The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘And do you know why?’

  ‘No, but one day he will tell me, just before I rip out his heart.’

  The warrior nodded his head in agreement.

  ‘I will not deny you that day, stranger,’ he said eventually, ‘and besides, in my experience, a man who holds no distinction between life and death is the most dangerous man alive. What is your name?’

  ‘My name is Gwydion of the Blaidd,’ he answered, ‘a clan of the Deceangli.’

  ‘And I am Gerald of Lanbard, son of Bryn,’ said the warrior. ‘I have heard of the Blaidd; they were once a respected clan who traded hard but fair. Occasionally we had need to clash swords but honour was always kept. Recently they are better known as people of false promises and are seen as a stain on the good name of the Deceangli.’

  Gwydion didn’t answer.

  ‘Do my words offend you, Gwydion?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘Without knowing the facts behind such claims I cannot answer either way,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘Then let me enlighten you,’ said Gerald. ‘Just before last winter, the Blaidd sent a trading party south to barter for cattle. Though the request to meet halfway was strange, we trusted their word and met as requested. The cattle were handed over and we received a sack of gold jewellery in tally. However, on our return journey, our men were ambushed by a party of Blaidd far superior in number. They killed all our men and stole back the tally.’

  ‘If all were killed, how do you know they were Blaidd?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘One boy survived,’ said Gerald. ‘Not for long, but long enough to tell about the Wolf Torcs they wore about their necks.’

  ‘If what you say is true,’ said Gwydion, ‘then I am shamed, but I have not been part of my clan since the death of Erwyn. I can only assume that the new leader, Robbus, has taken them down a path that is new to my people.’

  ‘I suspect you are right,’ said Gerald, ‘but there was more than one sword doing the killing.’

  ‘Then I have no explanation,’ said Gwydion. ‘It is the first I have heard of this news.’

  ‘It matters not,’ said Gerald eventually, ‘if every man was killed for the actions of his comrades the land would be full of beasts only. We do not hold you responsible and despite the bitter memories, we are a peaceful clan and welcome your trade. You may pass.’

  ‘No,’ shouted the boy, ‘I have been insulted and demand redress.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ said the man, ‘you may live longer.’

  ‘The pup has a loud bark,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘But a weak bite,’ said Gerald, ‘take no heed.’ He held out his hand and grabbed Gwydion’s forearm. ‘I hope you find the man who killed your wife, Gwydion,’ he said, ‘no man should carry such a burden.’

  ‘I will,’ replied Gwydion, ‘but now I must go.’

  Gwydion turned to enter the village but had not gone a few steps before the boy’s voice called out one more time.

  ‘Wait,’ he shouted, and Gwydion turned to face the angry young warrior.

  ‘I have not finished,’ said the boy. ‘You have insulted me and I demand redress.’

  ‘Shut up, Drew,’ said Gerald, ‘let the man pass.’

  ‘I will not,’ shouted Drew. ‘This Deceangli pig has dishonoured my name and I am owed payback.’

  ‘How have I dishonoured you?’ asked Gwydion calmly.

  ‘You called me a pup,’ said Drew, ‘and that offends me. Draw your sword, Deceangli.’

  ‘Don’t do this, Drew,’ said Gerald quietly, ‘he will kill you.’

  ‘It is my right,’ shouted Drew, ‘now stand clear – this is a matter of honour.’

  Gerald sighed and stepped back. Age, experience or even rank always came second to matters of honour and though he knew there could only be one victor, Drew was correct. Where honour was concerned, it was his right as a warrior to demand conflict.

  ‘I do not want to fight you,’ said Gwydion, ‘but you should know, if you pursue this course, then I will offer no quarter.’

  ‘It is you who will beg for quarter,’ snarled Drew and launched forward into the attack. Gwydion drew his sword and swatted the blade of his opponent to one side. Drew rained blow after blow at Gwydion’s head, forcing the Deceangli backwards across the path. Those people passing nearby stopped in their tracks to watch the conflict with interest, most knowing that the heavy, double-handed sword of the local boy would smash through the smaller Romanesque blade favoured by the stranger.

  In less experienced hands this would indeed have been the case, but Gwydion had spent most of his youth practising with the smaller sword and had perfected a technique unique to him. If he tried to block any of the blows directly with his blade, he knew it would shatter within minutes, so instead he used the smaller blade to absorb and deflect the blows to either side. Any side strokes aimed at his torso were similarly deflected downwards toward the ground with surprising ease and little effort. Within minutes, the attacker was tiring while Gwydion was still relatively fresh. The strength of the blows weakened and the frequency slowed as the young boy struggled to keep up the intensity and finally his sword slumped as he gasped for breath.

  ‘Why do you not fight me?’ he gasped. ‘Are you a coward?’

  ‘A fight is not defined by the more aggressive,’ said Gwydion, ‘but by the victor. One last chance boy, stop now while we both have honour, or my blade will taste blood.’

  ‘Brave words,’ said the boy, ‘yet I have seen nothing to worry me.’ With that he raised his sword and rushed forward to renew the attack. Gwydion deflected the blow one last time and stepped forward to inside the reach of his opponent, grabbing the back of the boy’s neck with his left hand.

  ‘I warned you, boy,’ he snarled into his ear, and thrust his stabbing sword through the flesh of the teenager.

  Drew’s body stiffened in shock and he dropped his own sword to the ground. Gwydion withdrew his blade and pushed the boy away from him. Drew looked down at the blood starting to run from the wound before falling to his knees.

  Gwydion span around to defend himself from any attack that may come from the others, but there was no need – all three stood firm in a silence broken only by the gasps of pain from the wounded boy.

  ‘Do we have a problem?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘There is no problem,’ said Gerald, ‘the fight was fair.’

  ‘And I am free to continue?’

  ‘You are.’

  Gwydion nodded toward the boy still kneeling in the dust.

  ‘If you stem the blood, he may live yet. I placed my blade outside of the organs.’

  ‘I noticed the thrust was pulled,’ said Gerald, ‘and you have my gratitude.’

  ‘Why gratitude?’ asked Gwydion. ‘As a warrior he knows death is always a bedfellow.’

  ‘Because he is my son,’ said Gerald. ‘Now be gone before I change my mind.’

  After a moment’s pause, Gwydion sheathed his sword and nodded acknowledgement.

  ‘Then I hope he lives, Gerald, for his father’s sake.’ Without another word he turned and walked into the village to continue his business.

  * * *

  An hour later Gwydion sat at a wooden table in the village square, drinking ale from a wooden goblet he had purchased from the nearby vendor. He sat patiently, waiting for the contact he knew would come. Finally a man with familiar features limped toward him, relying heavily on a walking stick and Gwydion signalled to the nearby vendor to bring more ale.

  Marius was a Catuvellaunian warrior who had served with Caratacus and been severely wounded at the famous battle of the Silures two years previously. Caratacus’s army had been at the point of annihilation at the hands of Mateus and his cohort but had been delivered by the timely intervention of a war band of the Silures. When Caratacus and the remaining survivors of the Catuvellauni travelled south to join with the Silures, those wounded who couldn’t travel were dropped off at the village where the elders were well paid to ensure they were cared for until they were wel
l again. Many did indeed follow on but some, like Marius, stayed and sought work in the busy trading village.

  ‘Gwydion, good to see you again,’ said Marius, extending his hand. They grabbed each other’s forearms in greeting before Marius looked around the square. There was an awkward silence before Marius spoke again.

  ‘I heard about what happened to your wife,’ he said.

  ‘How? It only happened yesterday.’

  ‘News travels fast, Gwydion, though I don’t know the details. What happened?’

  ‘I will tell you over ale,’ said Gwydion. ‘Take a seat.’ The two men sat back down and sipped on the tankards as Gwydion retold the story of how Gwenno lost her life. Finally he sat back, the tale told. ‘And that is why I am here,’ he said eventually, ‘I seek the man who took her life and have reason to believe he is in this village.’

  ‘But even if he is,’ said Marius, ‘what makes you think they will let you kill him, especially if he is one of their own?’

  ‘I will challenge him to trial of arms,’ said Gwydion, ‘they will grant me that right.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Marius, ‘especially after that business with the cattle last year.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ said Gwydion, ‘and it leaves a bitter taste in the mouth, but a challenge must be recognised across all peoples. It is our way.’

  ‘Unless he was sent by the elders,’ said Marius. ‘It is common knowledge that you and Gwenno live in the hills. Perhaps when our cattle were stolen you were seen as the easy option for retribution. After all, the people were screaming for Deceangli blood and you fitted the bill nicely.’

  Gwydion stared at Marius, not sure how to take this news.

  ‘Are you telling me that the Ordovices are behind the death of my wife?’ he asked eventually.

  ‘Look, Gwydion,’ said Marius, ‘I am not party to the meetings of this tribe but do hear things said in passing. Whether the elders were involved or not, I can’t say, but what I do know is that there were no tears shed when the news reached the village.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Gwydion. ‘We traded here every month, made friends and became involved in the village. I thought we had been accepted.’

  ‘But your blood is Deceangli,’ said Marius, ‘as was the blood of those who killed their kin.’

  ‘Then I will speak to the elders,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘There is no point,’ said Marius, ‘they would not turn him over. All you will do is alert them that you seek retribution. You may even be executed yourself. No, you must leave this place and move on.’

  Gwydion considered Marius’s words carefully.

  ‘I can’t, Marius,’ he said, ‘my life would be spent in shame for not addressing the imbalance. This man killed my wife and I will take his or die trying.’ He stood up to leave. ‘Where will I find the council?’

  ‘No, wait,’ said Marius, ‘if I can’t turn you from this path, at least let me arm you.’

  ‘I have my own weapons,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘Not with steel, but with knowledge,’ said Marius. ‘I work in the stables of the council and have taken up with a lady who serves their tables. Let me speak to her first and see if I can glean any knowledge. At least you won’t be entering the lion’s den as a blind man, though I fear the outcome will be the same.’

  ‘This woman would share such things with you?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘She will,’ said Marius. ‘We have a child together and share everything.’

  ‘Ha, you old devil,’ said Gwydion, ‘you wasted no time planting your roots.’

  ‘This injury was the best thing that ever happened to me,’ said Marius. ‘It has made me think twice about the way of the warrior. Oh, I miss the camaraderie and even the rush of blood during battle, but my eyes have cleared enough to see there are other things in life.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Gwydion. ‘For the last two years I too have realised that there are other things outside of war, but since…’ He drew a deep breath, leaving the sentence unfinished.

  ‘I understand,’ said Marius. ‘Look, you stay here and I will be back in an hour. If I don’t find anything out, at least you have only wasted time.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gwydion, and sat back down as Marius limped away.

  * * *

  For over an hour he waited, adding a platter of chicken and a chunk of bread to his bill with the tavern. Finally he saw Marius limping out of the gloom and stood to meet him.

  ‘Marius,’ he said, ‘you have news?’

  ‘I do,’ said Marius, ‘though not good I’m afraid. The man you are looking for is known as Badger, named for the white streak in his hair. He is a brigand without a clan and known for deeds of murder. On this occasion, it would appear he was indeed in the pay of the council, though I doubt they would admit to it.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Gwydion. ‘Why would they do this to me? I have done nothing to raise their ire.’

  ‘You were just an easy target, Gwydion,’ said Marius. ‘The people demanded action and you were available.’

  ‘It matters not,’ said Gwydion eventually, ‘I still have the right to a trial of arms.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Marius, ‘but he is not here.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘When his blade found Gwenno’s flesh, he knew you would seek him out so left for someplace where he thought he would be safe.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘North, to the lands of the Deceangli.’

  ‘Why does he think he would be safe there?’

  ‘Are you not a wanted man within your own people?’

  ‘That may be so,’ said Gwydion, ‘but if he thought he would be safe there, then he thought wrongly. Wanted or not, my blade will spill his blood or I will die in the process. When did he leave?’

  ‘Immediately,’ said Marius, ‘he probably has a day’s start on you.’

  ‘Then I have wasted enough time,’ said Gwydion, ‘I should leave now.’

  ‘I thought you would say that,’ said Marius, ‘so have prepared this.’ He handed over a bag of food. ‘Right, you had better be gone – darkness falls, and you have a long way to go.’

  ‘Enjoy what peace you can, Marius,’ said Gwydion, mounting his horse. ‘I doubt our paths will cross again.’

  ‘Good luck, Gwydion.’

  Gwydion turned his horse and trotted back toward the main gates of the village. Within minutes he approached the gates and was dismayed to find them closed for the night. A guard looked down from the wooden platform, while another approached from the shadows.

  ‘The gates are closed, rider,’ he said, ‘come back in the morning.’

  ‘I need to leave tonight,’ said Gwydion, ‘I will take my chances.’

  ‘You’re not listening, stranger,’ said the guard, ‘I open the gates for no man except my peers.’

  ‘Then open them for me,’ called a voice from the shadows. Gwydion turned in his saddle and saw the older warrior whose son he had injured earlier that afternoon.

  ‘Gerald,’ said Gwydion, ‘how is your son?’

  ‘He will live,’ said Gerald, ‘though it is more than I can say for you should you stay here this night.’

  ‘I am in danger?’

  ‘My son’s comrades are still aggrieved that someone who has wounded one of their own walks freely in their own village. They are drinking heavily and despite my counsel, I fear they will seek retribution before the night is out.’

  ‘And what about you, Gerald? Do you seek revenge?’

  ‘I see the honour in what happened, the young bloods only see the wound. Be gone quickly, Gwydion. With this deed we are even and should we meet again as foes, there will be no debt on either side to stay our blades.’ He nodded to the guards to unbar the gates.

  Gwydion walked his horse forward and stopped on the other side of the wall.

  ‘One more question, Gerald,’ he said, ‘what news of the Romans?’

  ‘
They have become bogged down by Catuvellauni women and wine around Camulodunum,’ sneered Gerald. ‘Fear not, Gwydion, they won’t venture this far west for they know Khymric steel is sharper and wielded more expertly than that of the Catuvellauni, a lesson learned not two days ride from here.’

  ‘I am aware of the battle you refer to, Gerald, for I witnessed it myself.’

  ‘You were there when the Roman cohort fell at the points of our blades?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘I was, though my recollection is that it was Silurian steel that slew the enemy, not Ordovician.’

  ‘The source of the weapons is irrelevant in this instance,’ said Gerald, ‘for it is common Khymric pride that bore them. Silures or Ordovices, the result would have been the same.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said Gwydion, ‘but it is Silures steel I seek now.’

  ‘You are going south?’

  ‘I am,’ said Gwydion.

  ‘Then you are a fool,’ said Gerald. ‘The Silures welcome very few strangers into their territory.’

  ‘I will take my chances,’ said Gwydion, ‘for there is one amongst them who owes me a favour.’

  ‘Who is this man?’ asked Gerald.

  ‘His name is Prydain,’ said Gwydion, ‘and I call him friend.’ With that, he turned his horse and headed into the darkness toward the land of the Silures.

  Chatper 6

  The Lands of the Ordovices

  46AD

  Gwydion kept riding south, occasionally coming across farmsteads where the advice was always the same. Travel no further, or you will die. Despite this he continued on his journey, having little other option. Soon he left signs of civilisation behind and entered the forests of the south, still thick and un-felled, unlike the farmlands to the north. Every moment he imagined hidden eyes watching each step he made, but still he advanced. Two nights were spent this way, until finally he woke on the third day and knew instantly he was in trouble.

  His horse was still tethered to the nearby tree but its ears were pricked up and its nostrils wide as it detected danger. Gwydion stood slowly, and deliberately held his sword at arm’s length, dangling uselessly from his fingers.