Warrior: The King in Rome

Book 0: Warrior

by Simon Scarrow, T.J. Andrews

Genres: Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

Be one of the first readers to get WARRIOR! Available first in five thrilling stand-alone episodes, or you can wait to buy the complete novel in 2023, price tbc.

AD 61. Rome. Boudica's rebellion against Roman rule has failed. At a huge celebratory banquet, an ambitious budding historian, Caius Placonius Felicitus, takes an interest in a mysterious guest: Caratacus. Once a high king of Britannia, now living in exile, Caratacus gradually opens up to Felicitus. And the young Roman soon realises that Caratacus' is the story he has been waiting all his life to tell.

AD 18. Britannia. Caratacus' tale begins as he - quick-witted youngest son of the tribal king Cunobelinus - humiliates his own brother in a war of wits. Cunobelinus decrees that the teenage prince continue his studies under the Druids at a sinister sanctuary, nestled in a remote valley in the lands of the Silures . . . But with a dangerous new Druid sect lurking in the shadows, Caratacus will need all his new skills, as well as his natural cunning, to survive. . .

The brand new series from the Sunday Times bestselling authors of Invader and Pirata: Warrior, the story of Britannia's barbarian warlord Caratacus.

Release date: July 7, 2022

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 80

Sample

You are taught that Rome cannot be defeated, that her enemies beyond the frontier can never hope for victory. You see before you a pitiful exile yearning for his homeland, and you marvel at how we resisted the might of the legions for so long. But all kingdoms can fall, and their kings with them. One day, even your emperor might become what I am now. You find that hard to believe, perhaps. Then hear my tale, and learn how I, Caratacus, once ruler of the Catuvellaunians and overlord of many tribes of Britannia, came to be in Rome today.

I was born in Verlamion, the largest settlement in the territory of our tribe. When I was two years old, my father, King Cunobelinus, received word at the royal court of the crushing defeat of General Varus and the Roman legions at the hands of the native tribes in Germania. My father was not a religious man, but when he heard this joyous news, he immediately ordered sacrifices to be made to the gods, and rich ceremonial offerings were cast into the River Ver. The Druids executed a pair of thieves, and their death throes foretold great victories for our people. Or so the tale goes. It would not surprise me if the truth was rather different. My father had a talent for bending facts to his political advantage. He would have made a fine Roman lawyer.

I was too young to remember, but I am told that it was a time of great hope for all those that opposed Rome. For long years the shame of our ancestors’ surrender at the hands of Caesar had cast a shadow over our land. The tribes of Britannia had looked on with growing unease as Rome strengthened its grip over Gaul and Belgica, and they dreaded the day when the legions would cross the sea once more. But the Varian disaster gave us fresh hope. For the first time, it seemed possible to defeat the legions. Moreover, freed from the anxiety of the prospect of invasion, my father was able to expand his influence beyond our tribal lands.

Shortly before my first birthday, our warriors marched on Camulodunum, the great capital in the land of the Trinovantes to the east. Their king, Dubnovellaunus, had vowed to resist any attempt to capture his stronghold, but his followers panicked at the sight of our approaching army, and after a brief struggle he took flight with his family and supporters and fled south across the Tamesis. My father promptly declared himself high king of both tribes, and for a brief while we knew peace in our land.

I was one of five brothers. Adminius, the first-born, was three years older than me. He had almost succumbed to a fever in his infancy, and our parents consequently doted over him, indulging him at every opportunity.

Soon after our family moved to Camulodunum, Togodumnus was born. From an early age he was a headstrong boy, stubborn but fearless, and I loved him dearly. Later on, our mother bore two more sons: Maridius and Vodenius. But in the winter after Vodenius was born she developed a sickly cough and a fever, and in the early spring she died. Father grieved deeply for many months after her death. Perhaps that is why he always favoured Adminius. He had inherited our mother’s attractiveness and charm, and in many ways he reminded my father of her.

I spent my early childhood in Camulodunum. Our settlement looked nothing like your neatly gridded Roman towns. Back then it was little more than a sprawl of farmland, cattle byres and roundhouses, along with a few stone-built structures and a small quay on the river fronting the settlement. Goods would occasionally trickle in from Gaul on small merchant ships, bound for the aristocracy of our tribe and those worthies in the surrounding territories willing to pay a premium for wine and samianware. A series of earthworks topped with a stout palisade guarded the town against enemy attack. You would no doubt regard it as a filthy, barbaric place, compared to your own grand city. But it was ours.

Our household lived in the royal enclosure in the heart of Camulodunum. I often played with Adminius and Togodumnus in the surrounding woodland and streams beyond the settlement. We hunted and fished and fought with each other, as boys will often do. Those were mostly happy times.

Until I was sent away to train with the Druids.

That was the first step on a path that would take me to the throne of our tribe and later to become the warlord of Britannia and sworn enemy of Rome. And it happened because of Bladocus, my Druid mentor. Without him, I would never have become king.

I was eleven years old. It was a pale grey morning, late in the autumn. The ground was slick with churned mud and a thin haze of woodsmoke hung in the air as I made my way across the royal enclosure towards the great hall. Adminius and Togodumnus trudged alongside me, the quagmire squelching beneath our leather boots. We had spent a few hours playing in a shallow dell beyond the enclosure. A short time later, one of our father’s retainers had summoned us back to the hall for our daily instruction with Bladocus – one of the last survivors of the Gallic branch of the Druid cult.

‘Let’s hope the old goat keeps it short today,’ Adminius muttered as we passed the stables. ‘It’ll be another story about dead kings and magic spells, no doubt.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.

‘It’s boring, that’s what.’ Adminius snorted contemptuously. ‘Waste of time. We should be learning to fight, not listening to that stinking Gaul.’

The lessons had been our father’s idea. He had insisted that as sons of the king we must receive a good education, as soon as we were old enough to commence our studies. Each morning at the third hour, I gathered in the hall with Adminius and Togodumnus, along with the sons of Camulodunum’s wealthy nobles, to study under the tutelage of Bladocus. The Druids were our most learned men, the practitioners of our sacred rites and the guardians of the wisdom of the ancients, trained in the ways of magic, healing, tongues, the histories of our tribes and the ways of the gods. Our kings and elders entrusted them with passing on their learning to their children, so that they might bestow them with the knowledge they would need one day to lead their people.

I loved these lessons under Bladocus, particularly the histories of our ancestors and the many great battles they had fought. They spoke of a time when the Celts ruled over half the known world, and Rome trembled before the vast armies of our forebears. But Adminius and Togodumnus hated them. They preferred wild pranks and playing games with their friends to listening to stories of the past.

‘Don’t know why Father makes us go to these lessons,’ Adminius went on sullenly. ‘All that talk of golden chariots and cattle raiding. It’s bloody nonsense.’

‘It’s the story of our past,’ I said. ‘Our people. It’s important. Besides, the stories are fun.’

‘For you, perhaps.’

‘If you feel that strongly, why bother to attend?’ I challenged him. Adminius had skipped several lessons lately, preferring to spend his mornings charming the y. . .