Origin of Druid

by Mark Philipson

  “You speak Iceni?” Kermode asked. He still held the bloody sword in one hand. He picked up the spear.

  “I do and I am,” the man answered. He looked relieved when Kermode set the weapons down next to Kane.

  “I won’t kill you,” Kermode said. “Tell me why the Iceni have become bandits and why do they seek gold?”

  “Do you have food or water with you?” Kermode asked when the man didn’t answer. Kermode eyed the hilt of his short sword.

  “Yes,” the tribesman answered. He looked at a pouch that had fallen to the ground. He lifted the pouch and opened it. Kermode took two strips of dried venison. He handed one to Kane. While Kermode and Kane bit and chewed the dried meat the tribesman reached up and pulled a leather strap from his shoulder. “Drink,” he said.

  Kermode took the leather flask from the tribesman. He handed it to Kane. Kane took a long swallow then wiped his chin as he handed it back. “Do you have more?” Kermode asked as he was about to drink.

  “Drink it,” the tribesman answered. “There is a spring not far from where we are standing.”

  Glad to know that there was fresh water nearby Kermode took a long pull on the flask. He handed it back to Kane and Kane drained it to the last drop.

  “Your name?” Kermode asked as he handed the flask over to the tribesman.

  “My name is Haerviu, call me Harv.”

  After handshakes all around and exchange of names Kermode said, “I think we’d better draw some water.”

  “Truth,” Harv nodded. “The spring is on the other side of the summit.”

  Kermode and Kane followed Harv until the trees thinned out and seemed to shrink in height. Soon they came to a clearing. Terraced rock formations towered overhead. Harv wound his way through the channels between the boulders. “We are nearing the summit,” Harv said. The inclining rock face rounded then leveled out. Kermode, Kane, and Harv pulled themselves up and stood on the mountaintop.

  From this vantage point Kermode could see a clearing in the forest. From the scorched earth Kermode knew that what he was looking at was what remained of the village of Turodon.

  Harv led them down the other side of the mountain. Where the tree line began again he stopped at a lone rock formation sitting above the ground. Water bubbled and flowed downhill to form a small stream that meandered into the forest. Harv drew water from the spring and they set off.

  In the deepest part of the forest they came upon a clearing amidst a circle of towering trees. Crude roundhouses, rough cut from timber and roofed with twine made from leaves lay scattered on the outskirts of the clearing and became closer together toward the center. Pathways led to a central hub where a big roundhouse stood.

  At first, people in the village didn’t notice Harv and the two strangers walking out of the woods. The children where the first to see them. They stopped playing or doing chores and ran over then fell in behind the three men.

  “What have we here?” A man dressed in skins asked as the group approached.

  “It is Harv. I’ve returned.”

  “Wait,” the man said. He held a stag horn spear across their path. “What happened to the other men you were with?”

  “Both dead,” Harv answered and left it at that.

  “Did you find gold?”

  “No,” Harv shrugged.

  “Bradon will need to know of this.”

  The man led them to the big roundhouse in the center of the village. He said a few words to a man standing guard. The man opened the door and spoke. Inside, the inner circle of the house was bare. A man sat in a wicker chair. When he saw Harv he asked, “How much gold did you bring?”

  “I have no gold.”

  The man named Bradon narrowed his eyes. “You return empty handed but you bring two strangers with you. Why is this?” Bradon stared at Kermode and Kane.

  Kermode stepped forward. “We met Harv and two others in the forest and we carried no coin.”

  “Who are you? You dress as a dark druid yet you carry a sword and spear made in the Roman fashion,” Bradon said.

  “I am Kermode, I am a druid. I used the Roman weapons to kill the other bandits.”

  “Druids are forbidden to carry arms,” Bradon said. He leaned in and stroked his braided beard.

  “Times have changed,” Kermode nodded. “Like death closing in on a man, the Romans have made many inroads upon Briton.”

  “And which side are you on, Druid?”

  “Any side that is against the Romans,” Kermode answered.

  “Then you are on our side,” Bradon grinned. “Get a good a good meal in your bellies and join my tribe.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Harv poked his head into the tent. “Bradon wants to see you now,” he said.

  Kermode and Kane wiped their hands and followed Harv.

  “Iv’e been told that you are the one known as the Black-handed Druid and there is a price on your head,” Bradon said.

  “Truth,” Kermode answered. He turned his hands over. The dark woad dye still covered his palms. “It is three pieces of gold. The price on my head.”

  “It is four now. If I turn you over to the Romans it will put gold in our hands.”

  “What do you need gold for? You live off the land. Everything you need you get from the forest.”

  “That may be true. The coin goes to my lowland cousin, King Morvyn.”

  “Morvyn, the leader of the Iceni living near the coast, is your cousin?”

  “Yes, and he needs gold to build an army. An army to fight the Romans and drive them from our homes.”

  “If that’s how it is I can promise to bring you much more gold than you’ll get for my head.”

  “So be it.” Bradon grinned and wrung his hands together.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Kermode waited for the sun to go down. He stepped from behind the big oak and walked up the path to Osker’s house.

  Osker closed the door quickly. “Kermode,” he said. He added, “What brings you here?” as he gave Kermode a big hug.

  “I need two things: weapons and information.”

  “What kind of weapons? What kind of information.”

  Kermode sat at the table. Osker poured dark beer into a flagon. “Do you still drink that tea made from plants?”

  Kermode hadn’t had a cup of herbal tea for some time. He couldn’t remember the taste. “If you have some I’ll take some,” he answered.

  Twenty

  Arena Execution

  THE GROUP LEADER unrolled a scroll. He laid it out across a long table that held weapons and bundles of leather. Durst looked at the scroll. He read the title at the top margin: Act One of Group Four. Durst’s eyes followed the scroll downward. Step one showed two opponents squaring off. Step two showed one of the gladiators lunge with the long knife. In the diagram the opposing gladiator stepped forward and parried the blade with his small shield at the same time he thrust upward with the Thracian knife in his other hand. The third step showed the opposing gladiator contract his body and pull away. In this step the tip of the long knife cut a shallow vertical wound running up the abdomen. Next to the diagrams was a drawing of a water clock. The duels lasted for one full drain of the clock. The first blood drawn would be when the clock was one eighth drained.

  On the scroll the duel continued. Two steps later and the wounded gladiator scored a long cut on his opponent’s sword arm just as the water clock ran out.

  All the gladiators on the training field dressed in the corium cute, the tight fitting leather suit that covered their bodies. Each suit had circles sketched on the surface of the leather. Durst recalled the diagrams for each duel in group four. The sketches on the suit matched the marks on the diagrams.

  Doors opened at ground level. Celer stepped onto the training field. He walked over to group one. The group leader turned over a water clock. Celer observed as the gladiators went through the motions of the duel while the water drained slowly.

  Celer moved on until he made it to group
four. “The first cut will be a stomach wound,” he said. “This has to be timed perfectly. Too much pressure and the blade will penetrate into vital organs resulting in the possibility of internal bleeding. This is a dangerous move and there will be added praemium to the duelists pulling the trick off.”

  The opponents nodded. Only the most experienced gladiators dealt or received the most dangerous cuts. Durst had heard stories of gladiators reaching retirement age bargaining for loss of appendages like fingers and ears in their annuity. Most of the time praemiums included young women or young men. Meals were standard fair meant to keep the gladiators in peak physical condition. Wine or beer was forbidden.

  The team leader handed each gladiator a bundle. The men pulled on the leather skins. The team leader went over the act while two dancers demonstrated the moves. The water clock drained slowly as the dancers went through exaggerated motions of battle. Blunted weapons flashed as the water clock drained faster.

  Now the gladiators trained. Celer watched. He verified landing marks of each thrust by checking the chalk marks transferred from the blunted blade to the marks on the suits. If the marks were off he made suggestions on foot placement or shoulder placement. Only when the marks lined up perfectly would Celer allow the water clocks to drain at a faster rate.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  On the day of the games Durst stood in the praeparatio. He heard the sound of thousands of voices cheering in the arena. As the groups dueled and wounded men returned to the praeparatio. Celer stitched wounds as apprentices stopped bleeding by applying pressure. Durst watched and waited.

  “Quattor, “ the group leader, standing on the second floor of the preparation chamber, called out for group four. The men of act four stood up from the marble bench lining the wall. They were handed the long knives and small circular shields.

  “Norvano,” the group leader called out. “Come up here.”

  Durst climbed the stairs to the second floor. He stepped out onto the balcony. People packed the stadium. Sunlight filtered through the cavity formed at the center of the awning. Red blood stained yellow sand on the arena floor.

  The timekeeper raised his hand. The gladiators faced him. The timekeeper turned the water clock and lowered his hand at the same instant.

  As the gladiators squared off a hush fell over the crowd except for the murmuring of liberiads taking bets as the duel began.

  The clang of metal striking metal indicated the first move in the duel. The water clock tick indicated the duel was moving on time. In the arena, with the gladiators wearing only tight fitting loincloths and sandals, the element of danger was magnified many times. From his vantage point right above the duel Durst felt his heart beating in his temples.

  Durst held his breath waiting for the next move. The thrust followed the diagram as if it were a ghost. The opposing duelist arched his back and pressed his toes into the sand to raise his heels. The tip of the blade closed in then sunk into flesh. The crowd roared as the razor sharp tip parted skin as it made its way upward. When the blood flowed the crowd cheered. Liberiads took bets from spectators eager to change their wagers away from the gladiator with the fresh stomach wound.

  When the water clock drained and the timekeeper raised his hand the final wound of the match had been inflicted.

  Durst returned to the praeparatio. Celer was threading a curved surgical needle. Durst stepped forward. “Stop the bleeding on the stomach wound,” Celer told Durst. “It’s not too bad. The blade went in a bit deeper than I’d planned but I think we’ll be able to mend it.”

  Durst pressed a clean cloth against the wound. The white cloth stained red. “Lift the cloth,” Celer said. “Clamps,” Celer said. Durst dropped the cloth into the wide mouth of a tall clay jar then removed a tool from a rectangular box.

  “Hold the wound together.”

  Durst clamped the folds of skin together. It took four men to hold the wounded gladiator down while Celer ran a line of stitches up the man’s abdomen.

  Durst kept his eyes and ears open. He studied the tricks and before long he knew every move made by the teams in group four.

  “At what tick on the water clock will the second move on team three’s trick take place?” Celer asked group four’s leader. When the leader hesitated Celer questioned, “Move two is the pivotal point of the trick. The man will be receiving a wound across his rib cage.”

  Durst stepped forward. “In team three the cut to the ribs will be delivered by the Egyptian and received by the Persian at four ticks.”

  “Durst Norvano, from now on you’ll be group four leader.”

  Celer approached Durst one day. “You’ve done a good job,” Celer said. “I’ve let Confectarious know that it was a wise decision to move you up.”

  “Many thanks,” Durst nodded.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Celer shook his head. “At least not until you’ve heard what I’m about to say.”

  Durst nodded and waited.

  “I want to try a neck wound,” Celer said.

  “Has that ever been done before?” Durst asked.

  “Not as a trick. Most neck wounds are fatal.”

  “Why are we doing this?”

  “Because this is what the owner of the school wants.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good,” Celer said. “Come with me.”

  Durst followed Celer to the cellar. Lamps, hanging on stone walls, lit up the room. In the center of the room a thin man dressed in a black loincloth lay strapped to a marble slab.

  “What are we doing here?” Durst asked when he saw Celer remove a Thracian knife from a shelf.

  “This man has been condemned to die. I’m going to put him to some use before the sentence is carried out.” Celer tested the edge of the blade on some wet wrist hairs. “Bring the lantern closer,” he told Durst.

  Durst carried the lantern over and held it above the slab. The criminal squirmed and fought against the ropes binding him to the slab.

  Celer ran the tip of the long knife along the prisoner’s forearm. The man screamed. Celer made more cuts. Each one higher until he reached the man’s shoulders. He pressed his fingers onto the lower section of the man’s throat. “I think if I trace the interior collar bone then lift the tip of the blade on the end of the thrust we’ll get the desired results.”

  Celer made a quick jab. The tip of the blade pierced the flesh directly under the collarbone. Celer drew back and guided the blade up and over the bone. Celer ran the knife upward and pulled it back with a flick of the wrist.

  The prisoner screamed loud and long. Durst felt sick to his stomach. He looked away.

  “Is this too much for you?” Celer asked. He set the knife down then picked up a stylus and scroll. “You can carry out sentencing while I work on the initial sketch.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that.” Durst shook his head.

  “The man is a murderer. If you don’t do it somebody else will.”

  “If I kill him I want to choose the way he dies.”

  “Very well,” Celer nodded. He looked up from the drawing.

  Durst left the cellar and made his way to the infirmary. “Celer has sent me for a cup of fortified wine,” he said.

  The attendant took a jar from a shelf and set it on the counter. He poured dark wine into a cup. From the jar he poured a white powder. “How much do you need?”

  “Enough to kill a full grown man.”

  The attendant look alarmed but he didn’t ask questions. He set a water clock then poured until the clock ran out. He placed a cap on the cup and shook it. “This should do it,” he said.

  Durst returned to the cellar. He walked up to the prisoner. “Drink this,” he said. “It will ease your pain.”

  The prisoner drank. He made a face when he tasted the bitter powder. He looked at the cup then drained the contents. Durst left the cellar just as the man’s eyelids became heavy with dope.

  Durst and Celer worked together refining team three’s trick. Celer ref
erred to notes in the margins of the original sketches he’d made in the cellar. From this point he made rough sketches of gladiators in motion on thick ledgers. Celer leafed through the pages slowly and adjusted the drawings. Durst watched as Celer let the pages fall fast. The sketches came to life and moved across the page.

  “In my land you would be called a sorcerer.”

  “No sorcery involved,” Celer laughed. “It’s just a matter of changing the drawings just enough to give the illusion of motion.”

  Two days before the games were to be held Durst was summoned into Celer’s office. “Brando has volunteered to receive the neck wound,” he said as Durst closed the door.

  “Brando is a veteran gladiator,” Durst said. “I’m sure he’ll pull it off.”

  “Yes for a praemium of an increase in this annuity and he wants one of the dancers brought to his chambers the night before the match.”

  “That’s an unusual request ... the night before.”

  “The man has a point. It’s a dangerous move and he may not live through it.”

  On the morning of the games a guard accompanied Celer and Durst to Brando’s cell. The man was sitting in the corner holding his head in his hands and sobbing. The dancer lay motionless on the mat. “What happened here?” Celer asked.

  “He said he was leaving me. If I can’t have him no one will.”

  “You killed him?” Celer asked.

  “Yes.”

  Durst waited outside Confectarious’ office. The door opened and Celer stepped out. “The owner says that Brando will have to die for the murder of the dancer.”

  “When will he be turned over to the legion?” Durst asked.

  “That’s what I asked. Confectarious feels that we should continue with the script with one change: the neck wound will be fatal.”

  “What do we tell Brando?”

  “Nothing,” Celer said flatly and he made a sweeping motion with his hand.

  “Shouldn’t the man know the—” Durst cut himself off when he realized the reasoning behind Celer’s words.

  Twenty-one

  Stolen Gold

  IT WAS TWO days later and Kermode waited behind the big oak tree. When darkness fell he made his way up the path and rapped on the door. Osker answered. “Come in,” Osker said.