Cover illustration: Romain Lubière Under the direction of Romain Lizé, President, Magnificat Editor, Magnificat: Isabelle Galmiche Editor, Ignatius: Vivian Dudro Proofreaders: Kathleen Hollenbeck, Samuel Wigutow Cover Designer: Magali Meunier Layout: Text’Oh Production: Thierry Dubus, Audrey Bord For all of my teachers and all of my students
Contents I - The Fury........................................................................... 7 II - Captives........................................................................... 11 III - Sold!............................................................................... 21 IV - Runaway Slave................................................................ 31 V - Punishment..................................................................... 35 VI - Alarming News .............................................................. 41 VII - A Sea Voyage................................................................. 45 VIII - Ostia............................................................................ 51 IX - Court Intrigue................................................................ 57 X - An Errand in Town.......................................................... 61 XI - A Sacrifice...................................................................... 67 XII - A Terrible Blow............................................................. 71 XIII - A Grievous Wound...................................................... 77 XIV - Alexandria.................................................................... 83 XV - Escape........................................................................... 93 XVI - A Disguise................................................................... 101 XVII - Small Miracles............................................................ 111 XVIII - A New Identity......................................................... 127 XIX - Life Lessons.................................................................. 143 XX - Dangerous Ideas............................................................ 159 XXI - In Hiding Again........................................................... 181 XXII - A Secret Revealed........................................................ 189 XXIII - Another Escape......................................................... 193 XXIV - The Third Moving Part............................................. 199 Epilogue................................................................................ 203 Author’s Note. ....................................................................... 205
7 I The Fury Faelan had not been born a slave. He was the son and heir of Conall, a nobleman in the Iceni tribe. Faelan had remained free until the year 61, when his cousin Queen Boudicca, leader of the Iceni, had led them and other Britons in a revolt against the Romans. The tribe had heard that the Romans had one million mouths to feed in their capital city alone. They could not possibly grow all of the grain they needed, so they conquered and took and ate. In leaner years, when the crops were smaller, the Iceni were left with even less. Farmers stood by, faces hot with shame and anger, as the Romans hauled away bushels of their grain. Their young children did not grow as they used to, and they were listless instead of running and playing as they had before. Roman rule over the Iceni, an ancient, powerful, and proud Celtic tribe, had begun as something of an alliance. When the Roman army invaded Britian in the year 43, the Iceni paid for protection and independence through taxes and tributes. As time passed, however, and new Roman governors replaced old ones, the freedom and the respect that the Iceni tribe had previously enjoyed slowly disappeared. The Romans took lands that were the property of Iceni noblemen; centurions plundered their homes, seizing whatever they wanted.
8 After Emperor Claudius died in Rome—some said his doctor killed him with a poisoned-dipped feather down the throat— the Roman occupiers of Britain built a large and magnificent temple in his honor. Calling him the Divine Claudius, they worshipped him as a god. “Do you know,” Faelan’s father had said while the temple was being built, “that this Claudius used to fall asleep at banquets? And then people use to flick food at him and put his slippers on his hands. They liked to watch him wake up and rub his eyes with those slippers. And now they call him a god!” The very idea of this god Claudius would be funny if the priests at his temple weren’t so greedy. They took whatever they wanted— in the name of their divine emperor, but actually, for themselves. Faelan’s father and the other nobles seemed powerless to change their situation; no one dared to take on the whole Roman army. Humiliation seemed better than death. That is, until Boudicca experienced the worst treatment of all. After the death of her husband, King Prasutagus, the Romans arrested Boudicca and her family and whipped her. When they released her, the Romans assumed that she would obey out of pain and shame. They vastly underestimated the queen. Every wound from the Roman whip became a cause for throwing off her captors. With fiery speeches, Boudicca gathered forces of Britons from other tribes into a large army. Her description of Roman oppression and her account of what the occupiers had done to her and her daughters aroused the people’s fury. Even if it meant their own death, the clans would fight the Romans until the island was theirs again. The tribes attacked Camulodunum, and then Londinium; they killed everyone in their path and burned both cities to the ground. Faelan was been too young to take part in these battles,
9 but his father told him about them. Conall no longer avoided his family’s gaze or sat before the fire with broad shoulders stooped and sagging. With a shining face and a booming voice, he praised the courage of their people and their queen. “Boudicca—I swear,” he said after one of their triumphs, “once she climbs into her war chariot, she grows six feet taller! It is hard for me to remember that she and I used to play together as children. She brandishes her spear and gives the charge with a cry that takes your breath away.” He compared the queen to a Fury: “I don’t believe in the Roman gods, but if there are Furies—those vengeful spirits—then she is one of them. And we gladly follow her.” Furies, Faelan thought. Whoever they are, if they are, they are leading the Iceni in justice and wrath. He felt pride well up in him, and he saw it reflected in his father’s eyes. Tribe after tribe joined the Iceni as they moved north from the smoking ruins of Londinium. How many were in their forces then? Eighty thousand? One hundred thousand? Some said there were twice that number. Faelan’s family joined their ranks, and the young boy rode along in a wagon with his mother and sisters. To pass the time, he imagined his future— one without Romans. He saw himself taking his place among the Iceni as a chieftain. Wearing the plaid tunic and the golden brooches of his people, he would lead them back to the prosperity that they had once enjoyed. They would never have a foreign master again. Then came the fateful day that ended Faelan’s daydreams. A report spread through the Iceni ranks that a contingent of Roman soliders was approaching, a tiny thing, only ten thousand men! The Iceni laughed and wondered at this. Had their victories scared away the rest of the mighty Romans? It seemed unlikely, but the report reassured the Britons, especially those
10 who had no real weapon. Many had only pitchforks, clubs, and whatever else they could find. The Iceni passed through a narrow forest path and entered a clearing. There, facing them, stood the Romans. They had formed up in tight rows, armor gleaming, like one large metal beast instead of individual men. And yes, there were few of them, compared to the thousands and thousands of Britons. The sun shone on the deep green field, glinted off the Roman armor and shields, and made the gold torques and bracelets of the chieftains gleam. Queen Boudicca gave a rousing speech from her war chariot, her voice ringing out as she stirred up the troops. Gold bands encircled her muscular arms, which tautly held the reins of her horses. From some quarter of the Britons, an old battle song arose; it was taken up by more and still more, and was soon accompanied by the beating of weapons on shields. Horses paced in the harnesses of the finely carved battle chariots, whinnying and tossing their heads. Faelan’s heart surged. He, his mother, and his sisters, Rhiannon and Esselt, climbed atop their cart behind the war chariots and the infantrymen to watch the destruction of the Romans, and all the other families in the convoy did the same. Somewhere in the sea of their warriors was Faelan’s father and every one of his male kin.
11 II Captives In the coming months of slavery, Faelan would wonder how that day had gone wrong. He sat forward in the wagon as battle was joined, with Boudicca leading the charge in her chariot, light brown tresses streaming behind her. Such a tremendous roar of men rose up followed by the clashing of weapons and armor. And then, with a speed and a precision that seemed impossible, the Roman forces cut through Boudicca’s army like a hot knife through the fat of a boar. The Furies did not lead the Romans; they believed that a superior god of war, Mars, spurred them on, and they fought as they had first appeared, like one mechanical beast. Among the Britons, however, chaos seemed to prevail. The various tribes, each lead by a different chieftain, had never fought together, and there were so many of them. Faelan was overwhelmed by confusion and dismay. Is it possible to have too many soldiers? he wondered. Once it was clear that the Romans would win, Boudicca’s forces found that they could not retreat. There were too many of them to run quickly through the narrow path, and the carts with supplies and family members blocked their way. The Roman cavalry pursued the tribesmen, crushing them under the hooves of their horses or cutting them down with their
12 swords. Fleeing Britons surged around Faelan’s cart, screaming and trampling one another. The cart began to buck and tip, and desperate faces crowded around Faelan and his family, hands grasping for anything that could provide help in the press of men. Faelan’s younger sisters clung to him, screaming. In shock, Faelen did not scream or blink or even breathe… When Falean came to his senses, his mother was nowhere to be seen. Boudicca and her chariot had disappeared, swallowed by a sea of red uniforms and flashing armor. Faelan grabbed Rhiannon and Esselt by their arms and dragged them to the rear of the cart. He leapt down and, pulling his sisters with him, crawled under the cart. He buried his face in the deep green grass and wished for an end, any kind of end. The boy remained still, eyes squeezed shut, for what seemed like hours. He did not sleep; that would have been a mercy, but it was impossible. He was awake and aware of every awful and terrifying sound. Once the gruesome din of battle grew quiet, he opened his eyes and saw only Esselt, who was curled up next to him, chewing on the ends of her hair, grey eyes staring off into the distance. “Rhiannon; where is Rhiannon?” he whispered furiously. Esselt shook her head and inched away from him. He reached to pull her close but froze; someone was peering at them. “Two children under here,” said the Roman legionary over his shoulder. “Should we dispatch them?” The second man bent down and looked under the cart. “These two are old enough to work,” he said. “Maybe we can sell them in the slave market. Let’s take them.” The two soldiers grabbed Faelan’s and Esselt’s ankles, and, no matter how hard they kicked, in a matter of minutes brother
15 and sister were on their feet, holding clumps of grass in tight fists. The first legionary yanked the golden torque that Faelan wore around his neck and wrenched it off him, scraping his skin. “You won’t be needing this anymore!” he growled. “Move along,” barked the second legionary as he pushed the children past the splintered carts and the heaps of dead Britons. Faelan and Esselt treaded through the war-ravaged landscape like shades of the dead in the underworld. Faelan remembered little else from that day, or from the days that followed. Given enough food and drink only to stay alive, he and Esselt were first kept in one place, then another, always with shackles around their wrists and ankles, always in chains. After about a week, the final sundering happened. They were in some Roman town in Britain; it did not matter to Faelan which one. Faelan and Esselt were huddled on the dirty floor of a warehouse with other slaves. Nearby were jugs and pots of various items that would be sold at market, as would they. Light shone through the cracks in the wooden walls, casting narrow beams on the floor. The slave seller and his assistant opened the warehouse doors, dust swirling around their sandaled feet. The noise of the nearby forum filled Faelan with dread. “Take them in groups of ten, Clodius,” the slave dealer said. The assistant, a short man in a sweat-stained tunic, wielded a stick. He poked the slaves, urging them to their feet if they did not stand on their own. He came to Faelan and Esselt and, a slow grin spreading on his face, used the stick to tap Faelan on the head. “You’ve got hair bright like a copper pot!” he said. “These Celts!” Using the stick to lift a lock of Esselt’s flaxen hair, he exclaimed, “And
16 look at this pretty one! You should sell well, little girl.” Esselt glared up at him. Faelan, despite his shackles, leapt to her defense. “Leave her alone! She’s—” His shouts were interrupted by a fierce crack on the head with the stick. The little man was about to hit Faelan again, when the slave dealer poked his head in at the door. “Come on, Clodius,” he said, “the people are waiting. And please don’t beat the slaves about the head. No one wants to buy a slave with an open wound on the face.” Faelan and Esselt were in the second group of slaves led into the forum by Clodius. The little man applied the stick to Faelan’s back as they exited the warehouse. This last blow was unnecessary; the sudden brightness of the sunlight and the din of the forum were enough to keep Faelan quiet and submissive for the time being. The slave dealer had applied some kind of oily substance to his closely cropped hair and beard, and he wore a smile of forced charm. His hands were folded before him in a show of fawning helpfulness to his potential buyers. Faelan turned from surveying his current master to looking out at his potential ones. He wished he could read more from the appearances of the men and women gathered before him; most simply squinted back at the slaves as they waited. After the little man placed placards around the slaves’ necks, the people advanced to inspect them, the wares. They asked the slave dealer questions, forced the slaves to open their mouths so that they could see whether their teeth were rotten, and felt their arm and shoulder muscles. A haughty-looking woman approached Faelan and Esselt. She wore a gauzy, gold-edged palla, or veil, over her head and around her face. Her clothes were those of a married woman.
17 From these details, Faelan made a desperate wish. Perhaps she would be a good mistress to him and his sister? She inspected the information on their placards and then called the slave dealer to her side with the movement of one finger. “Yes, Domina! How can I help you today?” said the slave dealer, rubbing his hands back and forth against each other. “You know I like to buy my slaves young,” said the woman. “It’s easier that way; they become more loyal. The price,” she gestured toward the children, “is that firm?” “Oh yes. I mean… unfortunately, I mean, yes, Domina. These children were from noble stock, from the Trinobantes! And they are unbroken by hard work.” Hiding his understanding of Latin behind a sullen facade, Faelan keenly followed every word. The slave dealer had given the woman the wrong name for their tribe; he didn’t know or care where they were from. “Noble-born anything from the Britons could just be trouble,” said the woman, “and unbroken means unused to work.” She looked the slave dealer directly in the eye, and without glancing behind her, raised her finger to summon an older slave girl to her side. The slave girl held the woman’s purse. “I will give you two hundred denarii now.” “For both?” The slave dealer was horrified. “No, you fool! For the girl. What would I want with a boy?” The slave dealer laughed, attempting to reassure the woman. “Yes, of course!” he said. “All the same, I cannot take less than four hundred denarii.” “I will give you three hundred.” “Three hundred it is! Three hundred for the strong, healthy girl. Thank you; thank you for your business, Domina!” The whole transaction took place in a few heartbeats: the slave girl handed over the purse, the denarii were produced,
18 the little man unshackled Esselt, and the slave girl took Faelan’s sister to her side. As the slave dealer and the woman exchanged parting pleasantries, Faelan could hear his heart thudding with ever increasing speed. Esselt was the last of his kin. He could not be parted from her. “Esselt! No, no! Please, take me with her!” he shouted with such urgency and despair that the merchants and their customers ceased all negotiations and stared. The woman, dismayed, tried to move away; Faelan grabbed at the toga of the slave dealer, nearly toppling him, and tried to push past him. The slave dealer, in a panic, threw Faelan to the ground. He stepped hard on Faelan’s leg to keep him from rising. “So very sorry, Domina! ” The slave dealer bowed deeply as he spoke to the woman. “Reassuring, isn’t it, that you bought the right child? The girl will give you no such trouble; I swear by Hercules!” The woman took Esselt by the shoulders and swiftly turned her away from Faelan, who still lay in the dirt. Looking back over her shoulder, her eyes filling with tears, Esselt gave her brother one last small smile. The two of them had always been close; they had played together until Faelan grew too old for games with his baby sister. The slave dealer waved and smiled at the woman until she was out of earshot. Then he turned on Faelan. “You stupid, stupid boy! Now I will have to sell you tomorrow, since everyone here today has seen this spectacle!” he kicked Faelan hard in the ribs. “You will learn to obey and keep silent! And never put your hands on a freeborn person ever again! I should kill you for this. But I’d rather have the money.” He jerked his head up and called to the little man. “Take him away; get him out
19 of my sight! I won’t have people thinking that I sell rebellious slaves.” Clodius did not give Faelan a chance to stand up and dragged him over stones and dirt back into the warehouse. Faelan, his side still throbbing from the kick, could barely breathe. Once back in the warehouse, he did find his breath. It came out in a sob, and then another. Tears flowed down his dirt-stained cheeks; a few, and then a torrent. During the past week he had been the protector of his ten-year-old sister; as such, tears were of no help to him. With her gone, he let them flow freely. He held his head in his hands, the metallic odor of the shackles around his wrists filling his nose and mouth. He imagined the iron smell filling him, changing him, making him into a rigid tool for someone else’s use. Faelan felt a hand on his shoulder. He lifted his head and beheld the countenance of an old woman. Her glittering eyes framed by dirty long hair searched his face. “There, there, my boy,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “I saw all of that. You should not fight the lot the gods have given you.” Faelan jerked away from her. “See what I mean? Listen to me: it is useless to fight. I am an old slave, for sale yet again, and I know what I am talking about.” Faelan wiped his nose on his sleeve and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry for you, old woman. But I refuse to submit. I am no slave!” “Quiet, quiet, my boy. What do you accomplish if you fight?” She shook his shoulder. “No one who wants a house slave will buy an unruly boy! Romans will fear that you might poison
20 their food or kill their baby. At the very least, you might make a nuisance of yourself and try to run away. If you don’t submit to fate, you will end up in the mines.” This mattered little to Faelan. He shrugged. “My family is gone, my tribe killed or enslaved by the Romans. What future do I have? None that I want. Put me in the mines.” He picked up a small stone and threw it against the warehouse wall. “No, no… you don’t understand. In the mines you will become sick. You will live a few years, and every one of them will be filled with pain. If you don’t die on your own, the Romans who oversee you will kill you once you become too weak to work. Far better, my boy, to become a house slave! That life is much easier, even with its troubles and nastiness. Of course, much depends on your master, whether you fare ill or well. So, pray to the gods! Pray for a good master! That is all you can do now.” She sat by him for a while before slowly crawling back to her corner of the warehouse. Faelan watched her through the corner of his eye. She was a pitiful figure—rags and filth and chains. But since his captivity, she was the first person, outside of Esselt, to treat him as a human being. Her words disgusted him: these Roman gods and their fate, which ground men, women, and children like grain under the stone wheel. He didn’t want to become worn out and used up like the old woman, but he did want to survive. He asked himself what his father would want him to do. The bit of him that wanted to survive surged up within him and cried out, “Live! Live, and find a way to make some corner of your life your own. Do not throw away your youth and inheritance.” But what inheritance had he? Chains and dirt, he thought, with great bitterness. Chains and dirt.
205 Author’s Note Heron, also known as Hero, lived in Alexandria in the first century A.D. While we do not know much about his life, we do have copies of his writings on diverse mathematical and scientific subjects, which include a fire engine, singing mechanical birds, automatic doors, and the first steam-powered engine. He also contributed to the science of geometry, and his treatise Metrica describes many of the formulae and methods that are still in use today.
Acknowledgments I would like to thank my husband and family for their support and encouragement as I wrote Faelan’s story, along with my colleagues at St. Helena Montessori who patiently added my courses to their own. Katie Ritcheske gave my work a close read and provided critical suggestions for improvement. Vivian Dudro not only made the story better, but encouraged me to keep writing. Alexandria first came to life for me in “The Great Story of Alexandria” presented by Professor John Wyatt. May he rest in peace. And when I asked Anne Vawter what it was like to sail into the Mediterranean, she described a scene for me that included the dolphins. Gratias omnibus!
© 2024 by Magnificat, New York • Ignatius Press, San Francisco All rights reserved. ISBN Magnificat 978-1-63967-063-5 • ISBN Ignatius Press 978-1-62164-590-0 Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63967-081-9 Printed in November 2023 by Rotolito, Italy Job number MGN24L004 Printed in compliance with the Consumer Protection Safety Act, 2008
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