– chapter xi –

Lessons

 

Before sunrise, I set out with Manius and Theon for the mysterious place called school. Theon was there to teach me how to do his job. He carried a candle to light our way, while I held Manius’s bag of school things. Manius, of course, carried nothing at all, yet he walked very slowly – slower than the ox carts that lumbered through the city in the hours of darkness.

‘I don’t want to go to school,’ he muttered. ‘It’s so boring.’

We came to a room that opened onto the street, as if it had once been used as a shop. Inside, a dozen young boys sat on wooden benches. Manius joined them. A tall, stern-looking man was talking, and the boys were repeating each thing he said. This went on for a long time.

‘You should listen,’ Theon whispered to me. ‘He’s teaching them to speak Latin clearly. Pay attention and you might lose that ridiculous British accent.’

All morning, Theon and I sat on the steps outside the entrance. There were some other attendants there too, but most of them were old men. Manius was right, I decided – school was boring.

After the speaking lesson, each boy took out two flat pieces of wood covered in a layer of wax. The boys made marks in the wax with thin metal rods. The teacher looked at their work, praising some boys, shouting at others. When the wax was covered in little marks, it was smoothed out and the whole thing started again. Why?

When I asked Theon, he stared at me in disbelief. ‘They’re learning to write. Those little marks – they all have a meaning, a sound. Put them together and they make words. Are you telling me there’s no one in Britain who can read or write?’

‘I think some of the druids can,’ I said. ‘But not the ordinary people. Why would they need to?’

Theon said, ‘If you can read and write, you don’t have to memorize everything. You can read what other people have written. You can send messages to the ends of the empire.’

‘I still don’t see why a little kid like Manius has to learn it.’

‘He’ll need it when he’s older,’ said Theon. ‘Look around you. There’s writing everywhere.’

It was true. I had never really noticed, but the little marks were carved into the bases of statues, painted above doorways and scrawled on walls.

‘Can you read and write?’ I asked Theon.

‘Of course. That’s why the master bought me to be Manius’s attendant. What you’re meant to teach him, I can’t imagine.’

‘Read something, then,’ I challenged him. ‘Read that.’ The wall opposite the school was marked in several places with those mystical signs.

‘Vote for Marcus Casellius,’ Theon said. ‘And that says Beware of the dog. Oh, and this one might interest you: Twenty pairs of gladiators will fight on the eighteenth of March, with a full programme of wild beast shows and British captives. You should go along to see that. Wild beasts and barbarians – it might remind you of home.’

I ignored this. ‘But how did you learn to read? You’re only a slave, after all. Did you go to school?’

‘No – my father taught me.’

‘Was your father a slave too?’ I asked, curious to find out more about Theon’s past life.

‘Yes, but he was an important one. My father was very clever. He took care of the master’s business affairs – my old master, I mean.’

‘What happened to him?’ I asked, for it sounded as if his father was dead.

‘He set off with the master on a voyage to Aegyptus. They never got there. The ship ran aground in a storm . . .’ His voice tailed off.

For the first time ever, I felt sorry for Theon. I knew what it felt like to lose your father.

‘Is your mother still alive?’ I asked.

‘As far as I know, she is. After the shipwreck, the master’s brother inherited all his wealth. He kept some of the slaves and sold the rest of us. I don’t know where my mother is now.’

Exactly like me! I didn’t know where my mother was either. ‘That’s bad,’ I said. ‘You must miss her.’

‘Not really.’ Theon’s voice was cold. ‘She was a foolish woman, a typical Celt. Even after twenty years in Rome, she was still a barbarian. Wherever she is now – even if it’s the Emperor’s palace – she’s probably complaining that it’s not like Britain.’

I decided I could never be friends with Theon. We spoke the same language, and similar things had happened to us, but that didn’t mean we were alike. Just the opposite, in fact.

I gave up the effort to be friendly. We sat in silence as the long morning dragged on.

When school was over, Theon showed Manius the writing on the wall. (What were gladiators? I didn’t ask because I was tired of Theon making me feel stupid.) Manius got quite excited.

‘I must ask Father if we can go. I’d love to see the British warriors. Bryn, have you ever seen gladiators in combat? It’s great! They fight and fight until one of them gets killed.’

‘Not as good as a real battle, though,’ said Theon. ‘And Bryn has actually lived through one. You should ask him about it.’

How did Theon know that? I hardly ever talked about the battle – I hated to remember it. Theon must have overheard one day when Clemens asked me how I was taken captive. I told Clemens a little about the day my father died. Clemens understood, and stopped asking questions.

But not Manius. He wanted me to tell him all about the battle. What sort of weapons did the British use? What were their chariots like? If the Romans were outnumbered, how did they win the battle? How many dead bodies did I see? Manius was too young to understand my feelings – or perhaps a slave’s feelings didn’t count.

Theon smirked, and I saw he’d done this on purpose. He hadn’t forgiven me for taking over his job. From tomorrow, he would be running errands for Pallas, the master’s secretary. ‘It’s a step up for me,’ he boasted. ‘Secretary’s assistant; I might be the secretary myself, one day.’ But I guessed he would have to work a lot harder than he was doing now.

All the way home, Manius pestered me with questions. When I didn’t answer he got angry. ‘Don’t be insolent, boy,’ he warned me. ‘If I tell my father, he’ll have you whipped.’

The next day, when I took him – or rather followed him – to school, Manius was in a better mood. ‘I asked Father, and he said that after school you can take me to see the British warriors in training,’ he said. ‘They’re at the gladiator school of Decimus Lucretius Valens. Do you know where that is?’

I hadn’t a clue. I still did not know my way around the city. We had to ask several people before we found our way to the gladiator school.

The training arena was a high-walled wooden structure with a few tiers of seats around the sides. We sat down among a small crowd of onlookers. Below us, in the sand-floored arena, two men were practice-fighting with wooden swords. They had helmets with protective face masks, and one wore body armour. The other fought in the Celtic way, with only a sword and small shield.

Watching them, I could see why my people had lost that final battle. The Briton swung his sword wide, slashing with the edge of the blade, while his opponent – probably Roman – stabbed with the sword point. On a crowded battlefield, the Roman method was better. But here, in the open, they seemed equally matched, and the Celtic fighter was very quick on his feet. Even with wooden swords, it was exciting to watch.

Obviously, I wanted the Celt to win. So did Manius. ‘Come on, Briton!’ he yelled. ‘Kill him! Kill him!’

Someone shouted an order, and the fight ended. It was hard to tell who would have won if the weapons had been real. But Manius shouted, ‘Well done, Celt! You slaughtered him!’

The British warrior took off his helmet and face mask. He looked up at the small crowd of onlookers. Then his mouth opened wide in surprise. A huge smile spread across his face.

It was Conan! I had found my brother at last!