At the that moment Durst’s mother—he found it difficult to think of this woman with her jewelry and painted face in that way—spoke: “Gordianus has misbehaved on numerous occasions during your absence. I think it is time for punishment.
“Very well,” Albinus said. He walked across the room and reached into a wicker basket. He returned with a thin cane. He passed Gordianus by. He stood before Durst and said, “Show me your back.”
Durst didn’t know what do.
“Pull up your toga and turn your back to me.” He spun Durst around then pulled his toga up over his shoulders. Durst heard the sound of the cane splitting the air then felt the wood bending on his back. A wave of stinging pain shot through him and he bit his tongue as he stifled. Two more cracking blows and Durst’s knees buckled.
“That’s all. I’ll have Nikolas look at your back before dinner,” Architectus said. He put the cane back in the basket.
The next morning Architectus rose from the breakfast table. He walked across the marble floor then lifted a staff with a curved end off of a hook embedded in the wall next to the door.
“Are you leaving, Albinus?” Faustina asked.
“Yes,” Architectus answered. “I haven’t been home in months. I want to take a walk around the grounds.”
“Very well,” Faustina said. “Please remember to be back for luncheon.”
“I will,” Architectus nodded. He turned to leave.
“May I come along?” Durst asked. He wanted to get out of the house. He didn’t want to be left alone with Faustina and Gordianus. They gave him a strange feeling he couldn’t describe but something inside of him told him it wasn’t right.
“Of course,” Architectus nodded. “Would you like to come along as well, Gordianus.”
The boy shook his head and pulled himself closer to his mother. She put his arm around his shoulder and stroked his curly hair. As Durst and Architectus left Gordianus climbed up on his mother’s lap. Faustina bared her breast and then suckled the boy.
As Durst walked across the floor he noticed Architectus wincing as he lowered his head when he walked out the door.
Architectus and Durst made their way on the stone walkway encircling the villa to the back of the massive house. The villa stood on a hill top. At the bottom of the grass covered gentle slope three buildings stood on the level ground.
“The building on the right is the storage room,” Architectus motioned to a long building with red shuttered windows from end to end. “That’s is where the grounds master keeps all the tools needed to work the land. The produce we send to market is stored in this building.”
“That’s big enough for many families to live in,” Durst said.
“I suppose so.”
“What is the building next to it?”
“That’s where we keep the animals.”
“Animals live there?” Durst asked. “Animals are lucky in Rome,” Durst muttered under his breath.
Architectus pretended not to notice the comment.
Beyond the storehouse and the barn, groves of trees, growing in a grid of intersecting straight lines, stretched to a shimmering lake.
Behind them a door to the barn slid open. A man clad in a rough tunic approached. “Would you care for your horse this morning, Master Architectus?” the man asked.
“Tossian,” Architectus said, “This is Durst, he’ll be staying with us. I want you to treat him as one of the family.”
“It will be done.” Tossian bowed quickly and stepped back.
“Do you ride?” Architectus asked.
“I do now,” Durst answered.
“I will take a mount,” Architectus grinned then said, “the white Arabian for me.” He looked Durst up and down. “A colt for Durst.”
Tossian returned leading two horses: a white stallion and a dark horse. The small dark animal looked like a miniature version of the bigger one. A small head made a muscular neck appear even thicker. A wide forehead sloped to big bulging eyes tapering to a narrow muzzle. Cords of muscle moved under shining coats.
Tossian threw blankets and horned mats on the horses’ backs. He removed leather straps from under the mats and wrapped the straps around the horses bellies.
“In my country the men who ride horses ride bareback,” Durst said as Tossian tightened the strap.
“That is no way to treat an animal,” Architectus shook his head. “The saddle puts the rider above the animals back and distributes the weight of the rider evenly.” Architectus held his hand out straight and tilted it slightly. “This will ease the strain on the animal’s spine.”
“I see,” Durst said. He hoped he hadn’t done or said anything that would call for the cane to be bent across his back. He could still feel the sting of last night’s beating.
“Do you need a stool?” Architectus asked. He looked at the ground and he lurked at Durst.
“No.” Durst reached up and grabbed hold of the horns at the front and back of the saddle. He pulled himself up until his legs dangled and his feet swayed in the air. Using every muscle in his shoulders and chest Durst pulled himself up until he was able to swing one leg over the saddle.
“He mounts that horse like it was a virgin,” Tossian grinned. He bent to one knee and cupped Architectus’ foot as Architectus climbed into the saddle.
“These are the olive trees,” Architectus told Durst as they rode on the path cutting through the middle of the dense grove.
“Olives, what do you do with them?”
“Some are eaten. Some are used to make oil. My family has been in the olive oil business for 50 years.”
Durst held the reins tight and he pressed his legs into the horse’s flanks. One hand gripped the horn of the saddle. He tried to look relaxed but he thought his white knuckles might say something different.
They passed the olive trees. The path led them to fields covered in rich dark soil. Rows of bushy green plants grew in lines marked by posts. Latin names were etched onto wooden tablets that had been nailed to the posts.
Architectus and Durst returned to the barn. Tossian helped them dismount and led the horses away. Architectus and Durst crossed the lawn and continued on the stone walkway. Gordianus stood on the marble courtyard by the main entrance.
Gordianus stared at Durst walking next to his father. He touched the shining material of the toga he wore. He stepped inside then returned holding a cloth. Gordianus wiped the powders and paint off his face.
“How was your ride father?” he asked.
“A good animal and a good friend is all a man can ask for,” Architectus answered.
“When you ride again may I come along?” Gordianus asked.
“You may ...” Architectus trailed off.
Durst wondered if Architectus had to ask Faustina, his wife, if it met with her approval.
“We’d be honored to have you ride along,” Architectus said.
Seventeen
The Trench at Turodon
KERMODE STOOD IN the square. He reached into a pocket and removed the scroll. He ignored the stares from the people milling about as they looked at his stained hands.
Kermode began calling out names from the list. People who’d heard their names stepped forward. “If your name is on this list you are being targeted by the Romans,” he said.
“How do you know this?” one man asked.
“Yes,” others joined in.
“I can’t tell you how I came to possess the list,” Kermode said. He glanced among the faces in the crowd that grew every second.
A woman stepped out of the crowd. “Why should we believe you? Though you look like a Roman and dress as one, you are Kermode, known to the Romans as the Black-handed Druid and there is a price on your head.”
“Truth,” Kermode nodded and looked at the ground. “I am Kermode,” he said when he looked up, “If you know me you know I’ve always spoken the truth.”
“I’ll give you that,” the woman who’d become the spokesman for the group said. “You
brought prosperity to the village and put food in our families’ mouths.”
“Hear me now,” Kermode said. “This may be the last time I show my face here. I am going to live in the deep woods. If anyone wants to join me they are welcome.”
Some of the villagers standing behind the woman in the front whispered in her ear. She asked, “What will happen to us if we follow you and what will happen to us if we choose not to?”
Kermode hesitated then answered, “If you follow me I can promise only one thing: a chance to live your lives without the yoke of Roman oppression on your shoulders.” Kermode let the words sink in. “If you choose to remain you face Roman tyranny and taxes.”
Kermode turned and walked out of the square. He heard murmuring behind then the shuffling of feet. He turned and looked at the crowd following. Kermode smiled and waited for the rest of the villagers to catch up. As they headed up the path the secretary to the Roman magistrate stepped outside of the office. He looked at the small throng of people making their way out of the village. The secretary went back into the office. He glanced at the dripping water clock on the desk then quickly noted the date and time and approximation of how many people were on the path.
From where Kane stood perched on the high limbs of the oak tree he saw a group of people making their way up the hill. He climbed down to the lower branches then lowered himself down a rope ladder. As Kane stepped to the ground he heard the man in the lead say, “Kane, it’s me, Kermode.”
Kane stared at the man for a few moments. “I don’t know why you’re dressed in that manner but I’m sure you have your reasons.”
“Kane, these people have agreed to join us.”
“Very well,” Kane nodded. He looked at the men, women, and children standing behind Kermode.
■ ■ ■ ■
Time passed. Kermode studied the list. A man entered the tent. “You are Cecil?”
“Yes,” the man answered.
“You are a carpenter?”
“By trade, yes.”
“Can you build a roundhouse from the ground to the roof?”
“I’ve overseen many buildings.”
“Could you oversee the building of dwellings here? I want every family that followed me here to have a home.”
Cecil took a breath then scratched behind his ear. “It can be done. There is plenty of timber in the forest and the bottom of the hill has a good stretch of flat ground.”
Kermode put Cecil in charge of a work detail that began by clearing away trees at the bottom of the hill. Where makeshift tents and lean-tos stood circular logs supporting planked platforms sprang up. Wooden walls rose from the floors. Square bottomed windows with rounded tops were cut and shuttered. Conical roofs wound together from dried plants were bonded to sturdy limbs that had been straightened and set in a circle.
While the wood workers labored to build homes farmers tilled the rich soil. Fields of golden wheat covered the base of the hill. Hunters spent long days tracking and killing game large and small. Fisherman speared trout in shallow running streams and threw cast nets in deep ponds and lakes.
It was during the first winter that Kermode decided to name the village and name the people who’d followed him into the woods. The village he named Turodon. He used the name Cassinototae: a combination of two ancient tribes—Cassi and Corionototae—that lived in this region. The tribes had all but died out. Only a few true members remained.
When Kermode spoke in the village square Kane stepped forward and said, “The village has a name. The people have a name.” He looked around and asked, “What don’t we have?” Before he got an answer he said, “Every tribe needs a chieftain. Kermode is the man for this.”
The people remained silent then a few voices said, “Yes, Kermode should be our chief.”
Kane turned to Kermode. “Do you accept this offer?
Kermode thought for a few moments. “If it is what the people want I will do it,” he said.
As a gift to Kermode Cecil and the other villagers built a roundhouse into the base of the tall oak at the top of the hill. The house rose two floors from the elevated platform. Terraced walkways ringed the dwelling. From a distance it was difficult to see where the trunk and limbs and branches of the oak ended and the walls and floors and roof of the house began.
When the spring came and the snows melted and the crops pushed their first sprouts toward the sun, Kermode stood on the terrace and looked down the hillside. A cluster of roundhouses, close at the center, thinned out at the edges. I feel at home, Kermode thought. If only Idellsa was by my side. Kermode felt a wave of sadness tempered with guilt wash over him: he hadn’t thought about his family for months. He felt a warmth coming off the amulet as he wiped a tear away.
One night, before Kermode settled down to sleep he placed a clay jar on a small table next to the mat as he did every night. As Kermode doused the lamp the last thing he saw as the light faded was the clay jar holding Idelssa’s ashes.
As Kermode slept he saw a figure approaching in a dense fog. It seemed like moments and at the same time it seemed like hours for the figure to loom larger.
A breeze cleared the fog. Dew dried on blades of grass in an instant. The figure stepped closer. It was Idellsa. “Idelssa,” Kermode said. It took a long time for the word to come out of his mouth and his voice rumbled and echoed.
Idelssa struggled to answer. Kermode reached out to hold her. His hands followed his fingers as they passed through the fading linens of the white robe she wore. Idellsa was gone in an instant, swept away like the fog.
Kermode woke. He shivered when the cool night air touched the beads of sweat falling down his forehead.
Another dream, he thought. Every night since moving into the tree house Kermode had dreamt of Idellsa. Every dream was the same. When he touched her she faded. For that fraction of a second when Kermode’s fingertips touched Idellsa’s robe he felt her skin pushing against the fabric.
Kermode hated the dream and at the same time he loved it. He hated the fact it was only a dream and Idellsa only existed somewhere in his mind. What he loved—he didn’t know if it could be called a fact—was the momentary feel of her flesh against the linen.
Every morning Kermode stared at the clay jar. If he gazed at the jar long enough without blinking the graceful curves became Idellsa’s hips and the neck became her neck. Kermode shut his eyes tight and the vision faded. When he opened them he saw the jar had moved slightly from the knot in the grain of the wood where he always set the jar. It was at that moment Kermode decided to take action.
■ ■ ■ ■
Kermode reached up and pulled a green leafy plant from the fork of a pair of branches. That evening he diced the leaves then ground them into a fine powder and placed the powder into a stone mortar. Kermode poured a few grains of ashes from the clay jar into the mortar. After adding a few drops of rain water he’d collected in the early morning hours Kermode crushed the mixture into a thick paste. He added dirt then formed the hardening muddy mixture into the figure of a woman. He set the figure on the knot.
The dream came as it always did. This time Idellsa was naked. She wore no funeral gown. Kermode felt the warmth of her skin as he reached and she faded.
Kermode added other plants: Juniper, to purify the mixture, Rowan, to give protection, and Valerian and Yarrow to act as a double-dose love potion.
Kermode adjusted the mixture and from his memory of what Idellsa looked like in the dream he carved lines and features into the figure. The dream ended the same way every morning and every morning Kermode would spread the dirt and ashes and herbs over the ground at the base of the tree house.
The day the jar was emptied a band of Roman soldiers on horseback entered the village. The lead riders parted. A man rode forward. He held a wax tablet high and said in a deep, booming voice: “These lands have been claimed by decree of Emperor Tiberius Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus.”
“What does this mean?” Kermode asked as he stepped forward.
“It means that you’re living on lands owned by the Empire. You have two choices: stay and swear loyalty to the emperor and pay taxes or get off the land.”
“What if we choose to stay on the land and not swear loyalty to Claudius?”
“I forgot to mention the third choice. You can all die.” As the leader turned the horse he said,” I want an answer in two days.”
When the Romans had left Kermode said, “The Roman invasion of our homes has begun.”
“What does this mean?” “What will we do?”
Kermode lowered his hands in a call for silence. When the murmuring died down he said, “The Romans are in Briton. You heard what he said. We have two choices.”
“What is the choice you would take?”
Others joined in.
“I would leave this place and find new land.”
“That is the coward’s way,” a man who’d been silent so far said. He stepped out of the crowd.
“What is the brave man’s way?” Kermode asked.
“Stay and fight to defend our homes.”
“You can’t fight the Romans, Linius.” Kermode recalled the man’s name. “Not on their own terms.”
“There are not many of them.”
“There were not many now, when they return there may be more.”
“It seems as if our chieftain fears the Romans,” Linius said. He spit on the ground.
“If you want to be chief then so be it. I’m not going to lead these people to certain death.” Kermode handed the leader staff to Linius.
■ ■ ■ ■
Kermode and Kane stood on the lower floor of the tree house. They watched the villagers digging a trench that formed a crescent spanning the outskirts of Turodon. Linius stood on the back of a wagon. He handed out staffs that had deer antlers embedded in the shafts to the villagers.
The Romans came back a day early. A soldier wearing a helmet plumed with black horsehair raised his hand. The cavalry parted as the sound of marching feet reverberated up the hillside.
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.
Origin of Druid Page 11
