Revolt Against the Romans

by Tony Bradman

  In memory of Rosemary Sutcliff

  CONTENTS

  A Note on Dates

  Chapter One

  A True Roman

  Chapter Two

  The Savage Britons

  Chapter Three

  Into the Darkness

  Chapter Four

  Thirsty for Vengeance

  Chapter Five

  The Council of the Chiefs

  Chapter Six

  Bearing the Pain

  Chapter Seven

  Taking the War-​Trail

  Chapter Eight

  Death to the Romans!

  Chapter Nine

  The Warrior Queen

  Chapter Ten

  An Offer Is Made

  Chapter Eleven

  A Fine Speech

  Historical Note

  Glossary of Place Names

  A NOTE ON DATES

  The Romans had a different way of numbering their years from us. They dated everything from the time the city of Rome was founded. So for them, the events of this story took place between the years 800 and 804 AUC (Ab Urbe Condita, which means ‘from the founding of the city’ in their language, Latin). We count our years from before and after the presumed date of the birth of Jesus Christ, so for us the city of Rome was founded in 753 BC (Before Christ), or what we also now call 753 BCE (Before Common Era). What happens in this story took place between the years 47 and 51 AD (Anno Domini, which is Latin for ‘in the year of our Lord’), or between 47 and 51 CE (Common Era).

  CHAPTER ONE

  A True Roman

  Marcus felt his stomach fluttering with nerves as he hurried down the corridors of the villa. His father had arrived back from Rome that afternoon, and had sent a slave to find him. It seemed that Gaius Arrius Crispus wished to see his son without delay, and that couldn’t be good news.

  Marcus crossed the central courtyard of the house –​ the atrium –​ with its small fountain. His father’s study was just beyond, the door closed. Marcus stopped in front of it, his heart pounding now too. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he knocked.

  ‘Enter!’ called his father, and Marcus did as he was told.

  The study was a small square room with a window that looked out onto the hills beyond the villa and the road to Rome –​ a half day’s ride away –​ which cut through them. Two walls were covered with shelves bearing thick rolls of papyrus: his father’s official documents and letters. The noble himself was sitting at his desk, head bowed, closely studying a roll.

  Marcus waited. ‘You wanted to see me, Father?’ he said after a while.

  Gaius looked up. People often remarked that there wasn’t much of a resemblance between father and son. Gaius was tall and thin, his face narrow and bony, his nose like the battering ram of a warship. Most of his hair was gone, and what remained was black. Marcus was stocky and his hair was light brown, like his mother’s. It was said he looked like her, although he didn’t know if that was true. She had died when he was very young, and he could barely remember anything about her.

  ‘Stand straight, Marcus,’ said Gaius, twisting the signet ring bearing his initials that he wore on the little finger of his left hand. ‘You’re slouching like a slave. And what are you wearing? That tunic has certainly seen better days.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father.’ Marcus blushed and squared his shoulders. He never thought about what he wore when his father wasn’t around, and he hadn’t had time to change into something more presentable. His father set great store by appearances –​ his own tunic was smooth and perfectly white, even though he had ridden from Rome through the heat and dust of a summer’s day.

  ‘Well, being sorry isn’t good enough, I’m afraid.’ Gaius sighed. ‘Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of yours, Marcus, I really do. Now, tell me what you’ve been doing since I was last here. Be sure to leave nothing out.’

  Marcus relaxed a little –​ this was a familiar routine. He spent most of the year at their house in Rome, the great city with its temples to the gods and its streets of rich houses and its teeming slums. But he spent every summer at their villa outside the city, even though his father was usually too busy to leave Rome for more than a few days at a time.

  Staying at the villa wasn’t much of a holiday for Marcus. In Rome he went to school with the boys of other rich families, but in the country he was alone, with no friends of his own age to play with. He had to keep doing his lessons as well –​ every year his father engaged someone new as his tutor. This year’s tyrant was a grumpy old Greek called Stephanos. Marcus liked some lessons more than others. He didn’t enjoy mathematics, but he loved studying poetry, especially the epics from long ago. He liked The Odyssey, but his favourite was The Iliad, the great Greek poem about the siege of Troy.

  ‘The battle scenes are absolutely amazing, Father,’ said Marcus. ‘Sometimes when I’m reading them it almost feels like I’m there, right beside the warriors...’

  His father snorted. ‘I don’t think so, Marcus. I’ll grant you that Homer is good on the subject of war. But believe me, there is nothing like the reality of battle.’

  ‘No, Father,’ said Marcus. Gaius knew what he was talking about. He had served with the legions before the emperor Claudius had taken him onto his staff.

  ‘I would prefer it if you spent your time studying our country’s history and its great men, such as Cato. Now there was a true Roman, a wonderful example to young boys.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Marcus felt a twinge of guilt. He often found the history of his own people quite dull, although he would never admit such a thing to his father. It seemed to be full of stories about men like Cato, who was famous for being very moral. Cato had killed himself rather than live under the rule of Augustus, the first emperor, a man whom he hated. Marcus couldn’t see why that made him a hero.

  ‘Still, I’m glad to hear from Stephanos that your Greek is excellent,’ said Gaius. ‘I have no doubt it will be useful to you, although frankly if it was up to me I would make everyone in the empire speak Latin like us, and nothing else.’

  Marcus thought that was a strange idea – ​learning other tongues seemed a natural thing to do. He loved reading Homer’s Greek, and speaking the language with Stephanos. Latin was the second or even third tongue for most of the villa’s slaves. Marcus often talked to them too, asking questions about their countries and languages. He had even picked up a few of their words and phrases, from the Gauls especially...

  ‘Are you listening, Marcus?’ his father snapped, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘I’m...​’ Marcus was about to say he was sorry again, but stopped himself in time. ‘I am, Father,’ he said, but Gaius just tutted and shook his head.

  ‘I was talking about your future, Marcus: something you never seem to consider. Oh, your studies are going well enough, but you have no self-​discipline, and no idea about your responsibilities, either to me or to the empire. You’re twelve now, so that must change, and luckily we have been offered an opportunity to put it right. Our noble emperor is sending me to Britannia, and you will be coming too.’

  Marcus had heard of Britannia, of course. It was the empire’s newest province, a distant land in the far north, across the great sea the Romans called Ocean. The emperor had conquered it a few years ago, going there to lead his legions personally in the last battles. He had returned to ride in triumph through the streets of Rome, his defeated enemies in chains behind him, their treasure heaped in wagons.

  ‘I don’t understand, Father,’ said Marcus. ‘What will I do there?’

  ‘Much the same as here, but with one major difference –​ I will be on the staff of the governor, Publius Ostorius Scapula. So you will see from the
inside how we bring the gifts of Roman civilisation to other nations. It’s harder than people think to turn a land of tattooed savages into a proper Roman province. There may even be more fighting. It seems that some of the people still don’t believe they’ve been beaten.’

  He talked on, explaining what was happening in the province, listing the strangely named tribes that had accepted Roman rule, and those that hadn’t. The strongest tribe in Britannia had always been the Catuvellauni, but their power had been broken during the conquest. Their chief was called Caratacus, and he had fled with his family to the western mountains where he was stirring up other tribes against Rome.

  There was a great deal more –​ bitter feuds between the tribes, betrayals of leaders by their friends or family, appeals to Rome for help. It was all rather hard to follow, and Marcus soon found himself thinking instead of what lay ahead for him. He had never been anywhere other than Rome or the villa, and now his life was about to change completely. It was an exciting prospect, but a rather scary one too.

  ‘When do we leave, Father?’ he asked, when Gaius stopped speaking.

  ‘I will set off by ship before the autumn storms begin. You will stay in Rome for the winter and follow me in the spring. That will give me time to find us a house, although I have no idea where. It’s probably all mud huts there, apart from the camps of the legions. Still, it might do you good to spend some time with soldiers –​ you’ll be joining a legion yourself in a few years. Now leave me –​ I have work to do.’

  That night, Marcus lay in bed, unable to sleep...

  His mind was already on its way north.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Savage Britons

  That winter dragged for Marcus, and he could hardly believe it when the day came at last to set out on his journey. His father had arranged for him to travel part of the way on one of the emperor’s ships with a group of army officers. Some were heading north to take up posts in Gaul, but several were going on to Britannia, including Quintus Flavius Sabinus, an officer who had served with Marcus’s father.

  ‘So I’ll be looking after you, boy,’ said Sabinus. He was a large man with a craggy face and a loud voice. ‘Just do as I tell you and we’ll get on fine.’

  The ship was a big trireme, with three banks of oars and a sail. A pair of huge eyes was painted on the prow, and the stern-​post was carved into the shape of an eagle in flight. They left Ostia, the port of Rome, early on a warm sunlit morning. The ship glided out of the great harbour, past the other ships of the emperor’s fleet and the colossal warehouses where goods from all over his vast empire were stored.

  Five days later they arrived in Narbo, on the southern coast of Gaul, and continued their journey northwards by land. As a senior officer, Sabinus was entitled to the use of a coach and an escort of twenty auxiliary cavalrymen. They were Gauls, as Marcus soon realised from listening to them talk –​ tall, strong-​looking men with drooping moustaches, who rode their powerful horses as if they had been born in the saddle.

  ‘You know the difference between auxiliaries and the legions, boy?’ said Sabinus.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Marcus, remembering what his father had told him. ‘The legions are made up of Roman citizens, the soldiers who created our empire and keep it safe. Auxiliaries are recruited from subject peoples as extra forces, such as cavalry...’

  ‘You have been taught well,’ said Sabinus. ‘All credit to your father.’

  Sabinus, of course, was also entitled to stay in army forts on the journey, so Marcus got to see plenty more soldiers –​ officers in splendid armour, centurions with their distinctive red-​crested helmets, and legionaries on guard duty or saluting the eagle standards that carried the name and battle honours of each legion. The great Julius Caesar had brought Gaul into the empire almost a hundred years ago, and it had the look of a settled province. The cities Marcus passed through weren’t as big as Rome, but they were built of stone and marble. Most of the people looked Roman too.

  ‘Do you think Britannia will eventually be like Gaul, sir?’ he asked Sabinus one evening at dinner. They were staying in an imperial way-station, one of the many hostels dotted along the straight Roman roads for the use of official travellers and the imperial messengers. Sabinus wasn’t usually very talkative, but he had spent time fighting in Britannia, and Marcus wanted to know what he thought of it.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Sabinus. They were sitting at a table in the dining room. The place was full of other men who were eating and drinking, or gambling with dice. ‘The Britons and the Gauls are similar in some ways. They speak similar tongues, and the Gauls used to worship the same gods and have the same kind of priests. But the Britons are far more savage. The warriors tattoo their bodies and sometimes fight naked.’

  A centurion at a table nearby had been listening to them. ‘They collect the heads of their enemies too,’ he added. The man had a hard face with a nose that had been broken more than once, and his forearms were criss-​crossed with the scars of old wounds. ‘Although they often just take them captive, and then hand them over to their priests –​ druids, they call them –​ for torture. I’ve seen some terrible things in Britannia.’

  ‘It always seems to be cold and misty or raining there too...’ Sabinus murmured, and then sighed. ‘In fact, I don’t mind telling you I wish I’d been posted almost anywhere else in the empire. I’ve fought every kind of barbarian, but the Britons are by far the worst. I only hope I manage to keep my head on my shoulders.’

  The centurion laughed, and the two men talked of other countries and battles they had fought in. Marcus excused himself and went to bed, and decided not to ask Sabinus any questions in future, which seemed to suit them both.

  They finally reached the port of Gesoriacum, on the northern coast of Gaul, five weeks after leaving Rome. There they transferred to another ship, and set sail for Britannia. It was a short voyage, just a day and a night, but a rough one. The sailors did a lot of praying to Neptune, god of the sea, and even sacrificed a goat to him, pouring the hot blood from its throat onto the heaving waves. But Neptune was not appeased, and Marcus was glad to arrive at Rutupiae, the main military harbour on the south coast of Britannia. It felt good to have solid ground beneath his feet again.

  Sabinus took Marcus to the fort above the harbour and led him into the officers’ mess while he himself went to talk to the commander.

  ‘I hope you can ride, boy,’ Sabinus said when he came back. ‘Your father was supposed to meet us here, but he’s been sent to Verulamium by the governor, and the only way we’ll get there is by horse.’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, I can definitely ride,’ said Marcus. It was something his father had made sure he could do from an early age, and Marcus had always enjoyed it.

  They stayed in Rutupiae for a night, and set out early the next morning. Sabinus looked every inch the Roman officer in his red-​crested helmet and red cloak. He and Marcus had a new escort of mounted auxiliaries: twenty Batavians this time. Their homeland was on the other side of the sea, a country of marshes and rivers between Roman Gaul and the still-unconquered barbarian tribes of Germany. ‘Not much more than savages themselves,’ said Sabinus, clearly not impressed. ‘But we have to take what we are given.’ Marcus couldn’t see what the problem was –​ they wore round helmets and carried spears and shields, and looked tough enough to him.

  The town of Verulamium lay a week’s journey inland from the coast. Marcus was fascinated by the land of forests and hills and rivers they rode through. There were prosperous villages too. The people were much like the Gauls –​ some were dark ​haired, but there were many whose hair was golden or copper ​coloured. They wore bright clothes: the men in checked trousers and tunics, the women in red, green or blue gowns.

  But none of them seemed happy to see Sabinus and Marcus and their escorts. They stayed out of their way, quickly pulling the children into their roundhouses and staring with sullen faces as the column rode past. It also rained most days, the grey s
ky hanging low, and Marcus felt he couldn’t ever get his cloak and tunic dry, even if he sat in front of the campfires they made when they stopped for the night.

  Late in the afternoon of the sixth day they forded a wide river: the Tamesis, according to Sabinus. Beyond it the track was swallowed up in a forest. The sun was hidden by a mass of grey clouds and the shadows were thick between the trees. An owl hooted and another replied, their calls echoing eerily in the still air. Sabinus frowned. He reined in his horse and raised his hand to halt the column.

  ‘I think we should perhaps...​’ He never finished what he wanted to say, for suddenly a spear hurtled out of the forest and thudded into the chest of the Batavian behind him. The man looked down at it in surprise as thick blood welled up around the shaft. His eyes rolled backwards in his head and he slowly toppled sideways off his horse, crashing to the ground.

  Then it seemed to Marcus that the shadows in the forest came to life and charged towards them, screaming like creatures from some terrible nightmare. But these creatures carried spears and swords and shields, and Marcus soon realised they were warriors –​ the savage Britons that Sabinus and the centurion had spoken of.

  ‘Ride, boy!’ Sabinus yelled, drawing his sword. ‘Get out of here!’

  But it was too late –​ Marcus was pulled from his horse and fell to the ground. A warrior stood over him, a wild, spike-​haired figure wearing checked trousers, his naked chest and arms covered in swirling blue tattoos, his spear raised.

  Marcus felt sure he was going to die.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Into the Darkness

  The blow, however, didn’t come. Sabinus hacked the warrior down before he could strike. The man grunted, dropped his spear and fell on top of Marcus, driving the breath out of the boy’s lungs. Marcus could hear the sounds of fighting around him –​ the clash of blades, men yelling, horses screaming. Something warm and wet dripped onto his face, and he felt sick when he realised it was the dead man’s blood. He turned his head and tried to free himself, but the body was too heavy.