“We’ll need a driver for each of the chariots and a fighter who can use a bow or javelin. He can take a sword and shield for close work too. That should do for the chariots. The cavalry can keep their chain mail and their personal choice of weapons. Also, Tristan, we’ll hand-pick the men we’re taking from volunteers. Only choose those who’ve done well in previous battles. So go and find me some warriors who want to taste more Roman blood. Now, give me that meat...”
A short while later, there had been many warriors who wanted to go but the men chosen were the hardest. They spoke very little and then only with determination. They’d lost both family and friends to the Romans and now stared forwards with cold eyes and hardened hearts. They’d decided not to take their helmets, but had rinsed a lime wash in their hair to shock the enemy. They covered themselves with blue woad, for magical protection and to act as an ointment if they were injured. The heads of enemies killed previously were tied in place around the horses’ tack.
Shosterax rode over to them on a grey mare.
“We shall leave by driving out right through our own camp,” said Gwydion. “That should help in building up the tribe’s fighting spirit. And we’ll do the same when we come back as well.”
The ponies and horses had sensed the general underlying panic and became more relaxed as they left the camp behind them. Their breath steamed as it hit the cold sharp air of the morning, and their hooves set into a steady trot, taking the chariots away from the camp.
Gwydion shouted at Shosterax and his comrades.
“If we live through this undertaking, it will indeed become a tale for us to tell our grandchildren around the campfire. Let us all remember both to please and honour our gods with our deeds, and if we die then we shall all meet again in the Otherworld, the Tir Na Gog land of perpetual youth.”
Later that evening as it was starting to get dark, Gwydion motioned to his troop to stop and he pulled the unit into a copse of trees overlooking the track.
“Tristan, make sure the men are told to keep out of sight of the track,” he said. “Post guards and issue orders that the men can eat and drink only after the horses and ponies have been looked after. No fires are to be lit and all signs of our tracks are to be hidden. The druid has told me that we shall contact the enemy early tomorrow. Let me know when everything’s ready, then I’ll brief the men...”
But his second-in-command suddenly motioned to him that a rider was coming in from behind them. The Celts quickly spread into a large semicircle and hid themselves from sight, leaving just a few people and the chariots in view. A pale horse rode into sight and then without hesitating rode straight into the camp. The rider had no shield or spear but was wearing a long grey cloak and was armed only with a sword. Dismounting quickly, the rider undid a headscarf and dark red hair cascaded down around her shoulders.
“Brother, where are you?”
“Brona, what are you doing here?” said Gwydion. “You shouldn’t have left the tribe. Do you think this is some childish game you’re going to join us in?”
The girl was fourteen years old and very determined. She was tall, her angular facial features and her brown eyes making her quite pretty. She shouted at her brother.
“I’m of an age, I’m not a child, and I won’t go back to the camp. You have no healers with you and that’s what I am. You’ll need me!”
“I don’t need you here, Brona, but I can’t spare anybody to take you back! I have no time for this now, so just see to your horse’s needs and be quiet.”
Later that evening, Gwydion called everybody together and spoke quietly to them.
“First - noise carries a long way at night, so don’t talk. Second - at daybreak we expect a small Roman unit to pass by here. Our comrades, if they’re alive, will be their prisoners. Our job is to rescue them. And it’s very important that we capture some Romans alive to take back for the druids to interrogate.
“All right, Brona. Your job is to go right to the top of that hill overlooking the track. There you’ll be able to see the enemy coming. You will let them go past. Then you’ll see me beginning my attack. Your job then is to signal Tristan by reflecting the sun off your dagger. The sun should be bright enough for that. You’ll be above the level of the ground mist, so keep yourself and your horse hidden. Do not argue or speak another word, just go and do it.”
“Of course I will, brother,” said Brona, feeling very smug with herself for outsmarting her brother and being allowed to stay.
“Tristan,” continued Gwydion, “you will be leading the chariots with ten cavalry. When you see the enemy, you will appear on the hill just above the track so as to block it. Act as if you are going to engage them and make them believe there are a lot more of you. The druid is going to raise a mist to blind them. When you receive the signal from Brona that we’re beginning our attack, that’s the time you must charge and attack them. Do this on your left side of the track. At the same time, we’ll also attack behind them from out of the mist. Our charge will be on our left side of the track. This should help us spin them round and break up any defensive formation they try to make.”
Gwydion took a few long breaths before continuing to speak.
“The druid’s actions in this will be crucial.”
Everybody then looked around for the druid Shosterax. They saw him standing a little way from them in a copse of trees. He had his back against a large birch tree and was gazing into the distance as though in a sort of trance. They knew that the druids could draw energy from the trees in this way, and they noticed he was now wearing a short sword and holding a staff.
“Everyone, please try to keep an eye on him to see that he doesn’t get hurt. Let us honour the gods with what we do tomorrow. Now, sleep while you can, for you will need all your wits if you are to see the day after.”
Gwydion then turned away and walked into the wood to quieten his mind and gather his thoughts for the coming morning. Some of the men laughed at the thought of keeping Romans alive, but the druid had spoken of the need for it so they would do it. A light guard was put on watch around the camp as they tried to get some sleep, but not many of them managed to rest that night.
Tristan walked over to Gwydion and said, “I might not be able to see Brona’s signal. So how long do I wait, until I’m sure...?”
“You should be able to see her signal, but in any case watch for the Romans, listen for us and use your own judgment. I’ve sent Brona up the hill to keep her out of the way. I couldn’t go home and face our mother if she was killed here.”
Tibullus reined in his horse and looked back at the muddy track. It had been raining for several days and the ground was sodden. This was causing the wagon to slide slightly on the uneven ground.
The sixty prisoners were chained in two lines behind the wagon. They were exhausted and staggering along in the mud with chains linking them by their necks to the wagon. Guarding them was a mixed force of six cavalry and thirty legionaries serving with the Fourteenth Augusta Gemina Legion.
It had been dark when they had left their last campsite. The junior centurion Catullus was leading this sorry bunch of captured Celts to Lindum, to be enslaved in the service of Rome as some repayment for the insult of their rebellion.
“Optio, what are you doing?” shouted Catullus.
Optio Tibullus turned his mare and galloped up to Catullus.
“Sir, the track ahead is narrowing and I’m sending some scouts forward to check that the way’s clear.”
“Don’t waste the men’s time with that,” Catullus laughed. “There are no more of the enemy left - we must have killed them all. We slaughtered over eighty thousand. So much blood was spilled the grass turned red, even if that bitch Boudicca did escape us.” He turned his head to one side and spat on the ground, just as the wagon pulling the captured Celts went past.
“Tibullus, I commend you
for your diligence, but our cavalry has swept this area recently. The local tribes have all sworn their allegiance to Rome. The rebellion’s over. All that remains is to mop up a few pockets of resistance and then we’ll exact the due tribute. That will be very large, and I can see us all getting rich.
“And there’ll be a famine next year since they chose to go to war instead of planting crops. Their stupidity means there’ll be no harvest and no food and the Celts will be left to starve. Well, I say let them all starve!”
The two men rode on in silence for a few minutes, their thoughts going back to the recent successful battle. But then suddenly Optio Tibullus reined in his mare.
“Sir, this mist has appeared all of sudden, hasn’t it? I don’t remember it raining last night but I can’t see further than a quarter of a mile now. The mist is getting thicker - isn’t it a bit late in the morning for that?”
“Gods, you’re right, Optio. And look over there - there’s something glinting in the trees up ahead.”
“Celtic chariots and cavalry, sir,” came a shout from up ahead.
Catullus barked out his orders.
“Stop the wagon on the right by the woods. Place the legionaries on the left of it, a double line deep across the track and prepare to receive cavalry on our left flank.” The legionaries struggled to follow the orders, stripping the wrappings from their shields and readying their spears. Then they quickly formed a solid line from the wagon across the track. In the thickening mist they heard the unnerving shrieks of the Celtic cavalry force echoing around them.
One of the legionaries was Titus. An ex-gladiator, he was thirty years old and of heavy build.
“They’re slow in attacking us,” he remarked, “and they’ve given us time to form up. Why?”
“MAKE SOME NOISE!” shouted out Optio Tibullus.
The entire unit clattered their spears against their shields and screamed as loud as they could, hoping to unsettle the Celtic steeds. But then everything seemed to happen at once. The Celtic chariots and cavalry drove straight at them from out of the mist; at the very last moment they skilfully wheeled away, some to the left and a few to the right, then turned to drive back into the mist. Archers in the chariots fired a volley of arrows that rained fiercely into the shields of the Romans. One arrow had scored the face of a soldier and he was bleeding heavily.
Catullus was riding just behind the Roman line, giving encouraging commands to his infantry.
“On their next charge throw one spear at their horses,” he shouted.
But then the Romans could hear the heavy sound of cavalry coming from all around them. Gwydion and the war band were arriving out of the mist from behind the Romans and were charging down the track into their backs.
Optio Tibullus shouted: “ALL CAVALRY TO ME!” He gathered the small Roman cavalry unit together and lined up his men to meet the oncoming Celts. But as they appeared from out of the swirling mist he recognised that they were heavily outnumbered. There was no option. He ordered the entire mounted legionary to follow him and charged straight into the oncoming Celtic cavalry.
Brona’s hands were sweating as she flicked the polished blade of the knife against the morning sun. After signalling Tristan, she had continued watching from the hilltop. She could hear the pounding of the horses’ hooves as the Celts punched their way out of the mist. Gwydion was leading the cavalry in two lines, charging straight down the track towards the Romans. Brona could see the battle clearly as her brother’s men easily surrounded and then destroyed the small Roman cavalry unit. Then they reformed and swept down the track, onwards towards the Roman infantry. She felt sick now at the reality of what was happening around her, and knew that she should not have come here after all.
Catullus looked around and recognised the danger they were in. He began shouting more orders.
“Every second man will take two steps back and form a back line. We’re going to abandon the wagon and prisoners, cross this track and escape by withdrawing through the woods.”
Shosterax watched as the Romans made a wedge formation and started to move towards the forest where he was standing. The druid smiled and concentrated his mind into the woods to ask the spirits of the trees for their aid. He raised his staff and pointed it towards the Romans. Fear and confusion entered their minds, causing them to panic. Catullus was thrown from his horse and the Roman troops broke their formation as every man tried to escape.
Tristan rode through the now broken enemy formation with his force of chariots and cavalry. Archers in the chariots fired into the Roman infantry as they ran for the cover of the woods. Then Gwydion and the cavalry arrived and the full force of their charge duly hammered into the other flank of the panicking Romans. The Celts rode through them, turning and riding back through them again, cutting them to pieces.
After the battle, Gwydion rode over to where his men were collecting together.
“Over here, Gwydion,” called Tristan.
“How many men have we rescued? And have you got me any prisoners to take back for the druids?” asked Gwydion.
“We’ve rescued many. Some of them are from the Rensubids tribe. They’re being freed from their chain and shackles now. And yes, I’ve got two Roman prisoners for you. One is tied up over by the wagon. The other one’s over here.”
They walked over to where the some of the Roman dead were lying. A soldier at their feet was unconscious and bleeding from a deep gash in his head. Tristan lifted the head of one of the Romans with his foot. The eyelid flickered and he moaned slightly, some blood running down from his head and dripping onto Tristan’s boot. The Celt took his foot away, letting the head fall back sharply onto the ground. Taking a step back, he wiped his foot on a nearby tuft of grass.
“This one here looks like he might be a cavalry officer. He was found trapped under his horse. The horse was dead so we had some trouble pulling him out, but he’ll die soon too if he doesn’t receive healing.”
“Are you sure he’s alive?”
“Yes, I think so. Most of that blood was from the horse.”
“Brona! Where are you?” shouted Gwydion. “Come here, I have an urgent patient for you. I must have this man treated.”
“I’m coming, brother,” she called back. She’d been busy treating Celts who had been only slightly hurt in the battle. “Where’s the injured man?” She walked towards them desperately trying to control herself, feeling sick at the sight of so much blood around her on the battlefield. Gwydion pointed towards the Roman.
“I need this man’s wounds cared for. It’s very important that he lives.”
But Brona looked down at the injured Roman and screamed at her brother.
“Kill him! He and his kind are responsible for all this. I will not treat him! Slit his throat. Then it will be one less Roman for us all to worry about. Anyway, our own people need my help.” She turned her back on them and began walking away.
“Brona...,” a voice called softly. She turned and looked directly into the eyes of Shosterax the druid. “Brona, put your worries to one side,” he continued. “The tribe needs this man alive for the information he may have. It would be the greatest help to the tribe if you would treat him. Please will you do this, as a favour to me?”
The druid’s voice seemed so smooth and echoed around inside her head, calming her mind and dulling her anger, pushing her objections swiftly to one side. Suddenly the druid’s thoughts became the only view that was important to her.
“Brother,” she said, “you must get some of your men to get that armour off him and then lift him into the wagon for me. But first I’d better tend to that head wound...” She began quietly to speak an invocation to Sulis, goddess of healing, while Gwydion motioned with his hand to a group of warriors to do as she had asked.
“Tristan,” he said, “tell the tribesmen from the Rensubids that they are welcome t
o join us as our honoured guests. The hospitality of our homes is theirs.”
“The gods have indeed been good to us,” said Tristan. “But look at the sky now, it’s turning grey and darkening fast. You can feel the breeze growing. Do you see? Taranis is piling one dark cloud up on top of another. I’m sure he’s making a storm.”
“We must move from here as soon as possible,” agreed Gwydion. “I’m looking forward to getting some rest and us all seeing our families again.”
Rescue
When you offer help to friends in difficulty, be prepared for your own life to change as well as theirs.
It was still dark as Sirarch stopped walking and carefully studied the path into the woods before him. From here it split into two and he felt unsettled as something did not feel quite right about this night; the correct choice of the way was always important.
He quietened his mind and concentrated for a moment as he asked himself which of the two paths offered him the safest journey. Picking the narrower and less trodden, he walked into the woods, thinking to himself, “It’s going to be at least another night’s journey before I can find my way to the shrine...”
Suddenly all the noise in the woods was stilled, except for the hooting of an owl as it fluttered into the sky as though a predator had disturbed it. Sirarch drew himself into the shadows of some nearby trees. His clothing began to take on the colours and hues of the forest. He slowed his breathing and, pulling his sword from its scabbard, he quietly waited.
Then he began to hear a soft, light rustling noise like wind blowing through the leaves in the high branches of the trees - except there was no wind at all that night. As he listened to the rustling he realised it was his own name being called.
“Sirarch, we need you, quickly, come help us!”
He slid the sword back into the scabbard and set off at a slow trot, heading deeper into the woods as he hastened towards the origin of the message. Later that night he ran down a trail and entered a clearing in the forest where, in the shadows of the trees, two dryads were waiting to greet him.
Pathways of the Druids Page 3
