest and the river, their helmets and shields and the eagle standards glinting. Behind them was a cluster of red-crested officers, one of them sitting on a pure white horse.
‘Scapula,’ Dragorix snorted, and Marcus knew he must be right. As he looked, Marcus saw the Roman governor hold up his right hand. Great bronze trumpets were raised on high in the Roman ranks, their harsh braying clearly the signal to advance. The Romans moved forward as one, the thud-thud-thudding of their hob-nailed sandals making the ground shake, their armour and weapons chinking.
Marcus knew that Caradoc had assumed the Romans would find it difficult to get across the river, his plan being to attack them as they struggled in the water. But the Romans had brought a dozen prepared bridges with them, whole tree trunks trimmed and lashed together. Teams of soldiers dragged them forward and threw them down, and their comrades swarmed across to continue their advance.
Dragorix turned to look back at Caradoc, who was sitting on his horse behind the warriors, with Conor and Bedovir and the other chiefs around him. Caradoc had seen what was happening, and now he raised his spear, pointing it at the Romans to signal the attack. The horn-trumpets of the Britons brayed now, answering the Romans. Dragorix grinned and raised his sword, the bright sun flashing off its blade.
‘DEATH TO THE ROMANS!’ he screamed, and charged down the slope.
Marcus sprang forward with everyone else, making sure he didn’t fall in any of the concealed ditches, his feet pounding on the grass, his eyes on the Roman line ahead. He screamed too, a wordless war cry that was lost in the noise around him. Caradoc’s warriors were like a great wave rolling in from the sea, and just before they arrived Marcus saw the Roman shields snap closer together like a giant clam closing.
Then the wave crashed into the Romans, and the fighting began. Marcus smashed his shield into a Roman one, and jabbed furiously with his spear, trying to find a gap through which he could strike the man behind it. The Romans jabbed back, their spears and swords flashing out from between their shields like the tongues of deadly snakes. Blood spurted and splashed, and warriors fell.
For a while it was all noise and fury, the warriors hacking and stabbing and trying to break through the Roman shields. But the Roman line stayed solid, and soon it began to advance again, steadily pushing the warriors back, making them bunch up against the men behind them. Marcus fought on, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his spear-arm aching, the grass churning into slippery blood-stained mud beneath his feet.
At last he realised that the line of warriors was retreating more and more quickly. The men beside him were turning to run, their faces filled with fear.
‘Stop, you fools!’ he heard Dragorix yelling, ‘If you run we will lose...’
But it was too late. Most of the men who hadn’t been slaughtered by the Romans were running now, streaming back to the Dun. Marcus was swept along with them, the Romans still moving forward, a huge monster of metal that was killing everyone in its path. Then he saw Dragorix, and pushed and shoved his way through to him.
The big warrior was standing inside the Dun’s gateway with Gwyn and a few men from the war-band. Caradoc was there too, and he was arguing with Dragorix.
‘I will not flee, Dragorix,’ he was saying. ‘If the time has come to die...’
‘No, you must flee,’ said Dragorix. ‘The struggle will go on so long as you are free. I will rally enough men to hold the Romans so you can escape. What’s left of my war-band will provide your escort – that includes you, Gwyn and Marcus.’
‘But Father, we can’t leave you here!’ said Gwyn, his face a mask of anguish.
‘You can, and you will,’ said Dragorix. ‘There is no time for farewells – the horses are saddled and waiting. May the gods protect you on your trail.’
Then he charged out of the gate with his sword raised high, screaming for the men there to follow him. Some did, and the sound of battle grew more intense.
Marcus didn’t stop to think. He turned and ran with Caradoc and Gwyn to the horses.
CHAPTER NINE
The Warrior Queen
In the end they had to fight their way out of the Dun’s rear gate. Scapula had released his auxiliaries, and they swiftly rode around on both sides of the Dun to cut off any escape routes. Caradoc drew his sword and charged at them, Gwyn and Marcus and the rest following behind. The auxiliaries were taken by surprise, but fought back, and Marcus found himself in a running battle, with blades clashing and men dying.
Then it was all over and Caradoc’s small band burst through, leaving the auxiliaries behind. Caradoc led his men west and they rode hard, glancing over their shoulders for pursuit, not stopping until they could no longer hear the sounds of battle. Even so, they paused only long enough to catch their breath and to let the horses do the same. Caradoc soon moved them on, taking a steep track that would lead into the hills.
Two days later, on a bright warm morning, they rode up a slope to a ridge from where they could see the Dun of the Long Hill. Rising from it was a tall column of black smoke, and Marcus realised that the roundhouses were burning. There was a cluster of Roman defenders around the gate, and others scattered throughout the Dun. Legionaries stood as sentries along the ramparts.
‘There is nothing here for us any more,’ said Caradoc, his face stony. He roughly pulled his horse’s head around and rode away, most of the small band following him. Only Marcus and Gwyn stayed on the ridge, their eyes fixed on the Dun. Marcus thought of how it must have been when the Romans had arrived – the courage of the few defenders, the fear and panic of those too old or young or weak to fight.
‘Do you think Alwen and Cati got away?’ Marcus asked after a while.
‘I am sure of it,’ said Gwyn, although there was no certainty in
his voice. ‘Just as I am sure that we will all meet again some day. Come, brother – we have far to go.’
Marcus, however, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the burning, ruined Dun. He had spent the happiest days of his life there, and now Rome, which had already abandoned him, had taken that from him too. But after a while he pulled his horse’s head around, and he and Gwyn rode after the others.
There were tears on Marcus’s cheeks, and he didn’t wipe them away.
* * *
They rode north, avoiding villages, dodging Roman patrols and keeping to the high places or the forests. Sometimes they met people – shepherds or farmers, and on one occasion a travelling merchant – and asked for news. That was how they discovered that most of the army had been slaughtered at the battle, Dragorix among them. He had killed a dozen Roman legionaries, it was said, but they had cut him down in the end. It was no surprise, but it was still hard news for Gwyn and Marcus to bear, and they were glad of each other’s company that night.
They learned later that Caradoc’s wife and daughters had been captured by the Romans when the Dun of the Long Hill was attacked. Marcus and Gwyn asked about Alwen and Cati, but nobody knew if the Romans had taken them too. Scapula had also put a price on Caradoc’s head – a huge sum of gold would be paid to whoever brought him in chains to the governor.
‘That was only to be expected,’ said Caradoc, shrugging. ‘And I doubt Scapula will harm my wife or daughters yet – they are too valuable to him as hostages. He will leave it a while, then threaten to kill them if I do not give myself up.’
They were in the rocky hills of the north, a dozen tired men sitting around a campfire, huddling in their cloaks for warmth. It was a chilly autumn night, the cold wind rustling through the tops of the trees a promise of the winter that was to come.