Caledonii: Birth of a Celtic Nation. 5. A Druid's Work

by Hall, Ian

  “You will invade when the flowers of spring have opened!” he roared, some of the dhruids lay still, some were trying to crawl away. “You will force your chiefs to sail to the Damoni and Novanti shores!” He walked towards Winnie with a swagger that she had never seen in a dhruid before. As he reached her, he turned.

  “And you will do this in my name! Uwan of the Caledonii! Because if you do not, if your warriors do not arrive, I will search you out, and you will bask in the grey of limbo forever! And I will be there to watch over you!”

  “We must go.” He took her hand, and pulled her towards the coast. “We must get to Tra’pan before Pe’weric bids farewell to his sons.”

  ~ ~ ~

  In the Votadini lands, life that winter was good, perhaps the best it had ever been. As part of the peace bargain, the Romans brought supplies by sea to supplement the clan’s shortages. The clan ate and drank well, no one went without. Illness and injury were treated quickly and efficiently, Roman medicines quickly became known and trusted within the clan for their effectiveness and purity. The chiefs and their immediate families were already wearing clothing made from Roman fabrics, intricately woven, rich in colour, warm against the coming northern winter.

  Pe’weric’s three sons were to be taken to Rome as part of the Romans plan to subdue the clan chief. They would stay there for a year, returning if they wished. One year in the splendor and opulence of Rome would be enough for most men to recognize the advantage in continuing to side with the enemy.

  Militarily, the Roman presence was slight in most of the area, forts were built, but the territory was only lightly policed. They enhanced a few natural harbors to take their larger, deeper-drafted ships. The sight of Roman soldiers became commonplace, but mostly the clan existed as normal. Because of the frequent galleys, goods arrived all through the approach to winter; it was a time of great prosperity. Opulence ruled, and the chief, Pe’weric reveled through every moment of it.

  In the lands of the Selgove and the Ordovice, the survivors of the invasion did not fare so well. Roman soldiers came and went with no regard for any local chiefs or customs. When they were short of rations, they took whatever supplies they needed. Sometimes they paid in other goods; fabrics, cooking utensils, and wine, but there were times when they just took the goods with no barter terms at all.

  Some young clansmen vanished during that long, cold winter. It became a talking point round the fires at night. Stories were told about kelpies and other mythological beasts, but everyone knew where some of the men were.

  The Romans had been active in recruiting men to serve abroad; auxiliaries for the eastern fronts with the promise of Roman citizenship after twenty-five years. Few of the young men had volunteered for such duties, with the enticement of travel and the possibility of visiting Rome itself. Young warriors had just vanished; from the fields, from their homes, from hunting trips. Everyone knew that some had been taken, but no proof was to be found; the Romans were very careful.

  Those who feared being co-opted into the Roman army fled furtively north. Gradually the remaining fighting men of the lowlands withered away, and the ranks to the north of the Roman wall swelled in number.

  Some men of the pacified Votadini forts also took to their boats and sailed across to the lands of the Venicone. Roman life did not sit well on every shoulder.

  ~ ~ ~

  The Roman household of the Tribune Marilicus Flacius, a commander in the ninth legion, was not the worst place for a slave to serve. The tribune was in good spirits, recently being told that it would be he who would escort the three sons of Pe’weric to Rome. Tribune Marilicus was an intelligent man, he had served in this far colony for over five years, he knew that whilst in Rome there was a decent chance on being replaced by some up and rising senator’s son.

  Replacement here, in the cold and wintry north would be welcomed, and Marilicus dreamed of the warm winters of home.

  Drawing his purple cloak to his chin against the wind, he watched the slave auction. One young man took his interest, and when he came onto the seller’s platform, he moved forward for a better look.

  “This one knows Latin and Norland.” The seller said. “Good stock, strong, and clever too.”

  Uwan stood on the platform, and although his head was bowed to the Roman Tribune, his though processes were aimed at him.

  I am the one you want. I will be an asset on the journey. I know the language of the boys.

  “Five denarii,” Marilicus shouted, and was instantly countered by six, then ten. “Twenty!”

  Heads began to turn.

  I will help you on the journey.

  Marilicus turned to Gestinius, his slave commander. “If he knows Norland and Latin, he will translate for us on the journey to Rome.”

  The slave commander nodded. “He looks strong. And will need to be. It is a long journey.”

  “Twenty-five.” The voice of Pilus Primus echoed over the sale; the top centurion of the legion.

  I can speak the same language as the boys!

  “Where has he got the money from?” Marilicus looked across the crowd at the centurion. His stare was mirrored, their eyes locking over the suddenly animated crowd.

  Marilicus’ slave commander shook his head. “Perhaps Agricola himself is bidding.”

  “Surely not through Pilus Primus.” The centurion returned the gaze confidently. “He would have mentioned it to me.” He frowned. “Forty Dinarii!” His voice rose, watching Primus Pilus.

  Marilicus watched in flushed pride when the centurion shook his head and turned away.

  Uwan, with head downcast, inwardly surged. Part two of his plan was coming to fruition.

  I am going to Rome.

  “What is your name, slave?” the slave commander lifted Uwan’s head up by his chin, examining his face intently.

  “Uwan, master,” he said softly, the newly learned Latin falling easily from his lips.

  “What tribe are you?”

  “I am originally Venicone, master.” Uwan’s eyes again were downcast. “I was caught by the Selgove when I was twelve.” He held up his left hand, showing two tattooed fingers.

  The slave commander threaded a thin rope through a metal hoop on Uwan’s collar and pulled him behind.

  Tugged by the collar, Uwan turned to follow the man, the last vestige of his past life left behind.

  “Do you know how to write?” Marilicus asked. The streets grew quieter away from the market.

  “Sorry, master, I do not.”

  “Then we shall make that possible on the journey.” Marilicus looked at the slave commander. “Gestinius, make that a priority.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  As they walked the new slaves out of the town, Uwan passed Winnie in the crowd. For a fleeting moment, their eyes met and he smiled slightly.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next day, Uwan helped the other slaves pack Marilicus’s belongings ready for the journey to Rome. He had managed to reach his goal with only a few days to spare. As he performed his tasks, he gave silent thanks to the Gods for his immaculate timing.

  Marilicus’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “Uwan?”

  “Master?”

  “You will pack my uniform.”

  “Yes Master.” Uwan looked at the proud Roman, who seemed lost in thought.

  “We travel with full retinue,” He said, then he realized that Uwan did not understand his meaning. “Pack everything; we are not returning to these lands.”

  As he packed the family’s belongings, Uwan thought that there was wealth enough in a few rooms to keep a small town fed for the year. Whatever one’s opinion of the Roman machine, they had resources beyond belief; something for the dhruids and the Norland clans to consider.

  Gestinius, the slave commander, was a wise older man, perhaps nearing forty. His greying hair had been cut in the short, Roman style, and he seemed to consider himself Roman, although his features spoke differently. He never raised his voice, but used commands softly sp
oken.

  Uwan detected a power in his words, some voice training had been attained at some point of his life, yet Gestinius showed no fingers tattooed.

  “Are you Roman, slave commander?” Uwan asked as they carried a trunk to a waiting wagon.

  Gestinius looked askance at the young Caledonii. “You are forward, young man. It would be well if you kept yourself to yourself here. Learn your place.”

  “I apologize, slave commander, but I practice my Latin as instructed by the master. It will make translation easier when the Votadini arrive.”

  I am just following orders. I am not a threat.

  Gestinius walked in silence for a moment, then they lifted the chest higher, and pushed it onto the wagon. “I like you, Uwan,” he began, then grabbed him by the shoulder. “But as yet, I do not trust you fully. You must earn that.”

  “Yes, slave commander.”

  You will quickly learn to trust me.

  For two days they loaded wagons from the Roman’s quarters, then covered the goods in waxed linen as snow drifted down from the hill above. Uwan breathed a sigh of relief as a messenger arrived, declaring that a galley had indeed arrived, ready for their journey to Rome.

  Like the planning for every voyage, the tempo had its busy times, and its long periods doing nothing. As he worked, Uwan tried hard to glean information from all around him. The galley slaves were Egyptians, dark bearded men, still chained to the seats even as the ship stood anchored near the shore. The officers of the ship looked landward with disinterest; this would be their last sailing of the year. The ship would land in Rome in a town called Formia, where the most of the crew had families. The galley slaves would be put to work in the town until needed in the spring, shared in the small community.

  A group of men rode to the beach, three young Votadini rode at the front. All younger than himself, they looked both excited and pensive, and Uwan immediately recognized them as the sons of the chief.

  One of Marilicus’s centurions halted them with a wave of his hands. “Over here!”

  The boys dismounted, and Uwan sensed a deep foreboding within the boys.

  The eldest, Egred, sneered at Uwan as he passed. “Out of my way, slave,” He jeered, intentionally jarring Uwan with his shoulder.

  It would be better for you to divert your cruelty in another direction.

  “Bah, I hate ships,” Egred said, slapping his brother across the back of the head. The younger brother made no return remark.

  Uwan shook his head slightly at the boys’ attitude.

  The Roman galley looked splendid; in the brief moments of respite, Uwan could not fail to wonder at the craftsmanship of the builders. High carvings at both bow and stern flowed to a wide centre where seats for hundreds of chained slaves sat. Inside the natural harbor the water was calm, and at low tide, the ship lay safely beached. Tribune Marilicus’ properties and personal entourage were quickly walked aboard up a long, narrow wooden ramp. Even the successful beginning of his mission could not temper the excitement he felt at going back to sea.

  Both Marilicus and his wife, Atriana, knelt near the bow and gave thanks to their Gods for safe passage. Uwan allowed himself an imperceptible shake of the head.

  Once out to sea, his duties on the journey south were concise. Keep attendance on Marilicus and his wife, attend to Pe’weric’s sons, learn to write, and keep out of everyone else’s way. He quickly learned the art of being both unobtrusive and indispensable. Each evening, Marilicus himself taught Uwan the written word, and each evening, the Roman marveled at the speed which the young man mastered the art.

  Uwan counted the days and marked them on an imaginary staff in his mind. As the shortest day of the year neared, the weather grew suddenly worse, and the huge galley was tossed in the gigantic waves. Oars were of no use, and were safely stowed away inside the ship, the sail tied tightly round the single mast, but the slaves were still chained to the benches, battered by each wave that crested the side.

  There was no time for food or drink. Each slave had a small cup, which he bailed water from around his feet into a bucket on the main walkway. As each bucket filled, more slaves would walk them to the sides and throw the contents overboard. It seemed they were fighting a losing battle, but the ship still did not sink.

  On the storm’s second day, the wind relented slightly, and the single sail was let loose again. Despite the danger, the captain looked in good humor, and Uwan prayed for calmer seas ahead.

  He spent the shortest day aboard ship, and the feast of winter too. The food was hard biscuits and salted meat, but he survived, perpetually glad he was not a galley slave. As the wind eased, the returned to their back breaking routine with no thanks for their efforts, just a heavy lash across their backs if they faltered.

  ~ ~ ~

  Chief Wesson’s shoulders slumped. “What is it now?”

  “Talen, the head man from the coastal village beyond Irane,” Colin said, the tedium in his voice no longer being withheld. “He comes…”

  “Yes!” Wesson interrupted, thumping his fist on the wooden table. “He comes with a tale of Roman atrocity!”

  Colin waited for a moment before continuing. “He makes complaint of his lambs, chief Wesson, well, some o’ them.” Again he paused, waiting for Wesson’s attention. “They were taken by the Roman troops stationed nearby.”

  “Lugh be damned!” He blasted at his cousin, then spat at the floor. “Are they trying to provoke me?”

  “I don’t think…” Colin shrank back from the chief’s rising figure.

  “Oh you don’t think they are!” Wesson snapped. He reached for his large war axe and strode out through the doorway. “Well I bloody think they are! An’ provoking me they bloody well are!”

  Wesson recognized Talen in a crowd gathered near the entrance. Immediately as the crowd saw their chief emerging from the hut, they converged on him, each vying with the other for supremacy.

  “Chief Wesson, our lambs!”

  “They stole my best horse!”

  “Last moon…”

  “Shut up!” Wesson roared. “Just shut up, every one o’ you!”

  The crowd fell immediately silent.

  “Where are the Romans now?” Wesson barked at the crowd. “The translator? Do you know where he is?”

  Talen volunteered the knowledge. “Just to the north, chief. They’re in the new fort feasting on our lambs! The translator was wi’ them when they robbed us; he said the lambs were for some festival o’ theirs.”

  Wesson took a deep breath, savoring the moment. His first few moons in charge of the clan had been particularly quiet, and although he knew he could not provoke the Romans, he had to make a face for the clan’s sake. And for his own.

  “Right!” he shouted. “Everyone to arms!” He began to walk towards the stables. He looked towards Colin, who now walked by his side. “We ride.” He said, then shouted, “We need a hundred o’ our best; mounted an’ ready.” Wesson spun round to the group, continuing in his direction, walking backwards now, a smile spread slowly across his face as he raised his axe high in the air. “We go to get a concession from the Romans!”

  The news travelled through the town like wildfire. Before Wesson had saddled and mounted, his cavalry numbered four hundred.

  By the time they reached the small Roman camp, the band had grown considerably, gathered from the villages and farms they had passed. They rode confidently to the gates of the small fort, which had closed as they had neared. Faces and helmets poked themselves above the parapet wall above the earthen mound. They watched as the small army reined their horses to a halt outside.

  “We come to speak to the translator!” Wesson shouted.

  His remark was met by blank stares. Wesson could hear orders being shouted.

  “He’ll be out soon.” he said over his shoulder.

  Very quickly, the translator’s features appeared at the parapet, out of breath.

  “Chief Wesson,” he said. A false smile spread over his face as
he looked at the armed men. “You are indeed opportune, we have just prepared dinner.” He still looked nervous, but was beginning to regain his composure. “Perhaps you and your second in command would like to join us?”

  “Aye we would!” Wesson turned. “Wouldn’t we Colin?”

  “Aye,”

  Sharp commands were barked behind the wall, and the gates opened.

  Wesson motioned that everyone should follow, then kicked his horse forward.

  “Perhaps your men could stay outside?” The translator said quickly as the first clansman filed through the closing gates.

  “They need your protection,” said Wesson, not looking upwards. “These are difficult times!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Calach strained his neck to see behind the Roman patrol. His head swam with excitement. After such a long sleepy winter, it felt good to be in action again, the snows still lay on the higher ground, but the glens were now clear. As the Romans passed his position he made the appropriate signals to Aysar, hiding farther down the glen. Aysar watched to ensure no-one else following the small column and prepared to give a loud vocal ‘ambush’ warning to Calach. They had been caught by such tactics before, and there was nothing wrong with being cautious. As the last of the Romans disappeared round the corner of the small defile, Calach moved quietly from his position. Two Caledonii clansmen accompanied him, both armed like their leader; bow drawn and arrow nocked, sword by their side.

  Like the most agile young deer, the three ran silently down into the grassy glen following the path of the Roman march. As they reached the valley floor, Calach wasted no time in catching up with the patrol.

  Calach had accurately counted thirty Romans, heavily armed and armored, the leaders on horseback near the front, the infantry on foot. Calach began to run faster now that the last Romans were visible to him. Five clansmen behind him ran at his heels, beginning to fan out at his sides, ready for the first volley at the rearguard of the small column.