Rome, AD 51
I am a slave. A pitiful, helpless boy, bullied by my master the senator’s daughter, the cruel Livia.
I am a prisoner of Rome.
There is no winter in Rome … not real winter like in Britannia, my home. And it was winter that defeated us, not just the Roman army. Winter and the shortest day of the year.
I remember what my father said. “The days are getting shorter – the sun is getting weaker. It happens every year. The grass will not grow and we will starve.”
“How can we make the sun stronger?” I asked.
“Give the gods a gift.”
“A gift?”
“A life.”
“A goat?” I had seen a goat sacrificed to the gods. The druids took their knives and cut its throat. They roasted the meat and ate it. I was given some of the scraps.
But this year, it would not be a goat.
“A man,” my father said.
“The Roman soldier? The one we captured?”
Father nodded.
The druids would never roast or eat a man. But they would kill him and give his life to our gods.
The whole village gathered on the path that led to the woods. The five druid priests in their white robes stood silent and still, though a wicked wind whipped at their hoods and blew through their beards.
The dark-skinned Roman soldier looked at us with scorn. He was not afraid to die.