I was taken to the camp of the emperor’s guard in the centre of Rome. I’d been past the gates many times, and seen the troops marching and training. These were men who fought and beat the rest of the world.
As it was a holiday, today there was no training. Captains and generals with high plumes on their helmets rode on horses. They galloped through the gates, as excited as children playing in the streets.
I was sure I was on my way to a slow death, but I had to ask: “What’s going on?”
The soldier grunted. “A special prisoner’s just been brought to Rome. There will be a great parade to show him to the people. It will be more popular than the chariot races.”
We passed guards who unlocked gates and doors for us until we reached a block of cells. They stank like Roman toilet rooms in summer – the ones I had to clean out.
At last, a heavy door was opened and I was thrown into a dark room. I stumbled and crashed into someone who was already there.
He steadied me with his huge hands and said, “Careful, boy!” And he wasn’t speaking Latin like the Romans. He wasn’t even a Gaul.
My heart seemed to stop for a moment. “You’re from Britannia!”
There was a tiny window in the top of the cell to let in air and a little light. As my eyes grew used to the dimness, I could see he was a tall man, dressed like a British warrior though they’d taken away his weapons. “I’m Deri,” I said.
“They’re going to execute me for being a rebel slave.”
“Ah, that’s the Roman way,” the man nodded. “I am a British chief … and they’re going to execute me for daring to fight them. My name is Caratacus.”