London by Edward Rutherfurd Read Free Book Online

The current was becoming slower, the water more choppy. The wicker boat began to bounce about, water slopping over its side. The water seemed greener now, darker. The bottom was no longer visible, and when he scooped some water into his mouth, the boy found that it was salty. His father smiled.
    “Tide’s turning,” he remarked.
    To his surprise, Segovax suddenly found that the motion of the little boat was making him feel queasy. He frowned, but his father chuckled.
    “Feeling sick? It gets worse if you go out there.” He waved towards the sea. Segovax looked at the distant, rolling waters doubtfully. “But you’d still like to go?” his father asked, reading his thoughts.
    “I think so. One day.”
    “The river’s safer,” his father remarked. “Men drown out there in the sea. It’s cruel.”
    Young Segovax nodded. He was suddenly feeling very sick. But one day, he secretly vowed, however sick it made him, he would taste that great adventure.
    “Time to go back,” his father said. And then: “There’s a bit of luck. The wind’s changing.”
    It was indeed. With a hidden kindness, the wind had dropped and then shifted to the south-east quarter. The little sail flapped as the fisherman put the boat about and started inching back.
    Young Segovax sighed. It seemed to him that no day in his life could ever be as perfect as this, alone in the wicker boat with his father, in sight of the sea. The water was gradually getting smoother. The afternoon sun was warm. He felt rather sleepy.
    Segovax woke with a start as his father nudged him. They had been progressing very slowly. Though an hour had passed since he had closed his eyes, they were still only just entering the bend of the river, the open estuary behind them. As he woke, however, he gave a little cry of surprise, and his father muttered: “Look at this, now.” He was pointing to an object not half a mile away.
    Upon the river, they saw a large raft slowly making its way from the north shore. Some twenty men with long poles were pushing it across the stream. Behind them, Segovax could see, another raft was setting off. But what was remarkable was not the large rafts, but their cargo. For each carried, strapped to its deck, a single magnificent chariot.
    The Celtic chariot was a fearsome weapon. Pulled by swift horses, it was a light, stable, two-wheeled machine, capable of carrying a fully armed warrior and a couple of helpers. Highly manoeuvrable, these chariots could dash in and out of a mêlée while their occupants darted spears or shot arrows right and left. Sometimes warriors fixed scythe blades to their wheels, which cut to pieces anyone who came close. The chariot on the raft was magnificent. Painted red and black, it gleamed in the sun. Fascinated, Segovax gazed at it while his father turned their boat to accompany this wonder to the southern bank.
    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