by Henry Treece
As Gwydion heard these well-meant words, many things came to his mind; his mother waiting, his father on the wheel, Bel, Math…. Yes, Math! Now he was to become a slave to another boy, just as Math had been all these years. To be bullied and praised as his master thought fit. To be treated as a dog, when his master was out of sorts…. He looked the officer in the eye.
“I would rather die,” he said, with all the pride he could find. Then, feeling the tears beginning to come to his eyes, he turned his head away so that they should not see them.
The centurion went to him and put his arm round his shoulders. “Gwydion, lad,” he said. “If you don’t come with me, they will brand you and sell you in Londinium or Gaul. They might even sell you to some old galley-owner, as a rower, in Antium. I want you to be a companion to my own lad. He is my only son, and you would be happy with him. He lost his own mother when he was a small lad; now he lives with my sister in Lugdunum. They are kindly folk. Will you come!”
Now Gwydion’s pride would stand out no longer. He held the centurion’s hand as though it were the hand of a friend, for the man did not seem like the terrible Romans he had heard of. This was a real man, like his own father, a kindly man at heart, a strong man.
At last Gwydion said, ‘‘My friend Math. I cannot leave him. What will become of Math?”
The centurion glanced across at the officer, but the officer shook his head sadly. “I cannot allow you two bargains, Gracchus! They could cashier me for that! I am sorry, old friend.”
“Will you come, Gwydion?” said the centurion. “I will send you by wagon all the way, and you shall not be chained if you will promise not to try to escape.”
Now too tired and too weak to protest, Gwydion nodded miserably. The centurion saluted the busy officer, who immediately went back to his map, and led Gwydion to the door.
“You shall sleep in my tent tonight,” he said.
Gwydion was very miserable now. “Oh please, let me spend this last night with Math,” he said. “He is my best friend. He will be unhappy that I have to leave him.”
But the centurion shook his head gravely. “Gwydion,” he said, when they were well away from any soldiers, “Math will not spend this night in the camp.”
Gwydion looked back at him in fear. “What will they do to him?” he said.
The centurion smiled. ‘‘Nothing,” he said. “Not if he is as bright as I think he is. In an hour’s time I shall push this knife under the tent to him. He will cut his bonds and escape. Perhaps he may even have time to cut the bonds of others of the prisoners who are fit to walk. Who knows!”
Gwydion saw the smile at the corners of the soldier’s mouth, and he smiled too. “Can I not escape with them, too?” he said.
The centurion replied, “Not now we have that arrangement with the officer. No, do not frown, for I should not risk letting Math have the knife if you had not agreed to go to my son, in Lugdunum.”
And so it was agreed, and Gwydion accepted his part of the bargain. Before he went to bed in the centurion’s tent, he asked if Bel could be found and returned to him, but although the centurion’s men made a search, they could not find the dog anywhere in the camp.
In the morning, just after dawn, Gwydion was put into a wagon with four other trusted prisoners of rank, and was given a message by the centurion to carry to Gaius, his son, in Gaul. Gwydion was sorry to leave this friendly grizzled soldier; but he soon forgot that emotion when he heard a great outcry coming from the camp, for the escape of the prisoners had just been discovered.
The centurion looked up at the boy and made a wry face. “Good luck go with you,” he said, “and I hope there is a little left for me, for no doubt I shall be held responsible for that escape! You’d think I was to blame for everything that went wrong in the empire, to hear them talk, sometimes! Goodbye, Gwydion, and may we meet again one day!”
Gwydion waved until he could distinguish the noble grey head no longer, then he settled down in the wagon which was trundling south towards Londinium, from which port the prisoners were to embark for the crossing of the narrow sea.
Part Two
1. THE FIGHT BY THE RIVER
As the heavy wagon rolled down through Gaul, Gwydion had much time on his hands, and often called to mind the events of his journey. He recalled Londinium, and the merry crowds that cheered the soldiers who marched alongside the big covered cart. It was hard to believe that they were Britons, too, for they seemed to welcome the invader. An old Belgic spearman who sat next to Gwydion in the wagon said, “These Londoners are not true Celts. They are merchants, from all parts of the world. They welcome anyone who will bring trade, Roman or otherwise!” And he sneered at the citizens as they clustered about the tailboard of the wagon, until a foot-soldier threatened him and told him to be quiet.
Then Gwydion remembered that sickening crossing in a boat little bigger than a barge, although it had two tall hide sails, and four oarsmen at each side, captured sailors from Armorica. Gwydion was very sick, for the Channel was in a rough mood, and lay for two days in the scuppers without wanting to eat at all, though everyone tried to be kind when they heard who he was. There was an awful cross-current that delayed them, and the boat had to stray off-course in order to make any landing at all. They put in one wet morning at Gesoriacum, and even Gwydion brightened up a little to see the tall lighthouse there that the Emperor Caligula had built, years ago, when he had thought of coming to Britain himself. Gwydion had never seen a real lighthouse before and was quite thrilled, until a boat-load of fishermen came out to tow them in and he heard their voices. Then he was very sad, for they were Atrebates, of his mother’s folk, and they spoke just as she used to, slurring their words lazily, as though the Celtic was too much trouble for them to speak with care, not like this precise Latin that Gwydion had been hearing spoken so much since that dreadful battle.
But this mood of sadness soon passed, at least by daytime, for the weather improved, and summer moved into its richest phase as they boarded another wagon, a smaller one this time, and began their journey south, along river-banks and through narrow woodland paths, stopping sometimes in little clearings and glades and making fires, and living just like wandering folk from Asia.
Gwydion’s new guards were not very strict either, and often let the boy roam about, hunting rabbits or wild-fowl, as long as he reported back at the wagon before sundown. Indeed, apart from his sorrow over his father and Bel and Math, Gwydion often felt quite happy again; until he lay down under his sheepskins in the wagon, or outside under the axletree gazing at the bright stars. Then his old sorrow came on him again, and he felt very lonely among all these strange people, in a foreign land. But these moods did not stay, fortunately, and Gwydion grew quite excited when the country became more hilly and deserted, and the driver pointed with his whip towards the horizon, “That’s where we are bound for,” he said. “We should reach Lugdunum by mid-morning tomorrow, unless we have some setback or other.”
Some of the older warriors in the wagon were chained and so could not enjoy the journey as Gwydion did. They only grunted and went on playing their games of dice, or telling old stories of battles they had fought in. But Gwydion felt a new thrill as he heard the driver speak the name—“Lugdunum! Lugdunum!” Gwydion wondered what he would find there.
What he found at mid-morning the next day was a broad, orderly town, its light stone buildings shining in the sun, its clean roads bordered by regular rows of trees. The citizens strolled about in the sunshine as though they were people of another world, a world which had never heard of Camulodunum, and Caratacus, and Caswallawn. Gwydion began to feel that he was a boy from some curious and primitive island, many hundreds of leagues away from civilisation; yet always before he had thought that Camulodunum was the greatest city in the world. He somehow felt out of place in this bright, orderly town, and looked down at his grimy legs and dirt-stained arms, his ragged tunic and broken shoes.
Then he gave a bitter smile, and suddenly rememb
ered that he was a slave; that he had not come to Lugdunum for a holiday at all, but to be the servant of a Roman boy, the son of the man who had helped to kill his dear father. Then, though the sun shone happily, and the doves cooed from the red tile roofs of the villas along the broad avenue, the Belgic boy was sad again, more deeply sad than he had ever been before.
And this sadness increased when, a few minutes later they rumbled on to the low grey stone bridge across the broad river. A line of boys sat on the parapet, swinging their feet, and whistling. As the wagon drew level with them, one of the boys, a sturdy lad with curly brown hair and a cheeky face, wearing a red tunic and a white hide belt, jumped off the wall and called to the driver, “Hello, friend! What news from Britain? I am Gaius, son of the centurion Gracchus. Does my father send me a message this time, then?”
The driver nodded back towards Gwydion. “He sends you a friend,” he said. The Roman boy strolled to the tailboard of the cart and looked up at Gwydion. “A friend, eh?” he said. “Is this a Belgic slave, this friend?”
The driver said, “Aye, no doubt. He’s a nice lad, and you’ll no doubt become friends. You can take him if you make your mark on my list, to show that I have delivered him safely to you.” Gaius made his mark as directed, and then said to Gwydion, “Come on now, look lively. Have you got a message from my father? Where is it, man! Don’t stand there like a moonstruck druid!”
Gwydion’s anger flared up at these last words, for he had been brought up strictly at home to respect the druids. At first he thought of leaping on to the other boy and of throwing him over the bridge into the deep river. A gnarled veteran, a charioteer, who had been kind to Gwydion during the journey, saw that look come into his face and laid his hard hand on the lad’s wrist. “Be wise,” he said. “The time will come later. There are many of us in Gaul, and one day we shall find the way to pay off old reckonings.”
Gwydion was comforted by these words. “Goodbye, friend,” he said, proud to be treated as an equal by this old warrior. “May we meet again, and may I be given the fortune to ride in your chariot.”
“Learn to use a bow, then, lad,” smiled the other. Then Gwydion jumped into the road and gave young Gaius the roll of paper, containing his father’s message. The Roman boy grabbed it and turned away from his companions to read it, leaving Gwydion to stand alone and forgotten until he had come to the end of the roll. Then he turned and said, “May the Gods be praised! We have gained a great victory over the British! Listen, my father tells how many chariots the Scythians overthrew with one volley…”
The boys gathered round him excitedly, gabbling and boasting of Rome. Gwydion turned from them and sat down heavily on a little stone seat by the parapet, the hot tears running down his dirty cheeks as he remembered the scene which this short letter had recalled.
Suddenly one of the younger boys turned and saw him. “Why, look,” he said, “your slave’s crying, Gaius! Your Briton is actually weeping!”
They gathered round him, jeering and pointing their fingers at him in scorn.
“Come on,” said another boy, a tall, thin youth. “Let us give him something to cry about! Let us go down and dip him in the river!”
“Stop!” cried Gaius. “My father says I am to treat him well! Leave him alone, I say!”
But the yelling group of boys took hold of Gwydion excitedly and dragged him from his seat, taking him unawares, and pulling him along the path and then down the bank at the side of the bridge. When he saw the broad river before him, he was overcome with fear, for his mother had followed the custom of her tribe and had once worshipped the river gods. He still remembered her telling him that one must not enter a river without first praying for the god’s permission to do so; and now they were going to make him break that custom. He struggled hard, but they were too many for him, and soon he felt himself stumbling in the shallow water at the river’s bank.
Then he did not have much time to think of the river gods, for the boys were ducking him down, and down again, standing up to their own waists in the river to do so. Gwydion’s breath left him and he gasped, but they did not let go. Some of them were true Roman boys whose fathers were stationed with the Legion at Lugdunum; others were Gauls, who had been under Roman domination for so long that they regarded themselves as being different from their Celtic cousins of Britain. Gwydion could expect no mercy from them.
Once, as he came up for air, he heard the voice of Gaius, still shouting that they must release him immediately. But Gwydion took little notice of the Roman boy; he knew now that he must stand on his own feet here if he was to survive. Then his right hand slipped from the grasp of his captor on that side, and with a desperate lunge, Gwydion reached out to the boy who stood nearest, catching him by the shoulder of his tunic. Exerting all his strength, he pulled the other on to his hip and threw him with all his remaining strength into the river. Then, as the boy struggled to rise, Gwydion pressed forward from those who held him and planted his foot firmly on the other’s neck, holding him down.
At this, his enemies drew back a little, letting Gwydion’s other arm go. At once he swung like a leopard, catching hold of the hair of his tall, dark tormentor, dragging him forward within reach. Then, with victory in his heart, he clasped the Roman boy about the waist and flung him to join his gasping companion into the stream.
Now the ring of boys drew away from him as he turned. The two who had tasted the delights of the river crawled out and lay on the bank for a moment, red-faced and spluttering.
Gaius, who stood away from them all, shouted, “Gwydion, come here! Come to me!” But Gwydion’s ears were full of other sounds now; the sounds of trumpets and the scream of elephants. And as the boys began to close in on him again, he yelled out, “Up the Belgae! Up Caratacus!” and ran a few paces back so that he could have the pier of the bridge behind him. The boys came forward, savage-faced now, because of their lost pride. But Gwydion suddenly stooped and took up a piece of broken spar, as long as a sword, and as the first boy leaped at him, he brought it down with a thud on the shaven head. His enemy fell back, clapping his hands to the cut on his forehead. This enraged his comrades, who made a concerted attack now, and Gwydion had his work cut out to keep them off. Then, without warning, a stone flew from the hand of the tall dark-haired boy, striking Gwydion just below the eye and stinging sharply. He put up his hand to the wound, and as he did so, three lads rushed him. Then a strange thing happened, for at his side, Gwydion suddenly heard the words, “Up the Belgae! Up Caratacus!” He saw the boys reeling away from him, and turned to see that Gaius was alongside him, slashing out left and right, and shouting Belgic war-cries as though he were Gwydion’s blood-brother and not his new master.
There is little more to tell of the fight by the bridge at Lugdunum. Their assailants moved away, rubbing their heads and their shoulders and vowing revenge on Gaius and Gwydion. Those two boys stood and stared at each other, a new friendship in their eyes.
“Why did you do that?” asked Gwydion. “They are your friends,”
Gaius said, “They are dogs; the sort of dogs who will only pull down their quarry when they are in great numbers. They are no true Romans. I had rather be a Celt than such a Roman!”
Gwydion was not sure how to take that last remark, but he smiled and shook hands solemnly with his new friend, and they began to make their way back to the road.
As they looked up, they saw that a platoon of Roman legionaries had halted to watch the fight, and were leaning over the balustrade to congratulate them as they reached the road. The decurion, a short, red-jowled man, clapped them on the shoulders as they staggered on to the pathway. “Good work, lads,” he said. “Get a bit more meat on your bones, then come up to headquarters! There’ll always be a place in my squad for lads like you!” Gaius looked pleased; but the decurion never knew why Gwydion gave him such an insulting look. The decurion brooded over that look for the rest of the afternoon, and then gave it up; you could never be sure what lads were thinking, he said t
o himself!
So, arm in arm, the boys went to the home of Gaius, so
that Gwydion could show himself to the lady of the house, the aunt of Gaius. She was a thin-faced woman with grey hair and a sharp tongue, though kindly at heart, thought Gwydion, as he noticed the little lines that stretched down on either side of her mouth. She dressed Roman fashion, with a long robe and a hood that half-covered her face; but in all essentials, she was neither Roman nor Gaul, but a citizen of the empire, a member of that vast family of Europeans who owed their solidarity to Rome. As soon as she saw the state of Gwydion’s clothes, and the colour of his arms and legs, she bundled him indoors to bathe and put on a new tunic, one of Gaius’ thick linen tunics; for, as she said, summer was getting to its close, and a lad must be wrapped up well if he was not to take a chill in this windy valley. Then, when Gwydion emerged clean and well-clad, she sat him down on a chair and looked at him sternly, fingering his long fair hair.