London - Edward Rutherfurd [17]
But if the boy was taken with the raft and its shining cargo, it was nothing compared with his excitement when, as they neared the shore, his father suddenly exclaimed: “By the gods, Segovax. Do you see that big man on the black horse?”
And when the boy nodded, his father explained: “That’s Cassivelaunus himself.”
The next two hours were thrilling. While he was made to wait by the wicker boat, his father was busy speaking with the men and helping them get the rafts to shore.
For as Segovax sat waiting by the little boat, no less than twenty chariots were brought across the river and some fifty horses as well. These horses were no less magnificent than the chariots. Some, the largest, were to carry individual warriors. Others, small but swift, were for the chariots. All, he could see, were carefully bred. A quantity of men crossed, too, with cartloads of weapons. Some of them were splendidly arrayed in brightly coloured cloaks and jewellery of shining gold. The boy’s heart swelled with pride to see this noble show of his brave, Celtic people. But best of all was when the great chief himself – a huge figure in a red cloak and with long, trailing moustaches – summoned his father over and spoke with him. He saw his father kneel to the chief, saw them exchange words, saw the great man smile warmly, place his hand upon his father’s shoulder and then give him a small brooch. His father, a humble peasant but a valiant man, recognized by the greatest chief on the island. Segovax blushed for joy.
It was well into the afternoon when his father came over to him. He was smiling, but seemed preoccupied. “Time to go,” he said. Segovax nodded, but sighed. He could have stayed there for ever.
Soon, however, with his father working the oars, they were making good progress back up the river. Looking behind, Segovax saw the last of the rafts being pulled ashore.
“Are they going to fight soon?” he asked.
His father glanced at him with surprise.
“Didn’t you realize, boy?” he said quietly. “They were on their way to the coast.” He pulled steadily on the oars. “The Romans are coming.”
Little Branwen watched her mother curiously. She had been asleep when Segovax and her father left, and the day had promised to be quiet and rather boring. Her mother had spent the morning making a basket, sitting with some of the other women in front of the hut, talking quietly while the children played. And there, no doubt, they would have stayed all afternoon, had it not been for the druid’s visit.
He had arrived quite unexpectedly, rowing himself in a dugout, but then one could never account for the old man’s comings. With the quiet authority of his ancient order, he had commanded the people of the hamlet to give him a cock and three chickens to sacrifice, and then to accompany him to the sacred places across the river. And so, obediently, not knowing what instinct or premonition had caused the old man suddenly to leave his island, the villagers had followed him, on rafts and coracles, across the broad stream that sunny afternoon.
They had not gone directly to the twin hills of Londinos, but had first made their way to the broad inlet where the stream descended the western flank of the hills. Disembarking on the left side of the inlet, they walked up the bank to a spot about fifty yards from the stream. There was nothing much to see except a group of three rough stones, about as high as a man’s knee, which were set around a hole in the ground.
It was a sacred well. No one knew when or why it had first been opened up. It was fed not by the river but by a little spring. And in this deserted well, it