Timewatch

by Linda Grant

  More flashes of memory came, of carefully repeating the chants with their mnemonic devices that helped him remember the occult wisdom. The initiates were not allowed to write down anything; writing was only for the recording of accounts and other mundane things. They had to practice hour after hour, for years, until they had perfected their memories. They were human vessels entrusted with the sacred wisdom and must be prepared to sacrifice …

  J.J.’s head was spinning. He got that Cymru was Wales (he had learned that back home in Winnipeg in history class), but it was a little hard to follow all the other stuff. The Welsh guy, Gruffudd, had worked up the crowd by reminding them how nasty the Romans had been to Queen Boudica and her daughters and asked for their help in defeating the Romans. Good luck with that! The Roman army was unstoppable. Bryanna was right when she said there would be “dire consequences” if they tried to oppose the Romans.

  Devonna was pulling on his arm. “Come with me,” she whispered.

  Wrapping his long cloak tightly around himself, he followed her outside. They walked rapidly toward the grove of trees spearing the sun, which was beginning its descent in the west.

  Devonna stopped under the branches of a massive oak. “You are not yourself,” she said, looking hard at him. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “About what?” J.J. blurted out before he could root around in Bran’s memory.

  She opened her mouth in surprise, then closed it and looked thoughtfully at him. “I know there are those who can change their shapes into those of the beasts or birds. The dead, too, can come back and possess the living. Has this happened to you, Bran?”

  She asked it so simply that he was taken off guard. Not knowing what to say, he said nothing.

  “I have loved Bran since first we met,” she went on in a low voice. “It is this love I bear him that gives me the right to speak to you in this fashion. I must know if you are Bran or …” Her voice caught for a moment, then steadied as she went on. “Not Bran.”

  He could feel her pain as she gave him the kind of look he had hoped that one day a woman might give him. He couldn’t lie to her. “Devonna, you’re right. I’m not Bran.”

  She gasped a little at that, her body tensing up.

  “You’ve got to understand, I didn’t have anything to do with this.” Did that sound too whiny? But it was true, except that he had volunteered for this time travel thing. Of course, at the time, he didn’t have a clue what it would mean.

  “Look, I’m only here for a little while. Then Bran will come back.”

  She seemed to cheer up at that. Her body, standing so stiffly, loosened up a bit.

  Encouraged, he went on. “Bryanna pulled me here, but it’s only temporary, and then Bran will come back and I can go home.”

  “I don’t understand. If you go through with the ceremony, Bran can’t come back. He will journey to the Other World.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Has Bryanna not told you? You are to be sacrificed at Beltane.”

  Memories surged in him: the Wicker Man, where people and animals were thrust into a giant figure made of straw and wood, which was then set on fire as a sacrifice to Bel. Burned alive! Were they going to do this to him?

  The world reeled around him. Blindly, he backed up until the rough bark of an oak gouged his shoulders. “I don’t … sacrificed? Why?”

  “You heard Kunagnos. The Keltoi of this island suffer much under Roman rule. In the olden days before the Romans came, human sacrifices were offered to placate the gods. Now there are only animal offerings. I have heard some say that in this time of great trouble, we need to go back to the old ways.”

  “Whose idea was this?”

  “I think Mabon’s,” said Devonna slowly, “but many agree with him in this matter.”

  “What about you? Do you think I should go along with this?”

  The girl shuddered involuntarily, then said faintly, “If it helps the Keltoi.”

  “It’s a waste and it won’t do any good! The Romans are going to keep coming and coming. It won’t make a bit of difference—except to me, and I’ll be dead!”

  “You are not prepared to die, then?”

  He was ready to shout, “Not on your life!” but the strange look in her eyes stopped him. Would she rat on him, tell Mabon he’d chickened out? Would they grab him anyway?

  He’d better watch what he said.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She wasn’t stupid. Looking skeptically at him, she stepped back. He had to stop her somehow from telling Mabon. No telling what the Druid would do if he thought his prize sacrifice was going AWOL.

  “Uh, would you please not tell anyone yet about what I said, not until I’ve had time to think? All this is kind of a shock.”

  “You fear death?” Devonna asked, a hint of contempt in her voice.

  “Uh, no more than anyone else I know. It’s not something I think about a lot.”

  Devonna’s voice softened. “We are told that when we die we go into another beautiful world. Then when we are ready, we are born again into another body. So we never really die.”

  He could listen to Devonna tell stories all night, but there was something more important that had grabbed his attention. “What’s the ceremony like? How do they, you know, kill you?”

  “You will receive three blows to the crown of your head, three because that is a sacred number signifying that in everything the gods are three times as powerful as men. Then you will be placed upright on a stool and strangled with a cord by the Vates.”

  And they were? J.J. began searching Bran’s memory. The Vates were a type of priest whose job was to interpret sacrifices, which probably meant they decided who or what was to be sacrificed. They also were astrologers who had to know some mathematics.

  “And then,” Devonna continued, “to do homage to the god Esus, who demands human sacrifice, you will be stabbed in the throat, releasing your blood into a cauldron. Your body will be lifted onto a white horse, which will convey you to the sacred pool, where Teutates, the god of war, waits to claim you.”

  J.J. let out a long breath, which he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. From what Bran’s memories were telling him, the gods only did what you asked if you were really serious about what you were asking, and what could be more serious than sacrificing something really precious—like a human life? He wasn’t going to hang around for that, not this guy. But where could he go? He couldn’t expect help from Bryanna. She was probably in on it, too.

  The Romans wouldn’t be interested in sheltering a Druid novice. They were more likely to wipe him out with their own version of an execution, maybe crucifixion, although he’d never heard of their doing that to the Britons. More likely some soldier, figuring one Briton more or less wouldn’t matter, would take a casual swipe at him with his sword. The U.S. cavalry had taken a similar attitude toward the Indians.

  Oh, oh. Here was Mabon coming toward him. Wonder what he wanted. Devonna was going over to talk to him.

  His foster father acknowledged her greeting without breaking stride. Even without the weird hair and the flowing cloak, he would have looked impressive. He had that air of commanding authority that expected instant obedience.

  Mabon brushed aside J.J.’s formal greeting with a dismissive gesture and asked, “Do you agree with Kunagnos that we should make war on the Romans?”

  It was like being suddenly called on to answer a question in class, when your mind just froze and you couldn’t think of a thing. What would Bran have said? Nothing came. He’d have to make this call all on his own. Licking dry lips, he replied carefully, “It depends on your point of view.”

  Mabon threw back his head and laughed. Then he said drily, “Spoken like a true oracle, whose words can often be taken to mean one thing or another. I had not hoped to see such diplomacy yet in you, Bran. Does this mean that my instruction is bearing fruit?”

  The knot in his gut eased. If Mabon were looking for flattery, he’d give i
t to him in spades.

  Before he had time to say a word, Mabon said sharply, “Do not play at words with me, Bran. You have heard the voice of the Keltoi in there.” He pointed back to the conical building where the meeting had been held.

  “They still argue the merits of going to war with the Romans. Whatever happens, the ceremony must take place. Failure to perform it will mean famine and misery such as we have never seen. The gods must have their divine victim upon which the Keltoi may heap their sins. It is a great honor for you to be so chosen, Bran.”

  His protest froze on his lips. Mabon wasn’t going to take no for an answer. The savage look on the Druid’s face told him that. All he could do was nod.

  Evidently this satisfied Mabon, for he smiled slightly and said, “I will leave you now to your contemplation. We will talk again soon.” With that he left, taking great swinging strides out of the grove.

  More than ever, he wanted to run away. His head hurt, and his gut was knotting up so hard he felt sick, but there was nowhere to run. He was stuck here among barbarians.

  Maybe talking to a priest, a Christian one, would help. Only there wouldn’t be one around here anytime soon. He’d have to tough it out himself.

  CHAPTER 37

  Mabon Vernemeton, Mabon’s private quarters, April 13, A.D. 61

  * * *

  Mabon settled himself more comfortably on a wolf skin and signaled the girl to serve him. She timidly began pouring out wine, taking care not to spill a drop. Having come all the way from Italy, the wine was expensive, but it was worth every bit of what it had cost. The locally brewed mead was sour and thin in comparison to this heavenly ambrosia.

  “I will bring you the pork now, lord.” Wearing a green gown fastened with a cord around her waist, she was obviously much impressed with his position. Her face, though plain, had a look of lively intelligence.

  It would be important to keep her in her place but not intimidate her to the point that she would be rendered useless, so he smiled at her and said graciously, “You are doing well in my household, Aselma. You will find that I can be generous to those who diligently follow my orders.”

  Aselma bowed her head humbly. Her father, a landless man in the local village, had jumped at the chance for his daughter to serve the mighty Druid.

  Mabon sighed. Sometimes his responsibilities weighed him down. He was expected to guide the Keltoi in all things, whether it was to arbitrate their petty quarrels, find the right herb to effect a cure for some woman’s dying child, or to invoke the protection of the gods on the warriors’ forays into battle.

  Now the most important responsibility of his life had descended upon his shoulders. Although she never spoke of it, he knew that Bryanna kept close many arcane secrets that her foster father had passed on to her, secrets concerning the path that the human race must tread.

  He had come upon some of this information almost by accident. A wandering Gaul, who had traveled to many foreign lands, had briefly sought shelter with him. They had stayed up all night talking of the many wondrous things that the traveler had seen.

  In the course of their conversation, the stranger had mentioned meeting a Babylonian priest whose life he had saved. In gratitude, the priest had revealed many secret things.

  One thing in particular had impressed the traveler. The Babylonians had records going back to the early days of the human race when fleets of vessels came out of the skies and the gods descended and walked with men and married their daughters. Later, these gods had left in their sky chariots, but not before they had taught humans many things. Some few on earth, like Bryanna, still carried that early knowledge.

  The most important information that the Gaul had passed on to him was that there were crucial times in the affairs of men when the flow of events could be altered, by what means he had not said, only that occasionally it was done.

  Change was inevitable—the Romans were seeing to that! But perhaps a man such as himself could influence that change. The Druids must continue to be in charge of the affairs of the Keltoi. It was only right that ignorant folk be guided by those who knew better, men like him—Mabon. It would be necessary to get rid of those who thought differently, even Druids like Bryanna.

  One day Bran had let slip that Bryanna had told him that there was really only One God. When pressed to explain, the boy had mumbled something about the “old wisdom.” It was impossible to get anything further out of him; he was too loyal to his mother.

  Ever since, Mabon had wondered what else Bryanna knew. Perhaps there were powerful chants and rituals that might be particularly helpful in influencing events in the way that he knew they must go. The Archdruid might have passed on such information to her, but Mabon knew she would never tell him. She distrusted him. He could see it in her eyes. Then he must find that lever that would bend her to his purpose. “Give me the right lever,” the wise Greek Archimedes had said, “and I could move the world.”

  Mabon would move worlds also. It was so written in the cries of the ravens and in the entrails of the animals he had sacrificed. He would be the highest Druid in the land after …

  His thoughts sheered away from what he must do. He must focus now on the preparations to be made. Smiling at Aselma as she put the dish of pork down on the table in front of him, he picked up the still-warm meat with his hands and began tearing into it with his strong white teeth.

  CHAPTER 38

  Lucius– Roman Soldier–Dan Morgan Menai Strait, opposite Mona, Druid center of learning, April 13, A.D. 61

  * * *

  The droning in his ears was louder now. A helicopter? Dan awoke with a start into the darkness, his heart slamming against his ribs and his mouth sour with the taste of his fear. Any minute mortar fire might be raining down upon them. Night and day he was haunted by the dread that it was his turn next to have his flesh sliced into bloody ribbons by a swarm of bullets or a land mine.

  He’d led his squad of three fire teams with four men each out on patrol that day in the stinking jungle. His nerves had been on edge. Like a needle stuck in a scratch on a record, his mind had been playing the one and only theme, “We’re caught in a trap, in a trap, in a trap,” and it wouldn’t quit, kept going round and round in an insane jingle, driving him crazy.

  Mike had been boasting about the good time he’d given this sexy babe he’d laid in Saigon, repeating all the lurid details about her tits and ass and what he’d done to her and what she’d done to him, until between the jingle in his head and Mike’s boasting, he was sure he was going to go nuts.

  In the middle of all this jabbering, Mike had stumbled onto a land mine. He wouldn’t lay anyone again. Not ever. Dan had helped the medics pick up all that was left of Mr. Wonderful.

  How he’d hated that alien jungle of rotting vegetation where fear curdled your guts and gave you nightmares. You woke up to live even worse nightmares, which you couldn’t have begun to imagine.

  But this wasn’t Vietnam. He was in another place and time, in the body of Lucius, whose memories told of his coming to Britain in A.D. 43 with the Roman army that was subduing the tribes in the southeast of Britain and up into Cymru, or what would later be called Wales. Before that, Lucius had served for six years in Gaul, a place of dense woods, fierce warriors, and little of the comforts of civilization except where the Pax Romana was enforced by the sword.

  His youth had been spent battling barbarians; he was growing tired of it. He had served 24 years in the army and was only a year away from retirement—if he could stay alive that long.

  Returning to Italy was not an option: his parents were probably long dead, and his friends had forgotten him. He would settle here in Britain. A farm in the south of this land and the pension that Rome offered to its veterans would afford him a good life. A wife to keep him warm at night and to provide him with sturdy sons would be all a man like him could ask for.

  Dan pushed away the memories of Lucius, rolled over, and opened his eyes. He had been sleeping in a tent with six other guys.
The eighth man in his contubernium was on sentry duty. Dan rubbed his eyes and winced. His right arm hurt like hell. In fact, he could hardly raise it.

  Memories came of a battle, which in this timeline had happened only a week ago. A bunch of Celts, wearing bronze helmets, shirts, and trousers, had ambushed the Romans in a narrow pass in the mountains. Javelins came raining down, but the Roman shields deflected most of them. Then a shrieking horde of blue-painted warriors came pouring down from the rocks above. Lucius found himself hacking away at several of them, who had jumped his contubernium. He had just dispatched one of them with his short sword when another one lunged at him.

  Lucius brought up his shield a moment too late. As if in slow motion, he saw the Celt grin, saw the blue dragon tattooed on his cheek writhe, and the sun strike his sword as it began its slow descent into Lucius’s arm just above his elbow. The exultation on the barbarian’s face turned to bewilderment as he clutched the dagger now sticking out of his chest.

  The sword falling from his hand, Lucius pivoted to his left where Marcus was yelling, “Behind me! Get behind me!” as he pulled his dagger out of the Celt’s chest.

  Good old Marcus. He’d never complain about his snoring again. Soon after, it was all over. The Celts melted away into the rocky terrain, leaving several of the Roman supply wagons burning and a number of legionaries dead and others bleeding. Up to that time, he had been lucky not to get killed or banged up too hard.

  Guess it was better than dying, but he wouldn’t last long in this army if his arm didn’t heal soon. When he returned to Camulodunum, he’d offer sacrifices to Mithras, god of victory, who was popular among soldiers, and ask for his help.

  Dan pushed away the memories of the life of the man he used to be. He could identify all too well with Lucius, of being alone except for your buddies you depended on to help keep you alive in a place where the natives resented you and were trying to kill you.

  Dan couldn’t stand any more of these surging thoughts and the snoring of the other six guys. Opening the flap of the goatskin tent, he walked outside and nodded to the sentry on duty.