The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  Roman II – The Rise of Caratacus

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chatper 1

  Chatper 2

  Chatper 3

  Chatper 4

  Chatper 5

  Chatper 6

  Chatper 7

  Chatper 8

  Chatper 9

  Chatper 10

  Chatper 11

  Chatper 12

  Chatper 13

  Chatper 14

  Chatper 15

  Chatper 16

  Chatper 17

  Chatper 18

  Chatper 19

  Chatper 20

  Chatper 21

  Chatper 22

  Chatper 23

  Chatper 24

  Chatper 25

  Chatper 26

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  Afterword

  Next in Series

  Copyright

  Chatper 1

  The Land of the Khymru

  44AD

  Cassus crawled through the bracken and peered down into the valley. For an age he could see nothing, but eventually movement caught his eye and a group of riders crossed the river below him. Even at this distance he recognised his pursuers and he cursed silently, as he realised his false trails had failed to fool the native tribesmen, who had been following him for the last two days. He knew he could not evade them much longer, and when they caught him they would kill him without a second thought.

  The riders were dressed in coarse plaid leggings and soft leather boots up to their knees. Each man had a cloak around his shoulders secured by a single brooch and Cassus knew from painful memory that when it came to battle, the cloak would be discarded instantly so he could fight unencumbered, naked from the waist up. Their arms were muscular and tattooed with strange imagery, unfamiliar to Cassus’s eyes and even their faces were marked with swirling Celtic images. Their jet-black hair hung halfway down their backs, intertwined with lengths of red fabric, and they wore Torcs of Celtic gold around their necks.

  The horses were strong but relatively small, much smaller than those used by the Roman cavalry and Cassus guessed correctly that they would be far better suited to the hilly terrain found in this part of the world. Their saddles were simple and rose into a horn at the front, against which the riders could lean to achieve a stable platform as they loosed their arrows from their short but powerful bows. Hanging from the left side of the saddle was a simple scabbard containing the sword that every warrior carried, but though most Britannic Celts Cassus had encountered so far had wielded the larger broadswords, these were smaller and much more versatile. The sword’s blade narrowed in the centre before widening again toward the point and the hand guard had two lethal points curving outwards from the main blade. Even the heavy metal weight on the top of the hand grip was designed not just as a counterbalance for the blade, but as an additional option as a cudgel during a backhand swipe. Overall, it was a compact lethal weapon, designed for ease of use in a quick attack on any foot soldier unlucky enough to meet them in combat.

  The men below paused to let their horses drink from the river and Cassus hesitated as one of the warriors turned his gaze toward his hiding place. Even though Cassus knew there was no way he could be seen, it was still unnerving and he froze until the warrior looked away again. Finally Cassus crawled back through the bracken toward the glade where he had left his horse.

  He knew the mount wouldn’t last much longer, as he had ridden it hard for two days away from the Khymru where the Silures had just slaughtered an entire cohort of Nasica’s ninth Legion. The Catuvellaunian king, Caratacus, had been within the grasp of the cohort sent by Nasica and if it wasn’t for the intervention of the Silures, the Roman unit would now be returning in glory to the Legion, with the king of the Britons as prisoner. As it was, Cassus was the sole Roman survivor of the battle, fleeing for his life with a head start, granted to him by his childhood friend, Prydain.

  Cassus patted the horse’s neck and whispered encouragingly into his ear before swinging up into the saddle and turning eastward once more.

  ‘Come on boy,’ he said, ‘one more effort,’ and with a kick of his heels, spurred the horse forward once again, desperate to place as much distance as possible between him and the pursuing Silures.

  * * *

  The following morning, Cassus stripped the saddle from the exhausted horse and threw it into a nearby thicket of brambles. There was no way the horse could go on, so he let it go free out onto the plains. Without further ado he continued his journey eastward. Even though he was used to twenty-mile route marches with the Legion, he was weak from hunger and there was no way he could outrun the horsemen. The one good thing was that he could pick terrain that was difficult for the pursuing horses to negotiate.

  A few hours later, an enticing smell caused him to detour into a wood and he watched from a thicket as a huntsman roasted a squirrel over a fire. Cassus considered the options. Though he was weak, he was still a trained Legionary at the peak of fitness and the huntsman seemed overweight and elderly. Just as Cassus was considering rushing the man, fate intervened and the man got up and walked to relieve himself against a nearby tree. The Roman seized the opportunity and ran into the clearing to grab the meat off the spit.

  ‘Shit,’ he shouted as the hot meat burned his hands and the man turned around in fear.

  Cassus spotted the man’s knife stuck in a log and grabbed it quickly, before facing him again with a look of menace on his face.

  ‘Stay back,’ he said in Latin, ‘I just need some food.’ He pointed at the cooked squirrel now lying in the dirt.

  The old man glanced to one side and following his gaze, Cassus saw a broadsword lying against a tree. He considered taking the weapon but knew it would slow him down and it would be useless against the Silures arrows.

  ‘Don’t try anything stupid,’ said Cassus, and bent slowly to pick up the meat.

  The man answered in his own language and though Cassus didn’t understand him, the tone of voice suggested there would be no resistance.

  They stared at each other in silence, one tearing chunks of half-cooked squirrel from the carcass with his teeth while the other looked on, hoping this strange man would hurry up and leave. Finally, Cassus threw the remains into the fire and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his dirty tunic.

  ‘Water?’ he said, imitating the actions of drinking. ‘Have you got any water?’

  The man pointed at a nearby water skin and Cassus drank his fill.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said grudgingly at last and lowered his knife.

  ‘Romans,’ he said, pointing at himself, ‘have you seen any Romans?’

  ‘Romans?’ mimicked the huntsman.

  ‘Romans,’ repeated Cassus, and pointed at his own eyes. ‘Have you seen any Romans?’

  The man nodded in understanding and looked toward some hills on the horizon.

  ‘Romans,’ he said in his strange accent, and pointed at the arc the sun would have made in the sky, from dawn till dusk. He did this twice and lifted two fingers.

  ‘Two days,’ guessed Cassus, ‘Romans two days in that direction, yes?’

  The man just stared back in silence.

  ‘I guess I’ll just have to trust you,’ he said and picking up the water skin, walked backwards out of the copse, careful to ensure the man didn’t follow.

  Within minutes he was running across open moor land again toward the distant hills, desperate to reach the safety of their crags before night fell. By the time he wedged himself into a damp crack of a cliff it was pitch dark, and he looked back over the plain he had crossed that day. Soon he saw the flickering light of a campfire and realised how close th
e tribesmen actually were. There was no doubt about it; unless he could find safety, they would catch him the following morning. He closed his eyes, desperate for a few minutes sleep, but knowing full well he had to be long gone by morning.

  * * *

  The last twelve months had been a whirlwind of action and emotion for Cassus. Since leaving his father’s home in Picenum on the eastern coast of Italy, he had travelled up the west coast of Europe to Gaul, taken part in the brutal recruit training demanded by the Ninth Hispana Legion and ultimately taken part in the invasion of Britannia. During all this he had been accompanied by his childhood friend, the freedman Prydain Maecilius, sharing every ache and every success as they were turned from boys into men by their instructors. They had even fought alongside each other against the Germanic warrior Hanzer at a conflict near their training fort in Gaul, and despite Cassus being a true blood Roman and Prydain a freed slave from his father’s estate, they had been the closest of friends.

  The day Prydain had defected to the enemy in the Khymru all that changed, and they had finally met as foes on the battlefield where Cassus’s had come up against Caratacus and the remnants of his army. The entire cohort had been wiped out by the Silures that day and only the intervention of his old friend had stopped him being executed along with the rest of his comrades, gaining him a day’s head start before the Silures warriors started their pursuit. Prydain had saved his life and Cassus hated him for it.

  * * *

  Cassus pushed the branches before him as he came to the end of the thicket. He had been running since morning and knew the Silures warriors were not far behind. He had chosen the most difficult routes to slow the riders down, but they always seemed to catch up as soon as the going got easier. He was on his last legs and knew unless he did something drastic, he would soon be caught.

  Before him lay another swathe of open land that had been cleared for farming by some local tribe. Cassus groaned as he realised he would be exposed once again until he reached the far tree covered mountains, but also knew he couldn’t stay where he was. Though it would be a gamble, tomorrow would mean the pursuers would be that much closer and he would have no chance of reaching the relative safety of the high ground. One last effort and he could be safe amongst the mountains and perhaps buy himself a few more days. With a deep breath, Cassus broke from the cover and ran down to the open pastures.

  He had been running for just over an hour and was more than halfway to the mountains when a blood curdling cry rang out behind him. He spun around and was horrified to see four riders break free of the forest edge and gallop down the slope in pursuit. Cassus discarded his cloak, armour and water skin to lighten the load and turned away to sprint as fast as he could, toward the safety of the hills. Within minutes his strength gave out and he staggered to a halt, knowing he could go on no more. He turned in defiance and drew the only weapon he had been allowed to take with him, his Pugio, the knife that every Legionary carried on his belt. It may be useless against arrows but if they fancied their chances with their swords, Cassus was confident at least one of them would accompany him to the afterlife.

  Decision made, he was surprised at the calmness that descended upon him and he looked up at the sky, saying his last prayer to Mars, the Roman God of war.

  ‘Prepare thy table for visitors, Mars,’ he shouted, ‘for tonight I dine at your side.’

  He dropped his gaze and stared at the red painted riders galloping toward him, with their swords raised.

  ‘Come on barbarian filth,’ he screamed, ‘let us meet our gods together.’ With that he started running toward the oncoming riders, fully aware that attack was the best form of defence.

  Suddenly the riders pulled up short in a cloud of dust, staring at the sight before them.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he shouted. ‘What are you waiting for? Come on, you heathens, and let me show you how a real soldier dies.’

  The riders milled about in hesitation before turning around and galloping away as fast as they could.

  Cassus stared after them in confusion, not understanding why they were ignoring this opportunity to kill him in cold blood. A few seconds later all became clear as twenty uniformed riders thundered past him in pursuit, each holding a lance parallel to the ground.

  Cassus spun around and stared in amazement as a full cohort of auxiliary cavalry trotted up toward him. Behind them, up on the hill, another cohort of Batavian infantry stood in ranks watching events unfold before them. Cassus had never been so happy to see anyone in his life. The Praefectus in charge trotted up and spoke down to him from his horse.

  ‘Who are you, soldier?’ he said.

  ‘I am Cassus Maecilius,’ he responded, ‘a Decurion of the Ninth Hispana. I have been on a special mission led by Tribune Mateus and centurion Remus of the first cohort.’

  The Praefectus looked past Cassus and surveyed the surrounding landscape.

  ‘I am aware of the mission,’ he said, ‘where are your comrades?’

  ‘All dead,’ said Cassus, ‘slaughtered by kinsmen of the men you have chased off.’

  ‘All of them?’ asked the centurion by his side. ‘An entire cohort, dead?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Cassus, ‘there were no survivors.’

  ‘Except for you,’ the Praefectus sneered.

  ‘I can explain,’ said Cassus.

  ‘Save your explanations, soldier,’ said the Praefectus, ‘I am not interested.’ He turned away and addressed the officer by his side. ‘Centurion, take your unit and support the squad in front. The rest of you,’ he called to the other assembled centurions, ‘take your men back to the hills and prepare a camp. We will stay here tonight and return to the Legion at first light. Post double guards for we seem to have an enemy worth fighting at last.’

  The men rode back to their units to make the arrangements, while one complete century galloped after the squad in pursuit of the Silures. The centurion in charge pulled up his horse as he passed.

  ‘Any orders, Sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Catch them up and be back by dusk,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ shouted the centurion and galloped off in pursuit of his men.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘You?’ the Praefectus sneered. ‘Until I can make sense of all this, you, soldier, are under arrest.’

  ‘Under arrest? For what?’

  ‘Desertion,’ said the officer. ‘Optio, take him into custody.’

  ‘Desertion?’ gasped Cassus. ‘But Sir…’

  Before he could say anything else, two soldiers grabbed him and tied his hands behind his back.

  ‘But nothing,’ said the Praefectus. ‘If your story is true, you have nothing to worry about. If desertion is proved then you will be crucified in front of the Legion. Nasica will decide but until then, you will remain under arrest. Optio, take him away.’

  The burly soldier threw a noose around Cassus’s neck and tied the other end to the pommel of his saddle.

  ‘Come on, soldier,’ he said, ‘let’s go.’

  Cassus jerked forward as the tether tightened and trotted behind the Optio’s horse, spitting the dust from his mouth as he went.

  Chatper 2

  The Lands of the Ordovices

  Britannia

  46 AD

  Gwydion swung the axe with all his might, the cast iron blade cutting deep into the flesh of the oaken trunk. He was stripped to the waist and the sweat ran in rivulets down his torso. His long black hair was tied back into a ponytail and his ever-present sword was leaning against a neighbouring tree. He paused for a moment and took a long drink from the skin he had filled at the nearby spring.

  The day was warm, but he knew that it would not last as winter was on the horizon. It would be the second winter he and Gwenno had spent in the forest and though the woods had protected them from the worst of the snows, he had lost no time that first spring making a simple wooden hut. It was especially needed since the birth of his son, Taliesin.

  As a
boy Gwydion had seen the men of the Blaidd making the large round huts that were typical of their people, but it had always been a job for a group rather than an individual. Nevertheless, he had used the same principles but formed an oblong shape rather than a circle, simply because it would be easier to form a lean-to roof. He had sunk the poles into the ground to form the walls while Gwenno had woven the more flexible ash saplings between them, to form a latticework base. Finally, they had mixed river clay, grass and horse dung together and packed any gaps to make it weatherproof.

  The final result was simple but effective. The roof was similarly constructed, though sealed with chords of bracken sandwiched between sheets of stripped bark.

  The hut had been finished for months and Gwenno had made it as comfortable as possible for their new family. Gwydion was an expert with his bow and they seldom hungered for meat, so when there was a surplus they traded with nearby clans for salt, cloth and anything else they needed. A half a dozen chickens roamed around the hut and their latest acquisition was a milking cow.

  This was the reason Gwydion was cutting trees. They needed to make a shelter for the cow before the snows came. At the moment it was brought in during the night to protect it from the wolves that roamed the area, but it was far from ideal, and when Gwenno had given him an ultimatum that either he or the cow had to move out, he knew that he could put it off no longer.

  Gwydion smiled at the recollection. It wasn’t that he was a lazy man, but the last few months had been idyllic for him and his childhood sweetheart. Gwenno had fully recovered from the trauma of almost being sacrificed by the druids and though the pain of knowing her father had been murdered with the full complicity of her mother had eased, the hatred of the man responsible still burned like an ember at the heart of a fire. Her mother had drugged her father’s ale enabling Robbus to kill him in an uneven contest, and when the usurper had grabbed control of the clan, Gwenno’s mother had joined him as joint leader – a pact made between Robbus’s bed furs weeks earlier.