Rage Against the Dying Light

by Jan Surasky

  The banquet guests stamped their feet and clapped their hands at the words of Aladon. "Aladon," begged Boudicca, shouting to rise above the raucous laughter of the guests and the noisy stomping of their approval of the bard's tales, "tell us the story of Dumnorix the Aeduan."

  Aladon wiped the sweat from his brow, smiled, and bowed a low, sweeping bow in her direction. "I dedicate the tale of Dumnorix the Aeduan to the princess Boudicca," he said, straightening, the smile softening a face taut with nerves.

  I sing of Dumnorix the Aeduan,

  Brother to Divitiacus the Aeduan king,

  A figure in the glory of all Gaul

  Who a hundred years past gave aid to the Helveti

  His wife's tribe, the fiercest in the land,

  To flee the Roman foe or stand against it.

  Several times did Dumnorix foil the Roman foe

  Once, to keep grain from Roman armies

  Another, to turn the Aeduan masses

  Against the Roman foe,

  Saved by his brother Divitiacus

  A king turned loyal to the Roman armies and its gods.

  As Gaul fell the Romans made Dumnorix hostage,

  To sail with Caesar for our isle and battle,

  But, the Aeduan chief ran from his Roman captors

  To resist their pleas for return.

  Dumnorix the Aeduan was felled with shouts

  Urging on his followers.

  'I am a free man.

  I belong to a free country.'

  The guests again stomped their feet in approval of Aladon's tale. But, despite the gentle strains of the minstrel's harps and lyres, the headiness of the wine and ale from flagons so generously passed round began to take its toll. Challenges from duels of the sword to dice began to make the rounds, often cut short by the sudden loud snores of one or another participant. But, a collective gasp arose as Galorix, son of the highborn noble Mandelamus, and newly risen from the dance of spears to honor Cocidius, god of the battle, rose to prove the valor in his newly pledged manhood.

  Striding across the clay floor of the great hall, slightly tipsy from deep draughts of ale, his muscles rippled as he pulled a long, bronze sword, a gift from the rites of Cocidius, from an elaborately enameled scabbard. As he reached the Silures table, he strode toward Caractacus. The Silures prince sat erect, moving little muscle nor lowering his gaze, but silencing his talk with the Silures nobles.

  The young noble tapped Caractacus' shoulder with the tip of his sword as he stood before him. "Silures prince," he began, his voice working carefully to form the words with a tongue slightly thick with ale, "I Galorix, son of Mandelamus, challenge you to a duel of valor." He continued, "I prove the strength of a small but honorable tribe."

  Caractacus arose to face Galorix. He knew that to fight this youth to victory would pull a promising warrior from the ranks of his hosts. But, to turn away from a challenge would just as surely show cowardice. "I accept your challenge," he said, as he pulled his sword from its scabbard, carefully hitched to the links of gold which belted his ochre tunic.

  Caractacus and Galorix stood to face each other, their swords at the ready, tips facing upwards toward the height of the great hall ceiling. A roar went up from the crowd as Votorix gave a signal to begin.

  The sounds of swords clashing filled the room and cheers went up as one or another of the duelers gained an advantage. Boudicca gasped as the two evenly matched in body grappled to gain a thrust of the sword. But, despite the even match of build, Galorix' youth and headiness of ale took its toll, giving way for Caractacus to the many seasons of feigned sparring in the halls of the Silures palace and the deftness of his ways in the woodland hunt. With one carefully placed blow, he knocked the bronze sword from his opponent's hand, blocking his path to lift it once again. Galorix stood firm, ready to receive the final blow in a match fairly fought.

  Caractacus threw his sword down upon the floor of the great hall. "You have fought well, Galorix", he said. "You will make a fine warrior if hordes threaten the walls of the Coritani. But, we have come not to take the lives of the Coritani, but to align ourselves with them. I look forward to your place at your father's elbow in council tomorrow with the sunrise."

  As Galorix returned his sword to its scabbard and made his way back to the side of Mandelamus, the noise of the crowd rose, mingling with shouts and laughter, buoyed by the excitement of the joust and the pleasures of vineyard and alehouse. The guests began to rise, sated with the pleasures of the table, and the merriment of highborn nobles, trained in the judgments of civil order, and the military advisors, toughened from the field of battle, filled the room. Boudicca broke from her appointed place at table, making her way as quickly as possible around the knots of laughing nobles and servants tidying the remains of the palace larder toward the Silures table. As she reached Caractacus, she threw her arms about him.

  "Oh, Caractacus," she said, feeling easier to have her childhood friend under the touch of her arms, "I was so worried that you would be run through by Galorix with the sword he received at Sanheim."

  "Why, Boudicca," he said, smiling down at her as he put his arms about her to return the greeting, "you know it takes more than a young noble fresh from the dance of Cocidius to fell a Silures prince. My great-grandfather Litaviccus stood against the Romans."

  "So Diviticus relates in his tales of our island," she returned. "But, you must help me choose the mistletoe for my first bonfire dance at Beltane. Only you and Venutius are suited to such a task."

  "It will be an honor to consider the quest the first task of our visit following our debate at council," he said, solemnly. "But, you must ask Venutius yourself," he said, as he turned to the Iberian prince, quietly waiting to greet her.

  "Oh, Venutius," she said, throwing her arms about him as she realized she had ignored him in her concern for Caractacus, "I must show you how straight my arrows fly from the bows you taught me to carve."

  "I am anxious to watch their flight," he said, laughing gently, "and I will help to choose the glossiest leaves of the mistletoe vine to lay upon the crown of your tresses come Beltane."

  At this moment, Cunobelinus intercepted with the warning that the Silures, worn from hard travel, must repair to their bedchambers to insure fresh thoughts for the council meeting. Boudicca took her leave of Caractacus and Venutius, throwing her arms about them once again, with promises of their woodland jaunt to keep her.

  As she headed toward her bedchamber to exchange her evening finery for her nightclothes, she devised stories of hobgoblins and dragons as she went. She knew Mandorix would creep to her bedchamber as soon as the last candle was snuffed, awake from the excitement of guests roaming the palace halls, to beg a story of Sanheim, his most favorite of festivals, and to snuggle beneath her quilts for a moment's peace from the royal regimen. She searched the palace halls for Mattilia to unwind her long, red tresses.

  Chapter Three

  Sunlight streamed into the council hall of the Coritani palace. The Silures, refreshed from the hospitality of the rude but comfortable palace bedchambers generously piled high with the soft skins of woodland animals, took their places on the straw hassocks set about in groups, nobles interspersed with warriors retired from battle, scarred from the skirmishes of the past, but sharp with the knowledge of the battlefield. The Coritani assembled as well, sober with thought but lightening the moment for their guests with a well-placed pleasantry or two. Cunobelinus, splendid in partial military garb, sat in the center, flanked by Caractacus and Venutius. Votorix sat opposite. As tribal host chieftain, he began.

  "We welcome the Silures," he said, in his richest and most ceremonial tones, "in gratitude for their journey away from the daily cares of their tribe to talk of alliance in protection of both the Silures and the Coritani. The Silures stand strong in numbers along the western coast of our island, ten to our one. But, the Coritani stand strong in honor, as do the Silures, and in our place in the north at the southernmost tip of the wildest and most uni
nhabited stretches of our island." He paused to let his conciliatory but honest assessment of their respective positions take hold.

  He continued. "Our tribal cities have long been beset by forays from the fierce Belgae of the south, great in numbers and led by Cassivellaunus, depleting our warriors and deflecting our energies from the daily affairs of bringing grain from our fields, coral and fish from the sea, and turning our copper to pots on our blacksmith's forges, toward the building and repairing of our timber walls, trenches, and bulwarks."

  "But," he added, "the Belgae do not send all their warriors to destroy our fields and cities at once. They attack the great Trinobantes tribe as well with great force, and conduct raids upon the harvest of the smaller Segontiaci and Bibroci tribes. But, we must live in fear of an all-out campaign. The Belgae covet the coral we pull from the sea, and the thick woods and heavy marshes of our lands, so superior for the defense of battle for so warlike a tribe."

  Votorix, ending his discourse on the military position of the Coritani, leaned back slightly on his hassock, leaving silence for thought and awaiting a reply from the Silures. Cunobelinus shifted slightly on his hassock and spoke carefully. "Although the Silures sustain the occasional ransack of foraging tribes upon our tribal fields, our numbers and the use to which we have put our strength to let no enemy gain advantage has kept us from the attack of even the largest of our island tribes. But, we must keep our military always at the ready, with large numbers of chariots, swords, and helmets fashioned and in good repair. Your tribal lands are thick with timber and your earth with copper for our bronze. We must keep these safe for trade."

  As Cunobelinus finished pouring forth the Silures position, he paused, awaiting the thoughts of his nobles. Andromatus, the highest born of the Silures contingent, weathered with age and the weight of many decisions, spoke first. "It is within our interests to protect the bounty which shores up our waiting warriors. But, we must not deplete our forces on a ready basis."

  The Silures noble Mandolatus spoke next. "We must shore up trade with the Coritani to stay the Belgae from a foothold in the north. A greater trade will give more bounty to our northern neighbors to draw into their forces the warriors of the Danube and the Rhine who fight only with the promise of bounty before the battle."

  Andromatus spoke again. "It is also within our interest to come to the rescue of a tribe friendly to peace and trade, if besieged by so warlike a band. If the Coritani cities are besieged by the Belgae, our farmers must drop their plows and our merchants their trade, to send warriors to the aid of our northern neighbors. But, if we are to ally our tribes, we must extract full military prowess from the Coritani as well. What say you ancient warriors of the battlefield?"

  Andromatus shifted on his hassock as he looked among the Silures grouped about him, searching out the warriors, past their prime in the hand-to-hand conflicts of the battlefield but versed well in the strategies of battle. A murmuring arose as thoughts pondering the strengths of the Coritani passed round. The warrior Gatorix, his shaggy blond hair turned almost grey, his body adorned with the numerous scars of his many conflicts, which he displayed with pride as signs of his superior courage and prowess on the battlefield among his peers, spoke first. "The Silures rely on the great courage of their warriors and the strength of their numbers to repel an enemy. The Coritani, while small in numbers and brave on the battlefield, employ great tactical skills to outwit their enemy. We could make use of such skills in our skirmishes. Where to approach an enemy, how to approach them, when to come upon them, and how to steer a battle to gain the advantage."

  Domorix, a warrior long retired but still with keen interest in battle, spoke next. "And, in the case of all-out attack upon the Silures, we must extract a promise from the Coritani to send their warriors in full force to the aid of our struggle."

  Cunobelinus leaned toward Votorix. "Our nobles and warriors put forth thoughts for you to ponder. What say you to their terms?"

  "I must consult with the nobles and warriors of the Coritani before I give an answer," said Votorix, turning to the groups assembled about him. He turned back, addressing the Silures. "Perhaps," he said, "we might stroll in the air and the sunlight about the palace to ponder the weight of the terms you have put before us." He rose, gathering his advisors about him to lead the way through the narrow, winding halls of the palace through a side door, hewn heavy and thick from the woodland ash, to the grounds beyond, a luxury set aside for the royal palace alone among the timber, clay and daub, thatched-roof dwellings huddled side-by-side inside the high, stone and timber walls of the hilltop city.

  Votorix stepped out upon the wild grasses of the palace grounds, kept low by the scythes of the palace groundskeepers, paths marked by the rough-hewn stones of the palace quarries, overlooking the stretches of Coritani fields, the sprouts of the grain from seeds sown by the farmer's hand rising plentifully below. A nightingale perched upon the branch of a wild cherry tree heavy with the blossoms of spring burst into song.

  Votorix, caught up by conversation with a group of Coritani nobles, broke from his place among them to move alongside Cunobelinus, whose noble carriage, though slightly stooped by the mark of seasons passed, was unbroken by tribal strife. Votorix, whose large frame topped by long blond locks, nearly untarnished by grey, mirrored the strength of his youth, slowed his gait to match the pace of the Silures chief. "Cunobelinus," he said, "you have served the Silures well and with the honor of your father and grandfather. Your tribe fares well. It flows with bounty and endures prosperity and peace. But, you must tire with the weight of tribal guidance."

  Cunobelinus turned to Votorix, his grey locks thinned from the passing years and the strife of affairs of state, but flowing as in youth. "Our people bring grain from the earth, husband great numbers of cattle and herd great flocks of sheep, bring pearls from the sea for trade, and worship our gods from sunrise to sunrise in freedom. It pleases me to serve my tribe long and in good health, to don my ceremonial garb to see Beltane come and Sanheim go with the greater and greater bounty of the gods. But, I tire with the weight of affairs of state. With the aid of the Druids, justice is served and inter-tribal peace enacted. But, the pettiness of the nobles, the demands of the merchants over the arteries of trade and commerce, and the demands of the military to maintain the peace of our tribal nation, arise with every sunrise. I look forward to the thoughts of youth to spur the tribe and carry it onward."

  "You have two fine youths to carry the Silures forward," said Votorix, glancing at Caractacus and Venutius, lost in conversation with a group of young nobles ahead. "Caractacus grows strong and fine in limb since last he stood upon the soil of our city. And, Venutius has filled out his slender Iberian frame."

  "Caractacus has been trained in the most noble of pursuits," said Cunobelinus. "Andromatus has spent many seasons teaching him the gentility of the nobles, our palace huntsmen the intricacies of the woodland hunt, Gatorix the strategies of the battlefield, and our Druids devotion to the gods. And, he has been at my elbow at every tribal council.

  But, despite his training," he continued, "Caractacus is yet most comfortable alone with his thoughts on the woodland hunt. He cares little for the trappings of leadership, prizing the farmers' meals of bread and cheese taken on skins upon the floors of their simple, clay huts and served by their children the same as the feast of a noble's quarters."

  "And, Venutius, how does he fare since you brought him from the shores of Iberia and the protection of his father Erithrominus?" asked Votorix.

  "Venutius takes well to royal training," said Cunobelinus, "and works hard to please. He is skilled in the hunt and works well with the nobles, urging them to settle their differences in land ownership with as few petty squabbles as possible. He will make a fine prince consort, carrying the word of the Silures to another mighty tribe of our island, with the hope to bind our two tribes in trade and in peace."

  "And you, Votorix," said Cunobelinus, "how go your royal heirs?"

  "Mandor
ix is young, yet," said Votorix, "but he studies well the royal ways. He accompanies me on the hunt and sits often in council. But, he has yet to study the ways of eloquence, justice, and devotion at the hand of our Druid Diviticus or learn the order of the lands from our nobles or the ways of commerce from our tradesmen."

  "But, Boudicca," he continued, his face alit with thoughts of his eldest heir, born red-faced and squalling, with a tuft of red locks upon her head, an event which had never dimmed in her father's memory despite the passing seasons, "grows from a creature happiest in the fields and woodlands in childhood to learning a devotion to tribal ways. Boudicca joins the maiden's dance come Beltane, and will make a fine queen to a chieftain of a larger and more powerful tribe, to revive the ancient power of the Coritani."

  Ahead, the laughter of the two young princes and a knot of young nobles broke the thoughts of the two kings strolling along the stone-cut paths and interrupted the arguments of the nobles and warriors on the details of tribal agreement. Spurred by the fresh air of the palace grounds and the mid-morning sunshine, the talk of Caractacus, Venutius, and the young nobles of both tribes had soon left the plane of tribal agreements and military disputes for the newly awakened fascinations of youth. Duels to the finish after a gala feast, contests of the dice turned spellbound by a youthful future in the balance, and the newly discovered charms of Celtic maidens once their playmates in the fields and woodlands of the British countryside.

  Ambigetorix, son of Andromatus, was entertaining them with a tale of his narrow escape from the loss of all his lands as heir to the highest-born noble of the Silures and promise of a ten season servitude as sheepherder to Manolinius, son of a nearby noble, in a contest of dice, so determined was he to win. But, Andromatus, keeping company with a group of elder statesmen not far from the ill-fated gaming table, turned to amble over as onlooker, a look upon his face which reflected long seasons upon the battlefield in the service of the Silures and in the council halls of kings. Ambigetorix, with his back to his father, heeded not the elder noble's stern look, but Manolinius, nerves taut with intensity in the promise of gaining the servitude of a childhood rival, answered the look with a nervous twitch of his elbow, sending the dice sprawling to the floor to default the match. The roar that went up from the crowd of onlookers signaled an end to the contest.