The Captive Celt (2 page)

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 Britannia, 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.