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 stiffened, biting my lip. A warrior of the Iceni did not cry.
‘Well, lads?’ He looked at the others. ‘What do you think?’
‘He tried to kill me,’ rumbled Butuus.
‘He’d just found his mother. Look at her. Can you blame him?’
‘Well, no, but we didn’t do it.’
‘As the boy can testify if it comes to that.’ The third man spoke for the first time. His voice was thin, cutting, his accent bad. His face was swarthy and scarred with pockmarks. ‘It’s the only real proof we have if someone finds the body and reports it. The Emperor’s orders were plain and he’s a man of his word. He’ll execute anyone found guilty of breaking them. Also, he’s fond of making examples.’
‘So?’
‘The boy speaks Latin and good Latin at that. His father could be a Roman citizen; quite a few of them settled here. That’s reason enough for taking him in.’
‘He said—’
‘I know what he said, Butuus, but we don’t have to believe him. He’s a witness and, anyway, he might fetch a decent price.’
‘A boy?’
‘One who speaks Latin.’
So it was decided as I stood looking at the dead body of my mother. Ants were running over her face and into her staring eyes. She had died defending Britain. Now I was a slave of Rome.
CHAPTER TWO
The captives were herded into the stronghold, prisoners in the very place which, if held, would have given them safety. The women were separated from the men and squatted, keening, their hair over their faces, blood running from the flesh they had torn with their nails.
The men were crushed, broken, many wounded, convinced the gods had turned against them. Among them were a few boys, all older than myself, and one of them joined me where I sat as a soldier yelled something from beyond the stockade.
‘What’s he saying, Atilus?’
Cymbelle was of my own tribe, but we had never been friends. The son of a noble, he’d had little time for the offspring of a trader, but now his father and uncle were dead, his elder brother somewhere on the road to Colchester. He might escape to freedom, but Cymbelle would not. Now he was eager for any familiar company.
‘Atilus?’
‘He’s asking about feeding us,’ I said. ‘And he mentioned water.’
‘They’ll poison it.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t be sure,’ he insisted. ‘It would be a quick way to get rid of us.’
He was ignorant for all his nobility, but I’d had the advantage of a father who knew how Rome operated.
‘If they’d wanted to kill us, they would have done it when we were taken,’ I said patiently. ‘We’re war-captives now, slaves. As such, we’re worth money to Rome. They’ll feed us and the water won’t be poisoned.’
He scowled, barely convinced and more than a little afraid. He had been hurt, a minor wound on his left arm, and blood was oozing from the cut. I tore a strip from his tunic and bound it tight over the gaping flesh. He thanked me and continued to talk.
‘I could have got away,’ he muttered. ‘When the chariot overturned I was lucky. The reins snapped and I was thrown clear. I should have stayed where I’d fallen and pretended to be dead. A chance would have offered itself—but there was not time to think.’
He touched his arm, wincing.
‘Caractacus ran towards Colchester, I saw him go. Perhaps he’ll make a stand somewhere down the road. We could even be rescued.’
He was dreaming, hoping when there was no hope, but he was a noble and I said nothing. My silence unnerved him and he left me to wander among the others. I was glad to be alone.
The afternoon ended, and from all sides came cries from the wounded as they suffered from thirst. The women had stopped their keening and sat moaning instead, the sound eerie and frightening. Some of them committed suicide by swallowing their tongues. A few ripped open veins with their jagged nails. The rest sat and waited as did the men.
There was nothing else to do.
At dusk the Romans gave us water, taking a party of twenty men to haul it from the river, but they gave us nothing to eat until well past the following dawn. It was a mess of sour porridge and we ate it with our bare hands, using fingers to thrust it into our mouths. For a week nothing else was given us but water at dusk and porridge in the morning. The compound in which we were held stank of urine and excreta and several men died of their wounds.
I would have starved if it hadn’t been for a guard.
Mucius was a grizzled veteran with scarred thighs and a snaggle of broken and rotting teeth. His breath smelt and his eyes were yellowed, the lower lids inflamed, the lashes and corners speckled with dried pus. He was in charge of the party delivering the food and he had noted my smallness. Noted too that I stood little chance against the men whom hunger had made savage as they fought over the buckets.
‘What’s
