Caradoc and the Romans
"And when at length, betrayed into captivity, he was led in chains through the hushed streets of Rome, all Italy thronged to see him..."
From: 55 B.C.E. To: 52 C.E.
Note: This article has been excerpted from a larger work in the public domain and shared here due to its historical value. It may contain outdated ideas and language that do not reflect TOTA’s opinions and beliefs.
From Flame-bearers of Welsh History by Owen Rhoscomyl, 1905.
Of Caradoc, or Caratacos
It was the famous Julius Caesar, greatest of the Romans, who first brought our island into the full light of history. He came twice, the first time with twelve thousand men, in 55 b.c. and the second time with forty thousand, the year after.
The world heard a deal of loud talk and sounding phrases about both attempts, but the truth remains that Caesar went away but little the better for his labour. And never a Roman army came again till nearly a hundred years had passed. It was, in fact, the year 43 A.D. before the real adventure of the Romans in Britain began.
With this new coming of the Romans the darkness lifts at last from our own home here in the west. As the steel of the heavy-armed legions of Rome flashes across the Severn, there stands forth into the light of history the figure that must for ever head the roll of the leaders of our land. First of the Flame-bearers out steps Caradoc, royallest figure of the world of that moment. Son of the King of Southern Britain, his was the first sword that the Romans felt on their march, and the one they feared the longest.
During nine long years of desperate warfare the tale of his dauntless courage rang through the Latin lands.
And when at length, betrayed into captivity, he was led in chains through the hushed streets of Rome, all Italy thronged to see him, and his noble words of challenge to the Emperor roused such a generous pang for him in the breasts of his enemies, that he was reckoned greater in his misfortune than he had ever been in the brightest day of his power. His story has come down to us only as told by the Romans themselves, his enemies. But hear it.
If you look at the map of our country in the west, as it was then, you will see that the greater part of it was still held by the Goidels. The Brythons as yet had only conquered the open middle and eastern parts of the land. North-west of them the Goidels still defied them in Gwynedd. South of them the land was held by other Goidels — the Demetse in the south-west and the Silures in the south-east — those parts that are now Glamorgan, Monmouthshire, Brecnocshire, and portions of Gloucester and Herefordshire. But Rome, that wielded the power and the wealth of all the great lands of the known world, was here to conquer Brython and Goidel together. Brython and Goidel together turned to face her, yet the rose of the struggle went to the Goidel, in the person of the Silurian of the south-east.
Both peoples had been sending their young men to help Caradoc in his struggle to stem the Roman tide, east of the Severn. To them his face was as well known as his name. All the things that we would give so much to know were fireside themes with them. All the marchings and the fightings; all the enduring, and all the endless labour of his work while he was the one hope and help of his countrymen, were cherished deep in their hearts. They did not write down for us all those little greatnesses of word, and smile, and quiet unstudied action, that touch men into love of their leader. They left us no record of those daily signs, which showed him still unshakable through all the terrible years that were wearing thin the hearts of less great men. They thought the story surely never could be forgotten. It is from the Romans themselves we know the little we do know: out of their histories we see him.
Tireless in bravery, his were the words that heartened men to fresh efforts. Weighty of thought, his was the eloquence that brought fresh tribes into the field to replace the slain. Grand of spirit, his was the soul that never faltered. Ever he fought on. Ever he came anew to the onset. Two and thirty times he met the legions in battle, till the Romans wrote of him that, 'by many a doubtful and many a successful battle, he had raised himself head and shoulders above all the other generals of the Britons.' And with that name and with that fame he stood, at the head of the Silures, when the Roman eagles crossed the Severn to tame the race on which, as Rome has left on record, 'neither terror nor offers of mercy had the least effect.'
Hear the phrases of the Roman writer: 'The Silures, a people naturally fierce, and now full of confidence in the might of Caratacos.' Again: 'Conspicuous above all in stubborn resistance were the Silures.' And still again: 'This loss, too, had been inflicted on us by the Silures.' If Caradoc was a gallant leader, it was surely a gallant people he led, and through the years a story has come echoing down to tell us how, when they heard that the Romans blamed the thick woods of Siluria for their ill-success, the Silures straightway burnt their forests to ashes. The Roman should have no excuse; in fair and open field they would meet him and beat him. Gallant old Goidels, like fire in their pride!
This, then, was the people at whose head Caradoc was continuing the war in the year a.d. 52. That is the race from which our land can claim one of its most stirring memories.
Of Caradoc’s Last Battle
Brave as the Silures were, they were yet too few to scatter the great army that faced them in the lowlands of Gwent. Caradoc, out of his long experience, saw that if the war were fought out in that district only, it must result in one of two things. Either his people would be destroyed piecemeal in endless skirmishes, or dashed to sudden destruction in some unequal battle.
Two things he must do. One was to raise more troops; the other was to draw the Romans into a long march from their base. If he could succeed in this, then he might find some opportunity to destroy the legions on their march, or await them in some well-chosen position, which would give him at least a chance of victory in a pitched battle.
He was a Brython. He shifted the war into the country of the Ordovices, who lived in what is now called Powys, for they were Brythons like himself. Fast the tribes flocked to him; warmly they welcomed him. By leading them he would have another chance to face the Romans in set field again.
Skilfully he chose a site for battle on some likely hills, which had a river running along their front; a river shallow enough in places to let the Romans cross, but deep enough to hinder them should they be defeated. On the sides of those hills, wherever any slope left a path for the foe to ascend, Caradoc built hasty walls of un-mortared stone to defend the spot. Whatever could be done to strengthen the position, that he did. One thing he could not do, however; he could not give his men breast-plates and helmets, to match the tempered armour of the glittering troops of Rome. Thus he drew up his countrymen. Thus he awaited the onset.
It is said that the place he made sacred by this stand was the well-known Breidden Hills, the outpost of Powys.
In all the hearts of the Brythons were tingling expectation and quick hope. From rank to rank strode the chieftains, exhorting and encouraging their men, making light of fears, spurring their hopes, rousing their pride, and stiffening their resolve. Here and there and everywhere was Caradoc himself, solemnly reminding them that in the coming battle lay the beginning of the recovery of their freedom, or of their everlasting bondage. In ringing tones he called upon them to think upon their forefathers, repeating, name by name, the roll of those heroes whose valour had driven the worlds conquering Caesar back oversea again, a hundred years before. In grave passion he called upon them to follow the example of the men of old, by whose bravery they themselves had hitherto been free from Roman axe and tribute, and their wives and children safe. Loud rose the shouts that answered his burning words; high glowed the hearts of his hearers.
Below and beyond the river the Roman general, Ostorius, shrank back in dread of such enthusiasm. The river in his front, the rampart above, the frowning hill-tops, and the marshalled ranks of the tribesmen ready to receive him — the whole made such a picture as daunted him for awhile. But his legions were Roman legions, those legions to which the wide world had yielded. Strong, too, they were, in their perfect arms and armour, in their perfect skill, and the perfect discipline of their ranks. Could they forget that?
Above all, for advancing up a slope— for an uphill attack— they had the formation of the 'testudo,' when, by raising their great shields over their heads, the edges interlapping, they could push their way upwards, well covered from the slings and darts of the enemy above. Were they, with all these advantages, to retreat from the face of men who were but half-armed and all unarmoured ? Nay, shame alone in itself would not let them retreat. They murmured to be led on. Ostorius caught courage from them. By examination he found the crossing-places of the river, and marked the way up the hill. The word was given. Loud blared the trumpets, sounding the onset.
Long and doubtful raged the conflict at the rude rampart of stones. Fast fell the Romans there. But skill prevailed, the testudo did its work. Under its cover the stones were torn down, and all the weight of massed and disciplined men surged over, to bear the Brythons backward up the hill. A hail of missiles from the light-armed soldiers thinned Caradoc's ranks, closer and closer the heavy-armed soldiers struck in, and Caradoc's men, bare-breasted and bare-headed against full-armoured men, died too fast.
Then the auxiliaries surrounded them. Taken in rear, they still fought on. But when they turned upon the auxiliaries, the glaives and javelins of the legionaries stabbed them down behind. When they faced again upon the legionaries, the spears and swords of the auxiliaries slew them again from behind. There was no more help; the day was lost. Numbers, discipline, arms, and armour had won. The Romans stood victors of the first great battle in the west.
Caradoc in Rome
What man could do in battle, that Caradoc had done. What no man could compel — the fate of battle— that had gone against him. Yet he would not give up. One battle was lost, one tribe of Brythons broken. But other tribes of Brythons still remained, who might fight other battles. The tribe of the Brigantes covered all the middle of the island, from the Trent to the Tweed. They had never been broken yet. To them, then, he went, still hopeful, still undaunted.
There a woman betrayed him. Cartismandua, wife of the King of the Brigantes, a woman of infamous record, betrayed him. In chains he was delivered to his enemies.
All Italy ran together to see him led through the streets of Rome and then be flung to death. But he strode as proudly calm there as ever he had done in freedom at home. More, when he was brought before the Emperor, he so bore himself, and so spoke, that death passed him by that day. Hearken to some of his words, as Tacitus has set them down:
'I might have entered this city as your friend rather than as your captive, and you would not have disdained to receive, under a treaty of peace and alliance, a king descended from illustrious ancestors, and ruler of many peoples. If Rome chooses to lord it over the world, does it follow that the world is to accept slavery? Had I yielded to you at once, where then would have been your fame?'
And when, at last, he ended by bidding them save his life now, and he would remain for ever as one memorial of Roman generosity, a great pause must have fallen on all that heard him.
For that was a challenge to one of the oldest traditions of Rome. One of its dearest customs was that, after a captive king had been dragged through its streets at the chariot-wheels of his conqueror, he was delivered to death. Yet now this calm king from Britain challenged them to be noble enough to break that custom. It is seldom that a challenge to nobleness quite fails when it is delivered to a great people. That challenge won. For this one man, and for this one time, the custom was broken. Caradoc was pardoned.
Then, too, the Senate was assembled, and orations were delivered full of eulogy upon the capture of this man. It was as glorious, cried the orators, as the capture of any king ever brought in chains to furnish a spectacle for Rome. Triumphal distinctions were voted to Ostorius, the general who had captured him. It was a great day in the imperial city.
But Caradoc had been so truly great in his work, while free, that his name still caused disaster and defeat to Rome, even though he was a prisoner in her power. For his countrymen at home rushed to arms again to avenge him, so furiously that they nearly swept the legions from our land in quick collapse and ruin. The bravest of the Romans were slain, squadron upon squadron was utterly routed, cohort after cohort was cut off. The scornful Silures, ever in the van, flung gifts of spoil and captives to other tribes, to show them what might be won in the field if they did but draw the sword, and lift the shield, and come.
Ostorius, so lately in the height of his pride, was confounded. He, to whom but yesterday the Senate had voted triumphal distinctions, was now borne down by the rage of this fresh onslaught. His desperate struggle to stem the tide of disaster broke him. Utterly worn out, he died. If they had not slain him in a battle, boasted his fierce foes, they had at least killed him by a campaign: the campaign that avenged Caradoc.
Caradoc, then, remains for all time the first of our flame-bearers.
Rhoscomyl, Owen. Flame-bearers of Welsh History. Welsh Educational Publishing, 1905.
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