we run, the Romans will overwhelm us. Caractacus will have to attack before more fools take fright at omens. May the gods be with us this day!’ Reaching out she pulled me close to her, holding me tight. ‘Atilus, my son, take care.’
‘You too, mother.’
‘Yes.’ She recovered her composure; tears could only weaken a warrior and, though young, I was a man. ‘Now listen to me. If the worst should happen, make your way to Colchester. Wait in the sacred grove to the north. If I do not join you in three days, go home and place yourself under the protection of my uncle. You understand?’
‘Yes, mother.’ I was anxious at the thought of being parted. ‘But you won’t let anything happen to you, will you?’
‘We are in the hands of the gods,’ she said bleakly. ‘Get to the horses now, they’ll be needing your help with the chariots.’
The chariots which we hoped would smash the might of Rome.
They filed out with the nobles standing straight and proud, the reins wrapped around their waists, spears and lances ready to hand. Like an avalanche they thundered down the slope leading to the mist-shrouded Roman camp and, like an avalanche, they broke.
Horses went mad as they caught the unfamiliar stench of camels, rearing, screaming, tangling the reins and overturning the chariots. Others fell, caught by the trip-ropes stretched in the tall grass, team piling on team, necks and backs breaking, wood splintering, the air filled with shrieks, screams, the cries of injured and dying men and beasts.
Then came the devils, Nubians painted and ghastly as they rose from where they had been hidden, spears stabbing at the fallen, the warriors who had run after the chariots.
The guile and cunning of Rome struck superstitious terror into the hearts of our men, sending then running in panic, easy prey for the legionaries.
From the upper slope I watched as they advanced, spreading, killing, accoutrements flashing in the sun, shields blazing, swords glimmering, red cloaks aping the colour of the blood they spilled with such careless ease.
Men of the legions which ruled the world.
A warrior came running towards me, fell as a pilum thudded into his back, the shaft of the spear like a wand rising above his body. Another tried to make a stand, his broadsword a wheel of light. Its edge was useless against the hemispherical shield, his own no defence against the calculated thrust which sent steel into his belly. Doubled, vomiting blood, he fell.
As did others, the slopes covered with them, the very grass turning from green to red.
I ran.
The woods were thick and the undergrowth a good place in which to hide. I found a small hollow beneath a tree, one covered with bracken, and burrowed into it like the terrified animal I was. I felt sick and my stomach was knotted with fear, muscles jerking to every sound. The air was full of sound, yells, hoarsely shouted commands, the shrieking of the women as they ran, bare-footed, hair streaming, to stab and run to strike again.
The day grew older, the sound of battle fading as the legionaries pursued the broken forces as they ran towards Colchester. If my mother had remained alive, that is where I would meet her, in the grove of sacred oaks to the north of the town. We would return home, there to live quietly, perhaps to fight another day. It was important that I didn’t keep her waiting.
Leaving my hiding place I moved cautiously through the woods until they thinned to open country across which snaked the dirt path of the road. It was wide, rutted, littered with dead who lay like discarded rag dolls. The air held the taint of newly shed blood, a heavy, sickly-sweet odour which caused me to retch.
Straightening, wiping my mouth, I heard the voice.
‘Hold there!’ It was harsh, the snapped command in Latin. ‘You, boy, stand where you are!’
There were three of them, coming at a fast trot from the woods I had just left. A party sent to take care of any stragglers they might find. For a moment I stared at them, my feet seeming to have sunk into the ground and then, with an effort, I turned and ran into the bushes at the side of the road.
‘Butuus, after him!’
‘A boy?’
‘You know the orders. Get him!’
One of the three came running, the others following close behind. I could easily have lost them; armed and armoured as they were, they had no chance of catching me in a race, but as I turned for a final look behind my foot caught against something soft and I went sprawling.
Rising, I looked at my mother.
She was dead, raped, her legs straddled, blood between her thighs. Her face was turned, one cheek against the dirt, more dirt in her hair, her clenched hands. Her wrists were torn and dark with bruises. The dress had been ripped to expose her breasts, and a patch of blood showed where a dagger had been thrust into her heart.
There had been no need to hurry. She would not be waiting at the sacred grove.
I had a dagger myself, a small thing of sharpened iron. I drew it, backed a little and, as the leading soldier came close, flung myself at him.
It was as if I’d attacked a stone wall. The knife was useless against his armour, and he gave me no chance to reach his face. Contemptuously he knocked me down, kicked the blade from my hand, hauled me upright with a hand locked in my hair.
‘Look what I’ve found,’ he said as the others joined him. ‘A regular savage. The swine tried to knife me.’
‘Then cut his throat and let’s get moving, Butuus,’ said the eldest of the other two. ‘We’ve no time to waste on vermin.’
‘Kill,’ I said in Latin. ‘That’s all you Romans think about. Pigs! Filth! Why don’t you leave us alone?’
‘Watch your mouth, boy!’
The blow almost knocked me unconscious, and I would have fallen if it hadn’t been for the hand locked in my hair.
Blood ran from my cut lip, falling to spatter on the ground to stain the edge of the torn dress.
Dully I said, ‘Did you have to kill her?’
‘The woman?’ The eldest legionary glanced at where she lay. ‘You know her?’
‘My mother.’
‘I see.’ He sucked in his breath, frowning. ‘Those bastards of the fourteenth,’ he muttered. ‘One standing on her wrists while the others took their pleasure. And the Emperor Claudius gave strict orders against it. That’s why they had to kill her in order to shut her mouth.’ His tone sharpened a little. ‘What’s your name, boy?’
I strained against the hand holding my hair.
‘Let him go, Butuus, but stand close. Now, boy, what is your name?’
Wiping the blood from my mouth I said, ‘Atilus Cindras.’
‘That’s a Roman name. Is your father a Roman? Look up when I speak to you. Is he?’ I felt his hand under my chin, saw his face as he lifted mine. It was deeply creased, the nose large, the eyes brown, deep-set beneath the rim of his helmet. He smelt of sweat and garlic, leather and oil. ‘Well, is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know your own father?’
‘He was a trader from Gaul. I haven’t seen him for a year; I think he’s dead.’
‘You think?’
‘I hope. If he was a Roman, I’m ashamed to be his son. You Romans!’ My voice began to break despite my resolve to hold it steady. ‘My mother—you didn’t have to do that to her. She.…’ I gulped, conscious of the stinging in my eyes. ‘She.…’
‘Let it out, boy,’ he said kindly. ‘Don’t try to hold it in. Cry if you want to, the gods know you’ve reason enough.’
I