Keith Ramsbottom (Rebel Leader): Keith Ramsbottom, #1

Table Of Contents

Map Of South East England - 59AD

Chapter I: I Have a Dream

Chapter II: The Governor

Chapter III: Question Time

Chapter IV: Caecillius est in horto

Chapter V: The Casa da Publicum

Chapter VI: Letting the Cat Out of the Bag

Chapter VII: A Surprise Visit

Chapter VIII: Chez Ramsbottom

Chapter IX: A SORE Groupie

Chapter X: Room with a View

Chapter XI: The Omen

Chapter XII: A New Recruit

Chapter XIII: Chez Paulinus

Chapter XIV: Britain's Got Talent

Chapter XV: Let's Get This Party Started

Chapter XVI: The Morning After

Chapter XVII: Praise to the Gods

Chapter XVIII: A Druid Situation

Chapter XIX: Story Time

Chapter XX: A Traitor is Revealed

Epilogue I

Epilogue II

For those of you interested in Roman Britain…

Keith Ramsbottom (Episode II): The Emperor Strikes Back

Other Works by Scott Pixello

About the Author

Chapter I

I Have a Dream

Keith stared deeply into the eyes of his closest friend and said what had been boiling up inside him over the past few weeks. Bloody foreigners, coming over here, straightening our roads, improving our perfectly adequate systems of drainage and local government. Bringing their strange food, weird religion and funny-looking sandals. And then, and then, after all that, expecting us to learn that most evil thing of all: Latin. Well, I say they can take their Mediterranean tans and their perfectly-declined verbs and march right back to Rome. What do you say? Are you with me? Well? Well?

There was no answer. Claudius never replied. He was a mouse after all but some signs of encouragement would have been nice. He just twitched his whiskers (Claudius, that is) and scurried out the door of the hut, provoking a shriek from his mum (Keith’s, that is).

Keith swung his lanky legs out from beneath the bench next to one wall that served as a bed, stood and stretched his 11-year-old body until it reached the low ceiling. In the near pitch dark, he put out an arm blindly for where he’d dropped his clothes the night before and quickly found a shirt and his trousers. His cloak was even easier to locate as his mum always made him hang that up on a hook by the door alongside his felt hat. This was still too big for him but he didn't feel fully dressed until he'd jammed it on his head. Now he was ready for the day.

He stood by the door of the family hut. What have the Romans ever done for us? The question echoed round his head. He’d had that dream again. The one with some guy called Monty, an old guy with a long beard, an exotic-looking snake and some aqua-ducks, whatever they were. He’d woken up and decided to ask Pulchritude about it in the morning. She would know what it all meant.

Unfortunately, by the time morning came, he had a vague feeling that he’d forgotten something but then he often had that. Probably just that home-made cheese him mum had made him eat. He wasn’t sure that there should have been turnip in it.

Keith! Keith! his mother called. I’ve told you before about having that mouse in here. Now, come and eat your breakfast.

What is it?

It’s your favourite. That sounded appealing but his mother said this every day. And every day, what appeared on his plate was not his favourite anything. His mum had fallen completely in love with all things Roman. Unfortunately she was officially the worst cook in the world. Don’t you want to grow up big and strong like your dad?

Keith looked across at his father, still slumped like a dead pig in a corner of their hut, a half-empty bottle of beer, tipped forward in his lap, making him look like he’d just wet himself.

Of course, I do, he answered, without much conviction and shuffled over to a small table and stool by the door and she placed a bowl in front of him. What’s this?

It’s a bowl.

"I mean in the bowl."

Turnip Bolognese. Apparently, it’s all the rage in Rome right now. Don’t make that face. You’re just looking for things to complain about. What? What?

Mum, it’s grey. He pushed the bowl away. Besides, the Romans don’t eat breakfast, you know.

She perked up like a dog hearing a whistle. Don’t they? Oh well, maybe we should give it a miss too.

Ah, yes. What a strategic brain he had. Tell you what, mum. I’ll start by passing on this and I’ll let you know how I feel. It’s a tough one obviously to give up such great food but they usually know best, don’t they? Our Roman masters.

Oh yes.

He couldn’t believe his mum was fooled by this pose of loyalty. Our Roman masters, indeed. Pah, over his dead body. Well, maybe not dead. Unless he ate his mum’s food. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that. Keith liked the idea of being a hero, just not the idea of a heroic death. He hadn’t worked out what sort of life he wanted yet- seemed a bit of a shame to throw it away too soon. And so he skipped breakfast, literally leaping over it and headed away from the hut.

Outside, he stretched again. He was tall for his age and had developed a self-conscious slouch, which infuriated his mum who was forever telling him to ‘Sit up straight’, ‘Put your shoulders back’ and asking ‘Why can’t you be Roman?’ Well, he might have imagined that last one but he definitely was nagged a lot about the way he stood, moved, walked or sat. Well, he definitely wasn’t Roman- they got up early and got lots done by midday. He liked to get up at midday and then do nothing. His biggest concern right now was that his mousy-blond hair was on a mission to humiliate him. It looked like a pile of straw (and smelled like it too sometimes). He’d just got up so he had an alibi but this ‘just got up look’ was what he looked like all the time, even after several hours of mum’s painful combing, which involved scraping his head for several hours with what felt like a rusty nail.

He looked around. Before him lay the settlement of Effluvium, a bedraggled mess of round huts with a roof of thatch or fern that looked more thrown together than built, stretching as far as the eye could see. This actually wasn’t very far but his vision was still a bit blurry and he wiped his eyes. When he could focus a little better, he spotted his neighbor, also emerging and waved at him, across the smelly stream that ran through the huts. Literally through them, especially when there were floods, which had happened several times already this year. Keith had asked his dad why their hut seemed to be built in a swamp but all he got by way of an answer was a knowing tap on the nose. Yes, thought Keith, it stinks too. All of which brought his mind back to Horace, still standing opposite. He was Keith’s oldest human friend, well oldest anyway and like the buildings around him, was more thrown together than built. Horace was a small, runty boy, who looked like a pig. This effect was created by his piggy ears which protruded through curly ginger hair, a pink, fleshy face the colour of bacon and a tendency to snuffle. He was the brains of his family.

Keith picked his way across the stream which had an unpleasant orangey colour and looked like it would kill anything that fell in it. He’d had to dodge so many of his mother’s inedible meals that he was really quite hungry. By the doorway to Horace’s hut, over which the roof was raised, a bit like Keith’s hat with the brim turned up, there was a pot over a low fire. He lifted out a wooden scoop, blew on the liquid and took a quick taste, before spitting it out and pulling a face. Bleugh! What is this? He kept spitting like the time last summer when Horace put a moth in his mouth while he was sleeping. That was a joke. This definitely was not. Tastes like pig-swill.

Horace looked in the pot and then back at Keith with a look of admiration. You’re good. It is pig-swill.

You expect me to eat this?

No, I was on my way to feed the pigs.

And you never thought to tell me?

I am telling you.

The thing is Horace, in life, said Keith, still spitting. Timing is everything. He beckoned Horace away from his own hut. Tell everyone there’s a meeting, he whispered, still trying to get the taste out of his mouth.

What? said Horace.

Keith repeated the sentence, a little bit louder.

What? said Horace again.

There’s a meeting, said Keith, tight-lipped in anger.

Keep your voice down, warned Horace. This is supposed to be a secret. When is it?

This was a constant problem for Keith. Every time he arranged a meeting, he ended up waiting for hours. The impossibility of precisely measuring time had never bothered him before. The basic divisions of day and night and days of the week and seasons- these all seemed to work fine but as soon as he tried to make any plans, he ran into problems.

How about sunrise tomorrow, he suggested.

Can’t you be any more precise?

Not unless you invent a time machine to take us hundreds of years into the future when such measuring devices will probably be commonplace. Anyway, what’s wrong with sunrise?

Oh, you know, I don’t like getting up.

Well, be on time. Last time I was waiting hours for you lot to turn up. It’s almost like time keeps changing or something. Anyway, spread the word.

Horace nodded and obediently dashed off like a well-trained dog. The problem was that Keith had more faith in a dog to deliver the message correctly. Keith was used to his parents hating his choice of friends- that was normal but the weird thing was his mum really liked Horace, although he secretly thought it was probably just envy over the name.

The tree-house was put together from bits of wood collected in the summer and with the branches of a giant oak, acting like a giant hand, it was safe. It may have looked more like a nest but then as Pulchritude noted, nests usually survived strong winds. It had done so far anyway. To reach the tree-house, there was a rope ladder, which was let down when the correct password was called out and an emergency rope in case the ladder broke (which it had done twice already under Horace’s weight).

Keith and Horace were sitting in the tree-house, passing the time by flicking insects at each other and seeing who could make the other laugh first by pulling various deranged expressions. Horace always won that but as Keith was fond of reminding him, he had a bit of an advantage to start with, possessing such a weird-looking face.

Hey, Horace, have you noticed anything…odd about Pulchritude?

Hmm. Well, there’s probably quite a lot. I mean, for a girl, she has an opinion on just about everything, she can read, which is just weird and this idea that all girls should go to school, I mean I know we’re supposed to be rebels but we don’t want the people to laugh at us. Then there’s her ability to climb, her accuracy with a bow and arrow and-

-I meant her hair.

Horace paused. Her hair?

Yeah. Pulchritude had long, straight hair, flowing all the way down to her waist, like…a waterfall of hair. It was a weird idea but that was what it made him think of. It was like it weighed her head over to one side. And that was another thing he wasn’t sure about- she made him feel differently, even think differently. Horace was still staring at him. Yeah, er, her hair. I mean, the way she constantly runs her hands through it or puts it behind one ear.

That’d have to be a pretty big ear.

Not both sides of her hair, you idiot.

Tell her to cut it off.

Her ear?

No, her hair. You know- a show of authority. Show her who’s boss.

Do you think I should? asked Keith nervously.

Go on. Girls love all that. It’s a well-known fact.

What is?

Women. Completely different species to men.

Well, they do look different.

Ah, that’s only half the story.

What’s the other half? Keith asked, intrigued.

Well, Horace said drawing closer, so that Keith copied the gesture without realizing it. They’re different on the inside too.

Keith shook his head in despair. Sometimes I don’t know why I bother talking to you.

This cheered Horace up immensely. Only sometimes?

What are you two old women muttering about? asked Pulchritude, as she climbed in the window like an agile squirrel.

Er, nothing, replied Keith guiltily.

Like the British women, Pulchritude wore a simple woollen tunic, belted at the waist but it seemed to somehow suit her better than the other girls around the settlement. His mum wore a longer robe or stola, which reached down to her feet, all day, every day, whether in the depths of winter or the heights of summer. Indeed, Keith wasn’t sure if his mother was actually made of wool. If she felt the need, she even wore a shawl or palla, again made from the same material. She even looked like a Ramsbottom, he found himself thinking.

Pulchritude took up her place in the corner. She was by far the best climber among them but as a girl of course, she wasn’t exactly equal to them. Keith knew it was unfair but he didn’t make the rules. He just knew what they were. That’s what his dad said anyway, when he came home drunk and his mother dared to complain.

Can we make a start? asked Keith rather seriously and absurdly, bearing in mind the size of the place and the small number of people present. Thank you for all those attending here today. He looked round the room. Unfortunately only one pair of eyes looked back. Even more unfortunately, those eyes belonged to Horace. We should do a roll-call, thought Keith aloud.

Horace’s ears perked up like a dog. "Oh good. I