by Linda Grant
Living in cities where smog and streetlights obscured the stars, he’d never paid much attention to them. Out here in Roman Britain, the stars hung bright in constellations with which he was only vaguely familiar. By their light and that of the moon, he could make out the squat humps of tents laid out in precise rows.
His arm was hurting worse now. He unwrapped the crude bandage and looked at the swollen red wound. It was in the very same spot that his birthmark used to be. Could Gerry have been right about some birthmarks being the result of wounds received in past lives? An aching need to see her and talk to her again swept through him.
Would Lucius live long enough to get that farm and pension and that girl? No medics would be coming to airlift him out of here.
A meteorite streaked by low on the horizon on which faint streaks of the dawn were being painted. Romans would think it was a good omen for the battle to come. The wind, laden with scents of the sea, felt cold on his bare legs, but only barbarians wore trousers. Civilized men (and that included Roman soldiers) wore tunics.
At least the Britons weren’t into wearing much body armor. In fact, they went naked into battle half the time. But he wasn’t looking forward to fighting them. They were taller than the Romans and incredibly fierce fighters. The only good thing was that they were a disorganized lot.
Men were stirring now from their tents, going about the business of getting ready for the day. Dan could hear the braying of the pack mules, which carried their baggage, including tents and some simple tools.
When he’d first blitzed into this new body, he’d wondered about the calluses on his hands, which felt as tough as boards. He soon found out. Wherever the soldiers camped, latrines had to be dug and firewood gathered. Some things didn’t change much. Today they would begin the job of building the flat-bottomed boats, which wouldn’t win any America Cup races, but would do the job of transporting the legionaries of Seutonius Paulinus across the Menai Strait to Mona. The cavalry would swim across with their animals.
Dan sighed and took out an iron pan from among the baggage. His stomach got queasy just thinking about the greasy mess Marcus had served to them yesterday. All the guys had grumbled.
Might as well try his hand at cooking. He could fry up some corn along with fish, and then wash down the whole thing with the rough wine that would have to do in place of coffee. Just thinking about coffee made his mouth water.
He’d have to get used to doing without a lot of things, but for how long? As usual, he had no idea. If he were lucky, he’d be yanked out of here before the legion started the bloodbath at Mona. He didn’t need more nightmares.
CHAPTER 39
Bryanna Vernemeton, April 14, A.D. 61
* * *
Bryanna reminded herself to relax. If Mabon thought he was distressing her, he would only harry her more. Anger was not the way through this thicket of words he was attempting to weave about her, but she couldn’t help the brief spurt of irritation that ran through her. How dared he talk so to the foster daughter of the Archdruid and one of the few to whom the ancient wisdom had been vouchsafed!
But Mabon was clever and ambitious. It would be unwise to stir his suspicion. She must conceal her real thoughts and discover his game.
“You and I should work together for the good of the Keltoi,” continued Mabon. “We both believe in cooperation with the Romans.”
“I would hope that we work for the same things: for peace in Britain and an end to the suffering of the Keltoi.”
Mabon waved a hand impatiently as he said, “A time of great trouble is coming. Even now, I fear that this place is not safe.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“After the sacrifice, come with me to Ireland. The Romans will not go there.”
How could he be so sure? But she felt the truth of his words. Then why did she distrust him so?
“No, Mabon. I must stay here.”
“You are still young. Do you know what the Romans do to young, beautiful women? Particularly after …” Mabon stopped, biting his lips.
He was concealing something. “After what, Mabon? Do you have knowledge of something which I do not?”
“My oracles,” he said, “warn me of terrible things to come.”
“Like corpses on the beach and a blood-red tide?”
Mabon expelled a sudden breath. “Do not jest, Bryanna. A bloody holocaust is about to fall upon us.”
“You talk in riddles, Mabon. Speak plainly.”
The Druid fingered his luxuriant mustache. “I only wish to have your cooperation. Of late, I have wondered whether you have somewhat against me. And Bran seems different, not himself.”
“You are right, Mabon. Bran is not himself. He has been fasting rigorously. I have suggested that he conserve his strength by staying in seclusion until the ceremony.” That would give her time to make her preparations.
Mabon nodded, not satisfied with her explanation, she could see, but accepting it for the moment.
“I have a question,” he said, his air of humility sitting strangely upon him. “I know that your foster father, the Archdruid, entrusted you with much knowledge. I would learn this from you, Bryanna, so that it be preserved for the future.”
So that was what he wanted! He did not care what happened to her personally, only that he learn what she knew. But she would never allow that knowledge to fall into the hands of such a one as he, a black Druid who sought personal power. Never! He had not the wisdom to deal with it.
“I cannot grant your request, Mabon. I made a vow never to reveal these secrets to any except one of my lineage, and then only if I thought that one worthy.”
“You do not think me worthy.”
“You are not of my lineage.”
“And Bran is. Think again on this matter, Bryanna. You still have time to change your mind.”
The name of her son hung between them like a sword. Mabon smiled, his smile the grin of a vulture. She scarcely noticed his departure. One thought was running through her head with the insistence of a drumbeat: Bran had to leave immediately. If Mabon discovered Bran’s refusal to be sacrificed, he would not hesitate to denounce him and place on him the glam dicon, a curse that would render the boy helpless and isolated from the rest of the tribe. Many had died from the sheer terror and shame of being ostracized by their fellow tribesmen.
She drew out her bronze mirror from the bag hidden in her robes and stared at her reflection until it began to waver and reform into murky images.
Enough! Over and over the images had said the same thing: Bran had to leave. His future and that of the world to come depended upon it. Replacing the mirror in her bag, she began walking toward the place where she knew Bran had gone.
CHAPTER 40
Bran–Jason Kramer Vernemeton, April 14, A.D. 61
* * *
“C’mon, girl. You’re going to love this nice piece of grass I picked especially for you.”
The mare pricked her ears forward, refusing to come any closer. She was smaller than any horse he’d ever ridden, but she’d do just fine. If she was strong enough to carry a big guy like Kunagnos, she shouldn’t have any problems carrying him. All he had to do was catch her. He’d been standing there for at least five minutes trying to persuade the dumb animal to come over to the fence.
“Try this,” said a voice from behind him.
A low whistle and the mare trotted up like a pet dog and nuzzled Bryanna, who began stroking her.
Oh, no, the one person he didn’t want to see—apart from Mabon, that is. That guy gave him the creeps. Now how was he going to get away from here?
“Bran, you must leave here tonight,” said Bryanna, turning and looking him full in the face.
His jaw must have hung open a mile because she asked, “Have you not guessed it?”
He managed to croak, “Uh, no.” More confidently he added, “I wasn’t thrilled about the thought of being sacrificed.”
“I think we should talk about this elsewhere,”
said Bryanna.
He followed her into the dim coolness of the grove. Putting a hand on his shoulder and another one on his cheek, she looked lovingly at him. Embarrassed, J.J. could feel tears coming into his eyes. It had been so long since he’d seen his own mother, and right now he missed her fiercely. He’d always been able to talk to her about most anything.
Bryanna stepped back. “You have conducted yourself well. I am proud of you. But now it is time for you to leave. You will go to Ireland, to the Druids, where you will continue your studies in the ancient wisdom.”
Hold it. Back up. “Ireland?”
“You will be safe there. The Romans will not cross the sea.”
“But I thought …”
Disappointment was so strong he could have cried.
“Soon, Bran. Soon you will go to your home in the future, but not until you do this one thing. You must escape to Ireland.”
“I thought you wanted me to be sacrificed!”
Bryanna sighed and pushed back her heavy fair hair. “How can I speak to you in so short a time of everything that you must know? Understand this one thing: I have never wanted Bran’s death. The Keltoi misunderstand the true nature of sacrifice, which is meant to be an offering up of the human vessel in a purely symbolic sense.
“However, this offering is very real, for it entails a refocusing of one’s entire being so that the mean, the petty, and the impure are burned away. He becomes balanced and able to live in harmony with the universe. That is the true sacrifice.”
“I thought all Druids believed in blood offerings.”
Bryanna shook her head sadly. “Some do,” she admitted.
“Like Mabon?”
“Yes, like Mabon. He has a different vision, which he would impose upon others—for their own good, he thinks. I see a world where the Keltoi are left free to make their own choices, where they may choose the left-hand path or the right-hand path. Choices that are made for men and women will only shrivel their souls. If a quickening of the human race is to occur, many and varied opportunities must be available for individuals to choose their own fates.”
“Then why do you wish to hand us over to the Romans?” cried Devonna, coming out from behind a massive oak. “I make no apology for listening to your conversation,” she said proudly with her head raised high. “What touches Bran, touches me for I, too, am to be sacrificed.”
At his look of horror, she explained, “At Beltane a May Queen is chosen. As in the olden days, I am to be mated to the god into whose arms I will fall when my spirit leaves my body.”
He could only look at her numbly. This gorgeous girl was going to be killed on the off chance that her sacrifice would stop the Roman tide. There was zero chance of that happening! Meantime, she’d be dead.
Bryanna seized upon Devonna’s question and argued, “Child, at this time, we must cooperate with the Romans. They are too strong for us to fight. To do otherwise is to crush ourselves against their might.”
“But why, why do the gods allow it? What have we done wrong?”
Bryanna took the sobbing girl into her arms. “You ask me to explain the reasons for pain and suffering. I believe we create it, all of us: Roman, Keltoi, and those who live in faraway lands. We are like greedy children who desire all that the senses can produce.
“We are meant to enjoy this world, but we must not forget that there is a higher purpose to this earthly existence. All humans, not just the tribes of Britain, are passing through stages of growth. As with children, growth is an uneven, sometimes difficult process, but it cannot be stopped—delayed, yes—but not stopped. We proceed towards the maturity of all the peoples of the world, for all are connected. Sometimes the route is painful.
“The Romans have come, all unknowingly, to jolt us out of our complacency, to show us different ways of behaving, to bring us new ideas. In turn, others will challenge them. Do not fret, Devonna. Matters proceed as they must.”
Pulling away from Bryanna, the girl defiantly lifted her tearstained face and said, “And I must do what I must.”
“You can’t let them kill you!” J.J. blurted out.
Devonna was silent.
Bryanna asked her pointedly, “What is it that you wish to do?”
“It is an honor to be chosen the May Queen,” said Devonna in a low voice, “and I would gladly die if …”
She faltered. Bryanna asked gently, “And if the gods are not pleased by human sacrifice?”
“Mabon …” said Devonna hesitantly.
“That old fart!” cried J.J. They didn’t understand the word, but they sure got the message. The beginnings of a grin touched Devonna’s lips. He felt an enormous relief. She wasn’t totally brainwashed yet. Maybe he could persuade her not to go through with the sacrifice.
“Look, I don’t know much about your customs, but it doesn’t seem right to sacrifice a really nice girl like you. I mean, if the old fart”—J.J. said the word again, just to see Devonna’s dimples when she smiled—“wants to sacrifice someone, why doesn’t he get down there on the altar?”
“Devonna,” said Bryanna, “you really can choose whether or not you would do this thing. After my long years of study, I am of the opinion that the One God takes no pleasure in the blood of sacrificial victims. Look around you. What do you see but life springing up everywhere in the natural world. Why would you interrupt that same life force flowing through you? That power is sacred. Cherish it.”
Devonna looked at both of them, then lifted her chin and asked Bryanna challengingly, “How can I choose between your words and those of Mabon’s? He tells me that the gods will be pleased with the sacrifice of my life. You tell me that this is not so, and you counsel Bran to forsake his duty also.”
“I could tell you,” said Bryanna in a voice that radiated power and sent a rush of energy down J.J.’s spine, “how the Archdruid taught me how to remember the old wisdom and access memories of the far past. I have been teaching Bran how to do this. Very few of us are left who can do the remembering. So you see why it is so important that you and Bran leave this place. You both have much to do in this lifetime.”
“What have I to do with it?” asked Devonna in a high, strained voice.
“Your womb shall bring forth those who have chosen to remember, those who will teach others to remember also. For this you were born, Devonna.”
“You mean we’re getting married?” asked J.J.
It was a dazzling thought.
“Not if you linger here overlong,” said Bryanna. Turning to Devonna, she asked, “What is your decision in this matter?”
Devonna came over to him and took his hand. Bran was one lucky guy!
“I have had doubts about the sacrifices to be made, but I had to be sure,” she said, looking up at him. “I will go wherever you wish.”
“When you reach Ireland, Bran—the real Bran—will be returned to you,” said Bryanna. “I shall give you some food and coins, which you can hide in your garments. No one must know that you are setting out on a journey. When the moon is up, you must leave. Much trouble is coming to this place. Now go and rest. I shall speak to you later before you go.”
J.J. turned to Bryanna and asked, “Aren’t you coming with us?”
She shook her head. “I have much to do here,” she said.
Feeling suddenly shy, J.J. nodded. Then looking at Devonna, his fears fell away. He’d get her safely to Ireland, but he hoped it wouldn’t be too soon. She was one gutsy girl; he wanted to get to know her a lot better.
CHAPTER 41
Bran–Jason Kramer Near the Welsh border, April 17, A.D. 61
* * *
Dusty and sore from riding without stirrups or proper saddles on the horses that Bryanna had given them, Devonna and he traveled by night and hid out during the day.
Following the trade routes controlled by the Druids, sometimes they were able to stay at one of the Druid sanctuaries that lined the route. The mention of Bryanna’s name was all that was needed to ensure lavish ho
spitality, more lavish than he would have liked.
One night, after traveling for several hours, they came upon a sanctuary where a group of young Celts, dressed in tunics and brightly colored cloaks and wearing masses of gold jewelry, invited him and Devonna to eat with them. The men sported weird hairstyles, looking something like lions’ manes, stiffened and bleached by lime.
Sitting down, he received a nasty shock when he noticed the table’s centerpiece, a man’s head embalmed in some sort of oil. The guy sitting opposite him gave him all the grisly details of how he had killed the man during a raid, even standing up and pulling down his trousers to show him the long jagged scar on his thigh where the warrior had wounded him during the fight.
Just when he was getting to really like these people, he’d find out something that his 20th-century mind balked at. Delving into Bran’s subconscious, he discovered that the human head held an important religious significance: it was thought to be the symbol of divinity, a place where the soul lived. To preserve the head was a mark of profound respect.
It turned out to be quite a party! He pigged out on some pork dishes and barley cakes and drank a little too much of the booze—an expensive wine from Gaul, he was told—poured out of bronze jugs decorated with animal heads. Usually, he didn’t drink. A few times he had sneaked a beer or two with the guys. Back home in Canada, where the drinking age was 18 years old, he wouldn’t be legally old enough to drink for another two years. But here at his age, you were a man and expected to fight and drink with the best of them.
You had to be careful about refusing the food and wine offered to you. Fights broke out over the silliest arguments. These guys were really touchy, especially about anything concerning their honor. When the fight was over, though, the guys would good-naturedly patch up their wounds and carry on with the singing or whatever. So he’d been real polite to his hosts and hostesses.
