Origin of Druid (Druid's Path Book 1)

by Mark Philipson

  The squadron halted. A soldier on the front line barked out some orders. Every man on the line hurled a long-tipped spear. The spears arced then fell among the men huddled behind the trench. Another shower of spears followed seconds later. Iron shafts impaled villagers. Some were nailed to the ground. Others staggered then fell. The men at the front broke ranks and fled. Women screamed as the men pushed them out of the way.

  The Romans parted. Soldiers hauled a wooden platform up to the trench. Linius knocked an arrow. From where he stood on the back of the cart he put an arrow through one of the soldier’s chest. The man stumbled and fell. Another soldier ran forward. He sidestepped the next two arrows Linius sent his way. As soon as the platform spanned the trench the infantry moved forward then funneled across the trench.

  Kermode and Kane watched as the Romans butchered every man, woman, and child in Turodon.

  Kermode and Kane made their way up the hillside. Fro`m the hill they turned and saw the villager’s homes going up in flames. Black smoke curled and rose into the air.

  Eighteen

  First Assignment

  FROM HIS ROOM Durst heard the sounds of clanking dishes. He peeked out the door and saw a light coming from the kitchen. He stepped out of his bedroom and walked across the floor. He felt warmth radiating from beneath the marble.

  Architectus saw Durst walking toward the kitchen. “The heat you’re feeling comes from heated water passing through copper pipes set under the floor.”

  Durst fell silent. He tried to imagine how the pipes got there and how the water was heated and what caused the water to flow.

  “Are you hungry, Durst?” Architectus asked. He heard Durst’s stomach growl.

  “Truth,” Durst replied. His mouth watered. On the table servants set a platter of meat and fish encircled by a ring of fresh baked bread. Bowls of fresh fruit and bowls of steaming vegetables lay on the outer edges.

  Durst ate two heaping platefuls of honey sweetened meat coated with pepper. In the short time he’d been with the Romans he’d seen more foods than in all the years he could remember in Briton.

  That morning Gordianus woke and came into the kitchen. “Are you feeling well, Gordianus?” Architectus asked when he saw the boy. “You don’t rise this early.”

  “I’m fine, father. I wanted to be with you and Durst.”

  “Join us.” Architectus pulled a chair up to the table. “We’ll be riding this morning,” Architectus turned to Gordianus. “Would you care to join us?”

  “I would like that, father,” Gordianus grinned.

  After breakfast, Architectus, Gordianus, and Durst waited while the horses were saddled. They climbed on and headed down the path cutting through the olive tree groves.

  “We are harvesting this grove today.” Architectus glanced at a group of workers carrying ladders into the groves. Architectus dismounted. He helped Gordianus and Durst out of the saddles. A worker climbed the ladder then reached up and plucked olives from the branches. Workers below caught any falling olives before they hit the ground. “These olives are used in the making of oil.”

  Architectus joined the work crews. Gordianus and Durst followed as Architectus carried full sacks to waiting wagons and wrote an inventory on a wax tablet.

  When the first wagon was loaded they climbed back in the saddle and escorted the wagon back to the house. Durst and Gordianus helped Architectus carry sacks of olives to the mill. The grounds master emptied the olives onto a flat stone. He sorted through the pile and discarded any bruised olives. The grounds master ground the olives into a paste with another flat stone hanging from line and pulleys attached to a rail.

  “As you can see, the olives are ground first. The next step is to separate the sediments from the pure liquid. This process takes some time and the density of the liquid has to be the correct ratio.”

  As usual, like in the case of the warm floor under his feet, Durst had no idea what Architectus meant. What he did know was that he wanted to know these things and more.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Years passed. One winter morning Durst and Gordianus entered the courtyard. Striped awnings covered the open ceiling. The valves feeding hot water under the walkways and patio had been opened.

  “These are my sons,” Architectus said to Gordianus and Durst. Architectus turned to the man reclining on the opposite couch. “This is Volesius Sestius Pordoco. He will become an important part of your life from now on. He will be your tutor for your grammaticus.”

  Pordoco set a scroll on a small table. He handed each boy a stylus. “Write your names.” he said.

  Gordianus stepped forward and wrote his given name and clan name on the scroll. “So you wish to be called Aguila as your cognomen?”

  “Yes,” Gordianus stood tall and threw his chest out.

  “That’s a grand desire,” Pordoco nodded. “You will have to do great things do inspire your peers to call you the eagle and mean it with respect.”

  “I’ll do that,” Gordianus said. He stepped back.

  Durst stepped forward. He concentrated on the blank space beneath Gordianus’ name. He recalled lessons he’d learned from Nikolas. He sounded out his name in his head. He saw in his mind’s eye the scroll holding Roman letters. He spelled out his name: Durst Norvano. He didn’t add a third name.

  “I see you have no cognomen,” Pordoco commented when he turned the scroll to face him.

  “I couldn’t think of a name and match the letters,” Durst shrugged.

  “If you had a cognomen what would it be?” Pordoco asked.

  Durst thought for a few moments. “Felix,” he answered.

  “What do you have to feel lucky about?” Pordoco asked.

  “I’m not dead.”

  “Very well,” Pordoco nodded. “We begin the next part of your education in seven days.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Durst, now a young man of sixteen, stood when Pordoco called his name. The grammaticus had just finished reading a poem in Greek. He showed strong emotions during the reading. His voice rose with joy and it cracked with sadness as he recited.

  “I’ve given you my lecticio on the poem now you give me your partitio.”

  Durst thought. He thought about the words Volesuis Sestius had said and the feelings they stirred inside. “A young man stands at a crossroads,” Durst said. “The young man is fearful. He can’t decide which path to take. He decides to take a path to the right. As it turns out this path is the young man’s life. The poem follows the man as he grows older. Through the joy found in marrying a woman he loves and the joy his family brings to him. The path is filled with sadness. His wife dies, children die, friends die. At the end of the path the old man looks back and wonders if the path he chose was the best one. Would his life had been better if he chose the other path?” Durst cleared his throat then continued: “In the end, when the young man has reached the end of his life he dies happy knowing his choice was the right one because it was the choice made.”

  “Very good,” Pordoco nodded. “A very good analysis.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  “Pordoco tells my me boys—” Architectus cut himself off then continued, “I should say, my two grown sons, have reached the end of their schooling. I want to discuss your pathways.” Architectus motioned Durst and Gordianus to sit. He went on, “I have spoken to Pordoco and he has told me that Gordianus would benefit from further education.” He looked squarely at Gordianus. “I’m extending my contract with Volesius Sestius Pordoco. You will compete your tutelage under his guidance. It is my hope that you become a lawyer and eventually enter into politics.”

  “Very well, fath—”

  “From now on, Gordianus, you may address me as Albinus,” Architectus stopped Gordianus before he get get the word out.

  “Very well … Albinus.” Gordianus drew the name out. “Will Durst be attending rhetor as well?” he asked.

  “No, one of the provisions of the Pactia Actum, the law allowing a Roman family to raise chil
dren from countries it has diplomatic relations with, prohibits any child falling under the act from attending the rhetor.”

  Well, that is that, Durst thought. Architectus would never even think to go against Roman law. I suppose I won’t be furthering my education.

  Durst didn’t have to wonder about his future for much longer. “Durst, I’ve arranged for you to serve an apprenticeship and after two years a five year enlistment in the army as a surgeon. When you return you’ll have no trouble starting your own practice.”

  “When do I begin this … apprenticeship?” Durst asked.

  “You’ll be working at the Dacicus, the school for the Thracian long knife-fighters, owned by an old friend of the family, Fulvius Ovino Confectarius.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Durst stood on the street and looked at the building. He glanced at the piece of paper he held. The numbers engraved into the marble plaque hanging over the door matched the numbers on the paper.

  “My name is Durst Norvano,” Durst told a secretary sitting behind the reception desk in the lobby.

  “And what is your business?” the man asked. He didn’t look up.

  “I’ve been sent by Albinus Norvano to begin serving my apprenticeship?” Durst answered.

  The man looked up and set the stylus down. “May I see that,” he said, glancing down to the document Durst held in his hand.

  The secretary read the document once then read it again. “It all seems in order,” he said as he quickly matched the seal of the house of Norvano with the seal he had on record.

  “Take the stairs to the third floor. Follow the hallway to the right. Three doors down is the master surgeon’s office.”

  “That would be Gnaeus Terentio Celer,” Durst said.

  “Yes,” the secretary nodded. “He will give you your assignment.”

  Durst climbed the wide staircase to the third floor. He made a right turn and walked down the hallway. He knocked on the door. “I am Durst Norvano,” he said to the man standing in the doorway.

  “Gnaeus Terentio Celer.” Celer had slender hands but a grip like iron. Durst had to wiggle his fingers to get the blood flowing back into them. “Are you familiar with gladiatorial combat?” Celer asked. He guided Durst into the office.

  “I know of it,” Durst answered.

  “More to the point: have you ever been to the arena and seen the blood on the sand?”

  “My answer still stands.”

  Celer sat behind his desk and Durst sat in a chair across from the desk.

  Durst remained silent while Celer read a document. Durst looked around the office. Two full size skeletons hung on copper wires like puppets from the underworld. Drawings and diagrams of human figures covered the walls. Some showed the top layer of flesh. Some showed the underlying muscle tissue. Some showed the veins. Some showed a network of thin wiry branches spreading through the entire body.

  “You’re looking at the nervous system,” Celer said when he glanced up at Durst.

  “And this man you drew had these in his body?”

  “Not just him,” Celer nodded and grinned. “Every man has them. You have them. I have them.”

  “Very well,” Durst agreed. He just couldn’t see how so much could be jammed into so little.

  Celer stood up from the desk. “Come,” he said. “Walk with me.”

  Celer led Durst into the hallway. They walked to the third floor landing. Celer opened a door. Sunlight flooded in. They stepped onto a platform over looking a circular field of sand. Men, each one rippling with muscles and clad only in tight-fitting loincloths, practiced on the field. “The men you see on the machines are working on timing and balance,” Celer said. He pointed to a group of men standing before some type of turntable. Wooden paddles spun at the base and moved to the center then back to the base. Paddles moved from the top to the center and back. The men jumped and ducked to avoid being struck.

  Beyond the turntables men standing in circles paired off. One man studied a wax tablet, He pointed to each pair and shouted out a number. The men, short swords in one hand and small shields in another, lunged at each other. They moved slowly at first then closed in, thrusting and stabbing as they maneuvered. A series of near misses ended with one of the gladiators striking the opposing gladiator.

  “Keep your eyes and ears open and you will learn much. This is where you learn how to draw blood without killing. This is where you’ll learn how to put on a dance of death so exciting that when the arena is empty there won’t be a dry seat in the stadium.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” Durst nodded. “These men are highly trained. Each fight is drawn out before it takes place, We know what the outcome will be. How much skin will be sliced and how much blood will flow.”

  “I think you have it,” Celer said. “The next games will be in seven days. I’m assigning you to group four.”

  Nineteen

  Weapons and Information

  KERMODE SET HIS hand on Kane’s shoulder. He shook him. Kane woke with a start and reached for his knife. “Calm down,” Kermode whispered. “It’s me.”

  Kane blinked. He relaxed. Kermode stood up and Kane got to his feet. The first rays of sunlight broke over the tree covered mountain looming over their camp site.

  Kermode stomped out the fire and kicked dirt over the glowing embers.

  “Where are you going?” Kane asked.

  Kermode turned, “I’m going back to Turodon,” he answered.

  “Why? You’ll only find death there.”

  “There is something I must do.”

  “Isn’t there always.” Kane shook his head and followed Kermode back down the mountain.

  When Kermode and Kane reached the village a cloud of smoke still hung in the air. The stench of rotting flesh grew stronger as they drew closer.

  “Are you going to tell me why we’ve come back now, Kermode?”

  “Simple, I want to close up the tree house.”

  “That’s it?” Kane asked. “Let’s get to it.”

  Kermode and Kane got to work. They went to the burnt-out lumber mill. They found some planks that had not fallen to the torch. Over the windows Kermode and Kane nailed the planks. When the tree house was closed up tight and Kane was about to set the last plank over the front door Kermode said, “Wait … one more thing.”

  “Very well,” Kane nodded. He looked at the late afternoon sun. “Make it quick. I don’t want to be in the ghost village after dark.”

  “I won’t be long,” Kermode reassured Kane then walked inside. He walked across the floor and stuck his finger in a knot on a floorboard. Kermode lifted. Three sections of wooden flooring came up. Kermode followed a tunnel by touching the rock wall with one hand and holding the other hand in front. The outstretched hand hit rock. This is it, he thought. Kermode reached up. His fingers touched a ledge. From around his neck Kermode took off the chain. He set the amulet and chain on the ledge.

  “We can finish now?” Kane asked when he saw Kermode come out of the tree house.

  “We can finish.” Kermode helped Kane set the plank against the door. They drove nails into the edge of the plank.

  “Will that keep anybody out?”

  “No Kane, if someone wants to get in they’ll find a way. Perhaps the planks will help to fool the eye.”

  “Perhaps,” Kane agreed. “It was hard enough to to tell there was a house in that tree.”

  Kermode and Kane continued back up the mountainside. Trees grew thicker and taller on the steepening ground. All the while Kermode swore over and over in his mind: In some way I will exact revenge upon the Romans. It was easy to blame the Romans for the deaths of the villagers. He knew it was going to happen and he was witness to the carnage. What happened to Idellsa and Durst was not so clear cut. In the state he was in—weak from hunger and parched from thirst—Kermode found it easy to fix blame for the murder of his wife and the abduction of his son on the Romans. They stood for everything that was evil. Like a long dead eagle b
rought back to life swooping down to drain the blood from innocent people. These thoughts that kept passing through Kermode's mind fanned a flame inside that kept him going up that mountain.

  “I don’t know how much longer I can go on,” Kane said. He sat down on a fallen log.

  “Drink some water,” Kermode suggested.

  “My bag is empty.” Kane shook his head.

  “I thought we agreed on one sip every hour for the remainder of the day and one sip every two hours tomorrow.”

  “I can’t hold to that,” Kane shrugged. “What if there is no tomorrow for us.”

  “Truth,” Kermode said. “Have a sip of my water.”

  At that moment Kermode noticed Kane looking at something beyond where Kermode stood. Kermode turned in time to see three men come out from behind the trees. These men wore long hair and beards that were braided into tight strands. The animal skins they wore were died in green and brown blotches. The men’s skin was dyed and painted in the same manner.

  One of the men stepped forward. He pointed a staff with a sharpened stag horn embedded into the end. The man lifted his hand off the bone dagger strapped to a leather belt and with his free hand he made the motion of biting into a coin. The language the men spoke had sounded strange to his ears but Kermode understood the word the man repeated: “Specie, specie, specie.”

  “No specie,” Kermode said.

  The man stepped back. The second this happened the other two men stepped forward drawing their stag horn daggers at the same time. Kermode drove his spear into the throat of one man. He drew his sword as the other man made a lunge with his knife. Kermode swung the blade downward. The hand flew off the wrist. For a few moments the man stared at the blood pumping out of the stump of his arm. The wild look went out if his eyes and he reached over to pull the spear out of the other man’s throat. As the man turned to the side to get a better position Kermode closed in and holding the sword low he drove the tip up into the man’s ribs and kept pushing. Blood burt out if the man’s mouth. Kermode removed the sword before he fell to the ground.

  The other, the one who spoke, stood still. He said “Don’t kill me,” over and over again in words Kermode could understand.