by Tony Bradman
‘Would you do what he wants?’ said Marcus. ‘Would you surrender to save them?’
‘They are dead already, Marcus, even though they are still breathing.’ There was a look of the deepest sadness in Caradoc’s eyes. ‘Dragorix was right, of course – our only hope is to keep fighting until we are dead ourselves, or can fight no more.’
‘But we are so few,’ said Gwyn. ‘How can we keep fighting the Romans?’
‘We must build a new alliance,’ said Caradoc. ‘And that is why we will be riding even further north. Cartimandua of the Brigantes is our only hope now.’
* * *
It was a hard journey through a land of steep bare hills and rocky passes and wild streams tumbling over tall, sharp-edged cliffs. The days grew shorter, and the wind colder, but they struggled on. One morning they saw a lone rider watching them from a distant ridge, a warrior with eagle feathers in his hair. Before long they realised they were being observed constantly, and followed too, by a whole war-band.
‘It seems we have an escort,’ said Caradoc. ‘Those are Cartimandua’s men.’
At last the trail took them into a deep valley with high hills on either side. Halfway up the slope at the far end of the valley stood a log palisade with a gate, and a great hall visible beyond. Warriors lined the walkway on the palisade, but the gate was open and Caradoc rode though it, with Marcus and Gwyn and the others following. They found themselves in a wide courtyard, where more warriors were waiting.
The doors of the hall were open, and now a woman emerged from the darkness inside. She was tall, with long black hair that hung down on either side of a striking face, and her eyes were the blue of mountain ice reflecting the winter sun. Her gown was a deep red, and around her pale throat was a necklace of bones and beaks and claws. A dagger with a silver handle hung in a scabbard from her belt.
‘Welcome to my stronghold, Caradoc of the Catuvellauni,’ she said. ‘We have been expecting you. Come into my hall and eat, and warm yourself by my fire.’
‘I give you my thanks, Cartimandua of the Brigantes,’ said Caradoc, bowing his head to her. ‘We have ridden far, and it is good to be with friends at last.’
That evening, Caradoc sat beside the warrior queen at her high table in the torch-lit hall, the two of them talking. The rest of Caradoc’s men sat further down the table, and for a while Marcus was too busy eating to take notice of anything. But once his stomach was full, he began to look around. There were others seated with them, Cartimandua’s counsellors and all the important men of the Brigantes, and they were friendly enough. But her warriors stood around the walls, watchful and unsmiling.
‘They don’t seem to like us,’ Marcus whispered, nudging Gwyn beside him.
Gwyn looked up from his bowl at the nearest warrior. ‘Maybe,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But then we don’t have to like each other to fight the Romans, do we?’
Marcus knew Gwyn was right, of course, and tried to relax, but that was almost impossible. He had become used to seeing threats and danger everywhere, and something about the way the warriors were looking at them made him uneasy.
After a while Cartimandua rose from her seat. ‘I will think on what you have asked me, Caradoc,’ she said with a cold smile, the kind in which only the lips move. ‘I will ask for the advice of my counsellors too, and we will speak again tomorrow.’
Caradoc bowed his head, then her warriors led him, Marcus, Gwyn and the others to a guest house behind the hall. It was large and comfortable, with a big fire in the hearth, but Marcus noticed that Cartimandua’s warriors stood on guard outside...
* * *
Five days went past, and each day Caradoc spoke with Cartimandua, trying to persuade her to join with him in the great fight against the Roman invaders. Then each evening in the guest house Caradoc would say something to give hope to Marcus and Gwyn and the others. ‘Cartimandua is slowly coming round to our way of thinking,’ he said at last, smiling at them. ‘I have nearly convinced her, I can feel it...’
That night, Marcus was woken by the sound of banging on the door and loud voices. He sprang from his bed-place and saw that Caradoc and Gwyn were already standing by the door with their swords drawn. He grabbed his own weapon and stood with them, just in time to see the doors crash open. Cartimandua’s warriors rushed in, and for a moment there was chaos as men yelled and struggled with each other.
Marcus fought two warriors, cutting one down before he was knocked over from behind. His sword was ripped from his grasp, his arms were brutally pulled behind his back and his wrists tied tightly. Then he was dragged outside and made to stand with Caradoc and Gwyn and the others, who were all bound in the same way. In front of them stood a line of warriors, some holding torches, the flames red against the night sky.
Then the line parted and Cartimandua walked through, a Roman officer at her side, the light of the torches glinting off his red-crested helmet and gleaming armour. Behind them Marcus could see more Romans, legionaries in full battle gear.
‘Traitor!’ Gwyn hissed. ‘Your have sold our only hope for Roman gold.’
‘Oh, this is about more than gold,’ said Cartimandua. ‘And there was never any hope against the might of Rome – Caradoc should have realised that long ago.’
Marcus glanced at Caradoc, who stared at her but said nothing.
Then the Romans took them away.
CHAPTER TEN
An Offer Is Made
They were thrown into the back of a wagon pulled by a team of four oxen, with the legionaries marching in front and behind, and Marcus soon realised they were being taken south. To begin with he wondered why the Romans hadn’t just executed them then and there in Cartimandua’s stronghold. But after a while he heard some of the legionaries talking, and everything became clear.
‘They’re taking us to see the governor,’ he whispered to Caradoc and Gwyn. ‘It seems Scapula wants to meet the man he has been fighting against all these years.’
Caradoc was sitting beside them in the wagon with his knees drawn up. He had his head down and his eyes shut, and he didn’t respond to Marcus, or give any indication that he had heard him. Marcus opened his mouth to repeat what he had said, but Gwyn gripped Marcus’s arm and shook his head, as if to say they should leave Caradoc alone with his thoughts.
Marcus soon lost count of the days they spent on the move. Each one was the same: the jolting of the wagon, the tramp of the soldiers’ feet. The legionaries made camp at night, but usually they left the captives in the wagon, giving them only scraps of food and a little water. Eventually they stopped in the legionary fort at Lindum, which Marcus remembered as the place from where his father had written. The thought of that letter still made him angry, but now he felt the cold hand of fear on his heart as well. What if his father was still there?
Marcus and the others were allowed out of the wagon, and then made to line up on the fort’s wide parade ground in front of their guards and a group of Roman officers. A centurion yelled harshly at the captives in the British tongue, but with a strong Gaulish accent. ‘Kneel before your master, His Excellency the Governor of Britannia, the noble Publius Ostorius Scapula!’
They were slow to do as they were told, and the centurion’s men roughly forced them to their knees. It was obvious which of the officers was Scapula – he was at the front of the group, and his armour was far more splendid than anyone else’s. He was older than Marcus had expected, with as much grey in his hair as black, but his face was strong, that of a man used to the hard life of a soldier. He stared at Caradoc, his eyes seeming to bore into the chief of the Catuvellauni.
Then Marcus glimpsed his father behind Scapula, and for a terrifying moment he felt as if he couldn’t breathe. He quickly lowered his eyes in case his father recognised him. There was a good chance he wouldn’t, though – Marcus knew he looked very different from the Roman boy he’d been when his father had last seen him. Probably all Gaius Arrius Crispus now saw was a dirty barbarian covered in blue tattoos...<
br />
‘So, Caradoc, we meet at last,’ Scapula said in Latin. Caradoc stared back at him, but remained silent. ‘What, no great speech – no defiance?’ Scapula went on. Caradoc narrowed his eyes slightly, but still said nothing. ‘I’m disappointed,’ said Scapula. ‘But perhaps you are wise to save your words for the emperor in Rome. Oh yes, that’s where you’re going. Claudius wants to show you off to the people of the city in his triumph... Take them away. I’ve seen enough.’
They were pulled to their feet again and herded towards the fort’s cell block. Marcus glanced over his shoulder and saw that his father was now looking at him with a puzzled expression. Their eyes met briefly, but then Gaius turned to speak to Scapula. Had Marcus been recognised? It seemed not – although, as much as the idea terrified him, he half wished he had. Not to be known by your own father seemed somehow a terrible thing... Then the captives were shoved into a dark, reeking cell, and Marcus tried not to brood about his father any more.
The captives sat in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. After a while Marcus lay down to sleep in the filthy straw, and for the first time in years he dreamed of the villa. He was young again, and his mother was there too, sitting on a bench by the fountain in the atrium, waiting for him. But she had the face of Alwen, and Cati was beside her, and they were smiling and beckoning to him, yet he couldn’t move. Suddenly he heard his father speak, and they both vanished...
‘Wake up, you stinking savage!’ someone was yelling. Marcus opened his eyes and saw the centurion from earlier standing above him. The Roman kicked him in the ribs, and two legionaries pulled him to his feet. ‘Somebody important wants to have a word with you, my lad.’
Gwyn and several of the other captives were on their feet too, but there was nothing they could do. Another two legionaries were standing by the cell door with their swords drawn, and there were more soldiers in the corridor outside. Marcus looked at Gwyn and their eyes locked together for a moment. Then Marcus was dragged away and the cell door was slammed shut.
* * *
Night had fallen and the sky was black above the fort, and the only light was coming from the red flames of the torches held by a couple of the legionaries. They marched Marcus across the parade ground to a building on the far boundary, and then went inside. The centurion knocked on a door.
‘Enter!’ said a voice, and Marcus recognised it instantly, his heart sinking.
The centurion opened the door and went in, pulling Marcus with him. ‘Is this the savage you wanted to see, Your Honour?’ he said. ‘To be honest, they all look much the same to me.’
Marcus’s father was sitting on a stool beside a small table. He was reading a papyrus roll, and there were more piled on the table and the floor beside him. A narrow military bed stood against one wall, and an old wooden chest that Marcus remembered from the villa stood against another. But otherwise the room was empty.
‘Yes, that’s him,’ Gaius said. ‘You may leave us now, Centurion.’
‘Are you sure, Your Honour?’ said the centurion. ‘He might be dangerous...’
‘Quite sure. You can go, and close the door behind you.’
The centurion shrugged and did as he was ordered. For a moment there was silence in the room. Marcus kept his head down, but he knew his father was raking him with his eyes.
‘I cannot believe such a thing has happened,’ Gaius spluttered at last, his voice filled with horror. ‘My own son turned into a tattooed savage! You have brought shame upon your country and your family. You have brought shame upon me. What do you have to say, boy?’
‘I do not understand you, old man,’ Marcus muttered in the tongue of the Britons.
‘Speak Latin!’ Gaius hissed. ‘I know it’s you, Marcus – I saw it immediately, although I couldn’t admit it to myself. You’ve changed, but you look so much like your mother.’
‘Do I?’ said Marcus, raising his head and switching to Latin, the words feeling strange and familiar in his mouth at the same time. ‘I am glad of it. I hope I don’t look like you at all.’
His father scowled and leaned forward. ‘Be very careful how you speak to me, Marcus. I could call back the centurion and have him cut your throat. Is that what you want?’
‘What else is there for me? You Romans kill all those who stand against you,’ said Marcus.
A cloud of anger passed across his father’s face, but Gaius brought himself under control. ‘You were a Roman once too,’ he said, in the clipped tones Marcus remembered. ‘And I would like you to tell me how you became what you are now. All I know is that you were captured by the savages – they sent a message to the governor, trying to exchange you for some hostages.’
‘And you sent me a letter telling me to kill myself like Cato,’ said Marcus.
‘As any good Roman father would have done in the circumstances,’ said Gaius. ‘I agreed with Scapula that we simply could not give in to Caratacus. Why did you not obey my wishes?’
‘Because I wanted to live, Father! I had begun to see how good life can be.’
‘You think these savages have a good life? They live in mud huts, they worship strange gods, they squabble and fight each other continually. Only we Romans are truly civilized.’
‘But Rome abandoned me, Father, and those savages gave me a home,’ said Marcus.
Silence fell between them once more, and Marcus could see that his father was thinking. At last Gaius took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
‘Well, that is all in the past,’ he said. ‘But I’m prepared to forgive you for your disobedience and do my best to save you, although it will be difficult and I will have to call in some favours. We can say you were forced to become a savage, and that you’ve come to your senses now... It would be very useful if you had been tortured.’
‘No, Father, I don’t want you to do that,’ Marcus said, shaking his head, hardly able to believe what he had just heard. ‘I swear I would rather die than be a Roman again. So you might as well call the centurion back and get him to cut my throat.’
‘Now listen, Marcus – don’t be too hasty,’ said Gaius. ‘You have to realise that if you reject my offer I won’t be able to protect you. Things will just have to take their course...’
Marcus was puzzled. He couldn’t work out why his father was looking so worried. Surely the noble Gaius Arrius Crispus was the one with all the power in this situation? Then finally Marcus understood, and for an instant he almost felt sorry for the man sitting before him.
‘The answer is still no,’ he said. ‘And you need not worry. I will not reveal I am your son, whatever happens to me, and I will make sure none of the other captives do either.’
His father stared at him, and then turned his head away. ‘Very well,’ he said quietly, his expression a mixture of relief and embarrassment. ‘It seems there is nothing more to say.’
Gaius summoned the centurion and told him to take Marcus back to the cell block. Marcus glanced round as the centurion roughly shoved him out of the door. His father was already reading the roll of papyrus on the table in front of him, a look of intense concentration on his face.
Marcus never saw him again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A Fine Speech
That night, Marcus slept more soundly than he had done for a long time, despite the reek of the filthy straw in the cell and the snores of his companions. He woke at first light, the warm sun reaching through the bars of the cell’s high window to touch his face. A strange feeling filled him, a peculiar kind of lightness he had never experienced before, and suddenly he realised what it was. He might be locked in this stinking cell and chained to the wall, but Marcus felt free.
His father had been a shadow over his life for as long as he could remember, even after he had come to Britannia, even after he had been adopted by Dragorix and Alwen and had become a warrior of the Catuvellauni. He’d thought he had emptied himself of everything Roman, but his father’s voice had always been in the back of his mind, and in his dream
s. Last night’s conversation had changed things forever, and that voice had finally been silenced.
His joy at the feeling soon faded, though. The captives were dragged from the cell and thrown back onto the wagon to continue the journey south. Nobody had much to say – the only sounds were the creaking of the wagon’s wheels and the stamping of the legionaries, although Marcus could tell Gwyn was brooding about something. ‘What will they do to us after the emperor has shown us off in his triumph?’ Gwyn said eventually. ‘Will they sell us as slaves?’
Marcus had translated Scapula’s words for the captives who couldn’t speak Latin. He had also explained what a triumph was. A victorious commander was allowed to lead his troops through the streets of Rome, past huge crowds of cheering people. Behind the troops would be wagons of looted treasure and a column of prisoners from the campaign, all of them in chains. It was a chance for the Romans to enjoy a sense of power over those they had defeated.
‘Perhaps,’ Caradoc said gloomily. ‘But it’s more likely they will kill us.’
Marcus felt a hot wave of anger. He had grown tired of Caradoc’s refusal to speak, but he wished his chief could take back the few words of cold despair he had just uttered. ‘Have you no comfort or hope for your followers, Caradoc?’ he said. ‘That’s what we need from you.’
‘No, Marcus – I am sorry, but I do not,’ said Caradoc, shaking his head sadly. ‘I tried to fight the Romans and I lost. I ask myself what I could have done differently, but I have no answers, and I will feel the shame of my failure for as long as I live in this world, and in the next world too. Think of me no longer as your clan chief or as a great warrior – I am Caradoc of the Broken Spear. All I have left is my defiance, and Scapula was right – there will be another time and place for that.’
