Читать книгу Atilus the Slave - E. C. Tubb - Страница 5

CHAPTER ONE

They came with a tread which shook the world, the legions, the auxiliaries, bringing the greed, the cunning, the guile of Rome. Britain had gold, silver, iron, lead, and tin. It could provide slaves and skins, corn and cattle, land and taxes. A rich prize hanging temptingly at the edge of the Roman Empire. In the third year of his reign, Claudius sent Aulus Plautius to take it.

I was present at the end.

The Romans had overrun the south, taking London, fresh troops arriving under the personal command of the Emperor himself to continue the push to Colchester. Twenty miles from London, Caractacus had assembled his troops in the great stronghold on Brentwood Ridge. If it was taken, nothing could stop the Roman advance and Britain would fall, but to me, a boy of ten, it seemed impossible that we could lose.

My mother held the same opinion.

‘If we hold fast, Atilus, then the Romans will have to attack and, when they do, we’ll cut them to shreds. Once that is done, the chariots will take care of the rest.’

‘And if they go around us?’

‘We’ll cut their lines of communication and attack them from the rear. The result will be the same. Romans!’ she spat into the fire. ‘May the gods rot them all!’

She was of the Iceni, a handsome woman who had retained her figure, possibly because I was her only child. She had married when young, after a romance with an itinerant trader from Gaul. He had ingratiated himself into our tribe, making friends with the Druids, proving his worth with the news he carried as part of his wares. He dealt in knives, beads, glassware, trinkets—items of luxury which eased life in the mud and wattle houses. A slight, solemn-looking man, he had taught me Latin and Greek and had insisted that I learned to read. Against the burly warriors he had seemed insignificant, but my mother must have seen something in him, and he was kind to us both in his fashion.

My father. I looked into the glow of the embers remembering how he’d fallen silent whenever Rome was mentioned. A man of peace, he’d taught me none of the martial arts; that had been left to the friends I had managed to make. There’d been play with wooden swords and knives waved with more enthusiasm than skill as we’d run shrieking over the meadows. But we had travelled a little, he and I. Not far and not fast, visiting nearby tribes and once going as far as Colchester itself.

That had been last year, just before he had vanished, my mother breaking the marriage bowl from which they had drunk salted wine. She had divorced him for no reason I clearly understood. Perhaps it had been because he had given her no other child, or she could have suspected him of being an agent of Rome, reporting our weaknesses and strengths. A Druid had spoken with her just before she’d broken the bowl and, since then, she had never mentioned his name.

Leaning forward she blew gently on the fire, the sudden glow painting her face with crimson, her hair with ruby shimmers. It was long, oiled, hanging loosely over her shoulders. Her dress was of coarse wool, belted at the waist, a long dagger of bronze with a leaf-shaped blade carried naked for all to see. Like the men, she had painted her face with woad. Like the men, she would fight.

‘Atilus, you’d better get some sleep now.’

‘I’m not tired.’

‘Then just he down and rest. Not here, go and find a place somewhere else.’

She blew again at the embers and I knew she wanted to be alone. Perhaps to fashion a spell against our enemies or to perform some other magical rite. The women of the Iceni knew things which no man was permitted to learn.

Rising, I moved into the darkness, stepping carefully over sleeping figures. Other fires made dim points of light all around, men lying between them, fully dressed, broadswords and shields close to hand. In their compound the horses snorted, restless, soothed by their grooms. The chariots were ranked, ready to be harnessed, attendants waiting on the nobles to whom they belonged.

It was hard to rest. I was tired, overstrained from our journey, and the night was full of odd noises. I heard a peculiar trumpeting and the dull beat of something which sounded like drums. There was a scurry as if birds winged through the night and, from the woods, came the hoot of an owl. Closer to hand men muttered in their sleep, twitching, one suddenly crying out.

‘The fire! The fire!’

A dream, at such times all men had dreams, visions of what was to come. As the man settled, snoring, I wondered what message had been sent to him from the gods. What message would be sent to me.

If any came, I remembered nothing of it. Barely had I closed my eyes and it was dawn. The day had broken full of mist which quickly cleared from the vicinity of the stronghold, but which lay like a thick veil over the river and the enemy camp. All around was the stir and bustle of activity as men woke, stretched, gulped down a hasty meal prepared by the women.

My mother had mine ready, a mess of lumpy porridge lacking salt and tasting of smoke. As I cleared the bowl, voices rose from the horse compound and a line of chariots moved towards the opened gates.

‘Mother?’

‘It’s Caractacus,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘He’s leaving. Run after him and see what’s happening.’

I passed through the gates, dodging a guard who tried to stop me, joining a group of warriors. Other chariots stood further down the line, those belonging to King Cattigern of the Trinovent. He and Caractacus seemed to be arguing. I had sharp ears; a few steps closer and I could hear what was being said.

‘This is madness. Why have you deserted your position?’

‘Are you accusing me of cowardice?’

Caractacus was coldly polite. ‘Is there any other reason for you withdrawing your troops?’

‘The gods are against us. Somehow we must have offended them. All night my commander has been coughing and, an hour before dawn, he spat blood.’

‘Then make an offering.’

‘I have, two horses, but the position is doomed. Surely you can see that? A man cannot fight against the gods. I have no choice but to withdraw.’

There was nothing Caractacus could do. He ruled by consent and not by force.

My mother cursed as she heard the news.

‘We can’t hold the stronghold without Cattigern. And if 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 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.