The Warrior’s Princess. Barbara Erskine

This city may be vast, there may be hundreds of thousands of people here, but if their spirits languish and their souls are lost then they are nothing compared to us. Remember that, my daughter.’ He had glanced over her head at Cerys and smiled with sad resignation.

      The sound of marching men rang through the stone walls and Eigon shrank further under her blanket. She heard the sharp bark of a command and the men came to a halt, the nails of their boots as they stamped to attention a crisp double report on the roadway somewhere nearby.

      A shadow fell across the bed. ‘Eigon. It is time to get up.’ It was her mother. Cerys was pale, but resolute as she waited for Eigon to scramble miserably out of the bed. They had been brought fresh clothes. Cerys gave a wry smile. ‘The more glorious we look, the better it reflects upon the Emperor that he has defeated us,’ she said bitterly. ‘See, they have given us beautiful tunics and mantles and even bangles of gold. They are calling your father king.’

      ‘I don’t know how brave I can be, Mam,’ Eigon whispered as she pulled the tunic over her head. ‘I am trying very hard.’ She pulled the plaited girdle tight around her middle and held out her arms for her mantle. It was a smaller copy of her mother’s.

      ‘I know you are, sweetheart.’ Cerys pulled her close. ‘You will be a credit to us. Your father is certain of it.’ There was a shout outside. Somewhere a door banged. Eigon shrank closer to her mother. ‘Will it hurt? Being killed?’

      Cerys shook her head firmly. ‘No. The gods will bring you strength and comfort.’

      They brought the chains at the last moment. Manacles and neck rings like those of slaves. Then they were ushered outside to their places in the procession which was forming on the barracks parade ground. Eigon caught her breath and gripped her mother’s hand tightly. There was no sign of her father. There were hundreds of captives being ushered from the prison cells barefoot, emaciated, stinking from the filth of their imprisonment. Warriors. Farmers. Peasants who somehow had avoided being slaughtered, formed into ranks between the Roman guards who marshalled them into groups with swords and whips. There were noblemen from the tribes there too. Some smartly dressed like Eigon and Cerys. Others crippled with wounds or disease. All in chains. Somewhere at the front of the procession there were trumpeters, dignitaries in chariots, wagonloads of captured treasure, and interspersed with the prisoners were groups of horsemen and everywhere legionaries and auxiliaries of the Roman army. They heard the triumphant summons of the trumpet and knew the front of the long parade had started. It was a long time before it was their turn, walking hand in hand in their places as the procession wound its way through the baying crowds, towards the centre of Rome.