Origin of Druid (Druid's Path Book 1)

by Mark Philipson

“I’ll make you a deal, Roman.” Sativola stood up from the bench. He was a full head taller than Durst.

  Durst nodded and waited for a reply.

  “I’ll tell you what I know if you tell me how I will die.”

  “Fair enough,” Durst sighed. “You and two other men will be armed with spears and matched against an experienced gladiator armed with short sword and light armor.”

  Sativola looked Durst in the eye then asked, “You don’t think three men can defeat one man?”

  “This man is a trained killer. You’ll be lucky if you draw blood.”

  “We shall see.” Sativola looked away and nodded.

  “I kept my end of the bargain, it’s time for you to hold up your end.”

  “Very well,” Sativola began. “Kermode’s wife Idellsa was found with her throat cut from ear to ear. They had a five year old son. I don’t recall his name. The boy was nowhere to be found. Some said he was dead and some said he was kidnapped.”

  “What of Kermode? Is he still alive?”

  “Very much. The Romans have set a price on his head and the last I heard he was in command of a wild mountain tribe.”

  “Why is there a price on Kermode’s head?”

  “He has murdered Romans and stolen gold. It is rumored that he is part of a rebellion that is being planned.”

  “How do you know this? How can I be sure what you say is true?”

  “Well, maybe you can’t …” Sativola shrugged. “Know this: the reason I’m here is part of Roman justice. Ten innocent people die for every crime that is attributed to the black-handed Druid. And I was unlucky enough to be chosen.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  The gladiator, clad in a broad-brimmed helmet and light body armor, stepped out of the waiting area and onto the sand.

  The crowd cheered when the herald called out: “The next match pits Gholam, the mad dog of Persia, against three spear fighters!”

  A gate on the opposing side of the arena lifted. Sativola and two other men stepped out of the shadows and into the bright sunlight.

  Gholam crouched low and stepped forward. The liberiads took bets on which spear-fighter would be the first to die and at how many moves into the match would they meet their death.

  The spear-fighters fanned out, holding their weapons straight ahead then formed a rough circle. Gholam dodged a spear thrust and deflected another with his armored sword arm. The third thrust grazed an unprotected area below the Persian’s armpit.

  Gholam pulled his helmet off. He hurled it at one of the spear-fighters. The edge of the brim embedded itself in the man’s head. The spear-fighter fell to the sandy floor of the arena with blood pouring out of a widening gash.

  Gholam moved toward the next spear-fighter. When the spear-fighter lunged Gholam splintered his spear with the short sword. Gholam reached down and picked up the broken spear tip with his free hand then buried the point in his opponent’s throat. While this took place Sativola charged forward. Just as Gholam pulled the spear free Sativola drove the tip of his spear into exposed flesh above Gholam’s breastplate. At the same time Gholam swung the short sword high. Sativola’s head rolled off as he fell to the floor.

  Falling to his knees, Gholam held the shaft of the spear then slumped forward until his face was in the sand.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Durst stood on the stone walkway at Architectus’ villa. He walked up to the door and entered. “We’ve been expecting you,” Architectus said when he saw Durst. “This is an important day in your life. Today you will make your decision as to which path you will take as a man.”

  “I think I’ve made my choice,” Durst said. He looked at the marble floor.

  “Excellent,” Architectus smiled and rubbed his palms together. “I’ve arranged for you be in the Fourth Legio Gemini, my old outfit.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be joining the legion,” Durst muttered.

  “And why not?” Architectus, eyes narrowed, demanded.

  “By Roman law I can choose on my eighteenth birthday to return to the the country of my birth as a free man.”

  “That is the law,” Architectus said. He walked over to his work table. He looked through some documents then turned to Durst. “What can I say to make you stay?”

  “My mind is made up.”

  “When will you be leaving.”

  “Tomorrow. I want to be as far from the arena as possible.”

  “Will you be staying here tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Very well,” Architectus said. “I’d better get back to work.”

  “Oh, what are you working on?” Durst asked.

  “Plans for a new arena. The biggest one ever built. Capable of holding fifty-thousand spectators.”

  Durst struggled to fathom the amount of material and labor that would go into a building of this kind. He tried to imagine what a crowd of 50,000 wild spectators looked like and he came up with a sea of nameless faces all screaming for blood.

  Architectus said to Durst as they stood at the front door, “I wish you the best of luck in your new life.”

  “Thank you,” Durst replied. He added, “Father,” then hugged Architectus before turning away.

  On the road as he walked Durst turned one last time. In the distance he saw Architectus waving. Durst raised his hand high in a final salute.

  Twenty-three

  The Shores of Briton

  DURST SAT IN the carriage staring at a map. He retraced the overland route to the port and then filled in the sea route taken by the Iona. When the coachmen stopped at the Dacicus Durst stepped out of the carriage.

  “Architectus has ordered me to wait,” the coachman said.

  “Very well,” Durst nodded. “I won’t be too long.”

  Durst walked inside the Dacicus. He made his way straight to Confectarious’ office on the top floor. “I’m here to see Confectarious,” he told the secretary at the reception desk.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The secretary looked at Durst through narrowed eyes.

  “No appointment.”

  “Your name?”

  “Durst Norvano, I’m number four group leader.”

  The secretary scanned a document. His eyes came to rest then he looked up. “Confectarious is not busy at the moment. He will see you.”

  Durst walked toward the door.

  “Wait …” the secretary stood and beat Durst to the door. “I’ll announce you.”

  “Of course,” Durst said, stepping away from the door.

  Durst activated a ten minute water clock on the reception desk. After two more turns the door opened. “You may come in,” the secretary said as he returned to his desk.

  Durst took a seat across from Confectarious. An awkward silence followed until Durst broke it by saying, “I’m going to get to the point. I’m leaving the school.”

  “And when will you be doing this?”

  “Immediately.”

  “According to the ledger you are a free agent and your contract can be broken at anytime.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” Durst sighed and stood up from the chair.

  “Before you collect your final salary can I ask you two questions?” Confectarious leaned in.

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you leaving the school and what can I offer you to change your mind?”

  “I’m leaving because the games have become a slaughterhouse. Gladiatorial combat has gone from an art and science to butchery. And I’m sick of watching men pay the butcher’s bill with their lives.”

  “I agree with you on that point. Only a giant’s nostrils would be safe from the stench of death on game day.” Confectarious shook his head, “It will only get worse. A new arena has been proposed and from what I hear it is going to be built on a massive scale. It is rumored—and this is from a reliable source—the arena will have the ability to be flooded to allow for naval battles.”

  “Hmm,” Durst said. That was probably the reason for the large diamet
er piping system feeding into the lower chambers of the drawing on Architectus’ table … Durst trailed off in thought and muttered, “Coliseum.”

  “What ever you want to call it I hear the building will be a true testament to Roman engineering.”

  “Indeed,” Durst agreed and said no more.

  “As to the other thing. Your one of my top producers. I don’t want to lose you. How much will it take to keep you on.”

  “My mind is made up. I’m done.”

  “Where will you go from here?”

  “Back to my home in Britannia.”

  “How are you planning to get there?”

  “I will book passage on a ship.”

  “Why don’t you save your coin and take advantage of this opportunity I’m presenting you. A legion is being dispatched to Britannia. They will be marching across the Rhine valley to the eastern coast of Gaul. They could use another junior surgeon with experience.”

  Durst thought for a few moments. “I’ll take it,” he said.

  “Very well,” Confectarious said. “You can pick up a copy of the contract from my secretary on the way out.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  The leader of the Iceni tribesman looked at the gold coins, “Morvyn will be pleased,” he said. He turned to Bradon. “How did you pull this off?” he asked.

  “Ugh …” Bradon said, ablank look in his eyes.

  “I thought so,” the Iceni tribesman laughed. “The only way you could produce this much specie is if you shit it out of your ass.”

  Bradon’s face reddened and he bit the inside of his mouth as he stepped back. “I give you the Black Handed Druid.”

  “This is your doing?” the Iceni leader asked as he measured Kermode up with his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “You’d better get your pack,” the leader grinned.

  “And why is that?”

  “King Morvyn will surely want to meet the Dark Druid with the black hands face to face.”

  In the morning the Iceni tribesman and Kermode stuffed the gold into sacks. They tied the draw strings tight then tied the sacks into the rigging of their packs.

  The party made their way out of the camp. They kept to the deep woods and followed trails hidden by fallen leaves and signs crudely carved in trees.

  It was dark when they reached a massive camp in the lowlands a day and a half later. The party passed through clusters of roundhouses. Groups of warriors huddled around blazing campfires. A continuous stream of people walked the pathways under flickering torches mounted on posts.

  As was the custom in the tribes of Briton, the head man owned the biggest roundhouse in the village. King Morvyn’s house was made of stone and stood four stories high. Guards patrolled the balconies.

  Inside a feast was being held. Kegs of beer had been tapped and servant girls filled flagons and carried them to warriors sitting at a curved table facing a dark haired man sitting on a chair covered in ornate Runic carvings.

  The leader of the party approached the man. He leaned over and whispered in his ear and glanced in Kermode’s direction. The man looked at Kermode and beckoned him to come forward.

  The man led Kermode and the party into a room behind the meeting chamber. “Do you know my name?” he asked as soon as Kermode set his pack on the floor.

  “If I said King Morvyn would I be wrong?” Kermode answered by asking a question.

  “Hmm …” Morvyn grinned. “If I said you were Kermode would I be wrong?”

  “That is my name.”

  Morvyn looked at the shimmering gold coins laid out on the table. A scribe counted each coin and recorded the amounts on a scroll then placed the coins in rectangular boxes.

  When the counting was finished Morvyn handed Kermode two scrolls. “Do you read the Roman tongue?” he asked.

  “I do.”

  “Read this.”

  Kermode unrolled one of the scrolls. The Romans had increased the price on his head to 20 pieces of gold.

  Kermode rolled the scroll and tucked it under his arm.

  “Read the other one,” Morvyn said.

  Kermode unrolled the other scroll. Names filled the sheet. “What is this?” Kermode asked.

  “This is a list of people aligned with the Romans. You could say they are our enemies.”

  “Why are you showing me this?”

  “You cut right to the bone, druid. I admire that. I’ll level with you. I want you to work for me.”

  “What do you want done?” Kermode asked. A sickening feeling in his gut seemed to tell him what the answer would be.

  “Simple …” Morvyn shrugged. “Bring me their heads and I won’t hand you over to the Romans for the coin.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Durst climbed aboard the medical supply wagon. From his position on the tier above the driver Durst looked at a column of thousands of soldiers marching on a stone road stretching over the green hills. Tall cypress trees lined the road. The peaks of a snow capped mountain range glinted in the morning sunlight. Farmlands crept up the slopes of the valley.

  After three days of marching, manicured farms and rocky mountains gave way to rolling hills covered in dense forests. The road followed rivers cutting through a valley flanked by high mountains.

  “This is the southern trans-alpine corridor. The first leg of the journey,” the driver said. “From here we’ll pick up the Rhone River corridor and follow that to the Rhine and the six corridors.”

  Durst turned and looked at the map tacked to the wall of the covered wagon. The parallel corridors of the Rhine River crept up into Germania in the north and covered most of Gaul and poked through a pass in the Pyrenees mountains into the coast of Hispania.

  Durst knew the route well. He never tired of studying maps and he traced with his eyes the path the legion would take north along the Rhone then veer east sharply through the Rhine valley to end up where the coast of Briton lay closest to Gaul.

  Every night, when the column stopped to make camp, detachments of soldiers stripped off their armor. Under the protection of armed soldiers the men carried tools into the forest. Every night trees were felled. Planks and timber were cut from the rough logs and used to build a fortified fence-work around the encampment.

  The days continued until the legion reached a bridge crossing a narrow tributary of the Rhone. Hundreds of tribesman came out of the woods to catch a glimpse of the army. By late afternoon the legion was on the northern side of the bridge and the crowds melted back into the dark forests.

  Durst was helping to erect the tent when a centurion approached, “Are you Durst Novano,” the soldier asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Come with me. And bring your bag.”

  Durst picked up his tool pouch and followed the centurion to the perimeter of the camp where the soldiers were in the process of building the stockade fence. “This man needs help,” the centurion said as they approached a small group of soldiers. One man sat on a log. Blood poured from between the man’s fingers as one fist clenched another.

  “May I see that?” Durst asked. He gently pried apart bloody fingers. The man’s thumb had been cut off at the base. Durst opened the pouch. He removed an amber glass jar then poured a few drops onto a sponge. “Breathe deeply,” he told the injured soldier as he placed the sponge over the man’s nose. After a few shallow breaths the man held the sponge and inhaled deeply until dropping it. Durst caught the sponge before it hit the ground. “Centurion, I need your help.” Durst set the doped sponge on a cloth laid out next to the pouch. “Use this to soak up the blood and keep the wound clear as I work.”

  The centurion patted the wound and soaked up the blood. Durst held the injured hand up, turning it to different angles. He removed a file from his pouch then filed off ragged edges of splintered bone. When he finished smoothing the bone Durst threw the file onto the clean cloth next to the sponge. With a pair of tweezers Durst took from the pouch he picked small pieces of bone out of the wound. He then threaded a curved n
eedle and pushed the tip through and pulled the thread behind through folded flaps of skin. The injured man was just beginning to come around as Durst tied the last stitch.

  The legion marched on, then one day turned to face the rising sun and the direct road leading to the coast. One month to the day of leaving Rome Durst stood looking out at what the Roman maps called the Oceanus Britannica.

  Two days later and the legion boarded hundreds of ships that had run up on the beach.

  The fleet sailed east on the early morning tide and by late afternoon the dark line on the horizon seemed to grow into the terrain of southern Briton.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Kermode took the scroll from Morvyn. He studied the names on the list. In the morning Kermode met with King Morvyn’s personal armorer. He asked the armorer if he had a curved short sword. “I do,” the armorer answered. “Some old timers still prefer the Crescent Moon.” The scythe-like blade formed a half-circle.

  Kermode picked it up and felt the weight in his hands.

  “Good balance, for something shaped like that,” the armorer nodded. “These swords are best for close-in work when you can feel your opponents breath on your face and see the veins in his eyes.”

  “I’ll take it,” Kermode said.

  “Three pieces of silver.”

  Kermode set three coins on the table. The armorer threw in a leather sheath that hung from straps that were worn over the shoulders. Kermode stepped outside then walked around the back of the shop. He pulled his robes apart and slung the straps over his shoulders. He closed his robe then walked out of Vardon.

  Under the cover of darkness Kermode stood behind a hedge. He pushed the hedges aside and looked and at the villa. Kermode walked around to the rear of. As he expected, one of the slaves had left the back door unlocked. Kermode pushed the door open slightly. A man sat at a desk, pouring wine into a silver goblet. The man shook the amphora, stood up, and walked unsteadily to a cabinet. Kermode pulled the door shut. He listened as sandals shuffled across a marble floor. When the noise stopped Kermode cracked the door again. The man sat at the table with his back turned. He poured more wine.

  Kermode opened the door and walked one stepped forward and reached into his robes and drew the sword. The sound of the blade leaving the sheath startled the man. He turned then stood, knocking over the chair. He said, “Kermode.”