Atilus the Slave. E. C. Tubb

      BORGO PRESS BOOKS BY E. C. TUBB

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      Galactic Destiny: A Classic Science Fiction Tale

      The Ming Vase and Other Science Fiction Stories

      Mirror of the Night and Other Weird Tales

      Only One Winner: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

      Sands of Destiny: A Novel of the French Foreign Legion

      Star Haven: A Science Fiction Tale

      Tomorrow: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

      The Wager: Science Fiction Mystery Tales

      The Wonderful Day: Science Fiction Stories

      THE ATILUS TRILOGY

      1. Atilus the Slave

      2. Atilus the Gladiator

      3. Atilus the Lanista

      COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

      Copyright © 1975 by E. C. Tubb

      Copyright © 2013 by Lisa John

      Originally published under the pen name, Edward Thomson

      Special thanks to Heather and Dave Datta

       for scanning this book.

      Published by Wildside Press LLC

      www.wildsidebooks.com

      DEDICATION

      To the Memory of Leslie Flood

      CHAPTER ONE

      They came with a tread which shook the world, the legions, the auxiliaries, bringing the greed, the cunning, the guile of Rome. Britain had gold, silver, iron, lead, and tin. It could provide slaves and skins, corn and cattle, land and taxes. A rich prize hanging temptingly at the edge of the Roman Empire. In the third year of his reign, Claudius sent Aulus Plautius to take it.

      I was present at the end.

      The Romans had overrun the south, taking London, fresh troops arriving under the personal command of the Emperor himself to continue the push to Colchester. Twenty miles from London, Caractacus had assembled his troops in the great stronghold on Brentwood Ridge. If it was taken, nothing could stop the Roman advance and Britain would fall, but to me, a boy of ten, it seemed impossible that we could lose.

      My mother held the same opinion.

      ‘If we hold fast, Atilus, then the Romans will have to attack and, when they do, we’ll cut them to shreds. Once that is done, the chariots will take care of the rest.’

      ‘And if they go around us?’

      ‘We’ll cut their lines of communication and attack them from the rear. The result will be the same. Romans!’ she spat into the fire. ‘May the gods rot them all!’

      She was of the Iceni, a handsome woman who had retained her figure, possibly because I was her only child. She had married when young, after a romance with an itinerant trader from Gaul. He had ingratiated himself into our tribe, making friends with the Druids, proving his worth with the news he carried as part of his wares. He dealt in knives, beads, glassware, trinkets—items of luxury which eased life in the mud and wattle houses. A slight, solemn-looking man, he had taught me Latin and Greek and had insisted that I learned to read. Against the burly warriors he had seemed insignificant, but my mother must have seen something in him, and he was kind to us both in his fashion.

      My father. I looked into the glow of the embers remembering how he’d fallen silent whenever Rome was mentioned. A man of peace, he’d taught me none of the martial arts; that had been left to the friends I had managed to make. There’d been play with wooden swords and knives waved with more enthusiasm than skill as we’d run shrieking over the meadows. But we had travelled a little, he and I. Not far and not fast, visiting nearby tribes and once going as far as Colchester itself.

      That had been last year, just before he had vanished, my mother breaking the marriage bowl from which they had drunk salted wine. She had divorced him for no reason I clearly understood. Perhaps it had been because he had given her no other child, or she could have suspected him of being an agent of Rome, reporting our weaknesses and strengths. A Druid had spoken with her just before she’d broken the bowl and, since then, she had never mentioned his name.

      Leaning forward she blew gently on the fire, the sudden glow painting her face with crimson, her hair with ruby shimmers. It was long, oiled, hanging loosely over her shoulders. Her dress was of coarse wool, belted at the waist, a long dagger of bronze with a leaf-shaped blade carried naked for all to see. Like the men, she had painted her face with woad. Like the men, she would fight.

      ‘Atilus, you’d better get some sleep now.’

      ‘I’m not tired.’

      ‘Then just he down and rest. Not here, go and find a place somewhere else.’

      She blew again at the embers and I knew she wanted to be alone. Perhaps to fashion a spell against our enemies or to perform some other magical rite. The women of the Iceni knew things which no man was permitted to learn.

      Rising, I moved into the darkness, stepping carefully over sleeping figures. Other fires made dim points of light all around, men lying between them, fully dressed, broadswords and shields close to hand. In their compound the horses snorted, restless, soothed by their grooms. The chariots were ranked, ready to be harnessed, attendants waiting on the nobles to whom they belonged.

      It was hard to rest. I was tired, overstrained from our journey, and the night was full of odd noises. I heard a peculiar trumpeting and the dull beat of something which sounded like drums. There was a scurry as if birds winged through the night and, from the woods, came the hoot of an owl. Closer to hand men muttered in their sleep, twitching, one suddenly crying out.

      ‘The fire! The fire!’

      A dream, at such times all men had dreams, visions of what was to come. As the man settled, snoring, I wondered what message had been sent to him from the gods. What message would be sent to me.

      If any came, I remembered nothing of it. Barely had I closed my eyes and it was dawn. The day had broken full of mist which quickly cleared from the vicinity of the stronghold, but which lay like a thick veil over the river and the enemy camp. All around was the stir and bustle of activity as men woke, stretched, gulped down a hasty meal prepared by the women.

      My mother had mine ready, a mess of lumpy porridge lacking salt and tasting of smoke. As I cleared the bowl, voices rose from the horse compound and a line of chariots moved towards the opened gates.

      ‘Mother?’

      ‘It’s Caractacus,’ she said, narrowing her eyes. ‘He’s leaving. Run after him and see what’s happening.’

      I passed through the gates, dodging a guard who tried to stop me, joining a group of warriors. Other chariots stood further down the line, those belonging to King Cattigern of the Trinovent. He and Caractacus seemed to be arguing. I had sharp ears; a few steps closer and I could hear what was being said.

      ‘This is madness. Why have you deserted your position?’

      ‘Are you accusing me of cowardice?’

      Caractacus was coldly polite. ‘Is there any other reason for you withdrawing your troops?’

      ‘The gods are against us. Somehow we must have offended them. All night my commander has been coughing and, an hour before dawn, he spat blood.’

      ‘Then make an offering.’

      ‘I have, two horses, but the position is doomed. Surely you can see that? A man cannot fight against the gods. I have no choice but to withdraw.’

      There was nothing Caractacus could do. He ruled by