“Uncle!” Cogidubnus shouted, running up behind him. “We must make for the grove of Ancasta, along the River Alre1. I will hold Caratacus as long as I am able and then meet you there in two days.”
Verica could only nod in reply and as he spurred his horse away from the scene of death, he gave a sad look back. Despite his despair, he managed a smile of deep-set pride at his great-nephew, who continued to stand defiantly in the face of Caratacus’ oncoming hordes, even as friendly warriors fled in all directions. There was no cohesion to be found in either side, and it was only the occasional single enemy fighter who would come at the Atrebates prince. Verica watched as Cogidubnus smashed a warrior across the head with his buckler and thrust his gladius into his heart, beneath the ribcage. He then sprinted up a short, rocky knoll and shouted a series of curses towards their hated foe. Another brazen enemy warrior came at him, only to stumble on the slick stones and fall on his face, allowing Cogidubnus to dispatch him with a slash of his gladius across the throat. Even from a distance, Verica could see the blood spurting forth as the man thrashed about. His nephew then gave one last battle cry towards their enemy before sprinting away, leading many of their enemies to chase after him and away from his great-uncle.
“Courage worthy of a king,” Verica said quietly as he and his small escort turned their horses about and rode away.
“Our enemies flee like cowards!” a warrior shouted triumphantly pointing to where Verica rode off on his horse. “The lands of the Atrebates are ours!”
“They have always been ours, we just had to remind them of it,” Caratacus corrected, clutching his injured side. The wound had bled a great deal and was now a dark, coagulated mess. The Catuvellauni prince, who would now be king of Atrebates, was a hearty man, who had been dealt far greater injuries in his years of fighting. The gash in his side would be little more than a nuisance for a while as it healed and scarred over. “We will fill our coffers with silver and tin, enriching our kingdom further. And tonight I will dine in Verica’s great hall before I burn it to the ground!”
All about him lay dead and dying men; the sounds of felling axes and spears striking flesh as his warriors viciously finished off the wounded Atrebates. Their own wounded were being dragged away by their comrades. Medicines and methods of healing were very archaic for the Catuvellauni, relying heavily on druidic magic, and as such many of his warriors would eventually succumb to ghastly infection and death.
“A terrible, yet wondrous sight,” Caratacus observed. “Our victory is now complete, and tonight we will sing of triumph and conquest in honor of our glorious dead!”
As evening fell upon the isle, the triumphant hordes of Caratacus marched into the Oppida Hill Fort that had once served as the seat of King Verica. The inhabitants offered no resistance, leaving the gates open. Survivors of Verica’s army had warned the people, with many fleeing. Still, most remained, for they had nowhere else to go. After all, who could they now turn to, abandoned as they were to their enemies? They hoped for clemency from their new master and understood that any further defiance would only be met with further pillage, rape, and brutal death.
“No members of the deposed royal family to greet us,” a warrior scoffed.
“Verica was a widower with no sons,” Caratacus said as he rode through the gate on a magnificent charger.
Crowds of people lined the dirt path. Some hung their heads while others gazed at the large warrior curiously. In a land in constant turmoil, such occurrences of rulers deposed by mightier warlords were all too commonplace.
“His only surviving relative was his brother’s grandson, who may very well be a feast for the crows by now. And even if he is not, he is of no threat to us. Atrebates is ours now, and the people look upon their new king!”
Verica feared for the safety of his great-nephew, thinking like Caratacus that the young prince may have perished. Such thoughts filled him with despair, coupled by extreme fatigue and lack of food to be found on the road leading south and west towards the grove of Ancasta. The two days of riding had been extremely hard on the now-deposed Atrebates King, and as they reached the grove, barely a mile from the sea, he had to be helped gingerly down from his mount. His once proud army was scattered; perhaps a dozen men were now with him, with a handful more waiting in the grove that had been sent on ahead by Cogidubnus.
“I should have died with my men,” Verica lamented quietly.
“And then who would our people look turn to?” The voice of his nephew was the first welcome sound the king had heard since he’d first been told of the Catuvellauni invasion. Cogidubnus stepped out from the trees, his face pale and eyes red from exhaustion and strain. The king placed a hand on his shoulder.
“There is one who can lead them,” he said tiredly, “and I am not he. But tell me, nephew, what of your family?”
Verica’s wife had passed on years earlier, and the couple had been childless. Cogidubnus was the grandson of Verica’s late brother and was his only living male relative. The young warrior had a wife and two infant sons.
“You need not worry, uncle,” he reassured. “I took precautions before we departed for war. Sorcha and my children are safe.”
“Safe?” Verica asked. “Where in these lands can they possibly be safe? Even if he thinks you are dead, Caratacus will offer a large reward for their capture, in order that he may be able to parade them in chains!”
“It is not within these lands that I sent them,” Cogidubnus explained cryptically. “But come, uncle, we must rest here tonight. Tomorrow all will be revealed.”
Verica was too exhausted to press any further. His guards laid out a pair of blankets for him to lie on, as his nephew and several of his men produced some cold rations of dried meat and fruit. He could hear the gentle current of the River Alre, which ran just over a short rise beyond the grove.
“We sent a couple men down to the river to catch fish, but I’m afraid any fires would be ill-advised,” a warrior stated.
“Agreed,” Cogidubnus nodded. “We must rest under the shadow of the trees tonight. I doubt that the Catuvellauni are attempting any pursuit, but we must not be careless. I only pray it does not rain. We are in what is now their lands and Caratacus will have eyes everywhere.”
The meat proved tough and stringy, though for the half-starved king and his men, it helped sate their rumbling stomachs. A few warriors came back bearing a basket of fish.
“There is a fishing village near here,” one of the men said. “We did not see much activity, and no sign of Caratacus’ warriors, so we should be safe for now.”
They ate in silence, uncertain as to what they should do when morning came. Only Cogidubnus seemed to have any sense of reassurance about him. His aura gave Verica a trace of hope that he had not felt since the word first came to him regarding the Catuvellauni attack on his kingdom. For the first time in a week he allowed himself to fall into a deep sleep as darkness of night completely enshrouded the grove.
The rains came just before dawn but were mercifully brief, with the thick canopy of trees protecting the small, haggard group of exiles. Engulfed in an early morning fog, Cogidubnus led the contingent the remaining short distance along the river to the sea. He grinned as he spotted the large ship rolling in the surf near the inlet of another small river2. His warriors were startled by the sight.
“By the gods, who are they?” one of the king’s guards asked.
“The only friends we have left,” Cogidubnus explained. “The king asked me to send word to our allies once we heard about the Catuvellauni incursion. I ask your pardon for my presumptions, uncle, but I sent dispatches to all of our potential friends, not just those in Britannia.”
“Romans!” a warrior spat in disgust.