The Captive Celt (4 page)

“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.

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.

“No, but I don't want to see a kind friend like you die, Deri. Now, speak to the emperor for me.”