by Henry Treece
Table of Contents
ABOUT THIS STORY
Part One—A.D. 43 1. A KNIFE FOR A HARE
2. SHALL IT BE WAR
3. THE MAN UNDER THE TREES!
4. DEATH LOOKS IN THE DITCH!
5. HA! AMONG THE TRUMPETS
6. THE BEASTS OF DOOM!
7. THE GOOD CENTURION
Part Two 1. THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER
2. DEATH KNOWS NO FRIENDS!
3. THROUGH THE GATES AND OVER THE HILLS
4. AMONG THE VENETI
5. DEATH TO ALL ROMANS!
6. AFTER THE BATTLE
7. THE BEEHIVE HUT
Part Three 1. WHO DARES PICK HERBS?
2. YOUNG WARRIOR ON A HORSE
3. PIRATES IN THE RIVER!
4. THE SILENCING OF MATH
Part Four 1. THE CAVE ON THE HILL
2. “CONSIDER YOURSELVES UNDER ARREST”
3. ROMAN JUSTICE
4. MATH COMES AGAIN
EPILOGUE - A.D. 51 THE BRIDGE AT LUGDUNUM
APPENDIX 1
APPENDIX 2
ABOUT THIS STORY
This is the story of a boy who lived at the time of the first real Roman invasion of Britain. Julius Caesar had visited this island twice before, but largely as a means of obtaining information about it. However, in a. d. 43 the Emperor Claudius sent his general, Aulus Plautius, to do the job properly!
Now, the British peoples with whom Aulus Plautius had the most trouble were the Belgae, a warlike group of tribes who had only recently come from Gaul themselves, and so already knew something of Roman methods. The boy-hero of this tale, Gwydion, is one of these Belgae. His father is a farmer near Colchester, though when he is needed, he forms one of the warband of the young Belgic king, Caratacus,
The Romans broke the strength of these Belgae near Colchester, using those strange animals, the elephants, as a means of terrifying the native charioteers. After this, Caratacus fled to what is now South Wales, and soon became ruler over the people there. He continued to give the Romans a great deal of trouble until, with the help of a British queen, Cartismandua, they captured him and sent him to Rome. There his proud bearing was such that the Emperor Claudius pardoned him and even allowed him to live out his days peacefully as a pensioner.
It should be said that many peoples had been coming to Britain since the dawn of history, and that they were each rather different in race and outlook. Some were small and dark, some sturdy and brown-haired, some red-haired, and some tall and fair-haired. They were as different from each other as a present-day Swede might be from an Arab. Yet we know them all by the name of Celts! The fact is that we class them according to the language which we think they spoke, Celtic; and this is represented in modern times by Irish Gaelic, Scots Gaelic and Welsh. In Gwydion’s time this language would be spoken over the greater part of Europe, and even understood as far as the borders of the country we now call Greece.
This is a story of battle and treachery, as might be expected where so many peoples were living together, each with its own kings and heroes and beliefs. Cut at the end you will see that the point the tale tries to make is that it doesn’t matter what colour your hair is, or what language you speak. The important thing is—what sort of person are you?
If you feel that you need to, turn to pages 171 and 172. Some words that might be new to you are explained there. Though actually they don’t matter, as long as you enjoy the story!
For
Joan Proctor
who suggested that I should write this book
Part One—A.D. 43
1. A KNIFE FOR A HARE
IT was high summer and young Gwydion of the Belgae ran excitedly among the trees, his dog at his heels, hunting. Gwydion, who was almost thirteen, and a big boy for his age, was the only son of Caswallawn, a lord who rode at the right hand of Caratacus the king, so the boy’s dress, even when hunting, was rich and colourful, as befitted his father’s rank.
A fine sight he made, as he ran among the oak and the hornbeam, on the green slopes above the city of Camulodunum. His long fair hair swept behind him in the afternoon breeze, and his heavy linen cloak, coloured red and blue and green to show which tribe he belonged to, swung out behind him, held to his shoulders by round bronze brooches with brightly enamelled centre-pieces. He wore a tunic of thin deerskin, supple and pliable, its edges sewn with silver thread; a broad red belt about his middle, and light, fawn doeskin shoes on his feet.
The dog which trotted behind him was of the greyhound type, but smaller and shaggier. He wore a narrow bronze collar round his neck, inscribed with Gwydion’s tribal sign.
So the two ran through the late afternoon of summer, the sun’s rays glinting on them both, lighting up the dog’s metal collar and the polished gold neck-ring and shoulder-brooches of the boy. Together they made a fine pair; yet such a pair as might have been seen almost anywhere in southern Britain at this time, for the Belgae were powerful and rich, and had the secret of working metals and of weaving fine cloth. Moreover, they were a people who loved finery almost as much as they adored battle, and that was a great deal!
At last the boy stopped and sat down, breathless. “It’s no use, Bel,” he said. “We shall never run down a deer today! We are too fat and well-fed, my friend! Let us call through the woods and see if Math has been lucky!”
Bel, the hound, seemed to understand his young master’s words, and rose again, wagging his long tail at the mention of Math’s name.
“Math! Math! Where are you?” called Gwydion, his hands to his mouth to make the sound carry through the dense woodland. Bel began to bark at the echoes that came back to them, eerie and startling from the dark shadows of the wood where the sun never penetrated.
They waited for a while, and then Gwydion shrugged and began to walk towards his father’s house, which he could just see, set high on a terraced hill, perhaps a mile away.
But before he had gone far, the sound of shuffling footsteps could be heard from the dim wood, and in a few moments another boy stumbled out into the sunlight, gasping for breath and looking afraid.
“Where on earth have you been, Math?” asked Gwydion, a little cross from waiting. “I bet you’re the only slave in these parts who is allowed to go running off like that, on his own, and keeping his master’s son waiting, as you have kept me!”
Math, who was a little older than Gwydion, and very darkhaired, gave a little salute, as though apologising, and then began to gasp again. He was dressed in a simple linen tunic, with a raw-hide belt, and light running shoes of cowskin. He wore no jewellery, but was clean and obviously well cared for. Gwydion smiled when he saluted, for that small gesture satisfied the boy’s pride, and now he was quite friendly to Math again.
“You must be in a terrible state, Math,” he said, kindly,
“when you forget to give me my proper due! And where are your bow and arrows? Have you lost them?”
Math looked at his companion with wide brown eyes and an expression of fear on his swarthy face. “I flung them away,” he said hoarsely, almost as though he did not wish anyone to hear his words.
Gwydion stared at him in surprise, “flung them away!” he repeated. “But, Math, how could you; my father brought you that bow all the way from Londinium. It was a Scythian bow, made of many strips of horn, not like an ordinary wooden bow. It cost him quite a lot of money, you know. Why, I’d have liked it myself. Why did you throw it away? Can I have it if I find it?”
Math fell on his knees before his friend. “You must never touch it, Gwydion,” he said. “It is taboo now. I had to fling it away.”
Gwydion looked down at him in consternation. “What have you done, Math?” he said in a whisper. “Have you killed a man?” Gwydion knew
that though a free man could kill an opponent and even be praised for it, a slave had no right to take human life, not even in his own defence.
Math began to weep as he crouched among the grass. Then he looked up and gazed at Gwydion with terrified eyes. “I have done worse than that,” he said. “I have killed a—hare.”
His friend gave a small gasp of astonishment and for a moment seemed to draw away from him. Then he said, “But, Math, that is a sacred animal; only they may kill it.” He did not name the druids as the only men who might kill the creature; he was afraid that they might hear him, in their strange, magic way, if he did, and know what Math had done straightway; and Gwydion was afraid of the druids, although one of his kindest uncles happened to be a druid.
“It wouldn’t be quite so bad,” Gwydion went on, “if the hare were not our own animal, yours and mine; the animal of our Brotherhood, the Brotherhood of the month we were born in, the two of us.”
Math dropped his head in his hands and wept without shame. “Something dreadful is bound to happen, now, Gwydion,” he said. “The gods are certain to punish me. I feel sure of it! Oh, what shall I do?”
Gwydion went to him and helped him up, putting his arm round him, and trying to sound brave. “The worst cannot happen,” he said, “for your hair is black, and they, the holy ones, only sacrifice red-haired ones under the great Midsummer Stones. So it won’t be that. Besides, an idea has struck me—you have no rights in law. In fact, as far as the law of the Belgae goes, you don’t exist, for you are a slave.” Math was a dark-skinned Silurian from the far west, who had been captured when he was a small boy, on some foraging raid that Gwydion’s father had made. Therefore he did not come under Belgic law, which was laid down in the Council Chamber of Caratacus in Camulodunum. Math listened, but his face was still clouded.
“That is all right for the law of men,” he said. “But the gods have their own laws, and it is one of these I have broken. They do not care for the laws the Belgae make. The gods are their own law-makers.”
Gwydion looked uncertain for a moment, and bit his lip, as though in deep thought. At last he half-turned from Math and said, “My father is responsible for you, both to the king and to the gods. But my father was not with us today and did not know what you were doing. He cannot be held responsible for something which he did not know about. So, I must be responsible, for I am my father’s only son. Yes, I am responsible.”
Math tried to dissuade him from this point of view, but Gwydion shook him off, almost roughly, and his face was stern.
“If I were to make a sacrifice,” he said, “the evil might pass away from our house. But for a hare it must be a sacrifice that causes me great suffering. I must give something to the gods that will cause me sorrow when I part with it.”
He looked to the ground and gave a deep sigh. Then, without speaking to Math, he bent and began to stroke the head of Bel, the hound, who all this time had been looking at the two boys with great loving eyes, for they both cared for him and took him hunting almost every day. Then, as though he had made his mind up, Gwydion took Bel by the collar and turned with him towards the wood.
“Come on, Bel, old friend,” he said. “I am sorry that it has come to this, but I will try to do it as painlessly as I can. You must lie still and I will be quick.”
When they were at the edge of the wood, Math could stand it no longer. He ran after them, “Stop! Stop!” he cried. “I would rather lie under the great stones myself than have Bel killed. Look, Gwydion, there is your fine hunting-knife. It cost more than Bel, and it has such a lovely red garnet-stone set into the hilt. I know you love it dearly, and it will be a great loss to you, but could you not give that to the gods, and spare Bel?”
A smile spread over Gwydion’s face. “Oh Math,” he said, “what a fool I was not to have thought of that before! Of course, it shall be the knife. I shall miss it terribly, and no doubt father will beat me for losing it, but we shall have Bel, shan’t we!”
He loosed the dog, which ran to Math and jumped up at his chest in fun, almost as though he knew that the slave had saved him. Then Gwydion drew the bright knife, and swinging it out as far as his arm would go, he flung it in a glittering arc over the topmost boughs of the wood. They saw it glint in the last rays of the sun, and then they heard it strike a mass of foliage and tinkle down, somewhere distant, out of sight.
“Good luck go with you and come back to us,” said Gwydion, making the usual remark of Celtic boys who sacrificed a treasured belonging.
The boys looked at each other, and seemed to sigh with relief. Then they brightened up, and Gwydion even said, “Well, the old gods shouldn’t take it amiss, after all. One hare in exchange for a lovely bow and a better knife than the Roman Emperor carries, I’ll bet!”
Math frowned a little, for he knew that one should not make slighting remarks concerning the gods. Then they linked arms and almost ran together towards the house on the hill, for they were hungry.
They skirted the terraced fields, which were set up the hillside and which carried a good yield of grain, knee-high russet corn-ears and oats; and they passed the outbuildings of the farm, where the plough and harrows were stored, and the chariot house, where Gwydion’s father kept the great war-chariot that had been in the family since the time the Romans first came, led by Julius Caesar—or “The Hairy One,” as the Belgae used to call him, as they laughed about their fires at night.
And so on, until they came to the farm-house itself; a long, single-storeyed thatched building, with the stables at one end, and the sleeping-quarters at the other.
As they paused at the door to unlink their arms, for it was not considered correct for a freeman, like Gwydion, to behave in such a friendly manner towards a slave, Gwydion said, “Math, we mustn’t say a word about this to anyone. If father wants to know where my knife is, I shall say it is lost. That is not a lie, is it? After all, it is lost! I shall never find it again!”
Math said, “Your parents have always been as kind as my own father and mother were, when they were alive. I do not like to deceive them.”
Gwydion said, “Well, am I not kind to you as well! After all, you killed the hare, not me!”
“Very well,” said Math, his face darkening again as he recalled what he had done. “I will not say anything.”
“No, not even if father beats me for losing it,” stressed Gwydion; and the two boys went into the great hall and sat down at the long oaken table and began to beat on the wood with their knives and bowls, as though indicating to the servants that they were extremely hungry and must be served without delay. But the two old waiting-women did not hurry when they heard this clatter, for the boys always did this, whether they were really hungry or not. So this day of all days they were made to wait as long as ever, while the oat-cakes were heated and the fresh milk skimmed for them.
2. SHALL IT BE WAR
Gwydion’s fears were unfounded. His father came back to the farm later than usual, and accompanied by a dirt-caked tribesman whose long riding cloak hung about him in tatters and whose iron armour showed signs of neglect in the rust that had begun to eat into it at the edges of the embossed breast-plate. Gwydion heard them coming and looked through the small window-hole, then drew back excitedly.
“Father is with a man of the Cantii, Math,” he said. “One of the iron-working folk from the south. They look very serious indeed. There must be trouble somewhere.”
Math said, “Do you think it’s the Romans again?” His voice was almost disinterested, as though he had heard of trouble from the Romans many times, without it ever happening; and also as though the Romans were not his enemies, but the enemies of the Belgae.
Gwydion said, “If the Romans have landed, the Cantii would know as soon as anyone in Britain, and they would send to Caratacus for help.”
“Only if they were being defeated,” said Math, with a wry smile on his dark face. “The Cantii are too proud to ask for help unless they are being beaten in battle. They wish for al
l the glory. They would not want to share their victory with any other tribe. This man comes with news of defeat, you mark my words, Gwydion.”
Gwydion was a little angry and said sharply, “We Belgae, we folk from Belgica, whatever our tribal names now, must
stick together. If we do that, we shall defeat any foe, either Roman or German. You are a Silurian from the West; you do not know our great family power.”
Math’s dark eyes seemed to smile, as though he knew a great deal but did not wish to say what he knew. At last he said, half to himself, “We, the Silures, have been in Britain for many many years. We had been here for countless winters before the Belgae had even heard of Britain. We are an old people and know many things. And one thing we know is that Rome is powerful and cannot be defeated by a group of tribes who are each too proud to join together, unless they are facing defeat.”
Gwydion looked at him sternly. “Did not our great ancestor Cassivelaunus turn away Julius the Caesar?” he said with pride.
Math grinned and said, “Julius came the first time merely to see what Britain was like. And the second time he simply wished to show what power Rome had, nothing more. Had he wished to stay here and conquer, he might have done so. But he had other, more important battles to fight in Gaul.”
Gwydion jumped from his bench and raised his hand as though he would strike the slave; but before he could do so, his mother came bustling in, and swept them out of the hall.
“Boys, boys,” she said, “away with you! Play outside, for your father has important things to discuss with a visitor from far afield.”
Gwydion’s mother was a kindly woman who made no distinction between the two boys, for she loved children whether they were slaves or not, and came from the peasant community of the Atrebates in the wooded middle of the country. She was a strongly made woman, fair-haired, and dressed in a serviceable woollen dress, with an apron and sleeves rolled back, for she liked to help her dairymaid, and to keep an eye on what went on in the big cool kitchen at the back of the house.