Origin of Druid

by Mark Philipson

  When Kane rose to take the next shift he stifled a yawn and asked, “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

  “Go back to sleep. I’m not tired.”

  “Very well.” It didn’t take much convincing to get Kane to curl back up by the fire.

  As Kermode looked up at the night sky filled with clusters of stars he thought about Durst. Was his son seeing the same sky he saw now or was he only looking at the blankness following death?

  Before dawn, when Kane woke and the fire was stamped out and the last piles of dirt tossed over glowing embers Durst said, “I’m going back to Brendon. There is something I must do.”

  “What is that?”

  “I want to find Idellsa’s remains.”

  “Will that make anything different?”

  “No,” Kermode looked at the ground and shook his head. “It will not change what happened. It will make me feel better.”

  “Hmm,” Kane said. “Either you’ll feel better or you’ll feel nothing.”

  “Will you come with me?” Kermode asked.

  Kane looked away. Kermode could see he was pondering what to do. He was probably thinking what would be more dangerous: returning to Brendon with Kermode or staying in the deep woods alone. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Are you sure? The Romans may take a dim view of someone giving aid to a renegade druid.”

  “That’s my concern,” Kane said. They left it at that.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Kermode and Kane crouched alongside the pathway running by a roundhouse. As the sun went down they came out of hiding. Kermode walked up and rapped on the door with the butt of the spear he carried.

  Osker answered. For a few moments he stared at the man on the walkway. Before he came to the realization who the man standing in the doorway was Kermode lifted his finger to his lips.

  Osker closed the door and pulled Kermode inside. He looked at the black dye on Kermode’s hands. He stepped back. “Have you come to wage war?”

  “Not yet,” Kermode felt the weight of the polished wooden shaft of the Roman spear in his left hand. His right hand rested on the smooth bone grip of the Roman short sword. “If it comes to that I’ll be ready.”

  “Is what they say true?”

  “What do they say and who are they?” Kermode asked back.

  “The Romans in the village are calling you the Black-handed Druid of Death. You’re wanted for murder.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Good. The Romans have offered a reward of three gold coins for your head.”

  “Then I better make this quick. Where did you bury Idellsa’s ashes?”

  Osker fell silent for few moments. “The Romans have made a decree. All burials must be marked with a stone.”

  “Does Idellsa have a stone?”

  “It is in the back.”

  Kermode and Osker walked under torchlight through the yard. Osker stopped at a flat stone set flush with the grass. Kermode knelt down. He looked at the Roman lettering. He removed the longbow from his shoulders and jammed the spear into the grass and unbuckled the sword and set it to the side.

  “Do you have something I can dig with?”

  Osker walked over to the tool shed. Kermode stood in the darkness as the torchlight faded. Osker returned and handed Kermode a small shovel.

  Kermode jammed the tip of the shovel into the dirt. He was about to lift the shovel and pry the flat stone out of the grass. “Do you know what the Roman words mean?” he asked.

  “They told me when I was ordered to place her ashes in the ground.” Osker shrugged.

  “You take orders from the Romans now?”

  “If I want to trade with them I do,” Osker shrugged again.

  “What are you trading with them?”

  “I have an order to make a copy of one the Roman short swords. If it meets Roman approval there’ll be more orders.”

  “Very well,” Kermode muttered. Weapons, he thought. These Romans are sly bastards. It is like a tentacled sea creature reaching from the depths and grabbing all it touches.

  “What do the words mean?” Kermode asked again.

  “The first line is a welcome to ...” Osker thought for a few moments “Hades, the god of the underworld. The second line is what the Romans call Idellsa’s record of birth and death. The third line is the name of the commissioner of the stone. That is me.” Osker pointed to some other letters next to his own. “I had the stone cutter add your name.”

  Kermode ran his fingers over the edges of the engravings. He said his name to himself then sounded out the name slowly and matched sounds to individual letters.

  Kermode dug around the stone and exposed the gray slab set below the grave marker. He recognized the building block of the Romans: concrete. Kermode continued digging. He pried the concrete slab up and pushed the marker to the side. Kermode dug until the shovel struck a hard object. Once Kermode cleared the top layer of dirt away he pried open the wooden lid of the burial crate. He reached in and removed a marble box. From the box he removed a leather pouch.

  “Idellsa?” Osker asked.

  “Idellsa,” Kermode nodded.

  “Give me half,” Osker said.

  “Done,” Kermode replied. They divided the ashes. Kermode put the concrete slab and the stone marker back in the ground.

  “What will you do now?” Osker asked.

  Kermode finished tamping down the last bit of turf and handed the shovel back. “Return to the woods and try to keep my head on my shoulders.” Kermode wondered just how close Osker was to the Romans. Would it be wise not to tell him what his plans were? It was at that moment a thought struck Kermode: If the hair on my head knows what I’m thinking I will cut it off.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Kermode and Kane made their way back up the path. In the twilight Kermode saw pieces of paper tacked to posts on the side of the path. He peered at the paper. Roman letters covered the sheet. Kermode ripped the sheet off the tack and pocketed the piece of paper.

  Londinium grew. Roman influence spread. Kermode stole every document he could get his hands on. He bought a wax tablet with a list of the Roman characters etched onto it from a trader on the far outskirts of the village.

  “What are you doing with those?” Kane asked one day.

  Kermode looked up from the tablet and the document he was studying. “I am teaching myself the tongue of the Romans.”

  “Why? Don’t you know a dog when you hear it bark?”

  “Hmm,” Kermode nodded and grinned. “The Romans keep a record of almost every aspect of life. It is one of their strengths. Perhaps this strength could be used against them.”

  “Perhaps,” Kane said. “How will words fight an army?”

  “We know one thing: the Romans are record-keepers. And we know another thing: we must find other people to join with. As two men alone in the wilderness we are weak.”

  “How will we bring people to join us?”

  “If we can find a sheet of the names of people on the run from the Romans we can find them and offer them a chance to unite as one.”

  “And how will we do that?”

  “There has to be way to get hold of the Roman records. We must find out who does this and where the record is kept. Once we know this we can study the man and find a weakness. Every man has one. Drink, women, gambling, or coin. There is mush temptation in the world.”

  Kermode learned from a stamp on some stolen documents all official Roman documents originated in an office in Londinium known as the Acta Diurna. The master scribe, the man overseeing the compilation and lettering and distribution of every document in the region was named Tactus Dravinus. Kermode found out who the man was through the course of learning Latin, the tongue of the Romans. Getting close to the man and finding his weak spots would be boiling a different kettle of fish.

  Kermode ventured out of the forest. Under the cover of darkness he approached Osker’s roundhouse. Kermode tapped on the door lightly.

  “The p
rice on your head still stands at three gold pieces,” Osker told Kermode as he stepped inside.

  “At least it hasn’t gone up,” Kermode shrugged.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need some Roman clothes.”

  “What type of clothes?”

  “Something a trader would wear,” Kermode answered. “Can you get them for me?”

  “It can be done,” Osker said. “Is that all?”

  “That is all,” Kermode said. He didn’t want to tell Osker he wanted his hair cut close and his beard shaved off. He didn’t want Osker to know that he planned to assume the role of a Briton born trader and travel to Londinium to carry out a scheme to get his hands on some Roman documents. The less Osker knew the better.

  Two days later Osker left a bundle by the path in front of his house. That night Kermode returned to the roundhouse. He saw the bundle on the edge of the path. He lifted the bundle and threw it over his shoulder then returned to the woods.

  Fourteen

  Growing World

  CAPTAIN ANTUS ORDERED the helmsman to steer away from the tree covered coast of Gaul. The oarsmen pulled hard to one side. The helmsman turned the blade of the rudder sideways into the blue water.

  Land appeared off the bow. Unlike the green forests and sloping hills of Gaul this land was made up of jagged brown mountains extending right to the shore. Even from a distance of what Nikolas called three leagues waves could be seen breaking against rocky cliffs.

  Architectus spoke to Nikolas in Latin at great length one morning. Nikolas nodded and turned to Durst. “The time has come for you to begin learning grammaticus,” he said.

  “What is that?” Durst asked. He was puzzled.

  “It is the formative years of a Roman’s training in language, mathematics, and the arts.”

  “Why do I need that?” Durst asked then answered his own question. “I am not a Roman.”

  Nikolas looked at Architectus and said something. Architectus groaned and nodded. He said a few words and waited. Nikolas cleared his throat: “From this day on you are a Roman. You will never forget this. As long as you live under my roof,” Nikolas motioned to Architectus, “you will be treated as my son. Not a son of true blood but as my step son you’ll will receive every opportunity as if you were.

  “The first part of your education will be the grammaticus. Nikolas …” Nikolas paused and motioned to himself, “… is a tutor and will be willing to train you. Although he is my slave and I am his master you will show him respect. Do you understand this?”

  Durst hesitated.

  “A question has been put forth,” Nikolas said. “From teacher to pupil my suggestion to you is to come up with an answer and quickly.”

  Durst struggled hard to search his mind for the right answer. He thought about the Roman tongue. It was called Latin. He thought about a group of words: I am Roman now. The first word I. In Latin it came out as ego. He took a chance and said, “Ego autem Romanis.”

  Architectus stepped forward. He leaned down and kissed Durst on the lips and squeezed his shoulder. Durst froze. In Brendon men didn’t kiss each other as a woman and man kissed. If they did they could be buried alive. Durst froze. He relaxed when Architectus stepped back.

  “Your first lesson will be the learning of your Roman name,” Nikolas said. “As adopted son of Albinus Norvano Architectus you will be known as Durst Norvano.”

  “What about Architectus?” Durst liked the way that name sounded. He would like to hear it spoken on the end of his name.

  “Albinus is the name given at birth. Norvano is the clan name. Architectus is the cognomen.” Nikolas explained Roman naming traditions.

  “Cog what?” Durst asked, mystified.

  “The cognomen is the third name. It pertains to that individual. Albinus is an architect and engineer. His cognomen is Architectus.”

  “What is yours?” Durst asked.

  “I don’t have one.” Nikolas shook his head. “I am Greek by birth and a slave.” Nikolas thought for moment then added, “If I did have one it would be Atuxos.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  Nikolas grinned and answered, “Unlucky.”

  “Will I have a cog?”

  “We shall see.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  The days wore on. The ship hugged the coast of what Captain Antus called Iberia and what Architectus and Nikolas called Hispania.

  Architectus spent long hours poring over drawings on rolled up pieces of thin bark. Durst learned this bark was called parchment. Architectus used a stylus to make marks against the edge of a metal tool shaped like an arrow head cut down the middle.

  While the oarsman rowed to the beat of the drum and the rowing master struggled to keep the timing of the oars one with each other Nikolas taught Durst the letters of the Latin alphabet.

  One night as they ate dinner Architectus and Nikolas spoke to each other for a long time. When Architectus finished eating and he left the table Durst asked Nikolas what the two men had been talking about.

  “Mostly you,” Nikolas sighed.

  That’s what Durst thought. He’d overheard his name mentioned many times in the exchange.

  “Architectus wants you to be speaking Latin by the time we reach Rome.”

  “Can this be done?” Durst asked.

  “That depends on two things: how good of a student you are and how good of a teacher I am.”

  Durst thought for a few moments. He ran some words through his head: Do our best. He came up with the Latin: “Optimum …” He trailed off and hesitated. “… Fa …” he started.

  “Facium,” Nikolas finished for him. “We will do our best. You’re proving to be a pupil wise beyond your years already.”

  Durst wasn’t sure what Nikolas said but the sound of his voice and the look on his face told Durst he was pleased.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  That night Zahide came to Durst’s room. Durst learned from Zahide that Nikolas was meeting with Architectus. Zahide would spend the night here.

  “Where will Nikolas sleep?” Durst asked.

  Zahide didn’t answer. She lay down on Nikolas’ mat and was soon fast asleep.

  Durst pulled off his boots and sat on the edge of the mat. He watched the rising and falling of Zahide’s breasts as she slept. Durst stood up from the mat. He walked across the cabin. In three or four steps he was standing over Zahide. He reached over and lifted her loose fitting gown. Durst stared at the outer folds of what the Romans called the utero. Two dark lips converged into a rose colored flower.

  Zahide stirred. Durst lowered her gown and shuffled back across the cabin. He lay down on his mat.

  As the night wore on the sound of voices coming from Architectus’ cabin faded. Later Durst heard the sounds of people coupling. The thumping of the mat against the deck and the moaning. This time it was the moaning of two men. What is going to happen to me? Durst asked himself. Am I to be dropped in the middle these Romans who take a man or woman to their bed and don’t care who knows it. What would my father say?

  At this point Durst wondered where his father was. Durst looked out of a porthole into the countless stars twinkling in the night. A string of shooting stars trailed across the sky. Many leagues away, in the land the Romans called Britannia, Kermode saw the same stars and wondered where his son was.

  The Iona continued plowing through the waves with her bow pointed into the rising sun. Captain Antus ordered the helmsman to steer around an outcropping of high rocks on the shore. Once the Iona had rounded the craggy peaks on the shore Captain Antus ordered two members of the sailing crew to help the helmsman hold the tiller on course. The Iona moved steadily offshore into the prevailing winds blowing in from the sea.

  Captain Antus stood on the deck of the platform placed above the tiller. He studied the waves and the wind. He watched the wake of the ship as it fell behind the stern.

  “What is he doing?” Durst asked. He struggled to find the words in Latin.
r />   Over the tutoring sessions they’d had together Nikolas had been able to interpret Durst’s attempts at speaking what would become his native tongue.

  “Captain Antus is reading the elements,” Nikolas answered. First in the tongue of the Britons of Brendon then in Latin. He did this so Durst could weigh the words against each other.

  At that moment Captain Antus ordered the two members of the sailing crew off the tiller. “Hoist the sails,” he told the men as they stood waiting for further orders. The men hurried away.

  The sailing crew went to work untying lines and lowering the big sail. A stiff breeze filled the square sail as the lower section was tied off. It flapped then billowed into a smooth curve facing the shore. The long and narrow sail stretched from a line tied to the top of the mast and ended in a line tied to tubular wooden shaft extending beyond the bow.

  Captain Antus eyed the land ahead. He spoke to the helmsman and gave the man slight course adjustments to keep the bow pointed directly in the middle of a rocky shoreline.

  “She rides well for a big-bellied bitch,” Captain Antus said to Architectus as he climbed down from the platform.

  “Indeed,” Architectus grinned. “Where are we going? It looks as if we’re headed to shore.” Architectus glanced at the dark coastline on the horizon. “I don’t recall a stop this early in the itinerary.”

  “We have a load of cargo to take onboard at the port of Brigantium,” Captain Antus answered.

  “Very well,” Architectus nodded. He seemed pleased. “This will give my party a chance to sleep at a local inn and get real baths and a good meal.”

  “No one leaves the ship.” Captain Antus shook his head. “We load the cargo under the cover of darkness tonight and we sail on the tide in the morning.”

  “Very well,” Architectus repeated as Captain Antus returned to his cabin.

  Just as the captain had said the Iona drew closer to the shore just as the daylight faded. The point the bowsprit had been aiming at revealed itself to be the mouth of a wide river. A bright light atop a tall white building lit up the entrance like a small sun.

  Captain Antus returned from his cabin. He ordered the sails to be struck. Oarsmen used their muscle to push the ship the rest of the way.