by Terry Deary
THE
CAPTIVE CELT
THE
CAPTIVE CELT
Illustrated by Helen Flook
A & C Black • London
First published 2008 by
A & C Black Publishers Ltd
38 Soho Square, London, W1D 3HB
www.acblack.com
Text copyright © 2008 Terry Deary
Illustrations copyright © 2008 Helen Flook
The rights of Terry Deary and Helen Flook to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
eISBN 978-1-40813-879-3
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.
This book is produced using paper that is made from wood grown in managed, sustainable forests. It is natural, renewable and recyclable. The logging and manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd.
Table of contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Afterword
ONE
Rome, AD 51
I am a slave. A pitiful, helpless boy, bullied by my master the senator’s daughter, the cruel Livia.
I am a prisoner of Rome.
There is no winter in Rome … not real winter like in Britannia, my home. And it was winter that defeated us, not just the Roman army. Winter and the shortest day of the year.
I remember what my father said. “The days are getting shorter – the sun is getting weaker. It happens every year. The grass will not grow and we will starve.”
“How can we make the sun stronger?” I asked.
“Give the gods a gift.”
“A gift?”
“A life.”
“A goat?” I had seen a goat sacrificed to the gods. The druids took their knives and cut its throat. They roasted the meat and ate it. I was given some of the scraps.
But this year, it would not be a goat.
“A man,” my father said.
“The Roman soldier? The one we captured?”
Father nodded.
The druids would never roast or eat a man. But they would kill him and give his life to our gods.
The whole village gathered on the path that led to the woods. The five druid priests in their white robes stood silent and still, though a wicked wind whipped at their hoods and blew through their beards.
The dark-skinned Roman soldier looked at us with scorn. He was not afraid to die.
TWO
The druids turned and walked slowly up the hill to the dark, bare trees. Our warriors led the way, guarding the prisoner. Children like me followed.
I tried to march like a warrior, but my little feet slipped in the muddy puddles. The only sound was the sighing of the wind in the trees and the crying of some of the babies the women carried.
“Why are you wearing your black war dress, Ma?” I asked.
“For luck,” she said. “This was the dress I was wearing when we attacked the Roman supply wagon.”
“Was that when we stole their corn?” I asked.
My mother nodded. “We ate well that night,” she said with a grim smile.
The druids stopped beneath a huge oak tree. The soldier was tied to a rough table raised on a bank of earth – the druid altar.
I watched wide-eyed and dry-mouthed for the knives to slice and the guts to spill. They said the druids could see the future from the way the guts fell to the ground.
But they hadn’t seen the future that day. They hadn’t seen what would happen next. They hadn’t even guessed there would be a Roman revenge.
As the druids raised their knives, there was a single cry in a strange tongue. Then came a crashing of branches and ferns as a troop of Roman soldiers rose from their hiding places and raced towards us. They carried no shields, only throwing spears and short swords.
Our warriors carried no weapons – they would never do that on holy ground. One of the first spears struck my mother. She fell and dropped my baby sister to the ground.
Smiling, she said, “I will see you again, son, when I am reborn.” Then the light of this life went out of her eyes and she slipped into the next.
My mother was not afraid to die.
I pulled the spear from her chest and tried to fling it back, but the point had snapped off … the Romans made them that way.
Sweeping swords spilled blood as our warriors died bravely. The women who tried to fight were cut down without mercy. Children who tried to run were beaten back.
I didn’t see my father die, but all the men were killed. The white druid robes were stained red.
In moments, the clearing in the woods was almost silent again. A few of the dying groaned. Some children sobbed. I watched as the prisoner was cut free and hugged his fellow Romans.
A soldier grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and raised his sword.
I waited to die. He spoke the foreign tongue to a friend. They looked at me, shrugged and the Roman said, “Servus.”
I soon learned that meant slave.
I was chained to the few children who were left. The ones who were old enough to fight were killed. The ones who were too young to walk were killed.
We were marched for many days to the edge of the ocean. There we were led on to boats.
The winter sea was wild. I looked back through the spray at the white cliffs. They were the first sight many Romans had of Britannia, so they called our country “Albion”, which means white. It was my last sight of my homeland for many years...
THREE
It was a holiday in Rome. The streets were filled with bakers and butchers and builders, muck movers and moneylenders and metalworkers, soldiers and sewer men and swineherds, cowherds and cooks and crooks, potters and pedlars and even priests.
They came like an invading army, bubbling along in a loud and swirling stream towards the Circus Maximus and the chariot races.
There were snarling race fans with their green, red, blue or white ribbons. There were grand men in togas, who sniffed at the stinking mob while slaves flapped fans and pushed beggars out of the way and back to the gutters.
Then there was me … Deri the Brave, the young Celtic warrior. And there was the girl. The ugly, raven-haired, sour-faced, spoilt brat they call Livia.
She squawked in her whining way, “That beggar woman trod on my toe!”
“So?” I shrugged.
“So, Father sent you along to protect me.” Her too-fat face turned red and she roared, “You are a slave, you uncaring Celt. You do as I say.”
“I do as your father, my master, says,” I argued.
“And my father told you that today you would protect me. So protect me.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Take your stick and beat that woman who trampled on my toe!”
“Which woman?” I asked.
The crowd had swirled on and the figures and faces had shifted like shapes in the clouds on a windy day.
We had clouds like that back in Britannia. I would lie on my back and watch them change. I would see animals and monsters come and melt away.
Here in Rome, they had endless days of clear, blue sky.
In Br
itannia, we had fields and forests of fifty shades of green, morning skies of lemon and amber, and evening skies of scarlet and pink. Britannia had the colours of the rainbow. Rome had the colours of mud.
“Ha!” limp-haired Livia jeered. “Call yourself a warrior! What warrior sheds tears because a girl shouts at him?”
If a tear ran down my face, it was not because of Livia. It was the memory of Britannia that was hurting my heart.
I brushed it away. The slave collar burned my neck and I longed to be free of it.
One day my life will change, I thought. I know it will.
FOUR
“No wonder the Romans defeated you Celts when you cry like girls,” Livia sneered.
“They cheat – the Romans cheat!” I raged. “They hide in the woods and kill our warriors on holy ground!”
The noisy crowds stopped to look at me, a slave, standing on the dusty street, shouting at a noble girl. They probably wanted to see me executed for my cheek – the Romans love to watch a good execution.
I bit my lip to stop my ranting and breathed deeply. I walked on towards the large wooden stadium, the Circus Maximus.
“The Romans took us by surprise,” I told her, more quietly. “They would never have beaten us in open battle. It was Midwinter’s Day and we were going to the holy wood to make our sacrifice.”
“Ha!” Livia laughed bitterly. “Human sacrifices. Yes, I’ve heard your priests do that. We kill goats and lambs, and offer them to our gods. But you kill humans. That’s why you have to be defeated. The Romans are saving the world from barbarians like you.”
“But you kill people for fun!” I spat. “You have your games, where men and women are torn apart by lions and bears, where they’re made to fight to the death, just for sport. You’re evil … all of you Romans. Evil!”
I felt better for saying that. But a crowd was gathering close by. A group of men had made a circle around me. They had no weapons, but their huge fists and boots could easily crush me.
“What do we do with slaves that rebel?” a fat one burbled.
“Beat them till they’ve learned their lesson,” his friend hissed.
There was no escape – the crowd was packed too tightly. I was ready to die.
But then a soldier pushed his way through the mob and raised his sword. “That’s enough,” he snarled.
“We have Roman law to deal with this – you can’t defeat the barbarians by acting like barbarians.”
The men nodded, and began to move away. Only Livia stood there, red faced and furious. “What will you do to him?” she screeched.
“What we do with all rebel slaves,” the man shrugged. “Crucify him. Fasten him to a cross by the side of the road into Rome. Leave him to die slowly. Show the world what happens to animals like him.”
“Good,” Livia snorted and walked away.
“Thanks, officer,” I muttered.
FIVE
I was taken to the camp of the emperor’s guard in the centre of Rome. I’d been past the gates many times, and seen the troops marching and training. These were men who fought and beat the rest of the world.
As it was a holiday, today there was no training. Captains and generals with high plumes on their helmets rode on horses. They galloped through the gates, as excited as children playing in the streets.
I was sure I was on my way to a slow death, but I had to ask: “What’s going on?”
The soldier grunted. “A special prisoner’s just been brought to Rome. There will be a great parade to show him to the people. It will be more popular than the chariot races.”
We passed guards who unlocked gates and doors for us until we reached a block of cells. They stank like Roman toilet rooms in summer – the ones I had to clean out.
At last, a heavy door was opened and I was thrown into a dark room. I stumbled and crashed into someone who was already there.
He steadied me with his huge hands and said, “Careful, boy!” And he wasn’t speaking Latin like the Romans. He wasn’t even a Gaul.
My heart seemed to stop for a moment. “You’re from Britannia!”
There was a tiny window in the top of the cell to let in air and a little light. As my eyes grew used to the dimness, I could see he was a tall man, dressed like a British warrior though they’d taken away his weapons. “I’m Deri,” I said.
“They’re going to execute me for being a rebel slave.”
“Ah, that’s the Roman way,” the man nodded. “I am a British chief … and they’re going to execute me for daring to fight them. My name is Caratacus.”
SIX
This time I was sure my heart wouldn’t start beating again. “Caratacus? The mighty chief? My father told me about your amazing deeds. You are the greatest hero Britannia has ever seen. You are a god … they could never capture you, my lord!”
The man chuckled softly. “Not in battle, no. But the Romans have other ways. And I was a fool.”
“No, you’re a hero,” I argued. “The Celtic leader of leaders!”
“A warrior can be a hero and a fool, Deri. When Emperor Claudius invaded Britannia ten years ago, I led the tribes who wanted to fight. But they defeated us time and again. Of course, some tribes welcomed the Romans and fought for them. Maybe we should have made peace like the cowards. But we did not. They drove us west till I ended in the land of Wales.”
“And you led the Welsh into great battles. You were a hero there, too,” I reminded him.
“Not really. I robbed a few Roman supply wagons. But when it came to battles, they beat us again. Finally, after years of fighting, we fled to a fortress on a cliff top in the Welsh mountains. From there, we could pour stones on to their heads if they tried to attack us,” he told me.
“So you beat them in the end?”
“No. They put those great curved shields over their heads to make a roof … they call it a ‘tortoise’ … and they marched on us till they captured the fort.
“I was lucky. I escaped. But they took my family. I didn’t know what to do, so I went over to the Brigantes in northern England for help.”
“The Brigantes?” I gasped. “But I’ve heard that they are friends with the Romans … they are traitors! They make peace and the Romans protect them. Their queen Cartimandua is a witch!”
Caratacus snorted. “I know that now. But I believed she was a true Celt at heart. When I arrived at her fortress, she welcomed me as a friend. Then, that evening, she drugged my wine and when I woke I was in chains and a prisoner of the Romans.”
“The Iceni tribe would never have betrayed you. Queen Boudica will fight to the end. I wish I was back in Britannia to fight with her. Instead, I’ll die in Rome,” I said.
Caratacus wrapped a powerful arm around my shoulders. “You will die bravely like a Celt. I’ll show you how.”
My mouth was dry with fear, but I knew I mustn’t show it. I would show the evil Livia how a Briton could die … I knew she’d be there to watch.
The guard brought us some dry bread and slimy water.
“When do we die?” I asked.
“Tomorrow,” he said and bolted the door shut.
“You speak the Latin tongue?” Caratacus was surprised.
“I’ve been here five years,” I said. “I had to learn it.”
“What did the guard say?”
“We die tomorrow,” I said, and we sank into silence.
Night fell. We slept.
SEVEN
We were woken by the sound of trumpets from the exercise yard outside our window. There was a lot of clattering – armour and arms, horses and chariots, and centurions in hob-nailed sandals shouting orders.
We were led out, blinking, into the light and saw a glittering line of troops ready to march out of the camp gates. A chariot stood at the back of the line, and Caratacus was made to climb into it, with his wrists and ankles chained. Of course a slave boy like me had to walk behind.
A trumpet rang out and the line moved forward. It was a fine morning to die.<
br />
When we entered the street, the crowds were thick. The guards had trouble holding them back. Some wine-filled peasants tried to throw stones, but most just jeered and laughed at the fallen hero.
We reached the great meeting place in the middle of Rome – the Forum – but instead of heading for the arena and the wild animals, we were led to the senate building.
I’d never been inside, but I knew that was where the nobles of Rome met to make their laws and plot their wars. Were they planning to kill us in front of the lords?
Caratacus was taken from the chariot and led into the cool, marble hall, where a hundred men in brilliant-white togas stared at him in silence. He leaned towards me. “Tell them I need you – a warrior lord must have his weapon carrier.”
I nodded and passed on the message in Latin. The guards looked at the brave figure of Caratacus and didn’t argue.
The families of the great men crowded in behind us. Then someone stepped forward – a beetle-backed man with a limp and an ugly face. “Welcome to Rome, Caratacus,” he said.
Caratacus turned and looked at me. “What did he say?”
“It’s the emperor Claudius, and he welcomed you,” I explained.
“Tell him I wish to speak to the nobles of Rome.”
“But you don’t speak Latin,” I said.
“You do. I’ll tell you what to say. I need to try to argue for my life,” he murmured.
“Are you afraid to die?” I asked, shocked.
