by Ilka Tampke
I touched my scar through my tunic. Again, they had unearthed what was most sacred among the tribes and twisted it into something comic and loathsome.
So shaken was I by the hatefulness of the image that I was not immediately aware of the figure who followed it. He had already reached the ground in front of the stage before I saw him. When I did, my blood stopped.
Amidst the lurid spectacle of the parade, he was pure nobility.
He wore a short, grey tunic and his hair was unbraided. As he walked, his ankles chained to Euvrain’s, he did not repent or cry out to the crowd. He stared straight ahead and remained silent.
Some of the audience hissed, but the greater number were quiet as he passed, hushed with respect for this warrior who had defied the most powerful empire in the world.
‘Halt, prisoner!’ screamed one of the guards.
Caradog stopped and turned. Now I saw the full glory of his face. It was unaltered by bondage. He was a king. All present could sense it.
‘Come forth,’ said Claudius.
Taking Euvrain’s hand so she would not stumble, he slowly ascended the steps, and came to stand before the Emperor of Rome. His ankles were rubbed to bleeding by the rings. Euvrain looked hollow beside him. She and the children beside her would also die this day.
‘At last I meet you,’ said Claudius.
Caradog stared at his face, unanswering.
Be humble, I willed him, lest he angers and chooses a crueller death.
Slowly Caradog bowed to the Emperor and I exhaled with relief. Then he turned and bowed to the Emperor’s wife.
The crowd gasped in surprise.
He did not bend to Roman custom, but held to the ways of the tribes honouring queen as equal to king. I ached with love of him.
Agrippina smiled.
‘Free his legs,’ said Claudius.
The guards released the leg rings and pulled Caradog forward.
Claudius held up a sheet of white vellum and began to read. ‘This is the trial of the Briton Caratacus, son of Cunobelinus of Catuvellauni, now the Roman fortress of Camulodunum.’ The Emperor’s voice halted with the stutter I had heard so often mocked in the thermopolia. ‘You are accused of waging war against the Empire of Rome, obstructing the advancement of legions in the British province. You are accused of conspiracy against the Governors Aurelius Plautius and Ostorius Scapula, destruction of forts, property and roads, theft of grain, horses and weapons, and murder of citizen soldiers.’ Claudius looked up from the sheet. ‘How do you answer these accusations?’
It was a show. Every man and woman present knew that Caradog was to be killed this day. There were no men of law to defend him, no jury to judge him. Foreign insurgents were always killed. There could be no other outcome, especially from an Emperor already fearful of being seen as spineless.
‘All you have stated, I have done,’ said Caradog clearly.
‘By these acts you have defied the natural order of the Empire and the will of the gods who have instated it. The punishment for your crimes is the beheading of your wife and children, then your death by strangulation before the senators and people of Rome.’
Whispers of anticipation rolled through the crowd.
Euvrain stood between her two children, holding her babe. Her tears were soundless.
‘Are you prepared to meet this punishment?’
Only now did I see that an executioner stood at the back of the stage, bearing his axe and lengths of chain and rope.
‘I am,’ said Caradog. ‘But first, honoured Emperor, may I speak?’
The crowd murmured.
Claudius raised his brow and turned to the senators, who nodded. ‘We will hear you,’ he said.
This was mere sport for the crowd’s pleasure. Yet the castra praetoria was utterly still.
Caradog lowered his head. When he looked up, it was directly towards me.
My heart halted. He saw me. Mothers be with you, I silently prayed.
He looked to Claudius, and, in the resonant, perfect Latin he had known since his childhood, he began to speak. ‘Noble Emperor and citizens of Rome, before my capture, I was king of western Albion, a territory of great power and wealth.
‘If I had been a weaker man, less determined to resist you—if I had loved my tribelands less—I could easily have entered your city as a friend, not as a prisoner. You would not have hesitated to welcome an ally of such noble birth, who bore influence over many tribes.’
Yes, I thought. He was shaping a story that they understood.
He turned to the audience. ‘Instead of this, I face death and humiliation, while you are glorious. I had sovereignty, horses, gold and weapons. Whole tribes of warriors knelt down before me. Does it surprise you that I did not wish to lose them? Does it surprise you that I fought for them? Because you desire empire over the world, does it follow that the world desires to be your slave?’
My breath held.
A murmur began to swell among the people. It was the sound of agreement, the slow pivot of judgement.
Caradog turned back to the Emperor. ‘You would kill me for my resistance, yet if I had been dragged before you as one who surrendered without fighting, what glory would there be in your victory? None would have learned of my fall, nor of your triumph. If you kill me now, both will be forgotten.’ He drew a final breath. ‘But if you allow me to live, I will stand as eternal testament to your greatness.’
A long silence.
‘Liberato!’ called a lone voice from the audience. ‘Free him!’
Claudius’s mouth twitched. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘do you honour Rome’s sovereignty in Albion?’
Caradog bowed. ‘With all my being.’
The chant took hold. ‘Liberato! Liberato! Free him! Free him!’
Euvrain gripped Caradog’s hand, rigid with hope.
Claudius shifted and looked at his wife. In the final parry of this war, Caradog had forced him into a room without doors. To execute Caradog now would seem ignoble, disdainful of the crowd. Finally he lifted his palm to signal that he was about to pronounce judgement. ‘Briton, I have heard you speak. You call on my mercy and hope that I will halt your execution. No Emperor has ever shown clementia to such an enemy—’ He looked out over the sea of people at his feet. ‘They did not possess the magnanimity of this Emperor before you—’
My legs were trembling.
‘Caratacus of Britannia, you are spared death. You will live out your life on the soil of Rome. And all who pass you shall be reminded of my mercy.’
There was a moment of stillness, then the crowd broke open in an eruption of cheering.
I looked up at Caradog, who met my eye through the milling guards, and smiled.
I followed Euvrain to her courtyard garden. Water trickled from a spout in the wall. The last few crimson grape leaves clung to the vine on the arbour above.
‘Wine?’ she offered, filling two cups from a jug she had carried out on a tray and set on the table before us.
‘Thank you, a little. Is it locally made?’
‘Yes. And I believe using some of our fruit.’ She handed me a cup, then turned to face me.
I had never her seen her so beautiful. The southern sun had coloured her skin to a wheaten gold that made her eyes an even deeper blue. She had an ease in her bearing that I had not seen before. ‘You seem…well,’ I said.
‘Ailia, I am. I did not foresee it, but, look at this—’ She motioned to the courtyard and the fruit groves we could see through its gate. Rows of apple trees and grapevines stretched over the hills. A child’s playful screech rang out from the orchard. ‘My children are happy. We have sun, bountiful food, a generous pension. But most of all—’ She paused. ‘I have a home. One that I won’t have to leave with an hour’s warning.’
I touched her forearm.
‘You will think I have betrayed my tribelands…’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I do not.’
She stared at her cup.
I had not seen her si
nce the judgement. In the tide of dispersing crowds, I had been unable to reach her or Caradog that day. Despite days of asking, I had not found where they had been taken. Only yesterday, two weeks later, had a new crier in the forum told me they had been moved to a country house just north of the city, gifted by one of the senators. It took my last six armbands to persuade him to tell me where it was.
‘And what of you?’ said Euvrain. ‘I still cannot believe that you…that you are here.’
‘Who else would have sung your rites?’
She looked at me. ‘You strengthened him that day. You have always strengthened him.’ She paused. ‘I owe you my life.’
‘You owe me nothing.’
We sat in silence.
She sipped her wine. ‘And now?’ she said. ‘Have you come for your husband?’
Did she taunt me? ‘Is he here?’
‘In the stable,’ she said. ‘I sent the servant to tell him a visitor is here.’
We spoke of Rome’s strangeness and wonder. When I asked her whether she had learnt any news of the tribes, or tried to share what I had heard of our homelands in the city, she did not wish to speak of it.
‘Not now,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I cannot hear it. I must fill my heart with this place now.’
I was astonished. How could she hold such command over her heart?
With a sudden shove, the house door flew open, and a tall, fair-skinned man stood before us. ‘By Lleu!’ he gasped, his face lighting up. ‘Is it you?’
I nodded, too shocked to speak.
I scarcely recognised him. His brown woollen tunic was Roman-style, as were his laced sandals. But strangest of all, he had shaved his face and cut his hair. Short, rust-coloured curls sprung at his temples and around his neck. Without his beard he was utterly altered. It was as if he had lost a limb.
With a glance at Euvrain, he knelt before me, grabbed my hand and kissed it.
Euvrain stood up. ‘I will get some more wine.’
We waited until she had disappeared before we spoke.
‘I cannot see you…’ I said, still staring.
He laughed and swung onto the bench beside me. ‘It is I, my love. I am unchanged.’
With his nearness, I began to know him.
‘Where have you been?’ he said, ‘I searched in every city guest house after the tribunal, but none knew you by name or description.’
‘I do not speak my name here, of course. I am Cata, war widow from the province state of Trinovantia.’
‘See?’ He laughed. ‘Rome changes you also.’
Our smiles died away.
‘You spoke beautifully at the tribunal.’
‘I had an audience I wished to impress.’
His hand found mine between us, and our fingers interlaced.
‘I thought I would watch you die that day.’
Caradog said, ‘I was prepared to die…’
‘And yet you did not.’
‘No.’
After a few moments I said, ‘Is it true that you may never return to Albion?’
‘Ay, I am closely watched. I must remain within the borders of greater Rome.’
The trickling fountain was loud in the silence.
‘And are you pleased,’ I asked, ‘at the course of it?’
‘I am glad for Euvrain. I am glad for my children to have a father—’ ‘But for yourself?’ Albion was his soul.
‘I meant what I said when I spoke before Claudius. I have lost all.’ I gripped his fingers. ‘What will you do?’
He shrugged and looked out to the orchards. ‘I will eat and shit. I will grow these grapes and make poor wine.’
I paused. ‘Why did you speak, Caradog?’
‘Because I wanted to live.’ He looked at me. ‘Should I have done otherwise?’
‘No…no.’ I drew him to me.
It was his nature, his truth, to endure. How else could he have led our war? Only one with such an instinct for his own survival could have come so close to ensuring that of Albion’s tribes.
‘And what of you?’ he asked, as we pulled apart. ‘What will you do?’
‘I will return to Môn.’ The name felt hollow.
‘And what of the war?’
I frowned. ‘Do you think it will continue?’
‘Of course it will. The Silures have already made attacks on Scapula’s new camps. The tribes will keep fighting, Ailia, no matter how many times Claudius says Britain is defeated.’
I shook my head. ‘I will remain at Môn. My work is there.’
‘Have you not thought of staying here?’ he said.
‘With what purpose?’
‘To remain with me.’
‘How?’ I snorted. ‘As concubine? As a house servant?’
‘Stop it, Ailia.’
‘Then what? You will banish Euvrain and put me in her place?’
He shook his head. ‘She has weathered every possible storm with me. I will not abandon her.’
‘I would not permit you to.’
A brown wren darted into the vine before us.
Just as Caradog had found new ground in the west, so now he would claim this Roman soil as his own. He was hardy. He would grow in this earth. But I would not.
He said softly, ‘What of our marriage?’
‘Our marriage was between the Kendra and Albion’s king. Neither exists now. There is no marriage.’
He winced. ‘Then, does anything still bind us?’
‘Of course,’ I whispered.
‘Then stay,’ he said. ‘There is nothing here for me without you.’
I thought of the long passage back to Albion, the shattered tribes that awaited me there. For a moment, I thought of leaning against his shoulder, succumbing to this comfort. I loved him. I honoured him. But his duty to Albion was finished. And mine was not. ‘If I stayed, I would not be what you loved.’
He nodded slowly. ‘As I am not what you loved.’
I battled the truth in it. He was strange to me here. I claimed to love him, yet for the first time I wondered if it was him I loved, or his war?
A servant entered with a tray of bread and cheese, but I told Caradog I would not stay any longer. I took his hand and brought it to my lips. It smelt of Roman soil. Though I breathed deeply, I could not smell what lay beneath it. ‘What is this?’ I fondled the ring on his middle finger. It was thick gold and bore the face of Claudius.
‘A gift from the Emperor. I am required to wear it always as a reminder of his mercy.’ He laughed weakly. ‘They told me it was British gold.’
In that instant, I felt more sadness than I could hold. ‘Then treasure it,’ I said, fighting tears. I stood to leave, but Caradog kept hold of my hand.
‘Please honour me, Ailia,’ he said. ‘Please honour what I have done.’
‘I will.’
‘And know that I have loved Albion.’
I met his gaze. ‘None have loved it more.’
I lowered my head and kissed him for the last time.
I turned my mare, gifted by a journeyman at the ports of Dubris, into the final bend of the path that led to Llanmelin. The bare oaks stood witness to my arrival, just as they had one year ago when I had approached this township for the first time, eager to meet the famous Caradog. I kicked the mare forward. This time I had even less idea of what I would find.
Although their camp was half a league south of Llanmelin, Roman soldiers were thick on the township walls.
Caradog’s prediction had been correct. The war continued. Scapula had worked day and night to build enough forts to hold the new front, but Silures fighters had attacked them doggedly. The mountainous terrain made it easy for tribal bands to disrupt Roman supply lines and leave the camps hungry.
I had listened with interest to the messengers who rode, unseen, through the captured tribes, but I did not offer my counsel. It was not swords that would preserve us now.
It had been three weeks since I had returned to Albion. At the first touch of its
cold earth beneath my bare foot I had wept. I knew then that I was not as Euvrain. I would rather live on this soil in disruption and fear, than anywhere else in peace.
I had ridden the line of the winter solstice, diverting west at the Habren to enter Tir Silures. The Roman-held lands were not safe for a journeywoman, but I knew how to hide within forests and busy markets, and passed through unquestioned. I wanted time enough to compose the poem, but, beyond that, I did not fear my own death. I had known the Mothers. I would know them yet. What harm could be done to me by human hand?
My destination was Môn, where Albion’s journeypeople remained safe and free to chant in ritual within the groves. My body hungered to be among them. But I had business in Llanmelin first.
‘I am visiting my mother,’ I said to the soldier who stopped me at the gate.
‘There is no one within,’ he said.
‘She is among the fringes at the northern wall.’
He stared at me, then laughed with pity and let me through.
The town was a carcass. On both sides of the roadway, the houses sat empty and gaping, their doors and roofs burned away. Blackened fence posts marked the burnt remains of tethered dogs and horses. The forges stood silent and cold.
I rode steadily towards the northern gate, praying there might be some beyond it who survived the atrocitas. But when I reached the fringes they, too, were abandoned, their tents charred and strewn on the ground. My heart slowed. She was lost. How could I have expected otherwise?
I rode back into the township and found myself wandering among the remains of the buildings I had known so well: the Great Hall, Caradog’s house, the temple, the journey-huts. Within these places I had helped shape the war. Once or twice I passed a house still pouring smoke from its roof, a few livestock penned around it. Llanmelin was not entirely deserted.
I came to my own hut. Its roof and door were intact. The door screen was closed. I looked up. Smoke was rising from the thatch.
I slid off my mare and tied her to the fence.
The doorbell had been taken. My heart thudding, I nudged the screen open.