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

by Hall, Ian

  Uwan walked beside the cart, his hand resting on the wood, content in his slave’s anonymity. Slowly he forced himself to concentrate on his mission.

  These are just people, no more.

  Yet they gathered at the roadside, pausing in their own journey to bow to Marilicus’ purple robes. He rode at the front of their caravan, breastplate gleaming in the golden sun, and his helmet’s scarlet plume bobbing on his head. The sightseers called his name and asked of his conquests. All day he laughed, making jokes about the Votadini boys who rode behind him, their eyes wide in wonder at the new land and its riches. Marilicus’ wife, Atriana, rode in a covered wagon, yet Uwan could see her hand appear at the window opening and wave in return.

  They rejoice.

  For four days they walked the road to Rome, and each night they rested at a wayside building, built for the exact purpose. Although Marilicus’ party were entertained and fed in a far more lavish form then their servant retinue, even the slaves in the caravan were fed better than any fare he had eaten in his life, and Gestinius, the slave commander, made certain that each slave had a bedroll to rest in, and a beaker of wine to dull his head from the rigors of the road.

  When the city of Rome began to show itself in the distance over the rolling green hills, Uwan began to draw back from the euphoria, knowing he had to keep his wits about him. Forcing himself to focus on the seedier side of the empire, he let his natural disgust rise to the surface, although he did not let his expression change.

  Suddenly he realized that Gestinius, the slave master, had fallen into step beside him.

  “Are you not impressed?” he asked.

  “I am.” Uwan answered, his Latin perfectly inflected. “Yet I am still a slave.”

  “There is life for slaves too, Uwan.” He fingered his own collar, not bare metal as Uwan wore, but thin spun gold. “You can have aspirations.”

  They slowly crested the next rise in the road, and a huge building came into view. “What is that?” Uwan pointed. Even though the building was far in the distance, its size stood out above the Roman skyline.

  “That amphitheater is called the Coliseum,” Gestinius face drained of emotion, “named for its colossal size. It is the biggest in the world, and the one part of Rome that I do not enjoy.”

  They had passed similar arenas on the road. “But this one is so big.” Uwan tried not to wonder at the spectacle, but he was finding it difficult not to.

  “It is the first time I have seen it finished, although it was being built when we left Rome five years ago.” Uwan could see a sadness consume the slave commander. “The Emperor Vespasian ordered it built, but his son Titus rules it now. Tales traveled the breadth of the Empire of its first hundred days, vast excesses of blood for a drunken populace. Perhaps one day we will visit and see for ourselves the wonder of its arena.”

  The Roman Way

  Spring 81 AD

  The farm of tribune Marilicus Flacius lay on the gentle slopes to the south of the great city, and even so early in the season, the farmworkers were preparing the fields for the planting of spring wheat. Uwan found it difficult to believe the quality of the soil, so fine and weed-free, so unlike the hard stony earth of home.

  Once they had unpacked, he took up daily duties in the house, tutoring the Votadini boys, and slowly he found Gestinius’s eyes following him less and less. Marilicus spoke of an audience with Titus, but it took its time coming. Then one morning, as Uwan took a midday meal in the kitchen, a messenger arrived.

  To say the house erupted into bedlam would have been an understatement. Suddenly, Atriana’s voice was one to be considered in control of the household, and Uwan ensured he stood in the doorway as she read the message.

  “We must have new clothes, you, my dear husband will have a new toga.”

  “Surely not,” Marilicus’s head shook slightly. “Besides, we have no time for such, the audience is less than a week away.”

  Atriana virtually shrieked. “I am the daughter of a senator, and there is nothing we do that Titus will not see.” She began to pace in front of him. “I can have new clothes made in days. My new dress will be the palest green, as a tribute to the goddess Venus.”

  “My dear,” he crossed and took her shaking hands into his. “We need not make so much of this…”

  “What?” she stepped back, “This is your interview for the senate! Don’t you see that? The Emperor will be looking at every crease in your toga.” Her finger waved between them, defying him to cross her. “He will see every hair out of place, he will be listening to every word, every inflection. If you do not make a good impression, we’ll be driven back to that icy hell-hole we just came from. I will not go back, Marilicus!” she now stood trembling. “I won’t!”

  The senator’s daughter apparently knew everything about the honor shown to Marilicus. Plans were drawn that included every single facet of their visit, down to the walking order for the trip. It seemed that even the color of trim that Marilicus wore had to be debated and decided on.

  On the eve of the trip, Uwan’s slave collar was removed. “Even slaves must look their best,” Gestinius said, supervising the unclasping of the securing device. “There is a new robe by your bedding, Uwan. You will not wear it until the morning of our walk into Rome.”

  The caravan started before dawn, quickly making the gates of the city as the sun rose. Rome had already sprawled outside its walls, but even the vast conglomeration of buildings they passed through could not prepare Uwan for the splendor that Rome proved to be. Inside the gates, the buildings suddenly rose five times higher than those outside. Uwan’s head constantly moved, his eyes drawn by greater and greater majesty. Fluted pillars lined large arched doorways, decorative carvings looked down from high above, and red flags, waving in the wind in quiet celebration.

  So much stone. There is more marble here than in the rest of the world.

  The procession into the city became lined with onlookers sometimes two or three deep, as the name Marilicus got passed ahead of the carriages. The people cheered, although Uwan could see no reason for their jubilation, almost as if they did it out of habit rather than actual emotion. They threw green leaves and red flower petals onto the street before them.

  But as they entered the gates of the great city, Uwan began to fester an emotion of his own. Loathing. Yes, their buildings were impressive; they could not fail to be. Some stood three times as high as any tree he’d seen, and they looked to have no joints in the stone, which marveled him more.

  But it is built on the back of slavery and conquest.

  Large stone carvings of men, animals and naked women lined the road, some vastly larger than their real-life counterparts. They seemed to have life within, their likenesses caught so well by their makers.

  Again, for the thousandth time in his voyage, Uwan made comparison to the clan’s life back home, and found his own land primitive in the extreme.

  Yet the people look poorer for their lavish lifestyle. They are not inferior in looks, for their long flowing robes are far superior to the clan’s clothing, but their smiles seem false, their whole pallor worn and gray. This is a people whose very souls were in decay, yet they do not know it.

  They passed under many arches, the size of which Uwan could not fathom, even looking at the giant structures, he was unsure of how they could have been made by man’s hands alone. Then they entered a vast empty square, where the sunlight reached street level for the first time in some time. The caravan headed directly for a huge building, even dwarfing the others in the square.

  The columns which lined the front of Titus’s palace were ten times thicker than any tree, and tapered smoothly to the gigantic lintel, so far above, it was almost out of focus. Lines of Praetorian Guard lined both the steps and the vast doorway, their black and gold vestments glinting in the sunshine.

  When they neared the vast steps of their destination, Gestinius flustered the Votadini boys from their horses, and into a line, ready to mount the steps lined
with the armored soldiers, their red feathered helmets billowing in the soft breeze.

  “I don’t like it.” The oldest said, his lip quivering in fear.

  Uwan did nothing to calm his charge; any distraction from his own presence suited him. He allowed the boys to feel their dread, knowing that inside this building stood the pinnacle of his mission. He focused all his defenses, ready to deal with the priests which he assumed would be inside.

  Despite the large crowd that had assembled behind them, Marilicus walked the steps in silence, his wife three steps behind. Their sandals clipped loudly in the morning, their feet scuffing on the pristine marble steps.

  Suddenly deafening trumpets blasted a tone into the air, followed by others which formed a tune of terrifying sound in the crowded square. Only then did the assembled onlookers cheer, their cries mingling with the piercing sounds of the trumpeters.

  “You will stay by the carriages, Uwan.” Gestinius shouted above the clamor.

  No, I will accompany the boys in case they are frightened.

  Uwan saw the change shift over the slave commander’s face, considering his decision. “No, on second thought, go with them, you might be useful if things do not go to plan.”

  “Yes, slave commander.” Uwan slipped onto the end of the line. Soon his feet were walking up the stairs, and into the huge maw of the building, thick marble columns rising on each side of the vast doorway.

  Inside, the high ceilings were painted in likenesses of the hills and the fields, with winged creatures and unearthly scenes. On each side, the same thick columns continued, flanked with long flowing red curtains, draped from the ornate corners of the room.

  They are the color of blood.

  He felt outwards, but encountered no psychical force in the building. Searching farther, he encountered no spirit at all.

  It is a desert. There is no life here.

  Distant trumpets outside still blared their strange tunes, and crowd cheered, but inside the immense corridor, the sound was deadened considerably, their footfalls making more noise.

  “It’s huge,” the boys heads looked in all directions. Uwan tried to force his wonderment aside, keeping a sharp lookout for the priesthood which he thought would surely occupy the building in some way or another.

  Through another doorway, the ceilings suddenly lowered, the room filled with diaphanous curtains of the finest silk which rippled in a breeze which Uwan could not detect.

  In front of the column, on a raised dais sat a man in flowing white robes.

  Uwan needed no introduction. In front of him sat the Emperor of Rome.

  ~ ~ ~

  The breathless man almost ran into Wesson as he walked through the village. The man threw himself backwards with such force, he tripped and fell.

  “What’s the matter?” Wesson stood over him, his tone challenging.

  The man shook his head. “I am Char from the village o’ Plano. The Scotti have landed on the beaches.”

  It had been years since the men from the west had raided, Neal had allowed the warning beacons to go unmanned, and Wesson silently cursed himself for his lack of preparation. “How many?”

  “Too many to count,” the man sat up, then stood. “Far too many to count.”

  “Come on man, how many ships then?”

  The man looked around the clansmen gathering to hear the news. “That’s what I’m talking about. There’s too many ships to count.”

  Wesson took a moment to consider the news, then noticed a dhruid approaching. He stopped by the messenger. “Do I have permission to speak?”

  “Yes, of course, ancient one.” Wesson felt embarrassed by the man having to ask.

  “The ships are from our allies in Dalreida.”

  “The Irishmen?” Wesson squinted at the dhruid. “It’s been a long time since we were friendly towards the men from Dalreida.” He almost baulked at the idea of their longtime foes being allies.

  “It is arranged, Wesson, son of Tirabar. The Dalreida men will rise against the Romans with us.”

  “How many men have landed?”

  “The dhruids of Dalreida have sent a hundred ships. Nearly ten thousand men.”

  Wesson added his own numbers. “That might be enough.”

  The middle aged dhruid kept his gaze on Wesson. “The Damonii will also rise.”

  “We can’t trust that load o’ shite!” Wesson bawled, then remembered the reverence given to the dhruid caste. “Your pardon, ancient one,”

  The dhruid bowed slightly in deference to Wesson’s rank. “The men from Dalreida will be led by their arch-dhruid, Granshy. Please do not let your temper boil in his presence; he is far less lenient than I.”

  So for the first time in many generations, the men from Dalreida and the men from the Novanti joined together in feast, wishing each other fortitude and prowess on the battlefield against the Roman legions.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sewell broke the dried willow bark into small pieces and placed them carefully onto the fire. Each dhruid leaned over the fire to inhale the new smoky aroma.

  “Keep Calach in your minds.” Sewell said, “He must be made to contract his forces for a while. The noisy bird gets the arrow.”

  “The noisy bird gets the arrow.” The five bowed heads repeated.

  “He must concentrate on getting stronger.” Sewell said in a quietly sonorous voice. “The eagle must tend to his nest.”

  “The eagle must tend to his nest.” They toned.

  For a while Sewell prayed in silence, then as the first light of dawn crept over the green and purple hills, he stood, stretching his back, the muscles protesting their use.

  “We retreat to the hills tonight, before long Uwan will need our help.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Calach woke in a cold sweat, his thin spring blanket soaking. Next to him, her eyes open in surprise, lay Kat’lana. “What disturbs you?”

  “A dream,” Calach managed, wiping the drops of perspiration from his forehead. “But I’m thinking it was no natural dream.” He quickly got out of bed and pulled on his trews. “I must talk to Sewell before I forget any of it.”

  “Tell me first,” she said, pulling him back to sit on the bed. “Telling me will keep the ideas clearer in your head.”

  He wasted no time. “A white bear visited me, slashing at my door stopping me from leaving the broch. It sat by the door, just waiting. Then the Romans attacked, and the rest of the village ran out to fight them.” By this time, his labored breathing had settled. “But the white bear still wouldn’t let me out. I looked to Finlass, who, surprisingly lived with us, Mauchty too. That was the way of the dream.” He shook his head, trying to clear the confusion.

  “Sometimes things are different in the dream world.” Kat’lana soothed. Not for the first time, she wished Winnie lived in Caledonii lands, sometimes she felt so overwhelmed by Calach’s moods.

  “The white bear tried to stop all of us getting out of the broch. We were trapped, and there was nothing we could do.”

  He paused. “Is that all?” she asked.

  “I think so. But the village didn’t look like Lochery or Bar’ton.” He shook his head in confusion. “I didn’t recognize it at all. The people too; they were strangers.”

  “Sewell will make sense of it all.”

  Calach stood and left the broch, shivering in the cold nip of early morning. He made his way to the dhruid’s quarters, a ring of three high wooden huts on the north side of the village. To his surprise, the dhruids were already busy around their central fire. Calach recognized Sewell’s robe, slightly darker than most of the mid-gray.

  “Excuse me wise one, I need counsel.”

  The dhruid looked up, then as he approached, he watched Calach’s eyes carefully. “You have had a vision.”

  “It was a dream.” Calach said, mildly annoyed that Sewell seemed to be always one step ahead of him.

  “Dream, vision, the difference is slight, and for dhruids to contemplate, not you.” He placed his h
and on Calach’s shoulder and smiled. “Tell me of your dream.”

  Once Calach had finished, Sewell spent a moment in silence. “I know of what you speak.”

  “You do?”

  Sewell nodded. “I believe it was a message from your brother, Uwan.”

  Calach’s face suddenly became more serious. “Is he in danger?”

  “Not particularly. He is far from here, however, and some of his machinations are coming to bear on our world.”

  “The dream?”

  Again, Sewell paused, as if choosing his words very carefully. “Uwan is the albino bear.” Calach looked quite shocked. “He chose the animal after his trials. I have seen him in my own visions, it is an imposing beast.”

  “Ferocious,” Calach admitted. “It’s difficult to think o’ my wee brother as such.”

  “Nevertheless, he has chosen to speak to you. The white bear kept you inside your broch, as this strange village fought the Romans.”

  “He wouldn’t let me out, Mauchty or Finlass neither.”

  Sewell closed his eyes, remembering the dhruid’s plans. “There will be a battle in the lowlands.” Sewell said, raising his hand to keep Calach’s questions at bay. “Neither you nor Finlass and Mauchty are to participate.”

  “But if we lend our forces to the fray, we may make the difference.” He said excitedly.

  But Sewell shook his head. “You must continue to prepare your forces, continue to make weapons. Because of this battle, more men will move north past the wall. Your forces will increase.”

  Sewell looked at Calach carefully, the young man looked as if he intended instant flight.

  “Calach, you must heed the message, it is important.” He kept his hand on the young man’s shoulder, as if he needed to physically restrain him. “The Novants and Damonii will rise.”

  “They are not enough.” Calach said firmly.

  “They will not be alone.” Sewell said.

  Calach flinched. “Who is left to fight if we stand back?”

  “The men from Dalreida have already landed.”