THE real conqueror of Britain now approaches. We know that British “kings” in distress more than once appealed to Augustus, and that he seriously thought of invading the island. The real conqueror, however, was the Emperor Claudius, who in 43 A.D. sent an army under a trusted leader. On the road to Britain the troops mutinied. Where CÆsar had failed, how could they hope to succeed? Besides, the Britons were now united under Caractacus, a valiant and skilful warrior. The mutiny, however, was crushed, and again the Romans landed without opposition. They pushed across the Medway to the Thames, which was forded, and thence to the capital of Caractacus, deep in the Essex woods. The Roman legions stormed the British stronghold, and, flushed with victory, the Emperor Claudius proudly dubbed himself Britannicus. But the work of conquest had only begun. Britain was far from subdued, and probably she would never have been the prey of the forty thousand or fifty thousand Romans who accomplished the task had the Britons fully understood that “union is strength.” Their divisions were worth many legions to the Romans, who met and conquered various bands of islanders, and never met a united army. One Roman general is said to have fought three-and-thirty battles south of the Thames, and to have captured more than twenty stockaded towns. The gallant Caractacus could make no headway against his foes, and leaving a brother dead among the Essex swamps, he sought refuge in the trackless mountains of South Wales.

Here Caractacus rallied the broken tribes for a last stand. He chose his ground with great skill in the centre of steep and difficult hills, and raised ramparts of massive stones where an ascent was possible, while between his army and the road by which the Romans must approach there flowed a river deep and wide. As the terrible Romans drew near Caractacus addressed his men, bidding them remember how their sires had driven back great CÆsar himself, and encouraging them to strike for home and freedom. The Britons, however, were again conquered. Roman discipline, Roman armour, and Roman swords were too much for them. Caractacus escaped, and fled to the court of his step-mother, Cartismandua, who to her eternal shame basely betrayed him to the foe against whom he had waged an unceasing struggle for nine years. Roman chains fettered the limbs of the British champion, and his capture was a triumph. To Rome he must go, where his exploits were well known, and the citizens were agog to see him.

With his wife, brother, and child he “graced the chariot wheels” of the Roman general. Through the majestic city he strode, noble in his simple dignity, and still unconquered. While his companions in fear begged for mercy, he, proudly erect, and his eye, which had never quailed before a Roman brand, boldly bright, recked not of death, deeming honour a greater prize than life itself. As the triumphal procession passed along the Sacred Way he saw the stately temples, the massive arches, the beautiful statues, and the luxurious dwellings of the great city, and asked, “Why should these Romans, with all their grandeur, covet my poor hut at home?”

Brought before Claudius, he made a noble defence and a proud appeal for clemency. Claudius was moved. He bade his lictors strike off the Briton’s chains and set him free. His after-career is unknown. In his noblest hour he vanishes from the pages of history.