Legend of the Celtic Stone

by Michael Phillips

  He hurried off and left her standing in the hall, watching his back recede as he moved away from her. Instead of taking the elevator to the ground floor, however, Reardon turned toward the stairs. As he opened the door, Paddy detected a slight nod of his head toward the other man, who followed him a moment or two later.

  Without pausing to think what she was doing, Paddy hurried after them.

  Cautiously she opened the door. The corridor was deserted. The sound of the two men’s footsteps came up from the stairwell below. As softly as they were attempting to speak, portions of their heatedly whispered argument echoed up into Paddy’s ears.

  “. . . no idea what you’re talking about . . . never heard of someone called Fiona. . . .”

  The speaker was Reardon. Now came the other man’s voice, in a thick Scottish brogue.

  “. . . did with Hamilton . . . won’t work with me . . .”

  “. . . voice down, you fool . . .”

  Other words followed that Paddy couldn’t make out.

  “. . . madder than a March hare . . .”

  “. . . druids took . . .”

  “. . . imagine you think I had anything to do with . . .”

  “. . . can’t double-cross me . . . where is she . . .”

  “. . . do you think . . . didn’t come down with yesterday’s rain . . .”

  “. . . Celtic compound . . .”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “. . . don’t believe you . . . if I find you . . .”

  “. . . call the police if you try to threaten me . . .”

  The door below opened. Suddenly the voices were gone.

  Paddy hurried down the stairs after them. She emerged from the building but saw no sign of either man.

  So, she said to herself, the plot thickens!

  But what plot? What was it all about? And druids, for goodness’ sake—why were they talking about ancient pagan priests? And what compound?

  With many new mysteries suddenly to unravel, Patricia Rawlings slowly returned to her office.

  She didn’t yet know a lot of people in London. Nor had she accumulated enough favors—that elusive commodity that lubricated the engines of both politics and journalism—to shake a stick at. But she had made a few friends in several of the right places.

  Her thoughts immediately turned to Bert Fenton, a would-be novelist whose day job at a travel bureau had turned him into something of a computer whiz, if not a hack.

  She would call him.

  Fourteen

  The following morning, on Sunday, Andrew was up and away from home early. He had planned to go to church in the village with his parents as he did most Sundays when he was home. But at the last minute he decided on this drive instead.

  Yesterday’s image of the old Highlander staring down from the wall of the house still haunted his memory, blurring with the woodcut of the Wanderer. How near to this very place might have been the Wanderer’s home?

  Is your presence still haunting these regions, old wandering ancient, he thought . . . filling your descendants with the same northward beckoning that lured you?

  Might even some of the mammoth’s bones be lying under the ground nearby, Andrew wondered, lost to the centuries in a burial crypt of dirt and stone and peat?

  Who were all those people hanging upon the walls of his home? Was it from Cruithne’s stock they had come?

  Perhaps someday he would find out. Today, however, he was after another piece of the puzzle, one suggested by yesterday’s research. He had decided to drive eastward to Carlisle, then northeast through Brampton to the remains of Hadrian’s Wall north of Haltwhistle. He had visited there once before, as a schoolboy, but little remained in his memory other than vague impressions of rocky ruins. Now, with his adult interest newly piqued, he wondered what he might learn.

  A driving rain set in as Andrew followed the road along the ancient Roman boundary, watching for bits of the wall that remained across the countryside. His first stop was at the ruins of the Roman fort at Housesteads.

  After ten or fifteen minutes in the gift shop and museum waiting for the downpour to let up, Andrew bundled up as best he could and set out for the half-mile walk up the hill to the ruins. A biting wind whipped past his ears and stung his nose and face. Gradually the rain eased.

  Though all that remained of the fort were stone walls and the outlines of rooms a few feet high, as he walked slowly among them he felt a great sense of ancient reality. Thousands of men had actually lived in forts just like this—solitary outposts that represented the final reach of the Roman Empire. What a difficult life it must have been! The weather alone would have been daunting if today’s fierce blasts, speckled with hail, were any indication. Yet the remains showed solid construction. And the still-visible floor pillars of the bathhouse gave evidence of Roman technology intended to keep the cold at bay and provide some degree of luxury even on a faraway frontier like this.

  From the edge of the fort itself, Hadrian’s Wall stretched down across the fields to the northeast. The only sign of life visible as the stones faded in the chilly distance were a few sheep. They cared as little about today’s wind and rain as they did about the history of the ground upon which they grazed.

  How had the Romans been driven away, Andrew wondered. How had the northern people done it? How had primitive people managed to reduce these once-massive and seemingly impenetrable forts to ruins?

  He turned and made his way back across the soggy ground to the parking lot, then continued on his way to Hexham. After a brief walk through the center of the historic market town, he drove on to Corbridge and the ruins of another first-century Roman fort. The rain had let up by now. Though the wind continued to whistle among the stones, occasionally a ray or two of sunlight did its best to shine through.

  The fort in this season did not attract many visitors. Andrew took the opportunity to question the woman in charge of the visitor’s center.

  “What was it that destroyed this fort?” he asked.

  “There were actually two forts built at this site,” she answered. “The first dated from the governorship of Julius Agricola in the early 80s AD, when he conquered this region. It was originally destroyed by fire.”

  “Fire?” repeated Andrew. “How could these forts have been burned?”

  “The circumstances have been lost to history. Some six or seven Roman forts were all burned around the same time.”

  “But everything is made of stone,” said Andrew.

  “The ruins we see at present, as I said, dating from the second, third, and even fourth centuries, are mostly reconstructions. The original first-century forts were largely made of wood. Some had stone foundations, but most of the roof supports and interior walls were of timber. Trees were much more plentiful in those days, you see. After the burning of many of their forts, however, the Romans resorted to more stone, higher walls, even slate for the roofs.”

  “But how were the forts burned?”

  “It is one of the mysteries of early British history. Along the north of this border, from coast to coast, the natives of early Scotland apparently repulsed the legions of Rome from further advances.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “The year was 105 AD”

  Andrew thanked her for the information, browsed a bit more, purchased two books, then walked out to the site. After a brief walk through the remains of the fort, he made his way to a solitary portion of the outer wall. There he located a large, partially dried stone protected by a remnant of wall face, sat down, shifted the pack from his back, and took out the luncheon he had packed for himself.

  He wondered if the descendants of Cruithne and Fidach might have been among those Caledonian tribes who withstood the Roman advances.

  Andrew opened one of the books he had just bought. As he quietly ate his lunch, he began to read about that epoch between vague prehistory and known history. It had been then, in the first and second centuries AD that the Roman Caesars had attempted to subdue th
e most distant reaches of their empire . . . that northern portion of the isle they had named Britannia.

  9

  To Withstand an Empire

  AD 105

  One

  The young man called Foltlaig, son of Gatheon, was twenty-two when he went out with his father and thousands of their tribesmen to fight the Romans. The day was etched in his brain like the hot coals of fire into which he stared at this moment.

  How proud he had been, how strong and virile, marching side by side with his father and following the great general Gaelbhan to battle!

  None of the inner turmoil of his later years had plagued his soul that morning. He had felt only the thrill of approaching battle, the challenge of facing the foe and emerging the victor.

  The anguish had come several hours later when suddenly, at his side, his father had stumbled and fallen. . . .

  Foltlaig turned. At first he could not comprehend the unthinkable. He glanced around . . . why was blood splattering about him?

  Then came the horrifying realization. It was spurting from his father’s chest!

  He fell to his knees, then burst into boyish sobs, babbling words he would never remember afterward. Gently he attempted to lift his father’s head, then cradled it in his arms only long enough to see a feeble smile and hear the weak words of farewell.

  “Do not let them . . . take it . . . they mustn’t take it from us,” the warrior struggled to say. “Keep . . . protect the land . . . do not let—”

  The words broke off. The dying soldier attempted to draw in a breath.

  “I won’t, Father,” sobbed Foltlaig. “I will fight the strangers until they are gone.”

  “They mustn’t . . . can’t have our land . . .” The voice was faint.

  “I won’t let them, Father—I promise.”

  “. . . have to protect—”

  Then a choking sound, and the whispered words that Foltlaig alone could hear in the midst of the battlefield tumult. It mattered not—they were meant for him and no other.

  “. . . my son . . .”

  Then the light faded from his eyes, and he was gone.

  The reminder of his youthful tears brought Foltlaig back to the present and the importance of the mission they were discussing. A little more than twenty years had passed since the day his father fell. Foltlaig was now a man of forty-two, a leader among his people. He had taken his father’s place and now had a son of his own. And still his people faced the encroaching presence of the swarthy-skinned invaders from the south.

  Now he sat with his own and the chieftain of a neighboring tribe in a wide stone dwelling laced with great timbers, dark and primitive, yet containing many of the implements, tools, weapons, and other accouterments of a steadily advancing culture.

  He was an eighth great-grandson of Cruithne, ancient ruler of the great Pritenae tribe now called the Caledonii.

  Across the dirt floor, though this salient fact was known to neither, sat listening an equally distant descendant of the ruthless kinsman who had murdered the old chief’s mother.

  On the present occasion, however, Foltlaig—so named after the third son of Cruithne—was joined in conclave with his own chief and their distant Maeatae cousin for purposes of common intent.

  Though the matrilineal line of descent among the Caledonii excluded him from the line of chiefs, Foltlaig was widely respected as a battle strategist—perhaps the greatest among the Caledonii since old Gaelbhan had roused the north against the Romans a generation earlier. It was perhaps a strange honor for one who was also one of the gentlest men in the tribe, one who would kill neither man nor beast without necessity. In truth, Foltlaig had inherited not only Cruithne’s prowess and battle sense, but also the sensitivity and tenderness of his brother Fidach. Thus did the bonds of their ancient brotherhood—as well as the tension between their two natures—live on within his breast.

  It was Foltlaig’s inheritance from Cruithne, however, that was now required—for this meeting was nothing less than a council of war.

  His own chief, Coel, leader of the district of mountainous Athfotla between Loch Lochy and the Firth of Tay—the southernmost of the Caledonii chieftains—had requested that his Maeatae counterpart join them in serious counsel.

  They sat in the Caledonii chief’s stone, wood, and turf dwelling. Construction of such homes had made great advances in the course of the previous three hundred years, as their people drifted southward into the Highlands north of Loch Rannoch. The peat fire between them was unchanged, however, in the years since the ancients had learned of its heat-giving properties. The same remarkable fuel now glowed as brightly as when it had warmed the hands and feet of the northland’s inhabitants in years back beyond memory. It still burned hot, still smoked with singular odor, and still contained the essence of life in this frigid and inhospitable land.

  Perhaps in the very flames now burning between them lay also the solution to the common difficulty which had brought these two rival chieftains together in an uneasy peace.

  The visiting Maeatae chieftain, a somber-faced warrior named Ainbach, had just spoken.

  Coel of the Caledonii waited, then cast his eyes over at Foltlaig. He had learned to depend upon his warrior-commander in such matters. The reach of his own influence had grown wide precisely because of his willingness to trust in Foltlaig’s judgment.

  Foltlaig extended his hands toward the fire that had prompted his brief interlude of reflection, then rubbed them briskly together. At length he spoke in answer to the question just posed by their visitor.

  “You are wise to be cautious,” he replied thoughtfully. “In truth, I do not know whether our brothers to the north and west will join us.”

  “If not, I see no possibility that your plan can succeed,” said Ainbach.

  Foltlaig glanced at his own chief, who still offered no comment on the matter.

  “My plan requires no great numbers,” Foltlaig said. “Only courage . . . and the united support of all the tribes in the region.”

  “You think to defeat the Romans without a great army? You think you will accomplish what your own Gaelbhan was unable to do?”

  Ainbach’s apparent doubt at last roused Coel to speech.

  “What choice do we have? What choice do any of us have?” spoke the Caledonii leader. “If they are not turned back now,” Coel went on, “they will overrun your people in Ochils and eventually proceed to Strathmore. And then beyond! Conquest is their only purpose. They will swallow your people, then mine. They must be stopped, I tell you. Do not discount Foltlaig’s plan, my Maeatae cousin.”

  Coel spoke from no hollow, groundless fear. During the previous century, scattered Pritenae had drifted southward below the Clyde, even as far south as the Cheviot Hills and Tweed. Some returned with tales of a conquering people from a distant land who were marching northward in great legions, vanquishing all who attempted to withstand them.

  Nor had the northern tribes long to wait before witnessing the truth of these reports with their own eyes.

  Neither Coel nor Foltlaig nor Ainbach nor any of their people knew anything of the place from which these trespassers came. They knew nothing of Rome except that it was far away across the waters. The name of the Roman governor Agricola, who had pushed the Roman presence far to the north, had carried no meaning to the ears of their fathers, and these men presently gathered scarcely knew that Agricola himself was no longer in Britain. Certainly they would not have recognized the name of the current Roman emperor, Trajan. They only knew that the Roman forces had advanced northward two generations before, building their stone-and-timber forts all the way from Carlisle to the Forth-Clyde line and carrying out deadly forays into their own regions. A few expeditions had extended as far north as Moray, where the great battle of Foltlaig’s youth had been fought, and where his father had died.

  Now Roman forts and outposts dotted the landscape in the regions of the Selgovae and the Votadini. The northern tribes all feared for the day when the urge for conq
uest would again fill the minds of the foreigners.

  Thus Coel had sent a messenger to Ainbach, requesting this council. At the same time he had summoned his own commander, Foltlaig son of Gatheon, to begin preparations for a plan to protect their region from the encroaching southern menace.

  “Perhaps the Selgovae and Damnonii will assist us,” said Ainbach at length, “and the Votadini.”

  It was the very suggestion Foltlaig had hoped to hear. He knew the tribal rivalries were more severe in the south, where borders were closer. If he misstepped in trying to bring the tribes together, a great intertribal war could result. Such would be worse than sharing their land with the Romans. Thus he had waited, hoping the idea of the tribes joining together would come from one of the chieftains.

  “I am certain of it,” now replied Foltlaig enthusiastically. “And the Novantae. Every tribe lost men during the time of my father. The Selgovae have sought vengeance against the intruders ever since they began erecting their fortresses. They require but a spark to ignite their thirst for revenge.”

  “Do you speak for yourself as well, son of Gatheon?”

  Foltlaig hesitated a moment before he spoke. “My father went to his death behind Gaelbhan. I vowed no revenge on that day. Such is not my way. But I do seek freedom for our land. I must do my duty to his memory by keeping my people, and yours, free from these who would conquer us.”

  “You cannot succeed alone.”

  “That I realize only too well. We must lay aside the strife that has divided the many tribes of our land. We must join hands as one.”

  As Foltlaig spoke, he glanced toward each of the two powerful Celtic tribal chieftains, the one of his own Caledonii, the other of the powerful Maeatae. He knew what pride and independence drove such men. He knew that the mere suggestion that they relinquish a portion of their authority to join with those who had in times past been their enemies was a bold and precarious proposal. If his plan was not well received, he could pay for his imprudence with his life. Yet Cruithne and Fidach’s vision lived on in him. Deep in his being, he knew that in the uniting of the tribes lay their best chance for success.