Claudius

II

The boy started screaming the instant he recognized the pointed stake. He had been taken captive in a raid on the Ordovici two years earlier and had heard the whispered tales of what happened behind the screen of oaks in the sacred grove. Now he would experience the dreadful reality. Caratacus frowned. The gods must have their sacrifice, but he wondered if it was necessary for the victims to suffer so much. On another occasion the boy might have been drugged, but Nuada, High Priest of the Catuvellauni, had ordained the threat so great that the victim must undergo the ordeal in the full knowledge of what was happening to him. Only then would the Druids be certain of the reply the gods gave to the gift of a soul.

There was no need for torches. A full moon flooded the grove with pale light, occasionally part shadowed by a wisp of cloud. A thin, misty rain drizzled down through the oak canopy and Caratacus could taste its sweetness on his lips. The new-life tang of damp summer grass filled his nostrils.

The screaming changed to a shocked whimper as the two guardians of the grove picked the boy up by the arms and carried him, struggling, towards the stake. It was set on a low mound at the centre of the clearing. The mound was surrounded by a circle of cloaked and hooded figures. Only Druids and kings could witness this ceremony. Caratacus stood outside the circle of priests beside another powerful figure in front of a carved wooden throne at the edge of the trees.

‘Squeamish, brother?’ the second man asked with a cold smile.

‘I have seen blood before, Togodumnus. I only take enjoyment from spilling it in battle.’

Why must his brother continually antagonize him? It hadn’t always been like this. Their father, Cunobelin, had raised them to rule together. The Druids had taught them the art of kingship and between them they had combined the strength and intelligence to make the Catuvellauni the most powerful tribe in southern Britain. They were so different, yet so alike: Togodumnus, a year older and stocky, with the heavy shoulders of a full-grown ox; Caratacus, tall and slight, but with a strength that always surprised his opponents; both of them hungry for a power that would not be shared. He couldn’t point to a single incident that made them rivals. It had happened over time: a slight here, a disagreement there, and finally the moment when his brother challenged him to single combat. The king had forbidden it, of course, but Togodumnus never forgot the imagined insult.

The screaming began again when the boy felt the point of the stake at the opening of his anus, and grew to an agonized, throat-tearing shriek as it penetrated his bowels. He had been carefully chosen for his size and weight. The stake must penetrate his heart at the very moment the sun rose between the two most ancient oaks at the eastern side of the clearing if the ritual were to have its full effect. It was two hours till daylight.

The victim’s arms were unbound. Their flailing would add to the Druids’ understanding of the gods’ message. The priests studied his torment with an intensity that was almost hypnotic, recording each change of expression, each shudder of agony and, when the screaming finally stopped as he lapsed into blessed unconsciousness, each dying gasp.

‘Will your Dobunni fight?’

Togodumnus shrugged. ‘That is for the council to decide. I am here to listen. Once I have listened I will take what I have learned back to my tribe and we will decide in the old way.’

Caratacus knew it would serve no purpose, but he couldn’t resist goading his brother. ‘A king is not a king if he cannot command his people.’

Togodumnus flinched and his hand went to his sword belt, but it grasped empty air. ‘We will see who is the better king. It is fortunate for you we have left our weapons outside the shrine. A king’s blood would have been more welcome to the gods than any slave’s.’

The timing was perfect. The boy gave a final, convulsive shudder just as the first rays of the sun speared between the trunks of the twin oaks. The Druid circle drew closer and an intense discussion took place among them. Eventually, one of the priests broke away and walked towards the two brothers.

‘What news, Nuada? What omens from the sacrifice?’ Togodumnus asked respectfully. Before he had taken the tests, Nuada had been a prince of the Catuvellauni. He was an adept of the sacred rituals and in his youth he had travelled to Gaul to study among the learned men of the Veneti among the great Stones. It was said he was welcomed even in the highest councils of the society at the enormous sanctuary on Mona in the Western Sea. He was old now, older than any man in the tribe, but he still stood tall. His grey hair was cut short and his scalp shaven in a half-moon from his forehead. The cloak he wore was of the finest woven goats’ hair and seemed to shimmer in the dawn light. At his throat was an amulet of Silurian gold in the shape of a bear, and where his right hand should rightfully have been a bear’s razor-clawed pad was fixed by a leather socket that covered his lower arm. But it was his eyes that made men fear him. They were the colour of old amber and had the intensity of a stooping falcon’s.

The Druid ignored Togodumnus and took his place solemnly on the throne in front of the two men. His breast heaved, and as they watched the amber eyes rolled back into his head, so the sockets were filled with the unnerving milky white of a blind man. From deep in his chest came a low growl, and the unearthly voice that emerged from his throat sent a shiver through Caratacus.

‘The gods accept our sacrifice, but are puzzled why the invaders have been allowed to sully this land with their presence for so long without being swept back into the sea whence they came. The sacred places are defiled and their servants insulted and killed, yet the men of Britain stand aside and allow these Romans to advance ever further. Are the gods to believe that their warriors fear the invaders?’

Caratacus felt Togodumnus stiffen, but he ignored the implied criticism. Nuada had been one of the strongest advocates in council for an immediate counter-attack on the Roman army, and it was surprising how often the musings of the gods echoed his own view-point. This was merely the prelude to the true message of the prophecy.

‘Yet the gods are both forgiving and generous. They understand the reluctance to attack an enemy of such power; understand, even, that mere men might hesitate.’ The sound of Togodumnus’s teeth grinding almost made Caratacus smile, but he maintained his solemn expression as Nuada continued. ‘Nevertheless, victory is assured. When the time is right, Taranis will shower thunderbolts from the heavens and Andraste will call on the rains and raise the rivers to cleanse our land of the Roman filth. Epona will seduce their horses and drive them wild and Belenus will send a plague to strike their soldiers down. All this the gods pledge.’

Togodumnus relaxed at his side, but Caratacus sensed they still had more to hear. The support of the gods was welcome, but they were fickle masters. He had noticed that often everything would be in place for their intervention, only for some stronger or more deserving god to take precedence and cancel out what was to be. Nuada had not mentioned the Roman gods, so perhaps the fear he spoke of was not only felt by ‘mere men’. Certainly, they would have power in their own lands, but would that power extend to the island of Britain? Caratacus knew only one thing with certainty: when it came to the fight it would be man against man, sword against sword, and shield against shield, and only the god within each would affect the outcome.

Nuada’s voice grew in intensity. ‘Only this do the gods ask of the men of Britain. That they stand firm in the face of the threat, even if the enemy appears to have the ascendancy. For the gods to prevail, men must have faith, and it is by your courage that your faith will be proved. That for each victory, large or small, the gods should be rewarded appropriately from among the enemy champions, for it is from the souls of the strong that they themselves gain strength. Finally, they require that that which is broken must be mended, and that that which is divided must be joined, and that the festering wound which is weakening the men of Britain must be healed.’

The Druid slumped forward in his throne. After a few seconds he raised his head, and the eyes which looked up at them were the eyes of Nuada and not the prophet. When he spoke, his voice was the voice of an old man, gentle and slow.

‘Go now. The gods have spoken.’

Togodumnus hesitated as if he were about to speak, but thought better of it. Caratacus could feel his brother’s confusion, and understood why. The message from the gods, though couched in the archaic, coded language the Druids favoured, was a straightforward one: if the warrior tribes of Britain would fight, the gods would aid them. But the final part was different. It was more the kind of riddle with which Nuada had taxed them during the long winter nights when he had tutored them for the kingship. It contained a hidden message which Caratacus had already untangled, but which his brother’s furrowed brow demonstrated was still not clear to Togodumnus. This was one of the reasons Togodumnus was now king of the Dobunni, a numerous but not influential tribe who acted as a buffer between the civilized peoples of the east and the wild savages who populated the untamed lands of Siluria and Demetia in the west. Caratacus acknowledged his brother was a prodigious warrior who had bested many enemies, but their father understood he did not have the temperament to maintain peace and discipline among the British tribes at a time of ever-growing pressure from the Romans. That took intelligence and cunning. The kind of intelligence and cunning that allowed Caratacus to stay silent during the long minutes until his brother worked out the answer.

They were approaching the settlement when the final piece clicked into place and Togodumnus whirled round to face him. ‘This was your doing,’ he snarled. ‘Somehow you put Nuada up to this.’

Caratacus gasped, feigning shock at his brother’s sacrilege. ‘You would accuse me of interfering with the gods?’ he demanded. ‘You impugn not only my honour but that of the holiest man in the tribe, a priest who has communicated with the gods since before we were born and whose prophecies guided our father before us and his father before him? Are you mad, brother? Even to make such a charge is to invite the three trials before Esus. Only my love for you holds me from returning to the sacred grove and demanding immediate justice.’

Togodumnus hesitated. He had witnessed the three trials of Esus, and he knew a man’s chances of surviving them were slim. ‘You must excuse me, brother. My mind is confused and I spoke hastily. It is just that the message… You understood the message from the gods, surely?’

Caratacus pretended to accept his sibling’s apology with as much grace as he could muster, but there was still an edge of false exasperation to his voice when he replied grudgingly, ‘The message is not clear to me. I was turning it over in my mind when you attacked my integrity. Perhaps you would enlighten me?’

‘Not your integrity, brother; never your integrity. But I admit I questioned your judgement, and now that judgement has been confirmed by the gods. I was suspicious, but I see I was wrong.’

‘And what is it you gleaned from Nuada that I have not? It was always obvious we must face the Romans, but it will be at a time and a place of our choosing. I will not sacrifice warriors on the whim of anyone, not even Taranis. I do not have enough of them.’

‘But do you not see, brother?’ Togodumnus was excited now. ‘That is the message the gods sent: “That which is broken must be mended, and that which is divided must be joined, and the festering wound which is weakening the men of Britain must be healed.” Surely what is broken is our friendship, and what is divided are the two tribes we rule-’

The light of understanding gleamed bright in Caratacus’s eyes. ‘And the festering wound is the enmity we have allowed to grow between us! You are right, Togodumnus. I see it now. The gods wish us to put aside our rivalry and combine our strengths to meet this greater threat.’ He grasped his brother by the shoulders and looked him in the eye. ‘I for one bow to the will of the gods. What of you, brother? Will you join me and smite the Romans such a blow that the ravens and the foxes will feast on their flesh and the frost will crack their bones when winter comes?’

Togodumnus hesitated for only a second. A tiny twinge of doubt told him something was out of place here, but his brother’s confidence and all that he had witnessed this night overcame any scepticism that remained. ‘The Dobunni will fight with the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes,’ he said firmly. ‘And with the aid of the gods we will sweep the raiders into the sea.’

‘Not just the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes, brother, but the Cantiaci and the Atrebates, and the Durotriges, the Iceni and the Cornovii, the Coreltauvi and the Brigantes, the Parisii and the Dumnonii.’ Caratacus listed the roll call of the southern tribes. ‘I will even make accord with the Silures and the Ordovici if it means we can turn back the armies of Rome. The messengers have set out. The chiefs will be here in three days. Will you stay for the council?’

Togodumnus nodded, stunned by the scale of his brother’s ambitions. They parted, Togodumnus for the roundhouse whose family had been evicted to provide suitable accommodation for the honoured guest, Caratacus for the modest home he shared with his wife and family in a wing of the royal palace.

Nuada was waiting for him. ‘Well?’ The Druid raised an eyebrow.

Caratacus gave him a weary smile. ‘We have one pigeon in the net. It is yet to be seen whether we can ensnare the rest.’

Nuada shrugged. ‘That is the will of the gods.’