by K. M. Ashman
Prydain’s mind was set hard and he deafened his ears to the countless cries of help from thousands of doomed men. Despite their pleas he rode hard, knowing that most of those he passed were about to die a horrible death, but there was no way he could help them all and he had promised to live, for Gwydion’s sake.
Within moments he reached the river and pulled up amongst hundreds of refugees, each mingling at the bank, terrified and unwilling to take the leap into the fast-flowing water.
‘What are you waiting for? Swim for your lives, their cavalry rides down on us as we wait.’
‘The water is too fast,’ shouted a man, ‘we will be drowned.’
‘Stay here and you will be cut down like corn,’ replied Prydain, ‘at least this way you have a chance.’
‘It is too wide,’ another said, ‘we will never make it.’
Prydain stood up in the stirrups.
‘Listen to me,’ he screamed, ‘you have to do this. The Roman cavalry will be here in minutes. Remove what armour you have and throw away your weapons. Discard your cloaks and tunics for the wool will drag you down. Walk out as far as you can but when the water takes you, don’t fight it. Let it carry you downstream. Swim with the current and as the river turns the bend, strike out where the water washes against the far bank.’
Still the crowd hesitated.
‘What are you waiting for?’ repeated Prydain. ‘You are going to die.’ Realising he was wasting his time, he jumped off the horse and started to strip his clothes.
‘Fine,’ he shouted, ‘stay and feed their lances. I am going.’
Within moments he had stripped to the waist and threw everything he had to one side.
‘You have no more time,’ he shouted, ‘take your chances in the river or die where you stand. The choice is yours.’ Without any more hesitation, he turned and plunged into the brown, freezing water.
Seconds later, others followed suit and within a minute hundreds of terrified refugees followed Prydain’s example, striking out into the fast-moving current. Prydain had learned to swim in the Legions, as did all Legionaries, so he found it relatively easy but behind him the natives of Britannia struggled in the current. Many had ignored Prydain’s instructions and had kept their clothing, not realizing that by doing so they had guaranteed their own deaths.
Screaming men sank beneath the water, dragged down by the weight of the sodden wool and as they panicked, they reached out to grab whatever they could, pulling others down with them. Despite the panic, many managed to pull clear and as Prydain reached the opposite bank, he could see other survivors hauling themselves up the muddy bank, gasping for breath and exhausted from the punishing, freezing water.
‘Keep going,’ shouted Prydain, ‘we are still within range of their archers.’ All along the bank, those lucky enough to survive staggered to the relative safety of the treeline and disappeared within their welcoming shelter. Prydain glanced back and saw the Roman cavalry descend upon those who had decided to stay, and despite the plaintive cries for mercy, they fell in their hundreds, slaughtered by the blades of the blood hungry riders.
The last of the survivors struggled up the bank and Prydain saw someone crawling in the mud, too exhausted to stand. He ran forward and helped them up, surprised to see that the silt covered figure was actually a young woman.
‘Come,’ he said, lifting her up from the floor, ‘quickly before the archers arrive.’
They both staggered into the treeline as the screams of those left behind echoed across the river. On and on they ran until they were deep into the forest and finally, they both fell to the forest floor, exhausted.
‘Thank you,’ said the young woman eventually.
‘No problem,’ said Prydain, sitting up, ‘but we can’t wait here; the Legions will be deploying the Batavians as we speak.’
‘Batavians?’
‘People to track us down,’ said Prydain, ‘and they’re also very good at crossing rivers. Now, come on, we have to go.’
‘Where to?’ asked the woman.
Prydain paused, realising this was a very pertinent question. He couldn’t go south as the Augusta Legion were marauding through the Silures countryside. West was back into the arms of the attacking Romans and east was into Dobunii territory, the client kingdom working with the Gemina fortress. That meant there was only one option left.
‘We have to go north,’ he said eventually, ‘into the lands of the Deceangli.’
‘My people also lie north,’ said the girl, ‘they will give us protection.’
‘Good,’ said Prydain, ‘then we should move. We need to find shelter and some extra clothing by nightfall.’
‘Where will we find clothes?’ asked the woman.
‘From the dead,’ said Prydain, ‘now let’s go.’ He helped her up and like hundreds of similarly bedraggled people around them, headed north into the denser parts of the forest.
* * *
Hours later, Ostorius Scapula was walking around the battlefield, surveying the carnage inflicted on both sides. It had been a mighty battle and men lay dead in their thousands. Eventually even the bloodthirsty Batavians had lost the lust for blood and prisoners were being rounded up in their hundreds.
Praefectus Ruga approached and walked alongside the Legatus.
‘A great day, my lord, and one that will see your name inscribed in the annals of history.’
‘Do you think so, Ruga?’ asked Scapula. ‘All these men have been sent to greet their gods yet Caratacus has escaped my reach. What sort of victory is this?’
‘You have sent a message out, my lord. A message that states that no matter how big the army or great the king, nobody stands against Rome. Caratacus may flee, but he cannot hide. Most of the country lies in our hands and after today, I cannot see the Silures offering him further sanctuary. A lot of their people died under his banner.’
‘We will see,’ said Scapula. ‘What news of our wounded?’
‘Still being counted, my lord. The men are quiet despite the victory for a lot of their comrades died this day.’
‘And prisoners?’
‘About a thousand. Amongst their number are the brothers of Caratacus and a group found hiding in a cave. We believe they are the wife and family of Caratacus.’
‘So the mighty king fled and left his loved ones behind?’
‘It would seem so,’ said Ruga.
‘Have them taken to Londinium,’ said Scapula. ‘The rest of the prisoners can gather the dead and build the funeral pyres.’
‘What about the enemy dead, my lord?’
‘Burn them too, they fought well.’
‘One more thing, my lord, there is a warrior within their midst who speaks Latin and claims asylum. He said to mention his name to you.’
‘Is the name Cassus?’ asked Scapula.
‘It is,’ said Ruga.
‘Have him released and looked after,’ said Scapula, ‘he is one of ours.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Ruga and marched away.
Scapula picked his way amongst the bloody pools and made his way up to the fort. Legatus Geta watched him approach.
‘Hail Scapula,’ he said.
‘Geta,’ said Scapula, ‘your Legions fought well today. We will seek approval from Emperor Claudius to add the battle honour to your Legion’s name.’
‘My men will be honoured, my lord,’ answered Geta.
‘So do you think this day will be worth it?’ asked Scapula.
‘I do,’ said Geta. ‘I believe it is the fulcrum around which the defeat of Britannia will hinge. To date there have been two schools of thought, victory and defeat. I now believe the inhabitants will see that resistance is pointless and they will all bend their knee to Rome.’
‘Most perhaps,’ Scapula sighed, ‘but not all. I hear fearsome stories about the Silures and suspect there will have to be more days such as this before they acknowledge our banners.’
‘Then so be it,’ said Geta. ‘Let them resist. Rome is great
er than one battle. This day or next year, their tribes will fall. Whether it be our blades or those of our grandchildren, the end result is inevitable. Rome is eternal and there is always plenty of time.’
‘Perhaps Rome has time,’ sighed Scapula, ‘but I fear I do not share that luxury.’
‘My lord?’
‘It’s nothing,’ said Scapula. ‘Right, let’s get this day over. Our dead need honouring and there are wounded to attend to.’
‘Who’s this?’ asked Geta, looking over to a Praefectus approaching with a Britannic warrior.
‘This is Praefectus Ruga,’ said Scapula, ‘and that is Decurion Cassus Maecilius.’
‘The Exploratore?’ asked Geta with interest.
‘Yes,’ said Scapula, ‘and probably the main reason we were victorious today.’
Cassus approached and saluted the Legates.
‘Cassus, I am glad you survived,’ said Scapula.
‘It was difficult,’ said Cassus, ‘the battle was unstructured and I found myself fighting both Briton and Roman at times just to stay alive.’
Geta’s eyes narrowed.
‘I hope you didn’t kill any of your true comrades,’ he scowled.
Cassus turned and stared at the Legate.
‘I did what I had to do,’ he said.
‘Enough!’ Scapula intervened. ‘What is done is done. You have Rome’s gratitude. So, are you ready to embrace her Legions once more?’
‘Not yet, my lord. I believe the man responsible for my disgrace six years ago still lives and I beg your approval to seek him out and end my oath once and for all.’
‘How do you know he is alive?’ asked Scapula. ‘He could be amongst all these.’ He waved his arm around the battlefield.
‘I have been held amongst the prisoners these past few hours,’ said Cassus, ‘and my quarry is well known to them. They talked of the outcome, not suspecting my true alliance and I heard tell of Prydain crossing the river. I would seek permission to pursue him and end this once and for all.’
‘And when this is done?’
‘I will return to Londinium to serve as you see fit,’ said Cassus.
‘You have earned this boon,’ said Scapula, ‘and permission is granted.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Cassus and turned to walk away but within a few steps he stopped and turned around.
‘My lord, during my time with the prisoners, I heard rumour of one other thing.’
‘Which is?’
‘The destination of Caratacus.’
Both Legates stared at the Exploratore in astonishment.
‘Where is he going?’ asked Scapula eventually.
‘He is to seek refuge with Cartimunda,’ said Cassus. ‘She is queen of the Brigantes and they lie in the north of Britannia.’
Scapula glanced at Geta, realising the implications of the unexpected news.
‘Thank you, Cassus,’ said Scapula, ‘this is truly powerful knowledge. Pursue this man who haunts your dreams and may the gods grant you the outcome you require.’
‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Cassus, ‘but this has nothing to do with the gods; it is between me and Prydain and long overdue.’
Without further ado he left the fort with the Praefectus and obtained a horse from the many abandoned by the defenders. Within the hour, he had crossed the river and was riding northward, once more on the trail of Prydain.
Chatper 26
The Lands of the Ordovices
50 AD
Prydain rode from Lanbard having received directions to the home of Derwen the woodsman. The battle of Caer Caradog had ended weeks earlier and though they had been pursued through the forests for days, many of the remnants of Caratacus’ army had survived and sought refuge throughout the tribes of the south.
The young woman whom he had rescued from the river on the day of the battle had disappeared into the night soon after, and as soon as Prydain knew he was safe from pursuit, he made his way to Lanbard to seek out the son of Gwydion.
He rode into the clearing and waited on the outskirts, waiting for an invite as was their way.
‘Hail, Derwen,’ he called, ‘I am Prydain, friend of Gwydion of the Blaidd and would seek respite.’
A man ducked out of a hut and walked toward him.
‘A friend of Gwydion,’ he said, ‘then I bid you welcome. Come, stable your horse. We offer simple fare and a straw bed but it is warm and dry.’
‘And no man could ask for more,’ said Prydain and urged his horse forward.
As soon as the horse was secure for the night, Prydain followed Derwen into the hut and met Lynwen, the woodsman’s wife. In the corner, two girls played with a young boy of about five years and Prydain guessed he was Taliesin. Derwen saw his look and glanced at his wife.
Nobody talked about Gwydion as protocol demanded that any guest was looked after before a host could ask for news.
Lynwen brought a platter of cheese with a thick slab of pork accompanied by ale and bread. Everyone ate quietly and after the children had been fed, Derwen filled up Prydain’s tankard with fresh ale.
‘So, Prydain,’ he said, ‘you say you are a friend of Gwydion. Have you seen him these past few months?’
‘I have,’ said Prydain.
‘Where?’ asked Lynwen.
‘I fought alongside him at a place they now call Caer Caradog,’ said Prydain.
Lynwen’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle the gasp.
‘You were there?’ she asked.
‘I was,’ said Prydain, ‘and the stories you hear in the markets of Lanbard do not do the day justice. It was everything they say and more. Never have I seen a battle more brutal or futile. We never stood a chance.’
‘And what about Gwydion?’ asked Lynwen, asking the question everyone knew had to be answered. ‘Did he survive?’
Prydain glanced at Derwen before shaking his head.
‘I’m sorry, Lynwen,’ he said, ‘Gwydion died in the fort on Caer Caradog.’
Lynwen gasped once more and this time tears welled up in her eyes.
‘Oh that poor man,’ she said, her voice breaking with emotion.
‘He fought well,’ said Prydain, ‘and sold his life dearly.’
Over the next half hour, Prydain recounted the battle of Caer Caradog while Derwen listened silently, engrossed in the stories of valour and tragedy. Finally Prydain told of how Gwydion had met his death and the pledge he had made to his dying friend.
‘So you have come to take Taliesin from us?’ gasped Lynwen.
‘I don’t know,’ said Prydain. ‘My own people are now under threat from these Legions and I have to join them to protect our lands. But I made a pledge and it is only fair that you know the truth. Taliesin is no ordinary child, Lynwen. He is Gwenno’s son and as such, the true blood leader of the Blaidd. The usurper Robbus carries the title chieftain but only by treachery and murder. One day, Taliesin must challenge Robbus or indeed his successor, but that time is many years away.’
‘Why can’t he just stay here?’ asked Derwen.
‘Because the country is at war,’ said Prydain, ‘and the Romans spread like fungus.’
‘But why would they bother with a simple woodsman?’
‘It’s not the Legions I worry about,’ said Prydain, ‘but at times such as these many of those displaced by warfare get desperate. Brigands abound and your family is an easy target.’
‘So what would you have us do?’ asked Lynwen.
‘He wants us to move to the village,’ said Derwen, guessing the obvious answer.
‘It makes sense,’ said Prydain. ‘You would be safe from brigands and should the Romans come, they will always try and negotiate with villages the size of Lanbard. Either way, the chance of you all surviving is much higher.’
Derwen looked at Lynwen.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘We have lived most of our lives in the forest,’ she said, ‘but the times are changing. Our life is hard but good and if it was onl
y our own lives we risked, then I would stay in a heartbeat. But I see the sense in Prydain’s words and fear for the safety of the children, not just for Taliesin but for the girls. I think we should consider this carefully.’
Derwen nodded and stood up.
‘There is much to think about,’ he said, ‘and I would sleep on such a decision.’
Prydain nodded and got to his feet.
‘Think well, Derwen,’ he said, ‘for you have the fate of a king in your care.’
‘There is a straw bed in the stable,’ said Derwen, ‘and you will find it warm. One way or another, you will have my decision at dawn.’
‘So be it,’ said Prydain, ‘I will see you in the morning.’ He left the hut and made his way over to the stable, mentally exhausted from the strain of the last few weeks.
* * *
The following morning, Prydain woke to the smell of burning and for a few seconds, struggled to realise where he was. Finally he jumped up and ran out into the clearing between the huts, not believing what he was seeing.
The main hut was ablaze, and to the far side of the clearing he could see Derwen lying in the dust with his throat opened from an assassin’s blade. Prydain ran over to the hut and tried to get inside but was beaten back by the smoke. He looked around frantically but could not see any sign of Lynwen or the children. Realising the brigand responsible was probably still around, he ran back to the stable to get his sword but as he entered, he could see his weapon was gone and his horse laying on the floor snorting its dying breaths as the blood poured from its own slashed throat.
Prydain spun around, expecting an attack at any second but there was no one to be seen. He ran outside once more, not understanding what was happening, but had only gone a few paces when he stopped dead in his tracks, staring across the clearing in disbelief.
A few paces to his front, his sword was stuck in the ground, while across the clearing a second sword mirrored his own but behind this one, a fellow warrior stood calmly, his head slightly bowed but eyes watching his every move.