Pathways of the Druids

by Christopher J. Pine

  “We have several patrols out at this moment,” he observed drily. “What was the size of this unit that you found?”

  “I counted thirty-four bodies, sir, and I took this from a body of what I believe was an officer.” Tiberius then held out a package that was wrapped in some damp linen. It made a dull thud as he placed it on the table in front of the Camp Prefect, who quickly pulled at the wrapping. An empty scabbard of a Roman sword was revealed. Then as he began turning the scabbard over in his hands, the centurion pointed at it.

  “Look,” said Tiberius, “the owner’s name is marked on the back, sir. That scabbard belonged to a legionary called Catullus.”

  “Follow me, centurion. If we’re quick we shall be able to talk to the Governor General before he addresses the senior commanders,” said the Camp Prefect as he stood up, dropping the scabbard back onto the desk and grabbing his cloak as he headed for the doorway of the tent. They hurriedly walked towards a larger tent in the middle the camp, and before they could enter two guards stepped forward with drawn swords.

  “Password?” grunted one of the guards.

  “The password for tonight is Ennuis,” replied the Camp Prefect.

  “Pass, friend,” replied the guard as he sheathed his sword and saluted, stepping back quickly as he recognised the Camp Prefect.

  Tiberius glanced quickly around the tent, at one end of which was the Fourteenth Legion’s eagle flanked by two honour guards who were standing to attention. At the other end of the brown leather tent was the Twentieth Legion’s eagle, also flanked by two honour guards, their eyes fixed forward as they dared not move. Along one side of the tent there was a long table upon which was a large quantity of food and wine. Overlooking the table on a staff was an imago, a large burnished silver likeness of the Roman Emperor Nero. Two large braziers of burning charcoal kept the chill of the night away.

  Many senior tribunes and staff tribunes from both legions were inside the tent, all busy vying for the attention of a small but imposing man dressed in a toga. His appearance was of slight build, he was balding and his face was angular with piercing grey eyes.

  “I’m so glad you could join us for this small celebration of our victory, Camp Prefect,” began the Governor General.

  “My apologies, sir, I would have been here earlier but I was unfortunately detained by my duties, sir. May I introduce to you a messenger who has just arrived direct from Rome? He is Centurion Tiberius Septimus Marcus. He has brought despatches from the emperor and a turnae of cavalry for the Fourteenth Legion.

  “He also has some grim news. A large force of cavalry has wiped out one of our patrols that he found. I have identified the patrol concerned. It was under the command of Catullus who was taking a party of slaves to Lindum. This centurion has only found thirty-four bodies, but there were thirty-six men in that patrol.”

  Everybody in the room stopped talking and stared intently at the newcomer who had arrived with such with disturbing news. Caius Seutonius Paulinus beckoned to Tiberius to walk over to him, as he slowly took a sip of wine.

  “Do you have any despatches for me from the emperor?” he asked quietly. Tiberius reached into his pouch and handed a sealed packet over to the Governor General. “Thank you, centurion,” remarked Seutonius as he took the package and casually passed it back to an aide to hold. “Now, can you please describe exactly what you found out there?”

  “It was two days ago, sir,” said Tiberius. “I was on a track way that led through a dense forest when I came upon a widened part of the track. The scene before me was of a desperate fight. It was midday and the weather was quite warm, but the area felt chilled and there was a mist strangely still clinging to their bodies.

  “I believe that they’d been surrounded and then completely overwhelmed. All their bodies were decapitated in the Celtic manner. The force of enemy chariots and cavalry must have been quite large. I found some tracks and I would estimate their strength at over one hundred and fifty. The battle site is approximately two day’s ride from here, sir, on the track way to Lindum.”

  Seutonius showed no emotion or surprise as he replied to the messenger.

  “Thank you, centurion.” Then he turned back to face the officers who were gathered together in the tent. “Gentlemen, we have had a great victory at Mona. The druids have been totally destroyed and their sacred groves have been laid waste. The Ordovices and the Silures tribes will not rise against us again. Then the gods gave us yet another, even greater victory over the Iceni tribe, with over eighty thousand enemy dead. We owe a deep debt of gratitude to our ally, Tiberius Claudius Togodumnus of the Regni.

  “This victory was at a cost to us in casualties of only four hundred dead, and the same number wounded. The result of this is that the Iceni as a tribe will never rise again. But Boudicca did escape us. She has yet to pay for her many crimes of the cruel murder of our Roman brothers and sisters in Camulodonum, Verulamium and Londinium, also our many other settlements that suffered so brutally at her barbaric hands.

  “But we have been celebrating this victory far too early. There indeed may be another force that she has raised. Or this could be the force which terrorised a Roman legion, the Eleventh Augusta, into cowering inside their forts. To their great shame they lacked the will and the strength to join us on the field of Mars as I had commanded they should. I have recently received word that the shame of cowardice was too much for Poenius Postumus, the Camp Prefect of the Eleventh Augusta, and that he has fallen on his sword.”

  Seutonius paused to look around at each of his officers before continuing to speak.

  “This force then went on to destroy the Ninth Legion. We must deal it a death blow quickly, before they can raise more rebellion against us. We shall have to leave our wounded here in the valetudinarian of this camp. One cohort of auxiliary infantry will be left here to act as the garrison.” He turned to the nearest senior tribune. “How many patrols have we out at this moment?”

  “We have four independent patrols out of one turnae, sir,” the tribune replied. “I am not expecting any of these to return until late tomorrow morning, sir.”

  “They will be spent after their long patrol,” observed Seutonius, “and on their return they will strengthen the garrison here. Tiberius, you shall attach yourself to my staff temporarily, then you can inform me about the emperor and other events, and of course all the gossip that is happening in Rome.” Finally, Seutonius Paulinus turned to face his officers.

  “Gentlemen, please make your offerings to your gods. Because after the men have eaten, and with all our available forces, we shall break camp and leave at first light. Now I shall address the legions.” He directed his gaze at the next nearest tribune. “Order the bucinator to sound the assembly.”

  Chief Cestrathax was pacing up and down as he waited for his scouts to return.

  “Mestrathax, what do you see of our future in that bowl of water?” The druid shuddered and looked up at Cestrathax.

  “Gwydion is over half a day’s journey away from here. His progress has been slow because the tribes people he rescued are on foot. They’re engulfed in a heavy rainstorm and the men look tired. I see that he has two prisoners with him in a cart. Now let’s hope that he brings us some good news. I suggest you alert the watchers to look out for them. Some of our men have been injured and we’d better warn our healers to prepare to receive them. It’s turning dusk now, a dangerous time to be on the road, and they will not be able to arrive here until well past nightfall.”

  A large thunderstorm had indeed now begun and heavy rain started to fall, making the track way’s rain-sodden ground difficult to travel. Shosterax was waiting by the side of the track way resting his horse as Gwydion, who was at the head of the column, pulled over to talk to him. He waved to the war band to continue on ahead.

  He had arranged for most of the wounded men to be carried in the chariots and th
e prisoners were in the horse-drawn cart. But because of the rainstorm their progress was often slowed, as the mud was affecting the horses and everybody alike. Tristan rode over to them.

  “Gwydion, Shosterax, I’m hearing stories from the tribesmen we rescued that Boudicca has been defeated and the Iceni were wiped out.”

  “We suspected as much,” said Gwydion. “I couldn’t tell you or the men earlier because we weren’t sure what had happened. That’s the reason we needed the Roman prisoners.”

  Tristan stood open-mouthed and took a moment to compose himself before speaking.

  “The chariots are getting stuck in this heavy mud and we can’t make much progress in this storm. The men on foot are exhausted and they’re having difficulty keeping up. We have one or two stragglers. The men are all but done. I think we should break our journey here for the night - we won’t be able to reach the camp before nightfall.”

  “Under no circumstances will we stop tonight!” insisted Gwydion. “Encourage the men and whip the horses if you have to. Our wounded must see the camp healers and we must get those two Romans to our hill fort for interrogation. The information they have will affect us all. They’ll be made to tell us everything they know.”

  “Gwydion is absolutely right,” agreed Shosterax. “We cannot stop now. All our efforts must be to get back to the hill fort. We must all suffer now for a greater gain later.”

  “Well, Shosterax, can’t you stop this storm with your druid magic?” Tristan asked.

  “Yes, I could, but I won’t do that. This storm is a direct result of the magic that I used in the battle. The gods have to rebalance the energies that were used - there is always a price to pay for everything in life. The good thing is that the storm might help to cover our tracks and slow down the progress of anyone else who might try to track and follow us.”

  “Tristan,” said Gwydion, “firstly you will organise a mounted patrol to make sure we don’t lose any stragglers. Then when you’ve done that, pick someone to replace you. Tell him to report to me, because I need you now to go ahead and inform Chief Cestrathax. Go and pick the best horse you can find and take that with you as well as your own horse. That should help speed you on your way. You must tell Cestrathax every detail of what has occurred to us, and that we’re on our way as fast as we’re able to travel. Now go.”

  In the hill fort, the evening was warm but it was raining heavily now, making the air sticky with the heat as the centre of the storm steadily approached them. The rain was flowing off the thatched roofs of the huts and running down the curved pathways. Mestrathax, followed by Rianna who was wearing a sword and carrying a short spear, arrived at the main hut of the hill fort where Cestrathax was waiting to receive them. The two guards at the entrance of the hut allowed them entrance as they recognised the druid. Smoke from the fire moved towards the open door as they entered. Rianna quickly glanced around inside the hut as she checked for danger. Then, after smiling at everybody, she turned around and stood without moving just inside the main doorway quietly watching the approaches.

  Cestrathax’s wife and his youngest son Rynax were busy laying out some food and placing a gold flagon of wine and some gold goblets onto the table. A large dog bounded up snarling at the druid as he entered. Mestrathax made a low whistle and the dog gave a yelp and cowered by the wall of the hut.

  “Cestrathax, you really should have your animals trained better. When we are more at peace I’ll have one of my apprentices do that for you.”

  “I apologise for that animal, Mestrathax, and I’d appreciate it if you would have the hound trained. Would you please join me and my family for a meal? I’ve called you here because I have urgent need of your wise counsel - and there’s too much wine for me to drink on my own. Please sit down.”

  Mestrathax sat on a low chair at the table with Cestrathax and his family. But as he looked at them he felt a strong premonition of death reaching out to his friends. He smiled at them, so as not to betray what was in his mind, and pushed the worrying thought away.

  “It’s good to be in here and out of the rain,” he said. “I am as always your servant and advisor. It also would be very rude of me to refuse your hospitality of a lovely home-cooked meal and, of course, the wine.”

  Cestrathax’s wife poured some wine into Mestrathax’s goblet.

  “A strange thing has happened today,” began the chief. “Six of my own personal cattle were struck by lightning! They fell over and appeared to be dead but they didn’t die. They got up from where they lay. Next they dashed away, swam across a nearby river and escaped into a wood, and we haven’t been able to track them. They’ve completely disappeared! Could you unravel this omen for me?”

  Mestrathax thought quietly to himself for a moment before he spoke.

  “Lightning being used means that the great god Taranis himself has sent you this omen. This could indeed be a very important warning for all of our futures. I shall meditate on this omen and request assistance from the gods that I might be guided to the right answer.”

  As they were enjoying the second course of the meal, Cestrathax picked up the bread and tore it into smaller portions.

  “These herring are lovely and quite fresh. Here, have some more wine, Mestrathax.” He gestured to his wife to pick up the gold flagon and refill the druid’s empty goblet.

  “Father,” said Rynax, “when I grow up, could the Arch Druid Mestrathax make me a druid?”

  “You want to be a druid?” said his father. “I thought you wanted to be a warrior, and before that you wanted to be a hunter, or was it a bard? And now you want to be a druid? Mestrathax, what do you think he should become?”

  The druid put his goblet down on the table and studied the young boy.

  “He is brave, but there’s too much imagination there for him to become a warrior. Possibly, if his voice is sound he could become a bard. But he really would have to travel to Mona for training, and as he’s the son of a chief that risk cannot be taken lightly. Yes, I think maybe he could become a druid. Rynax, when you are a little older I shall have Shosterax test you to see if you have the gift. It matters not that you are the chief’s son or the son of a slave. Do you have the gift of sight, so that we might make that flame burn brighter? That’s what is important, for we can teach you everything else. Then if we find that you do have the sight, it might become possible for you.

  “But you must understand that the training is long and difficult. There are many people who try to take the tests and they end in failure. The length of time that you would have to train for is sixteen years - and then onwards for the rest of your life. There will be many tests to endure - it’s a very hard choice for life. Yes, we shall have to see, and consider carefully when you’re older.”

  There was a rider on a brown horse travelling hurriedly up the winding paths of the hill fort, shouting encouragement to the horse to go faster. As he arrived at the chief’s hut, Rianna and the two guards approached him. Rianna levelled her spear at the rider.

  “State your business.”

  “I’m a messenger from the main gate, and I have urgent news for Chief Cestrathax.”

  “What is your message?” said a booming voice, as Cestrathax followed by the Arch Druid emerged from the hut. The rider climbed off his horse and kneeled before the chief.

  “My Chief, we’ve seen a signal from our lookout in the lower valley. There are two riders approaching the hill fort and they should be arriving here shortly.” Without a word being spoken, the entire party glanced at one another and quickly started making their way down to the main gate of the fort.

  Tristan was tired. It was not easy riding one horse and guiding another during a storm. He had changed horses several times during the journey. The violent rain and the lightning strikes hitting the forest around him often made the horses panic. As he rode through the gates of the fort he felt spent. The hors
es slowed to a stop as they recognised where they were. Tristan felt many willing hands lifting him off of the horse as they helped him into a nearby hut.

  “Well, tell us your news,” demanded Cestrathax impatiently.

  Tristan was sitting on a couch drinking some water; he put the beaker down and began speaking.

  “We were victorious over the Romans with no losses to ourselves, but we have some injured. We have indeed rescued some of our friends and some of them are from the Trinovantes tribe. We’ve captured two Romans and they are now our prisoners.” Tristan started coughing violently. “Sorry, I’m drinking too fast,” he continued. “Gwydion and the war band are only a short time behind me. The men we rescued have told us that Boudicca has lost. She herself may indeed be dead. All we really know is that the Iceni force and all who went with her have been completely wiped out.”

  “I didn’t want to believe what the druids told me, but this confirms what they said,” muttered Cestrathax. “At least we’ll be able to question the Roman prisoners for specific details. Now, get yourself some food and then rest while you can, because I’m sure you’ll be needed again soon.”

  Mestrathax looked extremely grim.

  “We shall need to undertake a special sacrifice to the gods. Cestrathax, I will require from you your large ceremonial shield and sword. These will have to be taken to the Lin-du pool to be dedicated and given to the gods. The total future of the tribe will have to be placed into their hands.”

  Chief Cestrathax looked straight into the Arch Druid’s eyes.

  “Anything you require from me is yours. Money and possessions are of no consequence to us now. Only the future of the tribe’s existence is important. I shall now go and arrange for the return of our war band.” With that, Chief Cestrathax turned around and strode out of the hut.

  The jarring motion of the cart awoke Tibullus. A throb of pain travelled through his head. He could feel that his hands and feet were bound; he couldn’t move. Slowly he remembered what had happened.