Origin of Druid

by Mark Philipson

  As the Iona passed under the tower of light a chain rattled as it was fed though a series of rings shackling each oarsmen’s ankle.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to keep your party in their cabins until we’ve cleared port in the morning, Albinus Norvano?”

  “Of course,” Architectus said. “You have my complete cooperation in the matter.”

  Durst lay awake that night. From outside he heard the sounds of men talking in hushed voices and the creaking of ropes and wood and thudding against the deck.

  The sounds continued until Durst dozed off. When he woke the next morning the ship was out to sea.

  The Iona cleared land. The high tower of light looked like a candle held between a giant’s thumb and forefinger. Durst turned when he heard Nikolas speaking. Silhouetted objects lay on the horizon. The dark objects seemed to vanish then reappeared as ships with sleek lines riding low to the water and bristling with sails.

  “We will be under naval escort for the remainder of the voyage,” Captain Antus said. The ships drew nearer and flanked the Iona.

  Two full days of sailing in a direction cutting across the path of the sun and the Iona rounded another point of land reaching out into the ocean. The captain ordered a sharp turn to put the ship back on a line following the path of the sun once more.

  The ship veered from one feature of the coastline to the next until the ocean seemed to squeeze together like water pouring into a bottleneck.

  The ships escorting the Iona closed in. Durst could clearly see the three banks of oars striking the water in perfect timing. The long nose of the bow extended far ahead of the ship and sliced through the water.

  The ships eased backed on the oars and matched pace with the slower Iona.

  Ships of all kinds crowded the narrow passage. “Is this another river?” Durst asked.

  “No,” Nikolas answered. “What you’re seeing here is what’s been known since antiquity as the Pillars of Hercules. It is the narrow strip of water separating the European continent from the continent of Africa. We are now entering the Mediterranean Sea.”

  The names were strange. Durst struggled to take it all in. The world had become a bigger place in a short time.

  Fifteen

  In the Office

  KERMODE KEPT OFF the edge of the path as he made his way back to Osker’s roundhouse two days later. He arrived in the late afternoon and waited and watched from behind a tree.

  A woman approached. The woman went up to the door and knocked. Osker answered. He glanced from side to side then let the woman in. As he closed the door he cast one last long glance at the pathway winding past the house.

  The sun went down. Light from oil lamps poured out of the wall openings.

  Kermode stepped out from behind the tree and quickly walked across the path and up to the house. He rapped on the door. It opened in an instant. Osker said, “Come in.”

  “This man needs a haircut and a shave,” Osker said to the woman sitting at the big table in the center of the roundhouse.

  “In the Roman style,” Kermode added.

  “Very well,” the woman answered. She opened a pouch. Kermode caught the glint of a knife blade coming out of the pouch. Save for the dagger on his belt he was unarmed and he set his hand on the hilt.

  The woman set something on the table. “What is that?”

  “A tonsur … a tool for cutting hair.”

  “May I see that …?” Kermode trailed off.

  “Do you really want to know my name because I don’t want to know yours,” the woman answered.

  “Fair enough,” Kermode nodded. He picked up the tool: a set of knives thick at the spines and tapering to sharp edges. Kermode put his thumb and forefinger in curved handles made from polished wood. As he moved his fingers the blades matched the motion by pivoting on a metal pin welded into the blades.

  “A fulcrum.” Kermode nodded. He set the tool back on the table.

  Osker brought an oil lamp closer. The woman began by cutting off big pieces of Kermode’s long hair. She used an ivory comb and a smaller pair of tilting knives to trim Kermode’s hair close to his head.

  Next she used the big tilting knives to cut Kermode’s beard close to his face. It was then she asked Osker to put on a kettle of water to boil. When the water in the kettle bubbled the woman poured a potion into a tall cup. She poured some water into the cup and stirred it with a thick round brush.

  The contents of the cup foamed. The woman slapped the lather onto Kermode’s face. At first it stung then the tingling faded as the wiry hairs relaxed.

  The woman set the foamy cup back on the table. She reached into the pouch and pulled out a straight handled knife. She shaved the rest of Kermode’s beard down to the skin.

  Kermode stood up and wiped the last bits of lather off his face with a towel. “Can I pass for a Roman?” he asked. He turned from the woman to Osker.

  Oscar shrugged.

  “Perhaps …” the woman answered and trailed off.

  “Am I missing something?” Kermode asked.

  “Most Romans shave their bodies.”

  “Will I need to do that?”

  “You want to pass as a Roman. Romans take baths every day. You would draw less eyes if you were hairless.”

  “Very well,” Kermode agreed. He stripped off his tunic and trousers and lathered up. The woman shaved him clean from head to toe. She held his member in her hand. Kermode held back an erection as the blade passed over his skin and pubic hair fell to the floor.

  Kermode dressed. When Osker gave the woman four pieces of copper and she left the roundhouse, Kermode said to Osker, “I’ll pay you back everything I owe you, Osker.”

  “I know this,” Osker answered. “It would be best if you leave.” Osker swept the floor with a straw broom then brushed the pile of hair into a flat pan.

  For a few moments Kermode caught the scent of burning hair as he left the roundhouse.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Kermode looked down. The path he stood on was made from stones fitted together. The path led to a stone bridge. Kermode joined the people walking and the wagons and carriages crossing the stone bridge. The water of the Thames river flowed under the high arches of the bridge. Boats passed under the bridge in both directions. Where the river ran to the sea, wide merchant ships and narrow warships lay at anchor. The boats that cruised up and down the river moved among the ships.

  Across the bridge, in the city of Londinium, Kermode walked down the main path. He passed buildings bearing Latin words painted on wooden plaques hanging on doors. As he moved further toward the center of the city the wooden plaques gave way to bronze tablets and marble walls replaced wooden walls.

  It was on one of these plaques that Kermode found what he was looking for: the Latin words Diurna Acta.

  This is where the Romans keep the official documents, Kermode thought. He spent the rest of the morning wandering around the open air markets.

  By noon, when the traders closed their booths to take the mid-day meal, Kermode headed back to the center of town.

  People came out of the Diurna Acta. The last man to leave inserted a key into a padlock and twisted. It was at that moment Kermode decided to act on the plan he’d made on his way to Londinium. He reached into the inner pocket of his tunic and flattened the ball of wax into his palm. Kermode walked toward the man still holding the key in his hand. He set his shoulder squarely into the arm holding the key. The key fell to the street. Kermode knelt down. He pressed the key into the wax then picked it free of the wax and handed it back.

  “Oaf!” the man said and brushed his toga off. He took the key back from Kermode.

  Kermode returned to the stone bridge. He crossed back over the Thames.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  On the way back from Londinium Kermode stopped again at Osker’s roundhouse. He set the piece of wax on the table. “Can you cast a mold from this?” he asked.

  Osker shook his head. “Not this,” he answered. “I
can use it to make a plaster mold, though.”

  Kermode pushed the wax closer to Osker. “I need a piece of metal cast from this?”

  “This looks like a key,” Osker remarked as he turned the wax over in his fingers.

  “Yes,” Kermode agreed.

  “I can do this …” Osker trailed off.

  “What is it Osker?”

  “I’ll get a key that is close to the key pressed into the wax but you must keep in mind that the key may not fit in place or it may not fit at all.”

  “And if it doesn’t fit in place?” Kermode pressed for an answer.

  “If it doesn’t fit you’ll need a file to work down the edges until the key fits and turns the lock.”

  Kermode slept on a mat on the floor that night. He tried to envision himself walking up to the door of the Diurna Acta and placing the key into the lock. Each time he did the lock fell open. He fell asleep and dreamed that as he set the key into the lock it changed from hard copper back to soft wax and crumbled each time.

  The next day when the molten copper had cooled Osker cracked the plaster mold and removed the key. He used a coarse file to smooth down the rough edges. “The burs on the copper is worn smooth to the shaft,” He said. He handed the key to Kermode.

  “You’ll need this.” Osker handed Kermode a finer toothed file. “If you need to shave the metal to get the key to turn the innards.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Kermode returned to Londinium. He crossed the bridge and entered the town. In the few days Kermode had been gone buildings he’d seen had been torn down. Slabs of concrete covered the ground where once the old buildings stood. An ox-drawn wagon carrying flat sheets of lumber pulled up. The driver halted. Workers converged on the cart and unloaded it. A man holding a scroll directed the workers where to set the sheets.

  Kermode watched as another gang of workers joined the first gang. While the first gang of workers held the wooden sheets upright with braces the second gang rotated and hammered star drills into the edge of the concrete.

  The work was slow. In a couple of hours the holes were finished. The foreman walked around the perimeter of the slab. He jammed a dowel rod into each hole. He held the rod straight and sighted down the shaft. He jammed an iron rod into the sand at the edge of the dowel.

  With the wooden sheets standing in place the workers tapped more holes. The foreman made sure the holes in the sheets lined up with the holes in the concrete. The work came to a halt. Kermode left the site and continued toward the center of town.

  Kermode wandered into an inn not too far from the Diurna Acta. He sat at a table near the entrance. He got a good view of the street.

  He ate a meal of whole fish fried to a golden brown and a loaf of black bread. He ate slowly, trying to stretch out time. He finished just before sunset. He needed more time. Kermode asked for a glass of wine. The serving girl removed his plates then returned with a cup.

  Kermode raised the cup to his lips. The wine was strong. He felt the tension in his shoulders fade.

  Darkness fell as Kermode drained the last drops.

  As the man locked the door to the Diurna Acta Kermode stepped out of the shadows. He looked around. The crowd had thinned out. Only a few people made their way to the inns and taverns on the outskirts of town.

  Kermode approached the Diurna Acta. No one called out or put a hand to his shoulder. He walked right up to the door. He removed the key and stuuck it in the lock. It fit then clicked then wouldn’t turn anymore.

  Kermode pulled the key out. Under the torchlight over the door he looked at the key and set his finger on the first piece extending from the blade. He stepped around the side of the building. In the darkness he filed the edges of the teeth. He used the edge of the file to feel around the key.

  Kermode pocketed the file and returned. This time the key opened the lock. Kermode swung the door open.

  Kermode felt a tingling under his toga. He looked down. Light glowed under the fabric. The amulet, Kermode thought. Has it woken?

  Kermode lifted the chain and held the amulet aloft. The beam of light seemed to pull him forward. He walked across the room and stopped when his foot touched something hard. The beam of light from the amulet widened to reveal a polished wooden bin divided into sections. The beam narrowed and focused in on one section until it became a pinpoint of light.

  Kermode reached and touched the edge of the wax tablet hanging upright in the divided section. On the wax tablet he saw his name written and next to it was the word Brendon. Other names lay below this.

  With the amulet held high and the beam widened Kermode walked across the room to a table topped with writing tools. A basket of bare scrolls sat next to the table.

  Kermode returned to the bin. He brought the wax tablet over to the table and set it down. Kermode flattened out the scroll. He shined the light from the amulet onto the tablet. It widened and covered the lettering. Kermode moved the amulet to face the beam on the opened scroll. The beam narrowed again to a fine point and under its own power it etched the words from the tablet onto the scroll.

  Sixteen

  A Ride Through the Groves

  ONCE THE IONA was through the straits separating Europe and Africa another escort of triremes took over for the warships that had travelled with them on their journey around what Captain Antus called Iberia and Architectus called Hispaniola.

  When the ship reached its final destination Architectus and his party disembarked. As they stepped onto the dock a wagon guarded by a troop of Roman soldiers approached. “Is that for us?” Durst asked.

  “No,” Architectus answered. “They are here to take off the mysterious cargo we took on in Brigantium.”

  In the public bath house they submerged themselves in the steaming waters and they ate a full meal at a tavern. The rich foodsat like a stone in Durst’s belly after days of dried fish and lemons.

  Once the plates had been cleared Architectus said, “I am eager to return to Rome.” He looked around the table. “We can return tonight or we can stay overnight.”

  Silence.

  “Your’e a learned man,” Architectus said as he turned to Nikolas. “”What do you think?

  “As slave it is not my business to give advice to my master.”

  “A wise answer,” Architectus nodded “Especially in public,” he added when he saw the looks from some of the other patrons in the tavern. Perhaps they didn’t approve of slaves dining with their masters.

  “Maybe you should let Durst decide,” Nikolas suggested.

  “Well, what do you say Durst?” Architectus reached over and tapped the table. “Onto Rome or stay here another night?”

  “Onto Rome,” Durst answered without hesitation.

  The finger tapping stopped. Architectus grinned. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I think that’s what you want to hear.”

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  The driver of the carriage slapped the reins. Under the thudding of hooves and the groaning of leather the carriage rolled onto the road.

  Durst readied himself to be thrown around the inside of the carriage. At that pace every bump and pothole in the path would hammer the carriage.

  “You can relax,” Architectus told Durst. “You’re on a Roman road now. We build them straight and true. The heavy springs on the underside of the carriage soften the ride as well.”

  Durst looked out the window at the cobblestones passing by under the light shining from lamp posts on the side of the road. The Roman road was even. Every stone fit as if it had been born there.

  The carriage stopped at stations along the road for fresh horses. The stations had what was called a latrine: whole rooms with long benches spanning the center. People sat on wholes cut out of the benches and shit or pissed into a stream of water flowing beneath the bench.

  The last thing Durst remembered before he dozed off was the how the spokes of the carriage wheel seemed to spin in the opposite direction from the rim. When he woke dawn was bre
aking. Tall trees grew like green columns on the side of the road. The carriage rolled by groves of trees bristling with fruit and golden fields of wheat swaying in the breeze and rows of crops networking the land.

  The day wore on. On a word from Architectus the driver pulled back on the reins. The horses slowed to a trot. At a plaque mounted on a post the driver turned. He continued up a stone path that ended in a circle in front of the biggest house Durst had ever seen.

  “This is your home,” Architectus said to Durst. “You’ll be living with the rest of the family in the pars urbana.”

  “Will Zahide and Nikolas live in the pars urbana?” Durst asked.

  “No, Zahide and Nikolas will be living with the other slaves in the pars rustica.”

  “Come let’s go inside.”

  Architectus led Durst through the big double doors of the pars urbana. Carvings covered a polished stone floor. Brightly colored walls rose high to an angled ceiling of segmented wooden beams.

  “You will be taken to your room. A fresh toga will be laid out on your bed. After you’ve bathed you will return here and we will enter the dining room.”

  “Very well,” Durst said.

  ■ ■ ■ ■

  Durst returned. Architectus was waiting for him. He led Durst to the dining room. “I want you to meet someone,” he said. “This is my wife Faustina.” A tall woman with dark hair piled high stepped forward. Gold rings traced her earlobes. A string of pearls framed a long neck. Rings of silver and gold sat on every finger. A long gown that shimmered in the afternoon sun streaming through a skylight in the ceiling hung to the floor at the ends and rose to her knees at the middle. Even the woman’s toes, which Durst could see in plainly in the sandals she wore, had rings encircling every toe.

  “Welcome Durst,” the woman said. “I want you to meet your brother.”

  The woman stepped to the side. A young boy entered the room. His height matched Durst’s but Durst outweighed him.

  “Durst, this is Gordianus Norvano, my son.”

  Durst extended his hand. The boy laid a plump soft hand in Durst’s. Durst squeezed hard like he’d been taught. The boy winced and pulled away.