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

  Keven walked around his forge, tidying things. It seemed to be Keven’s version of a nervous twitch.

  “Is the work to be kept secret?”

  Calach easily saw through the blacksmith’s veiled reference to possible interference from Ranald and his associates.

  “I don’t need you to hide what you do.” Calach said in a persuasive tone. “Just don’t go around shouting about it.”

  The burly thick-set man seemed to relax slightly, Calach wondered if he was nervous about his part of the agreement. Perhaps, since Calach had affirmed that there was no clandestine part to the arrangement, the blacksmith would now agree.

  Keven removed his leather tabard and discarded it in one of the dark corners of his workshop.

  “How many swords do you need?”

  Calach was instantly elated, a smile beaming back at the blacksmith.

  “As many as you can make. No number. Just work every day making swords until I tell you to stop.”

  The smith’s perplexed look changed to one of disbelief.

  “I’ll run out o’ iron within a few days, I can make a lot of swords!”

  “You won’t run out o’ iron.” Calach said with calm assurance. I’ll see to it that you get a’ the scrap iron you need to keep you busy.”

  Calach lifted a short sword from the rack next to the wall. “How long to make a sword like this?”

  “I can make more than one each day.”

  Calach did the calculation. “I need more. I need you to work harder.”

  “You ask a lot for a man who’s not shown me any payment so far.”

  Calach fumbled in his pocket, then threw a small pouch to the blacksmith who, for his bulk, caught it deftly. The young Caledon warrior knew that there was more coin in the bag than the blacksmith had seen in his lifetime. “There’s your first payment. You’ll receive the next around the longest day.” He watched the man’s eyes open wide. “Well, are you in my employ?”

  “I’ll need storage for the swords; they’ll soon begin to take up room.”

  Calach smiled, his assignment in Atoll almost at a close. “Don’t worry about storing the swords. Just make sure they’re oiled well, and wrap them up well in oiled linen, they’ll be stored elsewhere. I’ll see to it that a cart comes to take them away every moon or so.”

  Calach watched the face of the smith, then he extended his hand.

  “Well master smith, do we have a bargain?”

  “Aye, we do, Lord Calach.”

  Although he winced at the grip on his hand, he passed the pain off as a small price to pay. “The first consignment o’ iron will arrive within the next few days.”

  “I’ll look out for it.”

  “When it arrives, you’ll smelt it as soon as you can, an’ keep nothing in its original form.”

  “Why?” Keven’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Some will arrive in the form o’ captured goods.” Calach turned to leave the smithy. “If we go to war, I don’t want any reprisals if the Romans find their booty here.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “You can keep any bronze or copper you find. But any iron must be made into swords.”

  Keven smiled, realizing the source of the metal.

  “If I get enough copper or bronze, I’ll work it into the handles for you. You’ll get the best swords in the Norlands!”

  “That’s why I came to you Keven.”

  He turned and left.

  The Pause

  81AD

  As the Roman legion worked on the wall, in the land to the south, the soldiers erected stone, timber and earth buildings. The men needed quarters that would withstand a northern winter. They needed barracks, temples, storehouses, latrines, and baths. Such was the trappings of Empire, and they had done it so often, it barely needed design.

  And yet it was planned to the smallest detail. Growing round the nucleus of the roman fort and spreading south behind the wall, were family dwellings, administration buildings, trading areas, markets, taverns and whorehouses. All were the normal consequence of army life in the far bastions of the Roman Empire.

  The logistics of keeping twenty thousand men gainfully occupied over a winter season was no easy task, but the legions had done it for years. Besides the constant work on the wall, the officers promoted games within a regiment, and competition between them. Wrestling, swordplay and the testing of skill with projectile weapons were encouraged, and although there was no lack of wine and ale, drunkenness was not tolerated.

  Amidst a reinforcement of a thousand men, Agricola’s family arrived; his wife and young daughters. Life at the frontier held little surprises for any of them; Agricola had been a soldier for fifteen years.

  As the winter began, Agricola spent time on the ramparts, looking north over the snow-dusted hills. His victories in the first year had been easy; almost too easy. And there were now stories of a new chief, rumors of one man who led the remaining horde. It would indeed be a long winter.

  ~ ~ ~

  Far to the west, Wesson stood on the earthen parapets of his most easterly fortress. On the high moor, the dark colors of the Roman delegation against the snow were almost an invasion of their own.

  “They’ve more men than I can imagine, yet they send a small force to parley? A handful.” Colin said, looking out to the small Roman group. Men worked steadily with poles and ropes.

  Wesson’s cousin seemed nervous, almost on the edge of flight. Colin had been the ‘chief’s second’ for only one moon and Wesson still wondered if he had made the right choice. “The Roman translator speaks perfect Norlands.”

  In front of the walls of the Novantae fort, a dozen roman soldiers efficiently erected a large white tent.

  “Is the translator a native?” Wesson asked.

  “No, cousin, but he has the trappings o’ Rome, an’ his fingers are not tattooed. He’s not one of us.”

  For three moons as winter descended, the Romans had been building their dyke in the north. For three moons, Novantae warriors had been at readiness to repel the invaders from their lands. But no such attack had come. When the Romans had invaded Selgove lands, the blossom had not even been on the apple trees. Now the same blossom had been and gone and the fruits harvested. Wesson had sanctioned every action to strengthen his forts and villages, Novantae warriors had been under a constant guard for nearly a season, and still the attack had not come. From the north, his scouts had brought back reports about the invaders’ progress on their wall.

  With the announcement of their new leader Wesson, however, there was an optimism of hope, of some semblance of stability within the clan. Wesson knew it would take time; his brother Neall had broken the will of his clan. It was Wesson’s job to undo everything his brother had done in his ten years of rule.

  Then the Roman delegation had come, throwing the whole district into chaos.

  Colin hunched his woolen cloak into his chin against the cold. “They have to parley, they canna’ commit to campaign in the winter. It’s no’ possible.”

  “So they come in friendship; ready to bargain, ready to parley for peace. It doesn’t sound right to me.”

  “Or they come to broker peace ‘til next year when the snow retreats.”

  When the tent was erected, and the ropes pulled tight against the wind, a lone figure approached the town wall. His sandals crunched the virgin snow. He looked up against the silhouetted men on the rampart. “I seek Wesson, the chief.”

  His accent held a trace of accent, but his words were perfectly understandable.

  “I am Wesson.” He leant over the wooden spiked wall. “I am chief o’ these lands.”

  “We would talk; bring two men with you, no more.”

  The roman retraced his steps to the tent, there was a flash of a fire inside, then he was gone from view.

  “We should go.” Colin fussed.

  “Let him wait for a moment.” Wesson scratched his bearded chin. “Fetch Brach; tell him he’s to be on his best behavio
r. Then tell him to meet me at the gate.”

  “Aye, Wesson.”

  Brach was the clan’s biggest warrior, a good head taller than Wesson.

  Regardless of the thousand warriors inside the fort behind him, Wesson felt extremely vulnerable as they walked over the open ground towards the tent.

  ~ ~ ~

  The large embroidered tent screens parted and the three man delegation walked into the large camp pavilion. The Roman leader in the center was dressed in white robes, brightly polished gold chest plate and he carried his helmet under one arm. His dark hair was cropped very short, and seemed to be stuck to his head rather than growing on it. His features were obviously foreign; his face thin, aquiline and clean shaven, his nose large. Wesson noted that he carried no weapon. Behind the leader were two men, one robed in red, and the translator who had asked for Wesson at the wall. Beside the cleanliness of the Roman and his party, Wesson immediately considered himself dirty, and he did not get that feeling often.

  The Roman spoke, strange sounding words, his tone polished and precise.

  As the translator provided the Norland words, Wesson wondered where he had got his training, the man spoke in perfect diction, although the accent was strange, almost unworldly.

  “Chief Wesson, we come to you with arms outstretched in friendship…”

  “There was no friendship shown to the Selgove.” Wesson interrupted. The words were out of his mouth before he knew.

  The translator paused for a moment before continuing, his look disapproving and aloof. “They did not accept our terms. They were given the same terms that we will give to you.”

  “An’ if I do not accept.” Wesson said quickly, already becoming tired with the protocol. “Will the Novantae receive the same fate?”

  The translator waited his instructions. “We come with peaceful intentions. Although we come into this part of Britannia unbidden, we desire only peace and a quick and beneficial truce between our two great nations.”

  “An’ what are your terms?” Colin barked, his place temporarily forgotten. His eyes pleaded an immediate apology from Wesson.

  The translator smirked, which made Wesson irritable on many levels. “Forgive my cousin, he is impetuous, and will be punished for it.”

  The translator smiled again. Wesson already hated him. His lips held a continual sneer, and bespoke confidence and superiority, with obvious contempt.

  “Our terms,” The translator paused, looking round the tent, “are simple.”

  He unrolled a length of thin hide, from between two small beaded wooden poles.

  “I bring you a message from the Roman god on earth; from the Emperor in Rome itself.”

  His eyes read from the inscription on the hide.

  “Our Emperor Domitian wishes that all who promise to follow the rules of Rome will be treated with equality and incorporated into their society and civilization. He also promises the protection of Rome and all other advantages of such incorporation. Rome will defend every sovereign nation against the enemies of Rome.”

  As the translator rolled up the scroll, Wesson’s thoughts flooded through his mind; was this the chance he was looking for? Was this his chance of revenge against Ma’damar and his Meatae lot?

  “You will defend this land against foreign invasion?”

  “In this treaty, Rome accepts that you are within its boundaries.” The translator said. “Your lands become part of Rome. We will assist you to defend all of your territories against all aggressors.”

  Determined to take a position of power in the negotiation, Wesson shook his head. “The Novantae will not accede to the demands from the Roman Emperor.”

  There was a silence in the tent. The fluttering of a loose part of the hide seemed louder than anything that Wesson knew. He bided his time, waited until the silence was almost overpowering. With as much grace as he could muster, Wesson stood upright, his words swallowed immediately by the fabric of the tent.

  “The Damon will not accede in full to these demands.” He could see the translator pale further. “We will work together with the Roman people, but only on one condition.”

  Wesson waited until the translator had finished.

  “We want autonomy over every troop movement in Novant lands.”

  Wesson waited as the words were translated.

  “These are Novantae lands!” he said firmly. “We will still have Novantae lands!”

  Only the sound of the wind outside answered his demand.

  The Roman in white nodded his head. “Agreed!” The translator smiled again. “But there are conditions.”

  Wesson fidgeted on the huge chair. “Roman counter conditions to Novantae conditions?”

  “Yes, but only one.” The translator continued. “You will agree to raise no arms to aid the rebels in the north.”

  “Pah!” Wesson said swiftly. “Done! Ma’damar can rot in hell for me.”

  “And you will agree to allow the single warriors amongst your men to volunteer to join our army overseas.”

  Wesson considered this a pittance against the alternative of war; the terms offered by the Romans seemed reasonable.

  He did not intend to add his warriors to the hordes massing in the highlands, and in such a vulnerable situation; with an invading army on his doorstep, and with no heir to his chiefdom, he would not have any objection to warriors volunteering for duties far away from Novant lands.

  “We agree.” Wesson said without much contemplation.

  He turned to leave, and walked back to the gates of the fort.

  Colin looked flustered in his wake. “You agreed to capitulate?”

  Wesson laughed. “Conditions met here and now, to get a peaceful winter, are easily broken in the thaws of spring. For the moment, we will accede to the Roman’s rule. Later, I will decide what is best for me and my people.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The trip across the sea was rough, but not inhospitable, Wesson’s galley was as comfortable as Uwan expected, but the landing on the foreign beach proved cold and unforgiving.

  With no boats to welcome them, Uwan stripped his robe and rolling it around his staff, jumped naked into the water. It immediately came up to his shoulders. He heard Winnie’s curse behind him. She was a good head shorter, and had decided not to strip all her clothing, despite the encouragement of the crew. Uwan looked back. She half swam, half bobbed after him.

  Behind them, rowers were already in reverse stroke, taking the vessel quickly off the silver sand.

  Holding his bag and robe above his head, Uwan achieved balance in the moving water, then reaching back for Winnie’s hand, began to walk to the shore. He stumbled twice, but did not slip under the water. As they walked up the gentle slope of the sandy beach, they both shivered with cold. Finding a shielded area at the base of the rocks, Uwan stopped to dress. “We need a fire.” With no further bidding they gathered wood from the high tide line, and Uwan made flame with his staff and some dark powder.

  As the fire caught light, the cold slowly gave way to the warmth of the flame.

  Very soon, a high fire was burning, and any thoughts of the cold were banished from their minds.

  “How do you intend to attract the attention of the locals?” Winnie asked. “The Scotti are not known for their hospitality.

  “I already have. The Scotti dhruids will arrive in the morning. They have journeyed far and long to meet us.”

  Refusing to show her nakedness to the young man, Winnie dried her clothes as best she could. With sighs of pleasure at the warming fire, they both settled back against the warmed rocks to rest and were asleep in moments.

  ~ ~ ~

  The morning sun glinted on the black obsidian rock, the single spire rising twice the height of a man. Position on the eastern side, the sun warmed Uwan’s frame from the frost on the ground. Slowly he lowered himself into a crouch at the base of the monolith. Winnie looked on from outside the circle of small stones that ringed the dark pillar.

  As the sun rose, the
dhruids of the Scotti came in single file, their robes casting long shadows on the silvery-crusted grass. They stopped a dozen strides away. One by one they came to him, every face deep in concentration. As each came close to the young dhruid, they bowed, and tested the spiritual defense of the Caledonii. Uwan welcomed each contest, and the smile never left his lips. When all twelve had tried their best, they circled Uwan, and chanted. Their voices continued past the highest of the sun, then long into the afternoon. In deep concentration they kept their vigil, but Uwan did not flinch.

  Winnie watched from a small mound, just outside the circle. She could see the air above the dhruids sparkle and change color. She was already impressed by the young man, but this was a trial far beyond a level she thought him capable of.

  Slowly Uwan got to his feet, his arms wide. “I welcome you all to Circal Dubh, the ring of the Black Stone. Your trials against me were formidable, but I now welcome you all to feel mine. Will you join with me?”

  The dhruids all approached, and huddled as close as they could. Uwan knew that he fed them energy, he heard the gasps of the men who clutched so strongly to him.

  “Listen to me.” He said softly. “I need your help next year.” He slowly untangled himself from the gripping hands. “As the spring breaks the land, you will lead your warriors to join Wesson, the new chief of the Novantae.”

  The dhruids separated, and an old dhruid remained at the fore. Uwan smiled at the leader of the dhruids in this foreign land. “I give my strength to you, Granshy. Do you not feel it?”

  The old man smiled. “I feel as young as a buck in spring. I’m glad there are no women here, I would try my sport with them, and those thoughts have been dormant for many years.”

  “Join your powers with mine, Granshy. All of you.”

  “Uwan, we know you are strong, but do you really want us all to press?”

  Uwan simply nodded.

  The rest of the Scotti dhruids formed a circle around him. As one they pointed their staffs inwards to the centre, where Uwan stood firm, his expression resolute.

  Winnie watched as the white flame from each staff gradually inched inward, she felt as if she was watching Uwan’s demise. Then he lifted his palms to the sky, taking the flame upwards, then, he threw his hands to the ground, followed by the white flames, which then radiated in a circle, outwards, knocking the Scotti dhruids onto their backs.