old stuff First Book - Chapter One - Power

Chapter I -“Power”

“Thought and character are powerful;
but futures are not changed by thinking them so.”
- Scribonus Largus

A bracing wind came from the west, out of the forest, bringing with it the smell of blood and death mingled with smoke and sweet incense. In response to the putrid odor, Caradoc put his arm to his face, covering his prominent cheekbones, bent nose, and long braided mustache. His horse let out a stubborn snort, and then reared high into the cold night air. As it touched the earth, the Catuvellaunian warrior dismounted, grabbed the reigns, and headed toward the line of oak before him.
The moonlight pouring into the meadow revealed very little of what lay beyond the trees. Even through the darkness, Caradoc knew he had come to the right place. He wrapped the reigns around the nearest limb, shrugged back his thick woolen cloak, and revealed a great long-sword at his side. He untied a bundle from behind the saddle, picked it up, and adjusted it until it cradled easily in his arm. He then turned toward the trees before him. Looking at the darkness, he reverently reached up and grabbed a thick-coiled bit of metal, fashioned so that it curved around his neck. The bronze torc shimmered in the moonlight.
Caradoc raised his face to the moon, as if he were soaking in its strength. His long, flaxen hair blew wildly in the wind as he took a few strides and breached the barrier of trees into the clearing beyond.
Caradoc’s eyes adjusted to the dark interior. He could barely make out a stone table and, faintly before it, a man in a long white woolen robe stared wide-eyed in his direction. Caradoc marched up to this man, leaned in close and, trying to be heard over the roaring of the wind in the trees around the copse, he yelled into the face of the Druid. “These are to be sacrificed. Now!” Caradoc slapped the bundle he was holding down onto the large stone table. Then turning to go back to his horse, he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Without delay,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“But there are two of them,” the Druid gasped as he peeled back the black woolen wrapping. Looking into the bundle placed on the altar, he declared, “Why, twins they are. Boys. Newborn.” And then, softly as he examined them, he whispered, “Pure.”
Caradoc heard the word and it stopped him in his tracks.
“Pure. That’s what she had called them,” Caradoc said to himself. “She was going to cut them for her god.” He sneered in contempt at the memory of his wife groveling before him in a sniveling prayer to her Judean god as he wrestled the babes from her breast.
“All-seeing One, protect my sons. I have placed them into your hands. Keep them, oh Lord, from the plans of the wicked; preserve them from violence. You are my God,” she had screamed to the sky, “hear the voice of my prayer!”
Caradoc shook his head to clear his thoughts and remembered his purpose. No sons of his would be given to any foreign gods. He would see to that. Without turning, he yelled to the Druid, “Yes! Yes! Blast it! Two of them, the more life force to give to the gods, you goat! I gave the orders. You carry them out. Kill them! Now!”
He continued out of the clearing. When he got to his horse outside the tree line, he loosened the reins from the limb and yanked them hard. “Imbeciles. They better not foul this up.”
“What is it you seek?” someone yelled behind him.
Caradoc’s hand instinctively grabbed the hilt of his sword as he quickly turned to face more Druids filtering through the trees. They carried torches. One of them pushed several of the others aside and stepped forward taking Caradoc’s bundle from the attendant. This man, attired in a white robe like the man he had seen before had a large noticeable bloody-red spot on the left shoulder. He inquired as he held up the babes, “What do you desire from such a gift as this?” He handed the twins back to the attendant, and walked directly toward the warrior.
Caradoc clinched the reigns and waited for the Druid to reach him. "This must be the head butcher,” he murmured, “They are nothing but men-wives.”
The wind died down as he watched the man coming toward him. He walked the slow, reverential gait Caradoc had seen among all Druids, as if they were floating above the ground in their long white robes. Caradoc spat on the ground. He turned to mount his steed once again and grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane.
“Stop! Come with me. I have questions,” the Druid demanded.
The chance that someone would ask questions about the boys caused Caradoc to reconsider his course. He had made plans. He needed to make things balanced, if he was to succeed. If he left now there was a possibility that the task would not be completed. “It must be done tonight. I don’t have time for your questions,” he said.
“You must give me answers or we cannot do what you demand,” the Druid said.
“If you must, but, I warn you,” Caradoc fumbled with another bundle tied to his saddle, “I have much left to do before sunrise. I will return and listen to your questions – only, to make sure you do what I say.”
Hitching his horse again, Caradoc led the way back through the trees into the clearing. The Druids followed.
Back in the grove, the Druid grabbed a torch from the nook of a tree, lit it, and handed it to the warrior. He indicated that the warrior was to stay next to the table and then walked into the shadows leaving Caradoc to wait.
Caradoc placed the torch back in its tree-perch, crossed his arms and leaned against the cool bark of the nearest oak wondering where the Druid had gone. Looking at the table, he saw that the Druids had once again placed the children on the stone. The little ones stirred under a woolen covering. The warrior let out a huff and turned away. “This better not take long.”
He looked around at the torch-lit oaken grove before him. There, in the flickering firelight, he saw the shadows of various victims of sacrifice and ritual evisceration hanging from the massive limbs of the trees that edged the clearing. The shadows moved as the torchlight played upon the forms making them look as if they could still be alive. In the center of the grove was a massive stone table--a large grey-speckled boulder that was flat and smooth on top. It appeared weathered by age and use. He turned to his left. There he saw human carcasses: men disemboweled--entrails spilled on the ground and spread out where the Druids had sifted through for signs from the gods. Blood collected in a bronze bowl beneath a body, each bloody drop that fell from the victim’s naked feet made a distinctive plop. Heads – twisted faces of death -- positioned on stakes, lined the outer ring of the grove.
Caradoc was familiar with this practice of collecting the trophy heads of those overcome in battle. They added power to the soul of the taker and gave a clear message to potential adversaries of accomplishment. He had many such heads hung on his gate back at his hill fort--and one such trophy hung from his saddle, even now. “The containers of men’s souls,” Caradoc grinned. “Perhaps these Druids are like me after all.”
Across from him, in the torchlight he could see the body of a man, sitting bound to a tree. His chest raised and lowered in labored breaths as he clung to what remained of his life. A large, blackened man with a thick brow and large nostrils positioned close to his lips. In the flickering light, the visage reminded Caradoc of the face of a horse. Caradoc had never seen such a man as this.
"Certainly," he said, "a man that large contains more life-force than those paltry boys of mine." He chuckled to himself as he entertained the idea of asking for the extra sacrifice of this horse-faced man until he noticed the man was wearing a red tunic. “How did this man come to be dressed in Roman red? How did he end up here? Auxiliary conscript perhaps?” Caradoc turned away. “It doesn’t matter. Priests will sacrifice anyone nowadays, especially criminals. Any Roman fits that description as far as I’m concerned.”
He counted the bodies of the captives in the trees. Eight. Eight in all. Good, he thought, Druids like doing things in nines. Nines and Threes. The man tied to the tree was number nine.

“Eight directions in the world
and in their center - nine.
Nine are the Celtic Maidens,
standing stones in a line.
Nine virgins to attend Bridgit
Nine through the fire alone.
Nine - the number of the eternal
The triple triad of our home.”

Caradoc let the drinking song flow through his mind as he waited.
“Which god do you bequest, my lord?” It was that Druid again, returning as if he just appeared from the darkness. He handed several vials and some cloth to one of the men.
Caradoc examined the Druid in the torchlight. He was a short man - round body with spindly arms. He rubbed sweat from his baldhead before it could run down into the hedgerow of his bushy eyebrows. The eyes beneath were dark, not only the pupils, but the irides as well. They were sunken, almost skull-like. He smiled a large deceptive-looking toothy smile that appeared to swallow his small upturned nose.
“What is it you want, O Great Warrior?” the man said.
“Doesn’t matter, O… Adored One," Caradoc replied sarcastically, “You choose.”
“I am Kenjar; I am only a vessel for your use.” He bowed.
Caradoc snorted out a quick laugh. “Fool,” he thought.
The Druid continued, “Do you not want the children? They are strong and of your stock, I presume? Custom dictates giving sons to be raised by the brother of the birth mother. Certainly, they cannot be burdensome to you. Is the mother still alive? Did she die in birthing them?”
“Their mother?” Caradoc said, scrunching his large nose, as he motioned to the babes. “She is Jewish, a gift from Rome. Monies I paid to keep a wolf at bay only yielded a piece of worthless flesh as change.” He saw the Druid look at him with eyes wide, bushy brows raised, mouth pursed tightly.
“The birth-mother is not of our people?”
Caradoc did not want to explain. She was a slave-wife, caught up in her foreign religion. Unwilling to convert to the Catuvellaunian way, despite his orders to do so. “The children are my property--not hers--to do with as I please.” He spat again as if to get a foul taste out of his mouth. “She is nothing. Her family is nothing. My eldest brother, Adminius, claims them for training. I despise him. He is weak and kisses Rome’s behind. They will never be his.”
Kenjar motioned for another Druid to attend him and pointed to the ground where the spittle lay. Whispering incantations, the younger Druid bent down and attempted to clean the soil with the hem of his robe.
. “You’re asking too many questions.” Caradoc kicked dirt at the Druid cleaning the sputum. “Get on with it!”
“We have no problem with sacrifice, as you can see. I merely need to know what ritual to perform for you. Why must we do this for you? Children are your inheritance. Your land goes to them. We have done many rituals to insure a man’s family size remains small and property is not spread too thin.”
The warrior looked to the table in the center of the grove; his twin sons bundled together were asleep on the cold stone slab. The sugar-teat, made from the patch of cloth, and soaked in strong wine and honey the Druid had prepared, had kept them both quiet. His face showed no care, no feeling for the children lying oblivious to their surroundings. His long mustache drew in and out with each hot breath as he considered what the man was asking. He clinched his hands until he felt the nails in his flesh. This man was beginning to unnerve him. He felt the uncertainty and lack of confidence in the Druids demeanor. Stepping close to the slab, he fingered the place where blood had stained deep into the rock from years of sacrifice. "They are weaklings.”
“My lord, speak up. What did you say?” Kenjar said, straining to hear the warriors’ musings.
“They deserve this."
One of the boys’ lips stuck out in a tiny pout.
Caradoc’s impatience turned toward anger. It burned as he looked at the boys.
“You’ll slay them on this stone!” Caradoc yelled and then slapped the table twice. He stepped back, drew his sword, and turned to face the man. “You are going to sacrifice them – now!” He pointed his long blade to the young babes sleeping on the cold stone. When the Druid did not react, Caradoc pressed forward and grabbed the man’s robe where the blood-red spot met the man’s collarbone. It was not a Druidic insignia. It was only blood. He pulled the man closer and pushed the sword point up to the man’s neck. Then, between his teeth, he snarled, “You are not the High Druid, I know this.”
Kenjar’s lip twitched, his body tensed and he gulped. Caradoc’s gray eyes stared deeply into the Druid’s dark eyeholes. The man looked ready to give in – to acquiesce. His shoulder relaxed in Caradoc’s strong grasp.
“Why not do it yourself?” Kenjar said, “Your sword is ready.”
Caradoc realized this man was not complying, but only relaxed to show control. Caradoc would not let him gain a footing, but he knew that if the Druids would not comply, then he would not perform the sacrifice himself. He was not Druid. The sacrifice would lack power. If it were just killing, he would have already done that. However, he knew the custom, and now found himself bound by some sense of propriety. Lowering the sword, he stepped back, eyes sparkling, and gave a broad charismatic smile. He could still turn this back to his advantage. He reached out to Kenjar and smoothed his robe, brushing it as though it had his last meal's crumbs on it.
“Tell me, oh Wise One, what do YOU think I need?” Caradoc said.
Raising his chin, looking in the direction of the babies, the Druid tried to speak. In nasal monotone he said, “We can slay them for your fertility, pour their blood to the mother goddess Morriga’n, and ask for speedy recovery of even more children.” He sounded as if he was quoting a memorized speech.
"You think I wish to give my first-fruits to the goddess? Ha! Do I look like I need a mother?” Caradoc laughed as he sheathed his sword, his hand remaining on the hilt.
“Or, uh, we could cremate them and spread their ashes in your fields. We will pray for you to have abundant crops this year.”
“You don’t understand.” Caradoc said, regretting sheathing his sword. He had let the man go too early. Grabbing the Druid’s shoulders, he gave him a shake and then pushed him away. He bellowed, “I don’t need help with those things. I will take care of the land. I will protect it,” He moved toward the children. “You just need to offer up these as sacrifices for me! No gods. No fertility. Just ME!” His voice roared and then echoed into the dark. Then, a long silence.
Caradoc clenched his fists.
A light wind blew again through the grove.
The children woke. They kicked the black covering. One let out a moan, face scrunched.
Just beyond the stone table in the shifting shadows of torchlight, Caradoc saw the other Druids floating like ethereal spirits coming toward him. What were they doing – closing the circle on him? He turned to Kenjar and said, “Theses babes are not worth the time it takes your servants to spread the ashes.” It was a derogatory term, meant to wound.
“The Druids serve the land – not the men of the land.” Kenjar corrected.
Caradoc glowered. “You serve me this night!”
Kenjar was getting more frightened. He stammered. “Is it safety from d-d-death or d-d-disease you desire?”
Caradoc raised his head to the stars, laughing in mockery at the man’s intimation.
Several Druids moved in from the shadows and gathered closer around Kenjar.
“I have no fear of peril from man or beast, let alone that which I cannot see,” Caradoc said, raising his arms high into the air toward the Druid band before him. “I found you - and I stand in your sacred grove, do I not?” There was another long silence.
One of the Druids came forward and bowed before Kenjar. “This is true,” he said, “Even if one knew the location of the sacred grove, even the bravest would never enter it as this man has done.”
Were all these men acolytes? Trainees? Caradoc turned to face the man and watched him slink back into the shadows.
“Are you all new at this? Are you so quickly undone? Are you not the ones who boldly speak before the Chieftain in the assembly and we all follow your council? You are highly respected and revered by the people, are you not? Ha! You do OUR bidding. Without question. I grow tired of this. Don’t you know who I am? You should grovel. You should bow to me!” Then to Kenjar he said, “And I am not one to be trifled with! Bull’s balls! I only seek their death, and blessing from any god you choose. Let’s get on with it. I need to be off. The night grows as short as my patience.”
“Be calm, my lord, we know what you say is truth. You are a great man. We mean no discourtesy. We know who you are.” Kenjar said. “We have many times seen your visage in bowls of visions and portents of the future. All the Druids know who you are.” He stepped closer, putting his shoulders back and raising his arm in a grand proclamation and sign of honored reverence. “You are Caradoc, magnified son of Cunobelinos, grandson to the Most Honorable High King Tasciovanus – ruler of Verulamium and Camelodinum,” The acolytes bowed at the mention of the king, “Great Grandson of Cassivelaunus who defeated Julius Caesar.”
Caradoc stared and tapped his sword hilt. “Finally, your eyes are open.” Caradoc said. “At least, you trainees have been taught something right.” Caradoc stared and tapped his sword hilt.
Kenjar wrung his robe between his sweaty hands. Beads of distress flooded down his forehead, over his eyebrows, to drop from the end of his nose. He bit his lower lip with his large teeth and then stuttered. “We can . . . d-d-direct their . . . life-force to, uh . . .” Caradoc saw him look at the long-sword. “. . . to your m-m-magnificent weapon.”
Caradoc tapped on the hilt of his sword again as he thought it over. Perhaps he could gain more from them. “You talk of my weapon. What of it?”
“It is a powerful sword, my lord, one that could unite all the tribes and bring justice and equity to the land. Given spiritual power, it could even conquer Rome itself.” Kenjar nodded, showed his teeth. He then let out a long, deep breath.
“That is more to my liking,” Caradoc said, reverently removing his sword from its scabbard. “This sword is the finest weapon in the land.” He held the anthropomorphic pommel up to his chin and then pressed the hilt to his forehead. He then stretched it up to the sky and looked at it in veneration and said, “My uncle – Epaticcus, the fearless warrior – taker of many men’s souls -- gave this great sword to me with his own hand.” He then lowered the weapon and looked at his reflection in the blade. After a long pause, he turned and said, “Not the sword. Me. Transfer the power into me!”
“Ah, now I perceive your need,” Kenjar said with more confidence in his voice, “It is power you seek. Hmmm, power. Yes. Great power, I presume?” He scratched his head as if deep in thought. “We could . . . no. Yes, that’s it,” the Druid said. He carelessly reached out and almost patted Caradoc on the arm. Caradoc smiled as the man quickly pulled his hand back as if he had put it into a boiling cauldron. “He is lucky he still had a hand,” he thought.
Another long silence. Then, in the quiet stillness of the sacred grove, the Druid straightened to his full height, folded his arms across his chest, and spoke directly to Caradoc in a voice full of mystery and secrecy. “We have an ancient ritual…” Caradoc lowered his sword, jaw tensed, eyes narrowed, and focused in anticipation of what the man would say next. “…It has not been performed for many a time and times.” He hesitated before he went on. “It is an enchantment of,” he looked right at Caradoc, “greatest power.” The Druid looked pleased with himself. Caradoc wiped his blade with his cloak.
“We can send the boys ahead of you to the black veil of shadow,” Kenjar continued, “We could place great power upon them, and they would become your spirit protectors from the other world. They would advise you, direct you.” He leaned closer to Caradoc and whispered, “And tell you secrets only they can see. This would satisfy you, would it not?”
Caradoc leaned back on his heels. “How does that empower me? I will not be sold lies!” The torc around his neck shook as he struck his chest with his fist.
The Druid’s dark eyes focused on the torc. "Is that torc not a symbol of the rope garrote we priests use to strangle those who have willingly given themselves as offerings? Is it not a symbol of great importance to the Catuvellaunii, placed at the point where the soul meets the body - a place of great power?”
Caradoc saw the Druid’s eyes gleam. “What are you saying?”
He looked around him at the Druids. They gathered in a tight circle around the table and made a droning sound - a soft thrumming hymn. In the chilled air, their breath raised puffs of spectral fog into the night.
“Men only wear one torc, do they not?”
“Of course. What’s your point, goat?”
“Men have only the power of their own life force.” Kenjar reached and tentatively pointed to the torc. “Even you … my lord. The ritual can change that.”
The Druids thrummed on.
Kenjar then pointed to the table and the twin boys lying naked on the cool stone, the woolen cover kicked off, now lying in a bundle on the ground. With his other hand, he pointed to Caradoc. “You could combine their force with yours.” Then, bringing his hands together, he clapped them suddenly, “And be three times the man others would become.” The Druid band let out a chanting chorus of approval.
Caradoc’s head swam with the intent of what the man said. Combined with the chants, the words entranced him. “Three times,” he said. “Three--a powerful number to be sure”. It resonated to a need from deep inside his very being. “Yes, this is to my liking!” Putting the sword away he said, “Tell me what you require to make this happen.”
“To do this, we will need power. Great power. The moon is high and full. That is good, but you must bring us power. Is there anything of value you might offer?”
The grove echoed with melodic chanting. “Power. Power.”
They repeated it over and over.
Caradoc gestured in the direction of his horse. “I think I have what you need. Come with me.”
“Yes, yes,” the man in white said, as Caradoc led him to his horse. “Something of value – gold perhaps?”
Caradoc grabbed the bridle and pivoted the horse around to remove the bundle that still hung from the saddle. As he unwrapped the covering, he revealed the severed head of a man, hair, and beard matted with congealed blood.
“Will this suffice?” Caradoc asked as he grabbed the trophy-head and held it up.
The Druid moved to examine the offering. “Ah, the head of an enemy – a soul of great power.” Kenjar reverently reached up and took the head, holding it as if it was a treasure, and said, “I’m impressed.” He then moved toward the light. “Must have been a great battle.” He slowly turned the head. “I don’t recall hearing of any conflicts. Did you . . .”
Suddenly startled, Kenjar stumbled back, eyes wide in recognition of the disfigured face. He dropped the head to the ground and stepped back making gesturing signs with his fingers. Caradoc could almost smell the man’s sudden fear. Kenjar shook his head slowly, rubbed his eyes. His lower lip vibrated rapidly, but no sound came forth.
Caradoc bent down and slowly picked up the bloody head by the hair. Holding it out before him in pride, he looked directly into the unseeing eyes. This was not the head of just any ordinary man. This head had belonged to the man that the Druid had earlier spoken of with much honor -- the High King Tasciovaunus. Caradoc was certain the Druid recognized what he was holding.
Caradoc wrapped his muscled arm around the little man’s shoulders and held the face of the King before him. “Are you wise enough to know the sign before you?” he said. He moved close to the Druid’s ear and said, “We will keep this between us, will we not?” Caradoc then pushed Kenjar away. The Druid back-tripped and fell to the ground. Caradoc held the King’s tortured visage in front of the Druid again, and reveled as Kenjar’s face drained of color. Caradoc saw him weigh the options and watched in pleasure as the Druid looked up at him with a stare he recognized all too well. Unable to speak, Kenjar cleared his throat, coughed, and looked once again at the severed head. Then, the man stood up, raised his eyebrows, and slowly nodded once to Caradoc.
Caradoc smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. “That’s my man!”
He then shoved the head of Tasciovaunus into the cloth sack and tossed it at Kenjar’s chest.
“Take the head of power. Prepare the offerings. We will have a sacrifice!”
He beamed as the Druid glided back to the sacred grove. Above the chants and noise of preparation, Caradoc could clearly hear the twins’ scream into the night.