Chapter One The recent past is somehow more magical and mysterious than the distant past. My Father was born into a World that I will never know, nor fully understand and his Father would have inhabited yet another World as equally unknown and mysterious to him. It is as if the recent past was so close it could almost be touched but cut off from the present by experience lacked, a portion of life not lived or shared and yet there is a way in which the reality of the past is forever enshrined through the memories, crystallised through stories and in turn passed down the generations. The characters and personalities that stalk my life are not only those of whom I have met, in fact many I have met left no impression at all, the characters and personalities are also those that walk down the centuries, those who I know by action and repute. Dramatic deeds, courage, even treachery and guile loom large across the centuries in the same way that the lowering sun casts a shadow far greater than the figure standing atop the mountain deserves. Then again who is to say that the shadow is any less real than the figure who casts it? Many stories are so foundational, so central to the national psyche of any people that they are as much real because of their shadow as their reality. Yet at the same time beneath all this lies the lurking suspicion that underneath it all the great figures of history and legend were flesh and blood just as we are. Perhaps it is more comforting to idolise them as soaring monoliths jutting out of the past than recognise that like all of us their lives were swathed in obscurity and monotonous routine, the day to day activities that turn days into years without our knowing. If their lives changed history then it was the deviations from the norm, the exceptions, the breaches in the tyranny of the mundane which we know them for and yet at the same time these few incidents did not define their everyday lives. Perhaps they themselves would not have known at the time that the actions we now celebrate had any significance at all. We remember the man who discovered fire but who can remember his name? A few powerful figures live with the knowledge that their every decision will affect millions of lives but whilst it is true that our moments and days pass by swiftly and seemingly without significance all of us by our every action help create and define the World our ancestors will inherit. Even to walk on a great mountain I have conspired unwittingly in the changing of that mountain for all eternity. Yet what is the effect of a few footsteps in the light of the vast swathes of shale that slide off the mountain each year? The smallest actions carried out by many millions of people, whether for good or for evil have an effect for all time, but it is the dramatic acts of the few that we remember most. We define stories and they define us. Caractacus was no different as he sat by the crackling fireside imbibing legends. As stories were told and retold down the generations the stories took flight, gained wings and became something altogether different. In the end it became impossible to decipher the deference between fact and fiction, truth and legend. In earlier times endless discussions took place as debates on the exact remembrance of various people and events. Over time though, it became no longer a question of truth or legend. All the stories became legend but at the same time all the stories became true. It wasn't just that the cloaking of the distant past obscured reality it was also that as stories were told and retold around endless fires on long winter evenings the question of truth became irrelevant. It was as if the stories became true purely due to the shared memory of their retelling. Telling stories accurately was not nearly so important as telling them well. This was the situation into which Caractacus was born. Britain was a windswept land, riven by great rivers and surmounted by vast impenetrable forests. It was a well watered and fertile land and scarcely populated. The British islands clustered together as if huddling against the prevailing wind. Each portion of the island seemed thrust out in defiance of the sea and yet somehow bound to the sea. As vast hoards swept through from Europe, few remained of the original inhabitants and yet it was as if the weather, the climate itself, left its mark on all those that chose to live there. Although the Celts originated in balmy Mediterranean climes they had been pushed Northwards and Westwards by winds of invaders and the further they spread from their original lands the more their temperament and mentality changed. Gone was the sunny optimism replaced by a steely resilience. Celts took on the nature of the island. In the same way that sun, showers and clouds pass across the land in shifting shadows on a stormy day so the Celt felt his emotions passing over him and yet there was also a changelessness, a rugged durability that endured all things but at the same time as each squall hit seemed utterly enfolded in that emotion. It was as if the current storm was all encompassing and yet when it had past it was a distant memory, hard even to recollect. For the Celt there was no sense, as for the Roman or Greek, that the emotions could be controlled by the mind. Although the Celts were as cunning and ingenious as any, they were as yet unhindered by the shackles of the mind. It was the heart, the soul, the guts that guided this people and for the most part guided them well. It was almost as if the very climate, the weather, had an impenetrable logic of its own. In all practicality the whims of the gut did actually make as much sense as any attempts to work out logically the times and seasons of the year or the harvests. One thing that was constant across the years was the curse of shortening days and the jubilation as the days began to extend, first imperceptibly and then as a flood. There were the dark winter days when all the trees turned to deathly brown and then the bursting forth of spring like a tidal wave of pure joy as birds in great abundance sang. Whilst those closer to the equator saw time as an endlessly rolling cycle the shortening and lengthening of the days lent itself to the recording and measuring of time and a recognition of the passing years and before long the storing of the good harvests against the bad. Around the firesides the elderly spoke of years long past, of bumper harvests and years of shortage the years were compared like fine wines. A year was like a lifetime condensed. Although long expected spring seemed to be like a stranger who sneaked in unawares. Often it seemed to wait until the watchers had given up any home of its coming and then one day all of a sudden it was there. Then there was summer. The recompense for the short brutish days of winter were the glorious summer days which seemed to drag on without end in shimmering sleepiness. As the longest day approached any thought of winter seemed as unreal as a distant planet but that day was marked with sadness as from then on time, the thief, would begin to nibble away at the days, first a little here, then a little there and in increasing amounts until autumn rolled around. During autumn Britain seemed locked in a state of beautiful arrested decay. If the wind stayed away the leaves would hang their doggedly as if by their willpower they could delay the decline of the year. The whole palate began to change from exuberant shades of emerald green to colours of brown and orange. The grass itself seemed to lose its shine and become dull and grey. Then there was winter. Many times the winter itself seemed to be waging war on the unsuspecting inhabitants. Winter held the whole island under siege like a terrible crouching enemy. Spring though was the time for war as it allowed the various tribes to travel more freely and seek out those other peoples with whom they could trade, barter or fight. As each tribal leader either fought his enemies and won or gave his daughters in marriage to surrounding nations the tribes themselves began to merge, to coalesce until over the generations those leaders who were both mighty and strong became still more dominant while others fell away. The problem though, was that these characteristics could not be bred and passed on like those of racehorses. The offspring of two mighty kingdoms joined could as easily produce a son who was as fearful and flighty as the sparrow and not much stronger than one! Caractacus was the exception that proved the rule. He was not a tall man. He was rounded and stout with a very study frame. A huge brown mustache cut his face in half and dribbled down beside his mouth each side. Fierce dark eyes penetrated the thickets of eyebrows that shielded them. His head was carpeted with a huge mane of uncontrolled hair which billowed around in the wind like floating seaweed. Caractacus wore no crown or uniform of state, he had no golden throne yet his authority and majesty was obvious and undeniable. Caractacus' father Bryan was known as the Crow and reputed to be a giant. In those times six foot six was a giant of immense proportions. When Bryan walked he strode like a giant too with a great loping gait that bounced across the hilltops like a gazelle yet strong and study. He had a large long nose and a lantern jaw out of which his lips protruded further. His teeth were large enough that his lips didn't quite meet when closed. His eyes were deep, dark and mysterious. Unusually for his kind he was clean shaven and had short wavy hair, in the manner of the Romans. Bryan was also known as Cymbeline which means strong as a dog. It was a very apt description. Most men with great physical strength would have been more happy to have been described as strong as an ox, but Bryan delighted being seen as being seen as being as strong as a dog. Whilst an Ox is a source of steady, reliable brute force a dog has lesser strength but uses it more sparingly and with more guile. A dog can put enemies to flight, not by actually doing anything but simply by threatening action. Bryan was the master of this approach. Why take something by force if the person would give it to you anyway? If they weren't willing to give it why take it by force if only the threat of force would do? It wasn't that Bryan was reluctant use his strength it was more that he realised that the fear created by a shadow is often greater than the object itself. He knew, as most great generals do, that fear always pays its dues whereas action always has the risk of failure attached.

Unlike a cat which seems to launch itself at any opponent in false confidence a dog will carefully weigh up his opponent before even choosing to fight. In many respects this also described Bryan but with one crucial difference, while the strengths of a dog are fixed the strengths of a nation can be built up. Bryan was a master of choosing the time and place to fight. There was no shame in drawing up a temporary peace agreement with an enemy of superior strength whilst you built up enough strength to fight. Bryan was also a master negotiator and adept at playing the ends against the middle. His opponents left feeling they had secured a great deal when in fact they had given Bryan exactly what he wanted all along. The area which these skills manifested themselves most was that of the Romans. He held Britain in a delicate balance between submission and rebellion. His approach was to pay the tribute but grudgingly and not without repeated reminders. Bryan knew that to be successful a client kingdom always had to walk this line. If they were too subservient they would lose the respect of the Romans, who would eventually see Britain as a de facto part of the empire and easily claimed. If they were too rebellious then the Romans would feel obliged to invade and quash the rebellion. In any case the cost of the tribute paid to Rome was more than repaid by trade, although even here was a potential danger. Too much trade and Britain would become a sought after addition to the empire on account of its resources. His approach was very successful and for many years the Romans viewed Britannia as too valuable to cast off completely but too difficult to invade.

Chapter Two The jagged mountaintops gave way to open ground which in turn cascaded downwards to the sea in a torrent of green tree cover which abruptly terminated where the sea met the land in a sweeping bank of light sand. The sea extended out in endless blue towards the horizon and the sun cast a glistening trail across the water. Whispy clouds were also strung across the sky at sparce intervals. Bryan had been sitting on the shifting sands of Harlech happily contemplating then scene, when he saw boats approaching first as dots on the far horizon, then as they drew closer he realised how large the ships were and how many there were. Gradually the huge wooden hulks heaved into view giving the impression of a floating, drifting forest. Bryan was torn between the need to run and get help and the curiosity which locked his gaze onto this mysterious invasion fleet. It could easily have been an invasion fleet but it was actually the fleet of Matholwich King of Ireland. Matholwich had long red hair, the exact shade of a fox in the sunlight. He had a long drooping mustache and bright blue eyes which were of such intensity that they glinted like sapphires. Exactly how no one could tell but Matholwich had got wind of the legendary beauty of Branwyn sister of Bryan. Branwyn had long brown hair which descended from her head like a waterfall and caught the light with the same lustrous shine as the hide of a healthy pony. Her eyes had a certain shyness to them as they darted around. Her teeth protruded ever so slightly from her full lips.