London by Edward Rutherfurd Page A

life. He must mean her husband. But hadn’t she saved him? Wasn’t he coming safely upriver with them if the Romans came?
    The day after he had arrived, she had sought out the dark-bearded noble as he was directing the men preparing the defences. Was their bargain still good? she had demanded. “I have already told you,” he had answered impatiently, and waved her away.
    What could it mean, then? That some new accident was to befall Branwen to destroy the bargain? Or was it not her husband at all? Was something going to happen to Segovax, or the baby? In a new agony of doubt she felt as if she were an animal, trapped with her young, trying desperately to shield first one and then another from the advances of snapping predators.
    Finally, after several days of suspense, news came that Cassivelaunus had massed his hordes for a huge pitched battle.
    They were streaming in now, warriors of all kinds: foot soldiers, horsemen and charioteers. Contingent after contingent arriving hot and dusty at the ford.
    Some spoke of treachery, of chiefs who had deserted. “The Romans bribed them,” they said. “May they be cursed by the gods.” But if they were angry, they were still not downhearted. “One defeat is nothing. Wait until the Romans taste our vengeance.” Although when Segovax ventured to ask one of the men in the chariots what the Romans were like, he answered frankly: “They stay in formation.” And then: “They are terrible.”
    There were no more defences in the south now. The river was the next barrier. “The battle will be here,” the boy’s father told him on a brief visit to the hamlet. “This is where Caesar will be stopped.” The next day the women of the hamlet were told: “Be ready to evacuate. You leave tomorrow.”
    Segovax watched carefully the next morning as his father put on his sword. Usually it was kept wrapped in skins from which, twice a year, his father removed it for inspection. At such times Segovax was allowed to hold it, but not to touch the blade. “You’ll rust it,” his father would explain as he carefully oiled it before putting it back in its wood and leather scabbard and wrapping it up again.
    It was a typical Celtic weapon. It had a long, broad, iron blade with a ridge down it. At the hilt was a simple crossbar, but the pommel was carved in the shape of a man’s head that stared out fiercely at the enemy.
    As he watched, the boy was strangely moved. How worn his father looked after the backbreaking work of the last few days. His spine was bent in a way that suggested he had been in some pain. His arms seemed to hang more loosely than usual. His soft, kindly eyes were tired. And yet, vulnerable though he might be, he was brave. He seemed almost eager for battle. About his whole body and face there was a determined masculinity that overcame his physical frailty. As he took his shield down from the wall and collected two spears, Segovax thought his father was transformed into a noble warrior, and this made the boy proud, for he wanted his father to be strong.
    Thus prepared, the fisherman took his son to one side and spoke to him gravely. “If anything happens to me, Segovax,” he said quietly, “you will be the man of the family. You must look after your mother and your sister and brother. Do you understand?”
    A few moments later, he called little Branwen over and started to tell her to be good, but the absurdity of the idea made him laugh, and he contented himself with giving her a hug and a kiss instead.
    And now all was ready. By the end of the spit, the party was waiting to leave. Four large dugouts contained the women and children of the hamlet. There were also two rafts carrying provisions and their movable belongings. The men of the hamlet stood by, awaiting final orders from the noble in charge, who was coming down the river now, from the palisade.
    Minutes later the dark-bearded captain was there. His hard, shrewd eyes glanced around, taking them all in.