by Tony Bradman
Marcus woke with a start in the darkened roundhouse. He lay still, listening to the slow breathing of Gwyn and his family. After a while he rose quietly from his bed-place and went outside. A three-quarter moon cast a cool silvery glow over the sleeping Dun. The gates were closed for the night, a pair of warriors standing guard above them on the palisade walkway, and one gave Marcus a friendly wave.
Marcus walked on, past the roundhouses, the animal pens and the burial ground, and reached the rampart on the opposite side from the gates. He climbed up a ladder to the walkway and stood looking at the hills fading into the distance. His father was out there somewhere, although Marcus had no idea if he was looking in the right direction. But wherever his father was, Marcus had a feeling that he wouldn’t be thinking about him. The noble Gaius Arrius Crispus had abandoned his son to his fate.
Of course he should have expected it, Marcus told himself. His father had never really shown him much care or paid him much attention, other than to tell him off for looking scruffy or not working hard enough at his lessons. Still, it had hurt to see from the letter just how little Gaius felt for him. But then that was the Roman way, at least as far as his father was concerned. The sons of important Roman men were brought into the world to serve their families and the state, not to be loved.
The moon faded, the sky gradually growing light in the east, the sun climbing above the hills, its blood-red rays spilling over the land. At last Marcus heard the soft clopping of hoofbeats behind him, and someone giving a low whistle. He looked round and saw Gwyn and Dragorix on their hunting ponies, with half a dozen excited hounds beside them. Gwyn was holding the reins of another pony, saddled and ready to ride.
The boy smiled and nodded at the spare mount. ‘It is a good day to go hunting,’ he said, and Marcus felt a flush of pleasure because he understood every word.
He smiled back and climbed down from the palisade to join his friends.
* * *
Dragorix and Gwyn took Marcus hunting the next day, and the day after that, and he loved every minute of it. Riding through the countryside, the thrill of the chase – it was more than enough to keep his mind empty, at least for most of the time. He was sure Caradoc had told his hosts what had happened, and that they were doing this to help him. Alwen and Cati went out of their way to be gentle with him as well.
One morning Marcus came face to face with Voromagos. The druid glared and pushed him out of the way, almost knocking him over, and Marcus felt fear touch his heart once more. He knew his future was still to be decided, and it occurred to him that the druid might well have a say in what happened. If he did, Marcus began to think he might be doomed to have his throat cut as a sacrifice after all.
Two days later the ‘gathering’ took place. Marcus hadn’t known what to expect, but it turned out to be a big occasion. People arrived at the Dun from early morning – men on horses, women and children in carts – everyone dressed in their very best clothes. The men wore gold bands at their throats – Marcus had learned they were called torcs – and silver brooches to fasten their cloaks, and the women wore gold chains and bracelets. The warriors carried their best weapons too: spears trimmed with the feathers of eagles or hawks, and shield rims polished until they shone.
A great feast was held in the open air, with whole sheep and pigs roasted over firepits. Caradoc’s wife – Marcus now knew she was called Brianna, and her daughters were Talwyn and Seren – organised the event. Everyone was eating and drinking, and children were running around having fun. Marcus sat watching, thinking of his father talking about the Britons being ‘tattooed savages’. It was true, they did look strange and savage to Roman eyes, but now Marcus could only see them as... people.
‘Come, Marcus,’ said Gwyn after a time. ‘Caradoc has summoned you.’
Gwyn and Dragorix went with him to Caradoc’s roundhouse. The chief was sitting at his hearth, a dozen other men with him. They were talking and laughing, but fell silent when Marcus approached and stood in front of them. The druid Voromagos was at Caradoc’s side, and stared at Marcus with a look of intense dislike.
‘Welcome to the Council of the Chiefs,’ said Caradoc, speaking in Latin. ‘Let me introduce you – this is Conor, chief of the Silures, and this is Bedovir, chief of the Ordovices...’ He gave each man’s name, and they nodded solemnly at Marcus. ‘We have talked of you,’ Caradoc went on, ‘and Voromagos has persuaded some of us here that you should be sacrificed, and your head sent to Governor Scapula.’
Marcus felt sick and wondered what he could possibly say to save his life. But Gwyn suddenly spoke up, talking angrily, a stream of words that Marcus could barely follow pouring from the young Briton’s mouth. Voromagos rose to his feet, shouting and pointing at Marcus, and Dragorix stepped forward to come between them. The big warrior spoke too, his deep voice booming, and Voromagos sat down again.
‘It seems you might have to thank Gwyn for saving your life a second time,’ said Caradoc, smiling. ‘He has bravely spoken for you against Voromagos.’
‘Thank you!’ said Marcus, turning to Gwyn. But Gwyn still seemed tense.
‘You are not safe yet, however,’ said Caradoc. ‘The Council must be of one voice on such a matter.’ He looked round at the other men, and they all shrugged their agreement. Voromagos scowled and gave a great sigh, but even he nodded at last. ‘Good,’ said Caradoc. ‘That is what I wished for you, Marcus Arrius Crispus. I will arrange for you to be taken to a place where you will find your people.’
‘I’m not sure if they are my people any more,’ said Marcus, his words surprising him. But it felt good to say them. ‘In fact... I think I want to stay here.’ Then he realised that most of the Council might not understand what he was saying, and he switched from Latin to their tongue. But this time he was definite. ‘I want to stay.’
Gwyn grinned, and clapped him on the back, almost knocking him over.
And so began the days of Marcus’s new life in the Dun of the Long Hill.
CHAPTER SIX
Bearing the Pain
A year passed, and there came a time when Marcus could barely remember he had ever been Roman. He learned to speak the tongue of the Britons as well as he could speak Latin. He outgrew his old Roman tunic and Alwen made him new clothes, so he dressed like a Briton as well. And he ran with Gwyn and the other boys of the Dun, exploring the hills and woods and getting into all kinds of mischief.
It was always good to come home to the roundhouse, though, to eat the food that Alwen cooked, to talk with her and play with Cati. But one evening, when they had finished their meal, Dragorix turned to Marcus, a serious look on his face.
‘I have something important to tell you, Marcus,’ he said. It was summer and the hut was warm, but Marcus felt a chill run down his spine. ‘Alwen and I have been happy to give you a place here with us, and I am sure Gwyn and Cati feel...’
‘Spit it out, husband!’ said Alwen. ‘Can’t you see that you’re worrying him?’
‘What? Oh, yes...’ said Dragorix, who was happier with a spear or a tool in his hand than when he was talking. ‘Marcus, we’d like to adopt you as our son.’
‘That means you’ll be my brother!’ yelled Cati, jumping on his back.
‘Mine too,’ said Gwyn with a grin. ‘Although I’ll still be the oldest.’
Cati stuck her tongue out at Gwyn, and Alwen tutted. ‘What a horrible pair you are!’ she said. ‘So, Marcus, do you think you can put up with them, and us?’
Marcus nodded, not trusting his voice, hot tears prickling in his eyes, and Cati planted a huge kiss on his cheek. Two full moons later, at the gathering for Samhain, the autumn feast, Dragorix stood before the people of the Dun and told them that Marcus was now a son to him, a bond of kinship never to be broken. A great cheer went up and Caradoc stepped forward to welcome Marcus into the tribe.
* * *
Another year passed, and Marcus began his warrior training with Dragorix and Gwyn, learning to use
a spear and sword and shield. He took to it quickly, and could soon hold his own against anyone of his age, and some a lot older. He became one of the Dun’s best hunters too – good at moving without being heard. He killed a wolf on his own one cold autumn day, and gave the thick pelt to Cati for her bed-place.
And in the depths of that winter, on the longest night of the year, Marcus became a man. He stood stripped to the waist by the hearth in Caradoc’s roundhouse, with Dragorix and Gwyn and a crowd of other men looking on. Voromagos chanted and prayed to the gods of the tribe. Marcus had learned their names – Lugh, the god of shining light, Camulos, the god of war, Epona, the goddess of fertility. Then the druid opened a small box and took out a set of needles and a pot of blue liquid.
‘Remember, not a sound,’ said Voromagos, the fire reflected in his eyes. ‘Bear the pain of the needles silently or you will forever be a boy. A Roman boy...’
‘Get on with it, Druid,’ said Marcus. ‘And make sure my pictures are good.’
The men laughed and whooped. Voromagos glared at them, then dipped a needle into the liquid and jabbed it hard into Marcus’s chest. But Marcus smiled, and kept smiling as Voromagos jabbed and scraped and wiped away the beads of blood so he could see what he was doing. It took a long while, but finally Marcus’s chest and shoulders were covered with an intricate pattern of swirling blue lines. He knew what they meant – they were the symbols of the tribe, and charms to ward off harm.
‘So am I a man of the Catuvellauni now?’ he asked, staring at Voromagos.
‘You’ll do, I suppose,’ said the druid with a smile, and the men cheered.
There were gifts for Marcus – a pair of war spears from Dragorix, a beautiful hunting knife from Gwyn, and a fine sword from Caradoc. But the best gift of all was a place in Dragorix’s war-band. Marcus thought his heart might burst with pride as he rode out with them for the first time, beside his father and brother and the other warriors. He felt that he was as far from Rome as it was possible to be.
But Rome was coming ever closer to him.
* * *
At the time of Marcus’s capture, the Romans had been pushing west, continually harassing Caradoc and his allies. Caradoc had struck back, sending small war-bands on raids into Roman-controlled territory. Then Governor Scapula had turned his attention elsewhere, and had left Caradoc alone. Now it seemed that the governor had finished things in the north, and had turned his eyes to the west once more.
Caradoc summoned another Council of the Chiefs, and Marcus went to it with Dragorix and Gwyn and the other important men of the tribe. It was a cold wet day in early spring, and they were glad of the fire that burned in Caradoc’s hearth, casting shadows on the walls of the roundhouse.
‘Are you sure he’s got the northern tribes under control?’ said Conor of the Silures, a great bear of a man with a shaggy pelt of black hair that hung down his back. ‘The Parisi have never been strong, but I can’t believe he’s beaten the Brigantes.’
Marcus had heard of the Brigantes. Their lands straddled the northern mountains that some called Britannia’s backbone, and they had a reputation for being very fierce. But most people seemed more interested in the fact that the tribe was ruled by a warrior queen. Cartimandua was her name, and she was said to be a difficult woman, although Alwen said that was just because men were afraid of her.
‘He hasn’t beaten the Brigantes,’ said Caradoc. ‘But he doesn’t want to fight them and us at the same time, so he’s promised to leave them alone if they stick to their own lands.’
‘We all know what a Roman promise is worth,’ said Bedovir of the Ordovices, a squat man with a scarred face, his eyes glittering in the firelight. ‘Nothing.’
There was a murmur of agreement among the men, and for a moment Marcus wondered if anybody distrusted him. But Dragorix squeezed his shoulder, and Marcus breathed more easily. Of course everyone there had heard the story of how his Roman father had treated him, and they knew where his loyalty lay now.
‘Perhaps Cartimandua will have to find that out for herself,’ said Caradoc. ‘In the meantime we have to deal with what is happening – Scapula attacking us.’
‘But it’s only been raids by his auxiliaries so far, hasn’t it?’ said Conor.
‘Yes, he’s just making sure that we don’t raid them first,’ said Bedovir.
‘No he isn’t,’ said Caradoc, shaking his head. ‘Scapula is no fool. He’s probing – testing our strength and keeping us from discovering the route he plans to take with his legions when the time comes. But that is exactly what we need to know...’
Eventually, after more discussion, the Council agreed to send out as many war-bands as possible to do some probing of their own. Dragorix led his men from the Dun at dawn the next morning. Marcus felt a thrill of excitement as they rode through the gateway, their weapons and harnesses chinking, the hooves of the horses splashing through puddles of mud. Gwyn rode beside him with a huge grin on his face.
‘It is a fine thing to ride against our enemies,’ said Gwyn. ‘Is it not, brother?’
‘Save your breath,’ said Marcus, grinning back. ‘You’re going to need it.’
So began a time of hard riding and fighting. Dragorix took the war-band deep into the eastern lands controlled by the Romans, and several times they came up against detachments of auxiliaries. These encounters quickly turned into skirmishes, the Britons keen to fight, but on each occasion the auxiliaries broke off and slipped away. Dragorix was wary of ambush, and never let the war-band go after them.
‘Our task is to discover their plans, not take their heads,’ said the big man.
Marcus couldn’t decide if he was glad of that or not. The fighting had been both exciting and terrifying. Each encounter had gone by in a flash of movement and noise, of horses smashing into each other and men yelling and blades crashing into shields. In one fight he had felt a sword blade whistle past just above his head and had slashed back at his opponent, but he had no idea if he had drawn any blood.
Then one afternoon near a wooded hill they came up against some auxiliaries who were olive-skinned and wore chain-mail, baggy trousers and helmets with nodding plumes of black feathers. Marcus found himself in a duel with one, their horses side by side, and this time he felt his sword blade bite into flesh. The man swung his horse around and rode off through the trees, with Marcus following.
They hadn’t gone far before the auxiliary fell from his horse. Marcus reined in his own mount and stood above the man, ready to finish off his victim, but he was already dead. Then Marcus heard a noise, a steady thud-thud-thudding of booted feet, and he walked to the edge of the wood. A column of men in helmets, some with red crests, was marching along the valley below.
The legions were coming.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Taking the War-Trail
Marcus quickly remounted and rode back to tell Dragorix what he had seen. The fight was over and the auxiliaries had gone, leaving two of the war-band dead and six of their own. Dragorix went to see the legions for himself, taking Marcus and Gwyn with him. They stood quietly in the shadows beneath the trees, watching. The Romans were still marching past, a river of men with no beginning or end, sunlight glinting on their weapons and armour and the eagle standards.
‘It looks like two full legions,’ murmured Dragorix, his eyes scanning the Romans, ‘with plenty of auxiliary support and enough supplies for a long campaign...’
It should have been a three-day ride back to the Dun, but the war-band made it in two. Caradoc was in his roundhouse and listened carefully to what Dragorix said. Then the chief took a charred stick from the hearth and started scraping lines in the packed earth of the roundhouse floor. Marcus realised he was drawing a map.
‘This is the great River Sabrina,’ said Caradoc, pointing to a curved line. ‘West of the river lie the mountains, and the lands of the Silures in the south – that’s where the legions you saw were heading. But there are repo
rts of another Roman force of the same size that is aiming for the Ordovices, whose lands are north of those of the Silures. The Dun of the Long Hill stands here, between the two great western tribes.’
‘Do you think Scapula intends to destroy them first?’ said Marcus.
‘Yes, Marcus, I do,’ Caradoc said quietly. ‘Then he will come for us.’
‘So what shall we do?’ said Gwyn. ‘We can’t just sit and wait for him.’
Caradoc stared at his map, frowning and saying nothing for a moment. ‘You are right, Gwyn,’ he said at last. ‘Our backs are to the mountains and the Romans are in front of us. We have no choice but to take the war-trail in opposition to them, and for that we will need a great army. Not just the Silures and the Ordovices and those of the Catuvellauni who remain free, but the other tribes too, if we can persuade them...’
The Council of the Chiefs was summoned, and Conor and Bedovir came with all their warriors, so they clearly agreed with Caradoc. Messengers were sent further afield, and before long warriors from other tribes began to arrive at the Dun of the Long Hill, as the army gathered. Most of them had fought each other in the past, but feuds and hatreds were put aside in the face of Rome, the common enemy.
The Dun grew crowded and noisy. Blacksmiths worked without rest, their anvils ringing as they pounded red-hot metal with their hammers. They forged new sword and spear blades and mended old weapons. Some men feasted and drank and swore to stand by their friends until death and beyond. Others sat quietly, talking to their wives and children, or spent their time alone, polishing shield rims and sharpening blades.
Each tribe brought its own druids, and the priests passed among the warriors like great ravens, in their black cloaks and strange feathered headdresses, praying and casting spells. Marcus and Voromagos were friends now, but seeing the druid making sacrifices to the gods so they would give his people victory sent a shiver down the boy’s spine. He decided it certainly wasn’t a good time to be a goat or a lamb.
