The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘Who is it?’ asked the voice. ‘Do we know him?’

  Somebody poked Cassus with a staff and he groaned quietly.

  ‘By the gods, he’s still alive,’ said the man and he knelt down to turn Cassus over.

  Cassus opened his eyes weakly and looked at the man before him. Though it was dark he could see it was the white-haired man whom he knew looked after the flock.

  ‘Water,’ gasped Cassus and the old man pulled a water skin from beneath his coat to grant his request. Cassus gulped greedily as if he hadn’t drunk in an age. When he had finished, he sat up and looked at the men with fear on his face.

  ‘Who are you?’ he gasped. ‘Are you of the Dobunii?’

  ‘No we are Deceangli,’ answered the man, ‘you are way outside Dobunii territory.’

  ‘Thank the gods,’ said Cassus. ‘At least the Deceangli are a proud people and not afraid to shed blood in defence of their lands.’

  ‘We would ask the same thing of you, stranger,’ said the old man, glancing at Cassus’s broadsword across his back. ‘Who are you and where are you from?’

  ‘I am a warrior of Caratacus,’ said Cassus, ‘or at least I was. I fought at Medway but was wounded in the battle. I and some others sought refuge with the Dobunii when we lost the day. At first it was fine but as the Roman patrols got more frequent, they lost their nerve and their king bent his knee. I could not countenance such abomination and left with my fellows to find Caratacus. I hear he survived the battle and rebuilds his army.’

  ‘And where are your comrades now?’ asked the man, looking around.

  ‘I fear we were betrayed by someone in the Dobunii,’ said Cassus, ‘and were ambushed by a Roman patrol. My fellows fell but I escaped with an arrow wound. I have been walking for days, avoiding all contact, afraid that anyone I came across would be either Dobunii or Roman.’

  ‘Well you are safe now, my friend,’ said the man. ‘Perhaps I can help.’

  ‘Do you know the whereabouts of Caratacus?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘That I don’t,’ said the man, ‘but I can offer shelter and food while you recover.’

  ‘Madoc, wait,’ said the other man, ‘how do we know he is not a brigand and this is no more than a ruse?’

  ‘You may be right, Rhun,’ said Madoc, ‘but I am not going to leave a wounded man to die out in the woods. We will take him back and take it in turns to guard him tonight. Tomorrow we will decide if he is friend or foe. Now help me get him up.’

  They lifted Cassus to his feet and helped him walk to the roundhouses a few hundred paces away. Cassus played along as if exhausted but deep inside he was exhilarated. This was going exactly as planned.

  * * *

  The following morning, Cassus woke before dawn as the men of the roundhouse got ready for the day’s work. The fire at the centre of the hut burned steadily, casting its light around the gloomy interior. Six men and boys made this space their home while four family units including the children shared the other two huts between them. Across from him Cassus could see one of the young boys sat against a wall, cradling an old sword and staring at him with concerned eyes.

  ‘Madoc,’ called the boy, ‘he’s awake but he doesn’t look right.’

  The white-haired man from the previous night entered the hut and walked across to face Cassus.

  Cassus tried to rise but found his strength was gone.

  ‘Stay down,’ said Madoc, ‘you need the rest.’

  Cassus was confused. This shouldn’t be happening. His ruse of being weak was nothing more than an excuse to get into the village, but he was actually feeling awful and had no strength in his body.

  ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, his voice shaking. ‘Have you poisoned me?’

  ‘We haven’t,’ said Madoc, ‘though I fear your wound has. It is infected and needs the attention of a Shaman.’

  Cassus moved his body slightly and gasped in agony as the pain rolled across his back. The false wound had been a risk but he had insisted on it to help his cover. Now it could turn out it could end his mission before it had started. He almost demanded a Medicus but stopped himself, before he gave the game away.

  ‘He has the fever,’ said Madoc. ‘Boy, go and bring the Shaman. Be quick or we could lose him. I will get some water.’

  A few minutes later Cassus lay back on the straw mattress, his whole body shaking uncontrollably as the infection took hold. The rest of the men left the hut to take the livestock to the pastures but Madoc stayed until the Shaman arrived. Cassus slipped into unconsciousness and through his fever he could feel the pain in his back increase to excruciating levels. Hours later someone forced a bitter liquid between his lips and the subsequent coughing fit dragged him from the dark depths of pain-filled hell.

  ‘Steady,’ said a voice, and he opened his eyes to see the tattooed face of a teenage girl before him. Her hands held a beaker containing the disgusting liquid.

  ‘You have to drink this,’ said the girl.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked weakly.

  ‘The one who is saving your life,’ said the girl, ‘now drink.’

  Cassus did as he was told though the liquid was disgusting.

  ‘Where is the Shaman?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘I am the Shaman,’ said the girl, but before he could voice his disapproval, the darkness dragged him down once more.

  * * *

  The next time he regained consciousness, the hut was busy and smelled of cooking meat. Men and boys sat around the fire having done a day’s work in the fields and were now anticipating the evening meal, having slaughtered a lamb that had broken its leg in a fall from a cliff.

  The smell of the meat made him gag and though he knew he needed nourishment, there was no way he could eat. His back ached as if it had been ridden over by a hundred horses and his skin crawled as if infected by a thousand insects. Again darkness called and the noises disappeared along with the smells. As he lay helpless in the hut, two of the men walked over and looked at his body.

  ‘Do you think he’ll make it?’ asked one.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the second, ‘the infection was too deep.’

  They left Cassus in peace and returned to the fire, impatient to taste the lamb stew in the pot above the fire.

  * * *

  The next time Cassus opened his eyes, the room was quiet and he could see the same strange girl sat cross-legged at the fire, crushing leaves into a bowl. His headache had gone and though exhausted, he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his body. His wound still hurt but it was more localised around his shoulder rather than burning across his back. He realised he had a raging thirst and tried to speak.

  ‘Water,’ he gasped but the sound that emerged bore no resemblance to what he had tried to say.

  ‘Water,’ he said again with more success and the girl turned to face him. Without speaking she walked to the door and poured a beaker of water from a skin hanging on the wall. When she returned, she lifted his head with one hand and poured a trickle between his lips, gradually increasing the flow as he drank.

  ‘Steady,’ she said, ‘you can’t have too much yet.’

  Cassus finished drinking and lay his head back down on the sheepskin beneath his head.

  ‘Well,’ said the girl, ‘you must have really angered some gods in your time.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Cassus weakly.

  ‘Because none of them want you in whatever realm they command and you’ve been sent back here to suffer this miserable existence with the rest of us.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Cassus.

  ‘It’s quite simple,’ said the girl, ‘I have never seen anyone travel so close to the afterlife and return as you have done. What was it like there, stranger? Did you peer into the realms of the dead?’

  ‘I don’t recall,’ said Cassus. ‘How long was I gone?’

  ‘I have sat with you for seven days,’ said the girl, ‘cleaning your wounds and administering the potions of the forest
as if I was your personal slave.’

  ‘You have my gratitude,’ said Cassus.

  ‘I don’t need your gratitude,’ said the girl, ‘here, let me help you up.’ She eased him to a sitting position and packed another fleece behind his back, taking care to avoid his wound. She brought another beaker of water and this time he managed to hold the cup himself as he emptied it again. ‘Your thirst is a good sign,’ she said, ‘it shows your insides are awakening. In a while I will get you some broth, but let’s see if you keep the water down first.’

  Cassus stared at her. Her hair was messy and completely black with a hint of blue like a blackbird’s wing and from the centre of her forehead an intricate Celtic design followed the left side of her face and down her neck to disappear below her cloak. Her eyes were deep hazel and apart from the tattoo, her young face was unblemished by disease or marks. Her eyes lifted to meet his as she realised he was staring.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she snapped.

  ‘Your markings,’ said Cassus, ‘are they a tribal sign?’

  ‘They are the marks of my people,’ said the girl.

  ‘Deceangli?’

  ‘We are of no tribe yet all tribes,’ said the girl.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Cassus.

  ‘All my kind are Shamen,’ said the girl, ‘and we tend the sick in return for the things we need.’

  ‘Do you have a name?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘You will not be able to say my true name,’ said the girl, ‘but these people call me Heulwen.’

  ‘Then that is what I will call you,’ said Cassus. ‘What of your people, are they known by a name also?’

  ‘We are known as the Asbri,’ said Heulwen, ‘and populate the hidden places where the real people fear to go.’

  ‘The real people?’

  ‘Those who live in the farms and the villages,’ said Heulwen.

  ‘So what payment are you receiving for saving my life?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘Five sheep,’ said Heulwen.

  Cassus smiled weakly.

  ‘Five sheep. Is that the total of my worth?’

  ‘That and an oath made on your behalf,’ said Heulwen.

  ‘An oath?’

  ‘Yes, given by Madoc and one which you will keep,’ said Heulwen. ‘We have loaned you your life and one day may request it back.’

  ‘You will want my life?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘Perhaps not your life, but certainly a favour,’ said Heulwen.

  ‘What sort of favour?’

  ‘That is yet to be decided,’ said Heulwen, ‘but it will not exceed the one given to you.’

  ‘And if I refuse to pay?’ asked Cassus.

  Heulwen smiled.

  ‘You won’t refuse,’ she said, simply.

  ‘And when will you demand payment of this debt?’ asked Cassus.

  ‘At a time of our choosing,’ said Heulwen and stood up. ‘I don’t think you should try solids yet but there is Cawl left in the pot. Do you feel strong enough to drink of the broth?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Cassus and watched the girl as she ladled a bowl of the rich liquid from the pot on the fire. A few moments later she crouched again before him and fed him the clear broth from a spoon. When he was done, she stood up and tipped the remains of the soup back into the pot.

  ‘I am done here,’ she said. ‘Get some more sleep and try to eat something tonight when the men have their meal. I will return tomorrow to change your dressings and give you a different potion. You are over the worst and now need to build your strength.’

  Cassus watched her go before lying back down on the mattress. Though he had only been conscious for a short while, he realised just how weak he was and welcomed the sleep that enveloped him once again.

  Chatper 13

  The Land of the Durotriges

  49AD

  Vespasian rode his horse slowly along the front of his Legion. Apart from the scout patrols guarding the Legion’s rear, every man was on parade on the plains before the Durotriges hill fort. Rank after rank of soldiers stood shivering in the morning mist waiting for the horror about to happen before them, but it wasn’t battle that chilled their souls but something far more sinister. Decimation.

  Up above on the wooden ramparts, the remaining warriors of the Durotriges looked down on the massed ranks, nervous but defiant that their fortress would prevail. They had suffered assaults before by warring native tribes but had always prevailed. Though the army below was impressive, they were only men and men could be killed.

  Vespasian halted in front of his officers and turned to face the massed ranks. Though they stretched far on either side his voice rang clear as a bell and was heard by even the farthest man.

  ‘Men of the Augusta,’ he roared, ‘three days ago you won a mighty battle on the field beneath your feet. Some of our brothers in arms died but they sold their lives dearly and we are honoured to have called them comrade.

  ‘However, there are also those who shamed the name of our Legion and ran in the face of the enemy. This is the ultimate disgrace and I will not let it go unpunished. Look to your left and behold those who ran.’

  As one the Legion looked toward the place where Tribune Lanatus had slaughtered the chariots of the Durotriges and to the sound of the Legion’s drums, over a hundred men were marched onto the battlefield, flanked by the auxiliary cavalry. As they passed, the soldiers in the front ranks jeered and spat at them in disgust and all the men of the shamed centuries had a look of fear on their faces as they knew the fate that lay in wait. When they reached the centre of the field, the drums stopped and the men halted before turning to face their Legion. Vespasian turned and faced the condemned men.

  ‘Citizens of Rome,’ he called, ‘I will not address you by your unit names, for you no longer have a unit. You stand accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy, a charge punishable by death. Many of you are young and this was your first taste of battle but I cannot allow this act to go unpunished. Therefore, my judgement is this. Those of you before me are known to have run so are subject to decimation.’

  A murmur rippled through the ranks; though it wasn’t entirely unexpected, it was never a good thing to happen to a unit, especially to so many men.

  ‘Centurions,’ called Vespasian, ‘split them into their Contubernia.’

  Three centurions waded amongst the accused administering vicious blows from their Vitis sticks until there were fourteen groups of eight men each. Fourteen junior officers holding small leather bags marched from the ranks of the Legion and halted before each group.

  ‘Begin,’ shouted Vespasian, and one by one each man in their group of eight took it in turns to withdraw a pebble from the bag. There were ten pebbles in each bag and while nine men in each group drew grey pebbles, one ended up with a black one.

  ‘Those who have drawn black, step forward,’ shouted Vespasian. Across the group thirteen men stepped reluctantly forward, knowing only too well the fate that awaited them. Vespasian looked toward the last group.

  ‘Who has drawn black in that group?’ he called.

  When nobody stepped forward Vespasian nodded silently toward centurion Barbatus. Barbatus marched over and a few moments later, dragged a crying young man from the rear rank before throwing him to the ground alongside the others. For a second, Vespasian was surprised how young the boy looked but immediately wiped the thought from his mind. Any sign of weakness now could have catastrophic effects later on when absolute obedience was demanded.

  ‘Men of the accused,’ shouted Vespasian, ‘by fair means you have chosen one man from your own ranks to face penalty on your behalf. These are the men you trained with, ate with, bled with, and shared stories around the campfires at night. Many of you grew up with them and some may even be related. Until three days ago they were your brothers but because of what you have done in the face of the enemy, they now face the ultimate shame on your behalf. In a few seconds, a drum will strike one hundred beats. When it ends, these men will lie
dead before us, victims of your beating, but know this. You will have no weapons but will kill them as you would a diseased dog and they will die knowing they have been kicked to death by those who are no better than them. Know this also, any man holding back will share their fate and should any victim remain alive when the drum stops, then the whole Contubernium responsible will share his fate.’

  Vespasian turned to the fourteen men singled out. Most had their heads hanging low though a few stared forward in defiance. The boy still knelt in the dust, sobbing quietly.

  ‘You who are about to die,’ he shouted, ‘I offer no word of comfort except these. You are no worse than your executioners. Show us now the courage that failed you in the heat of battle and gain some respect before you face your gods.’

  Without warning one of those selected for death pulled a hidden Pugio from his tunic and raced across the ground toward Vespasian, but before he had gone twenty steps, an arrow flew through the air and lodged deep into his heart. The man staggered a few more paces but fell dead before he had crossed half the distance.

  Vespasian was furious and called out again.

  ‘Centurion Barbatus,’ he screamed, ‘take the rest of that man’s Contubernium and crucify them before the enemy fort.’

  Barbatus signalled a century of men to follow him and they dragged the dead man’s nine comrades away to carry out the punishment.

  ‘Is there anybody else amongst you who would share their fate?’ shouted Vespasian.

  Nobody moved a muscle.

  ‘Then let the decimation begin.’

  * * *

  A sole drummer started the beat and for a few seconds nothing happened. Finally one of the men in the groups realised what was happening and ran forward to punch his former comrade in the back of the head, causing him to fall forward in the dust. Immediately the rest of the men realised what was expected and fell on their unfortunate comrades, beating them to death with their bare hands in an animalistic fury borne of fear. The young boy’s screams of fear rang out across the battlefield as his comrades approached and though he knew it was necessary, even Vespasian felt a pang of regret at the young man’s terror.