Roman - The Fall of Britannia (25 page)

‘
What would you have me do, lord?’ asked Bragus.

‘
I’ll tell you what I would have you do,’ said Caratacus.
‘First of all; you will have all the families of the watchers who
failed me at the signal fires killed. Throw them from the very
cliffs their men failed to defend. Wipe their seed from the face of
the earth.’ He turned to his brother. ‘Togodumnus, you will call
the clans to gather at the Medway, I will coordinate our defence
there. As for you, Bragus,’ he said turning to the warrior, ‘I
trusted you with defending this island. You have failed
me.’

Bragus drew his
long sword and presented it hilt first to his King before dropping
to one knee.

‘
My
shame burns like fire, lord,’ he said, ‘my head is yours.’ He
removed his helmet and bent his head to expose his neck, inviting
the strike that would end his shame.

Caratacus stared
down at the warrior for a long time. He had been a faithful
follower and a feared warrior, but he had been in charge of the
defences and Caratacus could not allow him to get away with
failure. He placed the tip of Bragus’s sword beneath the warrior’s
chin and lifted his head up to meet his gaze.

‘
You
will have the chance to rectify your failure, Bragus,’ he said.
‘You will take your chariots and your people and slow up the
Roman’s advance. Gain us some time to gather our army at the
Medway.’

Bragus got to
his feet; grateful for the chance he had been given.

‘
How
long do you need, lord?’ he asked.

Caratacus stared
at Bragus for a few moments.

‘
The
Druids will write your clan’s name in the standing stones of
Afallon,’ he said eventually and with a nod, dismissed the warrior
without another word.

Bragus exited
the tent and paused in the open air, looking up at the stars as the
devastating implications sank in. Only the names of Kings, or clans
long dead to the memory of the tribe were immortalised by Druidic
inscriptions. He had expected to lose his own life, but Caratacus’s
adjudication was catastrophic to his people. The condemnation of
his clan’s name to the Afallon stones meant that the King had
written them off and expected every man, woman, and child of his
clan to confront the Romans, fighting with everything at their
disposal. A collective suicidal mission from which there would be
no return.

It took the rest
of the night for Bragus to ride back to his village, and
dismounting at the outskirts, he walked amongst the huts on the
wooded slopes of the river valley, taking in the familiar evening
sounds of those he knew so well. As he led his horse back to his
family’s hut, he received greeting after greeting from familiar
faces. He felt alien pangs of emotion, as he realised the respect
in the eyes of those who trusted him would soon be replaced with
accusation and disappointment when they found out his failure had
condemned them to die at the end of a Roman blade.

Bragus’s loyalty
knew no limits and the thought of not carrying out Caratacus’s
orders didn’t cross his mind. It was his fate to die in the service
of his King and he accepted that it was the duty of every tribe to
protect their homeland to the death, but for the first time in his
life, he doubted the King’s instructions. As a young man, he would
not have thought twice about leading the whole tribe into the jaws
of death, but since his wife had died in childbirth five years ago,
leaving him two beautiful children, the burden of fatherhood had
softened his heart and opened his eyes. He looked up at the skies
as if seeking guidance from his dead wife’s spirit, his face
screwing up as he remembered all the heart wrenching pain that she
endured to deliver the babies, knowing full well that she would not
survive to see them grow up.

‘
Was
it all in vain?’ he whispered in anguish, remembering Mira’s weak
smile, the pain of her ravaged body forgotten as she held the
babies for the first and last time. ‘Did the Gods really want you
to suffer so much to produce two beautiful children, just to take
them away again so soon?’ He lifted his hands to cover his face,
remembering the last conversation he had had with the woman who had
given her life to bear him both a son and daughter.

‘
Look after them,’ she had said weakly as her life ebbed, and
as she had died, he had made a solemn promise.

‘
I
will, Mira,’ he had vowed through his tears. ‘By the Gods, I
promise I will!’

With a heavy
heart, he continued to his hut to arrange for his tribe to face the
might of the Roman army, unaware that even as he walked, the time
and place of the conflict had already been taken out of his hands
by the men from across the seas.

----

Chapter 20

Gwydion sat on
his horse near to the King’s tent. They had received instruction to
be ready to ride at dawn and head west to the Medway River.
Caratacus was livid that the choice of battlefield had been denied
to him, due to the surprise landings, but had hastily reorganized
his forces to best use his strengths. He needed wide-open space to
deploy his chariots and needed to take his army beyond both the
river Medway, and the river Tamesas if he was to have any chance
against the enemy cavalry. Subsequently, over sixty thousand
warriors made their way westward toward the ford across the Medway
with orders to reform on the far side.

Caratacus
emerged from his tent and mounted his own horse alongside Idwal and
Togodumnus. Gwydion and the rest of the King’s bodyguard followed
close behind as the whole entourage headed north. Togodumnus rode
just behind the two Kings, but soon dropped back amongst the
following men, much happier to be amongst warriors rather than
politicians. He manoeuvred his horse until he rode alongside
Gwydion.

‘
Well,’ said Togodumnus, ‘it seems that you will have to wait
a while longer for your first full scale battle.’

‘
We
are patient, Sire,’ said Gwydion. ‘Our weapons will be as good
tomorrow as they are today.’

‘
Ah
yes, your weapons,’ he said. ‘As I recall, I lost one of my best
warriors over a squabble over some bow. Enlighten me why it was
worth the life of a good man.’

‘
He
brought on his own death, Sire; the bow was but an
excuse.’

‘
That may be so, but humour me. What is so special about this
weapon you carry?’

‘
It
is a gift from my father, Sire,’ said Gwydion, ‘and has been in my
family for countless generations.’

‘
I
understand it is a heathen bow,’ said Togodumnus.

‘
It
is in the Parthenian style, Sire, but was made locally by ancient
artisans.’

‘
Ancient artisans?’

‘
Yes, Sire, it is said that this bow will change the course of
history.’

‘
Can
I see it?’

Gwydion
considered for a moment before withdrawing the unstrung bow from
its leather pouch hanging alongside his leg. Togodumnus examined
the weapon with interest.

‘
It
is a beautiful piece of workmanship, admittedly,’ he said, ‘but I
have seen others as good. Tell me, Deceangli,’ he said, ‘what is to
stop me from taking this bow from you right now?’

Gwydion stared
at the King’s brother in concern.

‘
I
can’t let you do that, Sire,’ he said.

‘
And
how would you stop me? You have ten men, I have sixty thousand. The
odds are a little uneven, wouldn’t you say?’

‘
You
would have to kill both me and my men, Sire,’ said Gwydion. ‘To
kill the Deceangli King’s bodyguard would be seen as a great insult
to our tribe and the last thing you want is a war with the
Deceangli and the Romans on two different fronts.’

Togodumnus
laughed.

‘
Fret not, Deceangli,’ he said, ‘you can keep your bow. I will
stick to my broadsword.’

He gave the
weapon back and rode forward to re-join his brother.

----

That evening
Gwydion and his comrades camped under a clear sky, eating the last
of their food, but were interrupted when Idwal approached. He
joined them at the fire, refusing a share of their meagre
meal.

‘
Worrying times, Sire?’ ventured Gwydion.

‘
They are,’ said the King.

‘
Do
you think Caratacus can turn this around?’

‘
I
don’t know,’ said Idwal. ‘These Romans are better than I expected.
Our people need to be put on a war footing in case he fails. That
is why I am here. I need to return to the Cerrig to call our tribe
to arms.’

‘
I
agree,’ said Gwydion. ‘Our worth here is limited, we need to worry
about our own people.’

‘
You
are not coming, Gwydion,’ interrupted Idwal. ‘I want you to stay
here and watch what unfolds.’

‘
Stay here, Sire?’ said Gwydion. ‘Surely my sword would be
better off defending our own lands.’

‘
It
is just as important that we get information,’ countered Idwal.
‘You speak both the Catuvellauni tongue and that of the Romans, so
you are the best person for the job. You and your men will stay
with Caratacus as long as possible, the rest of us leave
immediately.’

‘
But, Sire…’ started Gwydion.

‘
But
nothing,’ answered Idwal. ‘Avoid getting drawn in to the battle,
but wait as long as possible before returning to the Khymru.’ He
stood up to leave. ‘Make no mistake, Gwydion, this is a very
important task, I will await your report in the Cerrig.’

‘
Yes, Sire,’ said Gwydion and watched Idwal disappear into the
darkness.

----

Gwydion and his
men travelled with the retreating army for two days until they
reached the Medway and waited patiently for the tidal river to
reduce in level until their turn came to cross the ford. Over the
next few days, the land between the rivers became crowded with the
throng of the Catuvellauni and their families. Every day, thousands
of warriors waited for orders as news filtered through about the
rear-guard action being fought by Caratacus’s cavalry until
eventually, the monotony was broken when a rider rode into
Gwydion’s camp.

‘
Who
is the one known as Gwydion?’ asked the warrior.

‘
I
am.’

‘
It
is said you speak the Roman tongue.’

‘
I
do.’

‘
Then come with me, your services are required.’

Gwydion followed
him through the encampment and was ushered into the King’s tent,
quickly taking in the smoky scene before him. Several bloodied
warriors were scattered around the interior, tending their wounds
while Caratacus himself sat in the corner, being bandaged by a
female slave. In the centre of the tent, Togodumnus paced the floor
like a rabid dog.

Everyone looked
stressed, but in the centre was the reason Gwydion had been
summoned. A figure lay in a foetal position on the floor, his hands
bound so tightly that his wrists bled and his hair was matted where
a club had knocked him from his horse when he had been taken
prisoner.

‘
At
last!’ said Togodumnus and turning to one of his warriors,
indicated the man on the floor. ‘Pick him up.’

The warrior
grabbed the captive’s hair and pulled him onto his knees, his head
yanked backward until he faced Togodumnus, his face caked with
dried blood. Gwydion was summoned forward by the King’s
brother.

‘
Right, Deceangli,’ he said, ‘time to earn your rations. Tell
this shit who I am and that his life is about to get a whole lot
worse.’

Gwydion stared
at Togodumnus for a few seconds before turning to the miserable
wreck of a man and translated his words into broken Latin. The man
looked at him in abject misery, though didn’t answer.

‘
Ask
him how many men the Romans have,’ continued Togodumnus.

Again, Gwydion
translated and again there was no answer.

‘
Why
doesn’t he answer?’ screamed Togodumnus, ‘he’s Roman, isn’t
he?’

‘
I
know you understand me,’ said Gwydion. ‘If you do, just nod your
head, or the pain you now suffer will increase tenfold.’

The captive
nodded slowly.

‘
Good!’ said Togodumnus, recognizing the gesture. ‘Ask him
about their strengths and their plans. I need to know what they
intend.’

Gwydion relayed
the questions and after a few seconds, the man mumbled something
through his smashed teeth. Gwydion bent to hear better before
reporting back to Togodumnus.

‘
He
says he is not Roman, Sire, he is a Syrian archer who has no
knowledge of the plans of the Roman Generals.’

‘
Horseshit,’ exclaimed Togodumnus. ‘Archer or not, he must
know something, ask him again.’

Gwydion did so
and again relayed the answer.

‘
He
says all he knows is that the army is enormous and no one can stop
the might of the Romans.’

‘
Stand him up!’ said Togodumnus and two warriors dragged the
man to his feet. He stood directly in front of the captive and
stared into his face.