As the sun rose slowly through the mists, a black cloud in the eastern sky suddenly flamed into gold, and a flock of birds, startled by this angry splendour, took wing and flew, twittering with fear, away to the west.
And from the waiting people massed over the broad plains came a subdued cry of wonder before they turned their eyes again to the great stone circle that stood, gaunt and black, against the reds, yellows and faint blues of the dawn.
Most of the watchers had been waiting in the heather, lashed by sudden squalls of rain and beaten breathless by the wind, since the evening before; and now, almost without warning, was happening that strange thing they had wandered a hundred miles to see. The sun was rising, and soon its first ray would strike inevitably down the eastern avenue of the temple, between the great trilithons, and rest upon the ancient sacrifice-stone.
Standing round the outer circle were the over-lords and the chieftains with their households. Some lived on the plain itself, coming from Sorbiodun; others had ridden along the upland roads for a week, from the most northern limits of Brigantia, to be there. Amongst them and nearest the sun-stone waited Cunobelin’s own family; the descendants of the great Cassivelaun and the royal house of the Belgae: his mother, wife and sisters, then their husbands and the boy princes, Reged and Caradoc, Morag and Beddyr, and young Gwyndoc, son of the Chieftain of Cantii, who would be chieftain himself one day, when he came of age, but who was as yet, like his royal friends, only twelve, and so ruled with his aunt as regent.
For the boys it had been a long, dull wait. The cloaked grown-ups stood before them, hiding the blood stone from their eyes, and behind them the royal guard stood in close formation, preventing them from seeing what the massed tribesfolk were doing. Earlier on, an Italian seaman had let loose his pet monkey among the soldiers, and it had hopped about cheekily on their horned helmets, causing the crowd great amusement and sending the lads into fits of laughter. But the monkey had gone. A zealous captain had broken its back with his spear-shaft, and there was nothing at all to see now, only the slow glow in the east.
Suddenly an old woman began to call out and whine. “O King, it is my son upon the stone before you. He did no evil. He loved the gods. Why must you take him, lord?” The boys heard her start to cry and then scream; then she was silent and Beddyr looked with his wide black eyes at a gaunt soldier he knew and said, “What has happened, Pedair? Why is the old woman crying, then?” And the soldier, his eyes still fixed on the blood-stone, said, “It is nothing, Prince. Only an old cockle-woman selling her wares.” And before the boy could ask again, a group of black-haired Picts began the long low rhythmic moaning that is the prelude to their death-dances; and a party of soldiers had to break ranks to quieten them down.
So the boys got onto their knees and tried to look between the legs of the chiefs, but they could see little. “He’s got red hair,” whispered Morag, excitedly. “They always have,” said his brother. Then they shrank back, blinded for a moment by the sun’s first long ray, that struck inch by inch along the eastern avenue. And when they could see again, Caradoc said to his friend Gwyndoc, “I can see Father’s feet. He’s dressed like a druid.” “What is he doing?” Gwyndoc asked. “He’s pushing a stick into the red-haired one! No, it isn’t a stick, it’s a mistletoe stake! He’s having to push very hard, the red one is wriggling so much!” Then they became aware that they were enveloped by a great silence, that no one, the length or breadth of the plain, was speaking or moving, and they fell silent too. And a strange sound came to their ears; it was like a hare when you tried to wring its neck and couldn’t quite. Then there was sobbing and gurgling, and all over the plain people were gasping and moving and talking again. The boys turned round and jumped up and down in front of the soldiers, trying to look over their shoulders, but they couldn’t see much. Beddyr said to his soldier-friend, “Pick me up, Pedair, then I can see what the people are doing.” But he had to ask twice before the soldier shook him away, rather roughly. Then he saw that the man’s eyes were filled with tears, and he wondered why.
Then a noise broke out behind the soldiers. It was a party of Brigantes who had got themselves drunk with exhaustion and the local mead, and they were dancing and singing and throwing offerings into the stone circle—belts and bracelets, and even swords. “What’s wrong with the Roman?” Caradoc asked his friend, pointing to the new ambassador. He was bent double over the grass, his head almost between his knees. The chiefs were standing away from him, some of them smiling in a crafty, grown-up way. “Why, he’s being sick,” answered Gwyndoc. “I wonder whatever for?”
“It was something he ate,” said a dry-voiced soldier behind them.
“Well, he shouldn’t eat it,” said Caradoc wisely. “He knows that our cooking is different from theirs in Rome.”
And the boys laughed many times to each other about the Roman as they were shepherded to the litter to start the long journey back by stages to Camulodun, where their father had his palace.
As they waited in the semi-darkness of the skin-hung box for the family to assemble they watched the vast crowds slowly breaking up and filing off in various directions across the plain. A bright midsummer sun was shining now, and it was easy to see for miles. It seemed to the lads that everybody in Britain must be there that morning. Then Morag came to the litter, late as usual, but looking strangely worried. “Where have you been?” asked his cousin sharply. “You should have been here, waiting with us.”
“I am sorry, lord,” answered the boy, “but I was watching Uncle.”
Caradoc looked at Morag as fiercely as he could. “Watching my father?” he said. “What was wrong with him, then, that you should take it on yourself to watch him?”
Morag looked abashed as he crept into the litter. When he answered, it seemed that his mind was not on what he was saying. “Nothing, Caradoc,” he said. “He was all right, but his hands were red. Right up his arms to the shoulder. Oh, I’m very sorry I saw it, Caradoc.” And the lad put his head down and sobbed as though his heart was too full to hold his tears.
Caradoc made Gwyndoc vow not to speak to him for twenty minutes, but both boys were strangely troubled, nevertheless.
After a time the King, Cunobelin, came to his litter, walking slowly and looking thoughtful. At his side the archdruid strode, his hands clasped behind him. They were followed at a distance by the blue-robed Ovates, and then the more privileged subsidiary chieftains. The boys watched the King and the druid get into the litter before them, and at a signal the party started on its way to Sorbiodun, where they were to spend some hours before setting off again northwards for Camulodun.
As they jolted along the road across the downs the boys gradually became more and more sleepy, and soon they were nodding off. From the litters in front, the men’s deep voices were going on and on, in a steady monotone. Then suddenly Caradoc came back to awareness at a change in his father’s tone. The King’s voice had become sharp and, it seemed, almost angry, and the archdruid was very quiet. At last the boy heard his own name mentioned, and then his father’s words seemed to come clearer and clearer, till Caradoc thought that everyone in the procession must hear what he was saying.
“It is no good, Bydd, something is bound to happen to us before long, the way things are going. I’ve done my best to give the south unity; and if they were left alone, the tribes would stick together without quarrelling. They’ve learned their lesson since the Caesar came: they know that the Roman eagle pecks out the eyes of the stray sheep. We’ve got good markets in Gaul and half-way along the Mediterranean; we can sell our corn, our cattle, our minerals and our slaves anywhere where there’s the Roman Peace, and in many places where there isn’t!”
The druid’s voice replied patiently but a little wearily, as though he had listened to the King saying the same things many times before. “Yes, brother, I know all that. No one can say that you have not done wonderful things with the clans, and even if you’ve always avoided a full Roman alliance, such as the Gauls have got, you’ve helped more than anyone else ever did to spread Roman standards of living in the south-east. And no one could grumble at the money you have brought into the country. That last trade-pact has attracted more Roman capital to Britain than I ever thought existed! You’ve built a royal city and you’ve struck a coinage that Rome itself cannot scoff at. The Belgic territory is stable as far as I, or any man, can see. So what are you worrying about?”
The King’s voice was almost harsh. “I’m not worrying, Bydd,” he said. “I have gone beyond that stage. I am not worrying because I have found an answer to my problem. And the problem is this: I shall die before long—no, don’t look so surprised, you’ve been expecting it almost as long as I have. I’m nearer seventy than sixty, and that cut I got under the breast-bone against the Germans last year hasn’t helped me much. I could hardly get the stake in this morning, he writhed so much. It was harder than it has ever been this morning. I couldn’t see what I was doing most of the time. As soon as the sun struck along the avenue, my head began to swim and my eyes clouded over. No, there’s not much doubt about it: I shan’t be officiating at the stones very much longer. And, this is the point; what will happen then? I’ll tell you, because I don’t suppose your book-learning and mistletoe-grafting have given you much of an insight into politics. This is what will happen: the kingdom will naturally be divided between my sons, Caradoc and Reged. And that sounds all right—but it isn’t. The lads will be too young to look after their own affairs and they’ll have to have a regent. Now there’s only one regent that I can name with justice, and that’s Banhir. He belongs to the family of Cassivelaun, just as we do. He has as much right almost to the crown as I have—and he hates Rome as a dog hates a wolf! To make my sons joint kings under him is to declare war on Rome.”
Bydd broke in, speaking slowly, “But, brother, you have only got half the story there. Banhir can do nothing against Rome without money. The merchants have the money, the commercial interests in Camulodun and Londinium, and they will never allow Banhir to lose their markets for them!”
The King’s voice was almost angry when he replied, “There you go again, jumping to conclusions! Thank the gods that it was I and not you that was elected to rule the Belgae! You see no further than your nose. Yes, of course it’s the merchants who have the money, and of course they don’t want to lose their markets. Nor would they! They would invite the Romans here before I was cold in my bed, I can assure you. Now do you see what I mean?”
There was silence for a time, then Bydd spoke again, but uncertainly this time. “Then, what can be done? There seems no way out of the difficulty.” And Caradoc was surprised and a little shocked to hear his father’s great gusts of laughter coming once again. “Why, Bydd, that’s where brains come in! The kingdom will not go to Caradoc, or Reged!” The druid’s voice sounded horrified: “What, you intend to disinherit your own blood, your true sons? What are you thinking of, Cunobelin?”
And the King said, “I’m thinking of Britain and trade and prosperity first. My sons come next. It’s no good handing over to them a land that will crumble before their eyes and leave them paupers or corpses. No, Bydd, I have an eye to the future. When they take their kingdoms, I want them to be secure.”
“What is in your mind, then?” asked the druid.
“It is in my mind to nominate young Adminius as my successor. He is my sister’s son; his father is a Roman, a citizen of the Empire; and the boy is almost of age to ascend the throne. I shall nominate him king for ten years—and no one will dare touch him, neither Banhir nor the Empire. And he will have all the support of the merchants, what is more! After those ten years are up, Caradoc and Reged will succeed, and Adminius will take a territory in Belgium. He will leave the kingdom stable, and then he’ll be out of the way probably sharing a kingdom with Catuval, who’ll keep him in order!—and the lads can then carry on as they have seen me rule.”
Caradoc heard the druid chuckling. He could not see that there was anything to chuckle at: he felt angry to think that he must wait another ten years before he could become a king. And he hated Adminius for being a coward and a sneak.
His father spoke again. “Ten years. Just a nice time. The boys will have learned a bit of sense then, and Adminius is bound to build up the Roman trade. Best of all, it will get old Banhir out of the way. He’s nearly as old as I am. No, he shouldn’t be much trouble in ten years’ time!”
Caradoc was suddenly so angry that he kicked Morag sharply on the shins. The lad woke up with a start and stared at the prince. “Keep your eyes open,” his cousin said. “What’s the good of bringing you out if you don’t see where you are going?”
Before the litter reached Sorbiodun, Caradoc was fast asleep himself.