by K. M. Ashman
‘Perfect,’ said Caratacus, ‘summon him immediately – we need a Roman’s perspective.’
Cassus’s eyes widened slightly as he realised the implications. Several nights ago, he had been near the ex-Roman soldier but that had been in darkness. In a few moments’ time he would be within a few paces of him inside a well-lit tent. The danger of discovery was huge as they had grown up together. He felt for his knife and vowed to himself that if there was a slightest inkling of recognition, he would cut Prydain’s throat before any man could react.
Five minutes later, Prydain ducked into the tent and looked around at the gathered men.
Cassus stood at the back but maintained his gaze as Prydain looked in his direction. If Prydain recognised his old friend now, it was all over, for both of them.
Prydain glanced around the tent briefly. He had been here before but never in the presence of so many warlords. Some he knew but most were strangers, including the bearded one dressed in the ways of the Deceangli. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but he couldn’t think what it was. He brushed the thought from his mind and turned to the king.
‘My lord, you summoned me?’
‘I did,’ said Caratacus. ‘Most here know your story but for the benefit of those who don’t, explain your knowledge of the Roman ways.’
‘My lord, I was brought up in Rome and fathered by a Roman but my mother was from Britannia. My heart and soul are Silures.’
‘Yet you served in her Legions?’
‘I did, but that was before I knew my heritage. My grandfather was Caedmon, chief of the Silures. Once this was revealed to me, my path was clear. I am Silures and challenge any man who says otherwise to trial of arms without quarter.’
At the back of the tent, Cassus seethed and it was all he could do not to step forward and accept Prydain’s challenge yet he remained still, committed to the greater cause.
‘Your loyalty is not in question, Prydain,’ said Caratacus, ‘we just need the benefit of your knowledge. There is a Legion marching on the Deceangli as we speak yet their actions are strange to us. This man is a scout and has watched them march. We seek your view of their intentions.’
Prydain nodded.
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Can I question the scout?’
‘Proceed.’
Prydain asked the scout to repeat everything he had seen down to the tiniest detail. As he spoke, he placed pebbles on the map representing possible routes and other important features. Finally he finished and looked over at the king.
‘So,’ said Caratacus, ‘do you have any idea what they are up to?’
‘I think so,’ said Prydain, ‘but can’t be sure.’
‘Just spit it out,’ said Caratacus, ‘I will decide the worthiness of your views.’
‘First of all, this isn’t just a campaign march,’ said Prydain. ‘The many different uniforms suggest they march with all auxiliary units as well as Legionaries. Often a Legion splits into many parts and are spread out over a large area, but it seems they have called them all in for common purpose.’
‘An assault,’ suggested Caratacus.
‘Possibly, but there is more; the fact that the camp followers have also lifted their roots suggests they are relocating and intend to form a new Legionary fortress elsewhere.’
‘A fortress,’ said Caratacus, ‘but where?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Prydain, ‘but they are being shadowed by the fleet so I suggest it won’t be far from the coast.’
‘What possible military aid could a load of boats be?’ asked Caratacus.
‘Limited, agreed,’ said Prydain, ‘but I don’t think these will be military support, I think they will contain supplies for the Legion.’
‘What sort of supplies?’
‘Food, water, weapons, clothing, you name it and it will be on board. But the first wave won’t carry supplies; it will be full of timber for the initial palisades. This is not a normal military campaign, Caratacus, this is an invasion.’
* * *
‘You think they intend to get a foothold in the Khymru?’ asked Caratacus when the news had sunk in.
‘I do,’ said Prydain, ‘and the route they take suggests they target the Cerrig of the Deceangli.’
‘There’s no way they can take the Cerrig,’ said Caratacus, ‘Idwal has it defended well.’
‘There is nothing the Legions can’t do when they set mind to it,’ said Prydain. ‘Their history shows they have levelled cities a thousand times the size of the Cerrig. All they need is time. First of all they will establish a fort and spread their control outward. After that they will move their attentions onto the centre of any local tribe and do whatever it takes to achieve their aims. For a fort the strength of the Cerrig they will bring in even bigger artillery, building Onagers from the great oaks of our forests, machines capable of throwing boulders half the size of a horse against its gates. They will surround it with thousands of men and starve them out, waiting for years if they have to. Make no mistake, once they are established, they will secure supply lines from the sea and will be reinforced by fresh men and constant supplies. Allow this to happen and the north of the Khymru will fall under their control by next spring and if that happens, the south will fall within a few years.’
‘The Silures will never succumb,’ growled one clan leader, ‘our lands are protected by the great river to the east and the sea to the south and west.’
‘Perhaps not immediately,’ said Prydain, ‘but these are mere inconveniences to a nation such as Rome. For hundreds of years they have conquered nations much bigger than ours. They are patient and their control spreads like a fungus, steady and all consuming. I am telling you, allow these people to establish a foothold in the Khymru and it is over, the whole of Britannia will fall.’
The gathered men fell silent. Finally Caratacus spoke up.
‘Then we will not allow it to happen,’ he said. ‘The direction they take indicates the Deceangli are indeed the target. Idwal’s forces are strong and his warriors brave but I have seen the Romans at close quarter and I fear he doesn’t know what comes his way. But between Idwal’s army and ours we have over forty-thousand men at arms, more than three times the numbers of their pathetic Legion. This is the opportunity we have been waiting for. If we join with the Deceangli, we can inflict a defeat of devastating proportions on the invaders, one which will send a signal to all other tribes. A signal that says they are not invincible and together we can triumph. What say you, do we sit back and watch the Romans swarm over our neighbours or do we stand alongside the Deceangli as brothers?’
The men in the tent roared their approval, showing support for the king.
‘Then so be it,’ said Caratacus, ‘we move out at dawn. Send a message to Idwal to mobilise his army. Our time has come.’
* * *
The cheering continued and many men left the tent to pass the message to their respective clans. Cassus watched Prydain escape his reach for the second time in as many days. Inwardly he was seething, yet accepted his role had to be played out before he could pursue his oath to kill him.
‘You have escaped me twice, slave boy,’ he said under his breath, ‘there won’t be a third time.’
He turned and walked over to Caratacus who was leaning over the map with his warlords, planning the route they would take to the lands of the Deceangli.
‘It has to be the coast,’ said one of the Warlords, ‘it is easier travelling and far enough away from Roman spies to ensure surprise when we get there.’
‘What about straight over the mountains?’ asked Caratacus.
‘Much quicker,’ agreed the warrior, ‘but the paths are narrow in places, allowing only two abreast to pass. The army will be strung out over many miles and open to ambush.’
‘The scout said they are only ten days march from the Cerrig,’ said Caratacus, ‘and it will take us that long whichever route we use, leaving little time for planning.’
‘There is another
option, my lord,’ interrupted Cassus.
The men looked up at him with interest.
‘Explain,’ said Caratacus.
Cassus leaned over the map and pointed out a route on the eastern border of the Khymru, following the great river upstream to its source and beyond.
‘If we follow the river,’ said Cassus, ‘it takes us through the lowlands of the Cornovii and up to the Deceangli coast. It cuts four days off the march and takes us directly into the path of the Victrix. All we have to do is inform Idwal of our intention and he can join us there for the battle. We will catch them unawares and our numbers will overwhelm them within hours.’
‘I thought about that,’ said Caratacus, ‘it is indeed favourable but carries too much risk. By going east we encroach on the lands of the Dobunii and could draw the attention of the Legion Gemina. The last thing we want is to attract the attention of a second Legion.’
‘That is a risk,’ said Cassus, ‘but what if they were too troubled dealing with other matters to look this way?’
‘Explain,’ said Caratacus.
‘My lord, my men’s swords still shine from cleaning and yearn to be dulled with blood. Our horses are fresh and we can be in the territory of the Dobunii in two days. Once there we can wreak havoc amongst the villages, striking quick and hard over a vast territory. The people will panic and word will spread to the fortress. The Gemina will think we are attacking them and do two things. First, they will stand to their garrison and focus on their defences, but secondly and more importantly, they will send out their cavalry to quell our aggression.’
‘But you are no match for their cohorts,’ said Caratacus.
‘This is true,’ said Cassus, ‘but we don’t intend to face them in conflict. We will be as shadows, striking hard and wreaking havoc before disappearing into the night.’
‘But an army of this size cannot be hidden,’ said Caratacus, ‘and word of our movement would get back to the Gemina.’
‘Perhaps so, but by then they will think they are the focus of the attack and won’t risk sending out their forces until sure.’
‘Your idea has merit,’ said Caratacus, ‘but you do realise what will happen when you are caught, for that is what you will be.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Cassus, ‘but if our blood adds time to you and Idwal’s arm, then we will have died in a good cause.’
‘Why would you do this?’ asked Caratacus.
‘To aid our people and free Britannia,’ said Cassus.
Caratacus looked around and saw the approval in the eyes of his warlords.
‘So be it,’ said Caratacus. ‘Brief your men and leave as soon as possible. You have four days until we reach the open plains and we need the Gemina Legion to be otherwise engaged. Can you do that?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Cassus, ‘leave it to me.’
‘I will spread word of your bravery to Idwal and your people,’ said Caratacus, ‘and the druids will carve your name in the stones of Mona.’
‘I am honoured,’ said Cassus. ‘Now I will take my leave. We have a long ride before us.’
‘Of course,’ said Caratacus and watched Cassus duck through the flaps of the tent.
Cassus made his way back to the campfires of his men, his mind racing with the task before him. He did indeed intend riding toward the Gemina Legion but it wasn’t to confront the Romans, it was to alert them about Caratacus’s plan. This was exactly what they had hoped for and he knew one way or the other, Britannia’s fate would be decided in the next few days.
Chatper 18
The Legionary Fort at Viriconium
50 AD
Ostorius Scapula stalked the ramparts of Viriconium, looking out into the forests surrounding the newly built fortress. His scarlet cloak was fastened down the front and he wore a fur-lined tunic against the chill of the Britannic night. Behind him, his auxiliary cavalrymen slept wrapped in their saddle blankets alongside the paddocks, enabling them to be riding from the fort within moments of receiving any command. Back in the barrack blocks, he knew thousands of Legionaries slept in their tunics, their armour within arm’s reach and their packs ready with rations and water. Again, they were ready for instant mobilisation, though it would take far more time to organise them and by the time they left the fort, the cavalry could be miles away, racing toward wherever the conflict would take place. But of course, that depended on the actions of others.
He had been there for weeks waiting for news of Caratacus and the information feeding back from his scouts was limited. News had come that the Victrix was moving from the north and the second Augusta had Caratacus under pressure from the south so he knew Caratacus had to act in the next few days. It was possible the king could turn and make his way back into the valleys of the Silures and Scapula knew that if he did, the campaign against Caratacus would stall for another year. There was no way the Legions could sustain a campaign through the winter in such hostile territory, so all he could hope for was that Caratacus’s ego was as big as his stature. The noose was tightening and though they could afford to wait, Scapula was under pressure from Rome for results and craved the confrontation.
* * *
Twenty miles away, Cassus and his men waited on a hill above a village. He had briefed his men regarding the plan he had made with Caratacus and to their credit, they bought into it entirely, totally unaware Cassus was about to betray them.
Below them was a Dobunii village laying silent in the darkness. The plan was simple. They were to descend on the clan with burning torches and set fire to the thatched roofs, killing anyone appearing out of the huts. Cassus saw no problem with this as he had no respect for the Dobunii at all. The Roman in him saw them as heathen while the Deceangli influence saw them as traitors for bending their knee. They didn’t deserve to live.
He knew he had to escape the fist of Deceangli warriors if he was to get to the fort but no opportunity had presented itself as yet. However, this was the chance he needed. He would lead the attack and, in the confusion, ride into the darkness unseen. His men would not notice him missing until first light and assume he had fallen in the fight. By then he would be at the fort and the Gemina would be mobilized.
He looked around at his men. Some held clay pots suspended from poles. Inside, the embers of a fire glowed red and they walked quickly amongst their comrades, pausing as each one held their rush torches against the flames. When they were all lit, Cassus nudged his horse forward and the rest of his men followed down the slope, gradually increasing the pace until they were galloping toward the village. It had started; the assault had begun.
* * *
In the camp of Caratacus, thousands of warriors also wrapped their cloaks around them as they struggled for sleep. Caratacus had temporarily prohibited the use of campfires at night, knowing too well that enemy forces often counted the glows to estimate their opponent’s number. The march had been good so far and without incident but he knew the next few days would be crucial to their success. A day’s march to the east lay Viriconium, the headquarters of the Gemina and though he was confident he had the strength to take on a Legion, he preferred it was on his terms and at a time of his choosing. Confronting them here would be of little value and end up in many lives lost for little gain, while combining with Idwal in the north to wipe out the Victrix could change history.
His tent was lit with oil lamps and hidden in a small valley to conceal the light from prying eyes. Around the table stood his warlords, going over the reports of the day. The command structure consisted of five men from his original Catuvellaunian army, all survivors from Medway – Gwydion of the Blaidd who had become a trusted lieutenant over the past few years and offered a Deceanglian viewpoint when making decisions, and four clan leaders from the Silures representing the combined clans from the south, each markedly different from the rest of the gathered men by their dress and face markings.
Catuvellauni and Deceangli wore mostly the same clothing, consisting of checked leggings and woollen jackets
, possibly covered with chain mail armour. Each man wore a helmet bearing the emblem of their individual clans and wore swords strapped to their backs, a sign of the warrior and testament to their individual strength in battle.
The Silures on the other hand were more lightly attired. Their leggings were plain as were their tunics, both made of softened cow hide or deer skin. They wore no helmets on their heads, preferring to allow their black hair to fall freely about their shoulders interwoven with strips of blood red fabric, the colour of war. Every Silures warrior had facial tattoos on one side of their face, winding their way from brow to jaw and often down their necks. The intertwining, branchlike designs were representative of nature and the pagan gods they worshipped.
The Silures were formidable warriors and feared no one, yet they fought differently to all other tribes he knew. Rather than face an enemy across open ground and fight with honour head on, they preferred to hide in the forests and hills, making the most of the landscape and their affinity with nature. They would blend in amongst the foliage before descending on an enemy like an avalanche, striking swiftly to inflict as much devastation as they could before disappearing again as quickly as they had appeared. It was a strange way of war and one alien to the rest of the Britannic tribes, yet it had been successful for the Silures and they had grown to become the most feared tribes in the country. Even on this campaign they kept their distance from the main body, preferring to weave their ways through any available forests rather than use the well-worn footpaths of the Khymru.
Caratacus sighed inwardly. They were a strange people and not easily handled, yet without them he was hamstrung. He needed their strength if he was to become successful. Yet it was a temporary measure, for unbeknownst to anyone else, Caratacus’s plan for the future didn’t involve the Silures, at least not in their present form for they were far too troublesome. No, his ambition was to combine all the other tribes under his banner to drive out the Romans before claiming the title of King of a united Britannia. They would be one people in a united land with common cause and there would be no place for a tribe such as the Silures.