by Ian Hall
This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN 9781310104688
Caledonii: Birth of a Nation.
(A great new novel By Ian Hall)
Caledonii 1: The Great Gather
Caledonii 2: The Druid’s Plan
Caledonii 3: The Coming of Age
Caledonii 4: The Romans Invade
Caledonii 5: Druid’s Work
Caledonii: Birth of a Celtic Nation.
Druid & Iceni
(This a prequel to the main book)
By Ian Hall
69AD, South East Scotland
Tra’pan, the Main Fort of the Votadini Clan
Sewell, visit me.
The old arch-dhruid’s voice cut through my head like a red hot needle. I winced, dropping the newly-budded rowan twigs onto the grass. Collecting my strength I picked them up again, storing them in my pack with the rest, collected in the sparse woodland.
I hear you, ancient one. I answered, turning towards the Votadini hill fort I called home.
The wooden walls of Tra’pan sat atop a long oval hill, rising from farmland, overlooking the sea. From its tall spike-topped walls, ripples of defensive ridges echoed across the harsh heathland to the crested ridges; a truly defensible fortress.
I arrived at the arch-dhruids hut slightly out of breath, the walk up the steep slopes not being an easy one. I parted the curtain over the door to find the arch-dhruid on his bed, his grey robe held tightly at his throat. “You called, ancient one.”
Kheltine shifted on the raised bed of furs. “Not ancient yet,” A wrinkled smile spread over his face. “Sewell, my son, always the cheeky pup,” he pushed his frail body upwards with his thin elbows, then rested back on the straw pillow.
“Never in front of the rest,” I tossed back my grey hood and crossed to the old man’s side, taking his hand affectionately, “and never in front of members of the clan.” I had labored under his tutelage for ten years, and he would always be thought of as my spiritual father.
“I know.” He reached out and tousled my short-cropped hair, his expression suddenly serious. “You will always be my favorite, always on my side.” He settled back on the pillow. “Sewell, my son, this is precisely why I need you today.”
“Anything, ancient one,” I sensed some gravity in the old man’s words.
“Not for the first time, the Roman darkness asserts itself against our friends in Brigante lands to the south. The wives of Lord Venutius have been many, and his sons are near legion in number, but he has requested that two be extracted into the safety of the Norland tribes.”
I had met the Brigante leader twice, both times as I had travelled to the stone circles to the far south. I remembered him as a strong, burly figure. “He fears invasion?”
“No, he does not fear it.” Kheltine looked into my eyes. His words held such weight, I felt the concern and anxiety within them. He does not fear invasion; he knows for certain it will come, and plans accordingly.
This time his gentle words into my head brought no pain. “Will the boys stay here, with us in Tra’pan?”
“Eh, no, I think not,” Kheltine’s expression clouded, his eyes slowly closing. “I feel that Chief Pe’weric does not offer the best choice of home for the boys. They will not be safe in Votadini lands.” His voice seemed thin and fading, as if falling asleep. Pe’weric the chief is weak; the Votadini will not stand against the Romans.
Kheltine’s revelation did not surprise me. Although I had witnessed Pe’weric’s loud bluster, he did not stand up well under pressure. “So where do I take them?” I asked.
You will return to the land of the Caledonii, from whence you originally came.
I almost gasped at the surprise. I would be going home for the first time in seventeen summers. “They will be safe there?”
There is one in the north who is stronger than most. The highland men will be our salvation.
I felt no answer would come from my next question, so I did not ask the identity of the one Kheltine spoke of. I had spent many years from the land of my birth, and knew much would have changed. “And thus my summons?”
“Yes, your mission,” Kheltine opened his eyes and nodded, wisps of white beard bobbing near his chin. “You will voyage to Lord Venutius, gather the boys, and bring them safely north. Venutius will be expecting you. Take two small grey robes with you, they will travel disguised as acolytes, newly added to the order.”
“Do I travel alone?”
“I cannot risk more than you.”
Despite his words, I sensed an undercurrent, something he wanted to tell me but kept hidden, veiled from my immediate senses. And yet, propriety meant I could not bring myself to enquire further. I stepped away from the bed, hearing the old man’s quiet snores.
He is old.
I trembled at the thought of his death, my father in the worlds of the spirit, yet sensed it was still years away.
As I packed my sleeping fur into my wrap, I gave thought to my route. The Brigante land held by Venutius lay to the immediate south, yet many days of hard trekking over the moors lay ahead. The lonely moors to the south contained difficult terrain, a land still ruled by wolves and demons. The coastal route would take longer, but held less danger, and more frequent friendly beds to sleep in; few villages would refuse the wise words and blessings of a passing dhruid. I said my farewells to my grey-robed colleagues in the communal dhruid broch, yet could not find Aldam or Corin, they had been recruited in the same year as I, and we had shared many lessons together under the great Kheltine. I enquired as to their presence.
“They left this morning, one going west, one south,” Drachm said, “Before they departed, they were summoned to Kheltine, just as you were.”
As I walked to the eastern gate, I considered my friends, thought of their mission, and wondered if it was the same as my own. I frowned at Kheltine’s possible subterfuge.
Surely it would have been safer to send us together, security in numbers?
Think on this no longer! Kheltine snapped at me, his voice clear and strong. With a stoic expression I muttered an apology and trudged outside.
I watched my footing as I carefully descended from the hill fort of Tra’pan, it would do me no good for me to break an ankle within sight of my journey’s beginning.
With my staff in my hand, punctuating each step, and my pack on my shoulder, I walked east, knowing the curve of the coast would soon redirect me southwards.
Towards nightfall, I walked into a farming community, welcomed by familiar faces. I ate well, drank passable ale, and slept warm and safe. The cost had been my blessing to the farm, and two stories after the meal, both of which I delivered in good humor.
With an early start, I soon strode across the lush blue-green grasses near the coast, keeping the sea in sight. It took me four days of such walking to find myself in unfamiliar territory. Holding my pack and robe above my head, I waded the River Twede naked, the accepted southerly limit of Votadini territory. Another four days of unfamiliar coastline heralded another river, larger again. I trudged a whole day inland before I could find it shallow enough to cross. Three days later, as the sun passed its highest point, I met my first challenge.
“I mean no disrespect, wise one,” the sentry said, his spear pointed at my belly. “But the Romans spy on us, an’ we must be on our guard.”
“These are difficult times,” I said, dropping my staff and pack to the ground
in front of me. I unfastened the front of my robe and lifted it high, turning in front of him. My nakedness embarrassed him, but with my robe open, he could see the spiral tattoos on my chest and buttocks. “I have come from Kheltine,” I said, “I seek the camp of Venutius of the Brigantes.”
The man’s embarrassment had not faded, his fingers now tapping nervously on his spear, its sharp steel point lowered. “I’m sorry, wise one, I did not mean to make you show…”
I raised my hand to stifle his apology. “Difficult times, my friend. Tell me the news from the lands of the Brigante, and where I would find Venutius.”
“I will take you to meet Breck,” the sentry said, obviously ill at ease. “He can explain better than me.”
There was no cozy broch that night, just a stiff camp fire and a stone to lean my back on. Thin strips of venison roasted above the flames, its aroma