Revolt Against the Romans

by Tony Bradman

  Caradoc would say no more, and Marcus’s anger drained away. Now he understood, and he could not find it in his heart to blame Caradoc for his silence or his words. But Marcus refused to accept there was no hope. He remembered how he had felt when he had read his father’s letter –​ the prospect of death had made him realise how much he wanted to live. Now that feeling surged through him again. Death might be waiting in Rome, but he would do everything in his power to avoid it. He was determined to return to find Alwen and Cati as well, if they were still alive.

  He sat up straighter, squared his shoulders, and set his mind to thinking about what he could do to save himself and the others. He would have to come up with some kind of plan...

  * * *

  There were no opportunities to escape during the journey. They were kept in the wagon and closely guarded all the way from Lindum to Rutupiae. They were then put straight on a ship to Gaul, and in Gesoriacum they were transferred to another wagon, with more guards. Six long weeks later, after another spell in a ship from Narbo, they arrived in Ostia and were taken to Rome.

  Marcus looked out at the city through the gaps between the slats of the wagon. It was familiar, of course, but after his years in the hills and woods and fields of Britannia it was strange too. He supposed he was looking at it with different eyes now –​ the eyes of a foreigner.

  Their journey came to an end at last and they were ordered out of the wagon. Marcus and the other captives blinked in the hot Roman sun that beat down onto the parade ground of a huge legionary barracks in the east of the city. Then they were marched to a cell block identical to the one in Lindum, although it contained a surprise. Caradoc’s wife and daughters were already there, waiting for him. They ran to Caradoc, and the four of them held each other for a long time.

  From that moment on, Caradoc began to return to his old self. Marcus and the other British captives were kept imprisoned in the cell block for a week, but Caradoc looked after them, encouraged them and spoke up for them whenever the guards were late bringing their food or were too brutal. Soon even the guards themselves were treating Caradoc as a great leader who deserved honour and respect. It was good to see, and Marcus felt guilty that he had ever doubted him.

  On the day of the triumph, the guards took the captives back to the parade ground, where a crowd of other prisoners was waiting. It seemed that people from the other tribes defeated by the Romans –​ ​the Parisi, the Silures, the Ordovices –​ had been held elsewhere. It took a while to organise everyone into a column, but eventually the order was given to set off. The captives left the barracks, with lines of legionaries in full battle gear marching on both sides of the column.

  ‘Heads up, everybody, and do not be afraid,’ said Caradoc. ‘Let us show them what it means to be of the Catuvellauni, the greatest tribe of all. Remember, we are a proud people.’

  Marcus squared his shoulders again and lifted his chin, and so did the others. They walked on, ignoring the crowds of cheering, jeering Romans lining the streets. More legionaries joined the column, and then the wagons heaped with loot, and finally the emperor Claudius himself, in a fine chariot pulled by two white horses and driven by a slave. The emperor wore a laurel-leaf crown and a golden breastplate, which glittered in the sunlight, and a cloak the colour of blood.

  After a while they arrived at the forum, a large open space surrounded by temples and other important buildings, their white columns gleaming. On the far side was a raised platform bearing the emperor’s magnificent throne. Claudius stepped down from his chariot, took his seat, and waved at the crowd. The captives were made to stand before him, and a centurion from his personal bodyguard read out a list of the emperor’s victories in Britannia from a long scroll.

  Marcus’s attention had drifted; his eyes were scanning the forum for escape routes, and his mind was full of schemes and plans. But then something happened that brought him up sharply. He heard Caradoc calling out, his voice echoing off the buildings. ‘Emperor of the Romans! I have something to say.’

  The centurion faltered and fell silent, glancing at the emperor. Claudius looked curious, then shrugged and nodded, gesturing for Caradoc to continue. Caradoc stared at him for a moment, then spoke again, his voice ringing out.

  ‘Once I had wealth and warriors, a home and a hearth, but you have taken all that from me, even though you are so rich and powerful you have need of nothing more. Now I stand here before you, stripped of every weapon but my voice...’

  Marcus listened enthralled as Caradoc poured out his defiance. The crowd was hostile at first, yelling and booing, but Caradoc’s sheer dignity and courage and pride gradually began to win them round. By the time he had finished speaking most of them were clearly on his side.

  ‘That was a fine speech, one that deserves more than death as its reward,’ said the emperor, leaning forward on his throne, a smile playing around his lips. ‘Tell me, if I grant you and your family and friends your lives, would you swear never to revolt against Rome again?’

  Caradoc turned to look at his wife and daughters and the other captives. Marcus half hoped he would say no, that he would swear the opposite. But he knew that couldn’t be.

  ‘I would,’ said Caradoc, turning back to the emperor.

  The crowd cheered, and Marcus smiled too.

  * * *

  The emperor did spare their lives, and gave Caradoc and his family and friends a house to live in on the Palatine Hill, near the imperial palace. But the captives from the other tribes were sold in the slave market, and the emperor’s gift to Caradoc turned out not to be quite as good as it had seemed. For the great chief was not allowed to return to Britannia, despite his oath.

  ‘It just goes to show that you can never trust a Roman,’ Gwyn said bitterly. He and Marcus were sitting with Caradoc in the garden of the house on a sunny afternoon a few weeks later. Far below them lay the city, a distant buzz of noise rising from its busy streets. Two legionaries stood at the garden gate, and Marcus knew that more were stationed at the front of the house.

  ‘I expected nothing less,’ said Caradoc, shrugging. ‘The emperor has shown himself to be merciful, but he has also made sure that I will never be a threat to Rome again.’

  ‘Perhaps he is not so clever,’ said Marcus. ‘What if we were to escape? I know the city well –​ I’m sure I could find us a way out, and we could make it back to Britannia...’

  Caradoc smiled at him. ‘It would not work, Marcus –​ we are too many, and even if we managed to get past the guards we would be recognised somewhere. You forget, all Rome saw us in the triumph, and I have my family to think of. The emperor might not be so merciful to us a second time. But you and Gwyn might do it, and something tells me that you have a plan.’

  Now it was Marcus’s turn to smile. ‘You know me too well, Caradoc,’ he said. ‘I was once a Roman, and I have been thinking it might be useful to be one again, at least for a time...’

  It took a while to prepare –​ to find the right clothes, to acquire enough Roman gold for a long journey and, most importantly, to work out the best time and method for evading the guards. But the day came at last, a day of farewells and blessings, and of escape from the house on the Palatine Hill. Later that afternoon, a young noble Roman arrived at the port of Ostia with his personal body slave and asked, in his impeccable Latin, which ships were bound for Narbo.

  ‘I can give you passage, if you have the money to pay me,’ said a captain they met in a tavern. He was older, his dark hair shot with grey, his face tanned and lined, his eyes shrewd. He spoke Latin well, but the young Roman noticed his accent. The captain was Greek.

  ‘I have enough,’ said Marcus in the captain’s own tongue. ‘When do we sail?’

  Marcus thought of his father, and old Stephanos, and smiled to himself.

  * * *

  Two months later, just as winter was turning to spring, Marcus and Gwyn rode at last down a narrow track and into a small village on the horses they had bought with the last of thei
r Roman money. They had come to the far north of Britannia, and were beyond the power of Rome. They stopped outside a roundhouse, and two figures emerged from inside as they dismounted: a woman and a girl. It was Alwen and Cati, of course, and the four of them hugged each other.

  ‘Where have you been, Marcus?’ said Cati at last. ‘What took you so long?’

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ he said, ruffling her dark hair. He could see now just how much she looked like her father, and for a moment he saw Dragorix in his mind again. He promised his stepfather’s spirit that he would take care of her. ‘We’ll tell you all about it one day.’

  He looked at the roundhouses, the bare rocky hills beyond the village, the grey skies that promised days of cold and mist and rain. And he looked at the people he loved.

  It felt good to be home.

  Historical Note

  As far as we know, Caradoc – or, as the Romans called him, Caratacus – really did exist. He was mentioned by several Roman historians as the chief of the Catuvellauni, and the leader of British resistance to Roman invasion. The Romans defeated the Catuvellauni and the other tribes of the south-east, and Caradoc continued the resistance from the west. He was eventually defeated in battle and fled to Cartimandua of the Brigantes, who handed him over to the Romans.

  The story about Caradoc’s speech to the emperor was told by the famous Roman historian Tacitus. He lived in Rome only a few years after the events described in Revolt Against the Romans, so he would have talked to people who might well have met the British chief. In fact, he might even have met Caradoc himself. Tacitus also wrote about Calgacus, another British chieftain, who said of the Romans: ‘they plunder, slaughter and steal… they make a desert and they call it peace.’

  Cartimandua of the Brigantes, Publius Ostorius Scapula and the emperor Claudius all existed too, but Marcus, his father and all the other characters are completely fictional. The Romans spoke Latin, and it’s true that the sons of noble Roman fathers were usually taught to speak Greek, the second language of the empire. But the British did have their own language as well. They spoke an old form of a language that still lives today:​ Welsh, or Cymraeg as it’s more properly called.

  GLOSSARY OF PLACE NAMES

  Batavia

  Northern Holland

  Gaul

  France

  Gesoriacum

  Boulogne (in France)

  Lindum

  Lincoln (in Lincolnshire, England)

  Narbo

  Narbonne (in France)

  Ostia

  The port of Rome, now a suburb of the city

  Rutupiae

  Richborough (in Kent, England)

  Sabrina

  The River Severn

  Tamesis

  The River Thames

  Verulamium

  St Albans (in Hertfordshire, England)

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  First published in 2017 by Bloomsbury Education

  Copyright © Tony Bradman, 2017

  Tony Bradman has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN

  PB: 978-1-4729-2932-7

  ePub: 978-1-4729-2933-4

  ePDF: 978-1-4729-2934-1

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