The Long-aimed Blow

Chapter 4

2012-01-15T17:38:00.000-06:00

Chapter 4. Wisdom

“Age and knowledge does not produce wisdom. The heart must grow as well.”
--Scribonius Largus

“Yes, we both see it.” Caradoc said in a strained quiet tone. He let loose of the hilt of his sword and laughed. He turned and noticed Togodumnus’ return, laughed again and slapped his brother hard on the back. He raised his cup and nodded to Adminius and without further comment; he threw his leg over the chair and sat down in a slump.
Adminius wondered if the crisis was diverted. He perused the crowd. Had no one cared that the princes argued?
“Barbaricae,” someone said.
“Babblers.” Came a reply. Another group laughed and pointed. The Romans were intent on their celebration, of what, Adminius was sure, they were not even aware of. In the distance, amongst the din of the festivities, he heard someone crying. It sounded out of place. Adminius with shoulders still tense, sat down.
Togodumnus was at the Kings table. They had returned. King Tasciovaunus looked at him and then at Togodumnus. Togodumnus bowed and then returned to sit with his brothers.
They ate in quietness. Only their slow heavy breathing could be heard amidst the background noise of the room. Eventually, Caradoc spoke again. His voice was distant as though he was remembering wonderful things. “Large meeting halls carved out of stone. Great water roadways that run for many leagues seated high above the ground on arched pillars,” and suddenly in a tone of mock admiration, “the strict discipline of their blasted armies.” Then as if to Togodumnus, whose seat was empty, with his back to Adminius, he said, “And you want them here? Vast buildings to block our peaceful countryside views? The cities, the filth of their sewers? The change to our ways of peace?”
Adminius caught a sudden unexpected great sadness in his brother’s voice.
At that point, Togodumnus put his arm around his brother. “Did you miss me?” he said and patted Caradoc on the shoulder. Togodumnus addressed the men around him with good humor and energy. “You won’t believe what I just saw! The Roman Bath-house… did you see the baths? They have elaborately built houses made for the sole purpose of relieving themselves. Not only that but they told me that they bathe together.”
They all laughed. Caradoc laughed.
Adminius’ shoulders released the cool readiness that was there and he, too laughed. “Yes, my brother, they do.”
Togodumnus elaborated. “As this is my first time in Rome, no one told me that there are rooms like this! There are as many as a dozen holes in a stone bench where men sit, side by side mind you. They talked of the business of politics while doing their daily natural business. I get the impression that they sit there all day and gossip like a bunch of old women about their leaders and what the people in the community are doing. I felt like I was in a public tribal council."
"It is disgusting. To them it is an acceptable, social thing to do.” Caradoc waved his hand and leaned into Togodumnus, “and some want to bring that to Albion.” He pointed his thumb to the table of Kings.
“No one in Rome thinks it unclean or uncivil," Adminius said. “We don’t live in Rome.”
"Why don’t they go in the woods like everyone else?” Caradoc spewed.
Then he grabbed his head. “My head is spinning.”
He started to swoon. A slave came over with a vomit bowl.
At this point, their uncle, Epaticus came over from the King’s table. He was accompanied by Tasciovaunus. Epaticus bent low to Caradoc’s ear and said things Adminius could not hear. Caradoc looked at him and smiled. He gave his uncle a double pat on the shoulder and tried to stand. Epaticus grabbed him under his arms and helped Caradoc to stand. Holding his nephew, he removed him from the table.
Caradoc's slurred voice trailed as he was taken away. Epaticus took him to the wall and leaned him there. Adminius heard Epaticus whisper to Caradoc about the vices of their enemy.
“We have all seen this many times.” Adminius said. “Epaticus and Caradoc.”
Then an unexpected comment from his Grandfather Tasciovaunus as the High King sat in Caradoc’s evacuated place at the table, “Even in his cups his oration can move people.”
Togodumnus scooted to give his grandfather room.
Adminius nodded. "Yes, Epaticus is quite the motivator."
Tasciovaunus continued, “Not my son, Epaticus. I meant Caradoc. Caradoc speaks often about the disgraceful acts of the great civitas of Rome. He uses words that the Romans call us, he goes around telling everyone he can about, in his estimation, the ‘barbaric’ and ‘savage’ ways of the Roman people. It has been like this for years. I do not know why he hates them so. One day he will do more than talk. He can’t win this fight. Not this way. Not tonight. He will not win by lofty speeches. One day he will get the tribes together. Mark my words... and I am afraid of the outcome.”
"The Romans do not help his demeanor," Adminius added. "The people here call him ‘Caracticus’.”
“Latinizing our names is just another way of controlling others in Caradoc’s way of thinking.” Tasciovaunus explained.
His Grandfather was wise. Adminius recalled that he was descended from the great Velaunii tribe. Tasciovaunus was not only his grandfather, but was their High King by birth and by honor earned. The people respected him. They followed him. Adminius listened and tried to learn from his words and apparent prescience. He definitely had a grasp of Caradoc's plight. They had discussed this before.
“I see it as the struggle that all those in Albion feel. Even you Adminius.” Tasciovaunus said.
“Grandson?”
“Yes, Grandfather?”
“You know his name – Caradoc—means ‘love’ in our tongue? He feels it is fitting. Caradoc loves this land of ours, even when others are not loyal.”
“Yes, he acts as if he is the protector of the land. He takes that role very personally and seriously. It is in his deepest being. Perhaps that is why he is so opposed to what we are doing here.”
“In that he loves our land, I can relate to him, Adminius, but… his name’s definition has no meaning in relationships. He avoids me and your father for some reason. It is as though I too am his enemy. Even when I give him a great gift, as I do this day.” At that he stood and motioned to a golden haired man in a white tunic with a broad purple border.
The man stood on a dais and quieted the crowded room.
"Now is the time for giving of gifts!" He said in Latin.
As the Princes of Albion rose, horns sounded once more.

chapter three

2011-12-28T12:54:00.000-06:00

Chapter 3 - Honor

“A man is known by what others see, not by what he says.”
--Scribonius Largus

A man in royal toga with a purple border stepped forward. He loudly announced to the crowd in the great Roman Forum's Feast Hall, "Welcome, Great King Tasciovaunus, Grand Epaticus and the Austere Cunebelinos," he bowed. "And Cunebelinos' splendid sons: Adminius," another bow and gestures, "Togodumnus," a nod of the head, "and Caracticus." He declared, again with a bow and an extravagant hand flourish. He pronounced each name in the grand roman fashion; in a high resounding tone, and not in the Celtic pronunciations. "Most worthy kings and princes of Albion! All praise to your greatness. To your prominence. To your immensity! May all blessing of the gods be bestowed upon you!"
The patrons hardly noticed the pronouncement as they clamored for tables and banquet couches.
The crier bowed low with another great flourish of hands waving them above his head and around in circuitous fashion. He then stood straight and nodded in the direction of the musicians. They obviously did not see the head nod as he did it again, this time with more flourish.
A fanfare of Cornu horns echoed throughout the vast room. Young girls in whisper-thin dresses and flowers braided in their hair danced before the princes. They tossed rose petals into the air that settled around Adminius and his brothers. The people, excited by the sudden celebration of horns, broke out in calls of acclaim and applause.
“This room is immense. It would swallow ten of our roundhouse halls from back home in Albion.” Togodumnus said.
Adminius marveled as well. He wondered at the great mahogany marbled arches that rose to the open air ceiling above. When he saw the elaborate carvings at the capitols he said, “It is as a great forest is encased in glistening stone.” Stars shown in the clear sky above. “It grows close to the ninth hour.” He said.
“Kind of late for a meal,” Caradoc joined in as they ascended the steps.
There was a vast amount of guests already in attendance. People of various lands were dressed in silks and bleached-white linen. They filled the spaces between the columns and sat or lay on divans at lavish tables arranged around the room.
Adminius compared the styles. Everyone was in roman fashion, no matter their nationality. He and his brothers were dressed quite differently. Plain tunics, woolen cloaks, long swords at their sides and rough sandals on their feet. Adminius touched his sword, pushed it back under his cloak. He pulled down on his tunic where it wrinkled under his baldric and made sure the broach was straight where it fastened his cloak to his shoulder.
They walked together in a group. His Grandfather leading, his Uncle Epaticus and his father Cunebelinos on either side guarding the High King. He and his brothers bunched behind as they were directed to a place in the hall reserved for them.
The tables were stacked to overflowing with silver bowls, small statues of deities, and fruit and fauna. In the back, and to the left, he couldn’t help noticing a line of beautiful young women.
“Prostitutes!” Togodumnus said.
“Slaves,” Adminius replied. “Besides, brother, you are married.”
“Married, yes. Blind? No.” Togodumnus laughed.
Epaticus stated over his shoulder, “You can peruse the wares more carefully—after the meal.”
“The Roman's display their wealth to demean their foreign guests,” Caradoc said. “I have seen this before.”
“What a great day this has been!” Togodumnus said. “We brought tax money all the way from our island in the north. We gave sacrifice at the Great Palace. Then the Romans escort us to this place for a feast in the name of the Great Emperor Tiberius to celebrate loyalties,”
"He will not be in attendance,” Epaticus said as they walked to the row of tables reserved for them.
"Who holds a feast and doesn't show up?" Caradoc mumbled. "An insult. An affront it is."
"We are being honored. What does it matter? There's food, and I'm hungry!" Togodumnus exclaimed.
“The seating place of the esteemed,” Caradoc said as they reached the long tables.
Together, with his two brothers, Adminius sat down at the large marble table prepared for their pleasure. Tasciovaunus, Epaticus, and Cunebelinos were led to a low table surrounded by plush divans. Around the table were several men. Senators perhaps?
The kings lay on the divans in the style of the Romans.
On the table before Adminius was draped an enormous linen cloth. And before they could scoot up to the finery, an enormous sizzling pig carried by four slaves, was laid before them.
“It’s not the broad-shouldered boar we are used to, but a fat, meaty animal.” Togodumnus said eyes wide and mouth open.
The boar was stuffed with apple, pear, and raisins that poured out from its split side. A cacophony of spices entertained the senses. The pungent sweet spice smell was not what Adminius was accustomed to. “I prefer the aroma of the sweet fruit wood smoked boar.”
“Like your wife used to make,” Togodumnus said.
The statement startled Adminius and he looked at his brother. “The memory is pleasant, but. . . it still wells up in me as tightness in the chest.”
“Sorry, brother,” Togodumnus said putting his hand on his brothers shoulder. “It has only been two months since her passing. I understand.”
The men sat down. Caradoc was already partaking of the meat, bowls of fruit, cheeses, and hot breads twisted into shapes of birds.
"Look, there is dove-flesh imbedded in the bread," Togodumnus enlightened the group.
“And is this hare?” Adminius asked.
“I believe so. They say it is . . .” Togidumnus began.
“The Spanish variety!” Adminius and Togidumnus said together.
They both laughed.
Adminius welcomed the hare. They had shared the succulent meat before.
“And there is wine. Lots of Roman wine.” Caradoc laughed. It flowed from fountains in the middle of the table and filled their cups and bowls.
Servants stood waiting at each table. They moved in and out in quiet machinations.
“There were as many slaves, or more, as there are patrons,” Togodumnus pointed out.
Adminius ate slowly, watching in interest as the Roman's abandoned all decorum. Some ate, hardly taking time to chew, until they were gorged. A porcine man filled his mouth with both hands until servants brought him a silver bowl. The man violently stuck his fingers down his throat and vomited into the proffered container. He then went right back to eating again obviously enjoying more of the succulent fare.
He listened to the men at his father’s table as they talked of politics, while his brothers at his table made jokes about the way others looked, and discussed things of pleasure. Adminius half-listened, but he found it difficult to appear jubilant.
During the feast, as time wore on, women came forward and recited poetry. Then, musicians and dancers performed for the men's delight. When the dances grew suggestive and lewd, he looked down to his meal.
“What wrong brother?” Togodumnus asked him.
“Just memory,” Adminius said with pain in his voice.
“I’m here to have fun,” Caradoc said as he wiped dripping wine from his prominent cheekbones, bent nose, and long braided mustache. “Drink up brother!” He shoved a tankard Adminius’ way.
At the end of the dance number, Adminius' youngest brother stood to his feet. Caradoc knocked over his chair as he rose.
“Sit down brother,” Adminius said.
“No, let him speak, he is enjoying this!” Togodumnus said.
Laughing and lauding the dance with his sloshing cup, Caradoc stepped back a few steps. “My name is Caradoc. Caradoc. I declare. I…declare. I declare, to you all,” he said proudly.
Togodumnus, seated between Adminius and Caradoc, caught his brother's arm before he sloshed his wine over the table. Adminius reached around and rescued the chair and returned it to the table. They both helped their younger brother to his seat.
Another dance began.
Caradoc, now seated, leaned forward. His mood appeared suddenly somber as he spoke to anyone who would listen. His voice grew louder as he spoke.
“It will not be long until the Roman legions invade and the red-crested soldiers will kill, or worse," he paused and looked at the Kings at the other table. The dancing girl was giving them flowers. The kings laughed as they accepted the bouquet. Caradoc continued, “They will enslave our whole island for their evil purposes."
"Silence, brother," Adminius warned between his teeth, "this is not the time. We are guests, at their expense, mind you. They seek our trade. They need us and you know it."
"Their commerce is only bait. A front. A ploy. A trick. Blast it.... a prostitute’s ploy." Caradoc fumed, “A way to sneak in unawares and take what they want.”
A man moved over, away from the prince’s table. Another gathered up fruit in his tunic and with a dancing girl on his arm walked away looking back at Caradoc in disgust.
Caradoc gestured to the women lined up against the back wall. “They stand there as if waiting for something.” He then grabbed Togodumnus' tunic.
Togodumnus looked wide-eyed to his brother. His arms outstretched and palms turned up asking for help.
"Perhaps the noise will cover his indiscretion," Adminius told Togodumnus.
Adminius looked to the kings table and to his father. He was busy talking to one of the men in white togas.
“They will not be of help, as usual,” he said to himself.
Letting go, Caradoc took another drink and rambled loudly on. “There are some in Britain who embrace the empire and what Rome could bring,” he said, pointing to the High King. Togodumnus grabbed his arm and quickly brought it down.
“Brother," Adminius intervened, "can’t you see what is before your eyes?" Caradoc looked around the room and back to Adminius.
"Caradoc, the trade has been good in the south and many are becoming wealthy because of it," Adminius explained. "This flourishing continent across the water is not as far away from our homeland as some would think, my brother. What a great opportunity for us to prosper. This compromise we attempt is not without precedent. They have been trading for tin with us for years.”
Caradoc looked at the cup in his hand and dropped it to the table with a clang, then brushed Togodumnus away. He leaned closer to Adminius. His tone was hushed and guarded as if telling a secret. “Adminius, don’t you see what they are doing? When our brothers—traders of tin, copper, and even our precious wheat—come home from their travels—do they not tell wonderful stories of beauty and grandeur?” He turned his face away from the hall full of patrons.
“This is true,” Adminius agreed.
“Ahh, that it is!” Caradoc said. He then turned and opened his arms wide and bowed his head in mock reverence to Rome. “The men in the south of our Island and their oh-so-beautiful wives, seeing how others might profit, have a way of saying, ‘Should our neighbor’s wife have things I don’t have?"
Adminius looked around for a way to quiet his brother. Several more people were beginning to notice his loud tirade and antics.
Caradoc swung around in his chair with a flourish, “Because of their wive’s endless envious moaning, their weak husbands," he bellowed and pointed to each Celtic man in their retinue one at a time, "they, they....were not willing that they should be without any new trinket or the latest Roman . . .” He then grabbed a towel from the hands of a servant, draped it around his neck and said in his girlish voice. “Aren’t I be-you-ti-ful?” “Aaagh!” he said, and threw the towel back to the confused slave. "Then. Then. THEN! THEY TAKE OUR SONS TO EDUCATE IN THEIR EVIL WAYS!" He reached over to the roast pig and tore off a handful of meat. He then slumped down into his chair and gnawed on the juicy flesh.
The last thought seemed to overwhelm him. Adminius saw the disgust in every muscle of Caradoc’s face when he said the word ‘educate’.
“I need to empty some wine,” Togodumnus suddenly said and quickly excused himself from the table.
Dismissing his brother with flair of his wrist, Caradoc continued. “The southern merchants sought more substance only to get more status, and thus ultimately gain peace with their woman folk.” Caradoc’s mouth full, juice ran down his chin as he pointed to Adminius, "Their women folk, mind you."
Adminius winced. This sarcasm stabbed at recent injury. Adminius’ had a sudden flashback to the night he lost his wife and child. He vividly saw her face. Eyes open as she died giving birth. The child was stillborn. Adminius grabbed his chest where a necklace hung, and gathered resolve. He determined that he would not let Caradoc use this wound every time they disagreed.
However, before Adminius could respond, Caradoc pushed Togodumnus' empty chair back out from between himself and Adminius and scooted forward in his chair. He put his foot up on Adminius’ divan. Caradoc boldly proclaimed, "To appease their own whores. That is our lands only purpose in sucking at Rome’s breast.”
Then, as if a demon entered him, Caradoc's eyes went wide. He untied his hair cord, brushed back his hair, and then wildly shook it until it fell across his face and shoulders. He grunted. Caradoc rose quickly and grabbed Adminius by the side of his head with both hands.
Adminius did not expect the quick movement.
Caradoc leaned into Adminius' face and looked him straight in the eye. “They wish to be …..” he wrinkled his nose and wagged his head back and forth with each syllable, “ROMA POPULARI.”
Adminius spoke under his breath, “The lands, roadways, great buildings, and great riches are all immense in Rome. I know. I see it too.” Brushing Caradoc’s arm aside, he stood and faced him. “We both have walked the streets of Rome. And,” He said, “I will bring only memories back with me. What will you bring back home?”
The air in the room seemed to thicken when Caradoc rose to his feet. Adminius quickly glanced to the king’s table. They too had left somewhere. Adminius was alone to deal with this. The suspension of time felt to Adminius just how it must feel to put your hand into an adder's den. He looked at Caradoc, uncertain of what he would do in front of these foreigners. This snake would either strike or slither back into its hole. Adminius gradually squared his shoulders.
With narrowed eyes, Caradoc placed his hand to his long sword.

chapter 2

2011-12-03T16:30:00.000-06:00

Chapter 2 – “Taken”

“The important question is not ‘What will others take from you?’ but ‘What will you give to them?’”
--Scribonius Largus

Light flooded the room with sudden otherworldly luminescence. It was as though Heaven’s gate opened to receive Alexenah’s father into Abraham’s Bosom.
A wooden bucket kept by the door slammed against the wall in a loud shattering crash.
Alexenah screamed.
The foul contents of the pail splattered over where her father lay. The pungent excrement splashed on her as well. It left a dark stain on her dress and the wall behind. She tasted the filth. She sputtered. Wiped her eyes and mouth. Her lungs burned with every sobbing gulped bit of air she drew. She wailed and sobbed loud, convulsive gasps until she gagged
Another loud crash as the door swung around and banged the wall. The Roman guards rushed into the prison chamber. The first man went directly to her father’s body on the floor. He recklessly kicked the lifeless form out of the way.
“No!” She cried out.
The second man entered carrying what appeared to be a bed’s mattress. He advanced quickly toward her and bashed into her. It was not bedding. As he pushed against her, she felt the solidity and strength of the long hard shield—a scutum—wrapped in many cloths. She tried to escape around the shield, but the soldier blocked her every attempt. He positioned the scutum in every path of escape. Using the padded shield, he roughly shoved Alexenah away from her father’s body and back to the dark corner of the cell. He pinned her there against the cold stone wall.
She struck out.
He pressed harder.
She struggled. Kicked.
He thrust the shield forward, firmly fixing her against the stone.
Try as she might, Alexenah could not move. She smelled the foul odor of his sweat mingled with the leather of his baldric.
Again, she cried out—this time in a mournful cry to her God.
Another quick shove by the guard and the breath went out of her.
Fighting for air, she saw a third man enter the room. She watched wide-eyed as he spread a large thick wool blanket on the floor. Taking a different wool covering, this man approached calmly and draped it about Alexenah’s shoulders and arms. Together with the first guard, the shield-man remaining firm, they bound the cloth tightly so that she couldn’t move her arms where they to relax the hold against the wall.
They tossed the shield aside. Then deftly wrapping their large arms around her, the men lowered Alexenah to the blanket that lay already on the floor. Once down, they rolled her in the thick wool like a fish at the market.
Alexenah kicked, squirmed, and twisted to find release only to find the shielded guard place his knee on her lower back to contain her bucking. Another stationed himself at her head. The last guard grabbed an ankle in each hand. He pressed her feet to the floor. He laughed, and then growled a low evil sound. He slowly spread her legs.
She braced for the worse.
“Servius! What’re you doin?” the man at her head bellowed.
“Just checking her virtue, Marcus.” Servius replied. He pulled her skirt up past her thighs.
“Leave it be. She’s chaste! Was checked when she was admitted, she was”
“By who?” Servius grunted.
“By me. Now let’r be.” He tossed a leather strap to the man.
Grumbling, Servius shoved Alexenah’s ankles back together and secured them with the strap.
“Secured,” he said.
Thus incapacitated, Alexenah’s panic then turned to anger. She raised her head, turned it best she could, and spit at the man before her. Then she tried to dash her head against the floor. The guard quickly put his strong rough hands under her head and cradled it.
She bashed his knuckles to the ground.
Marcus winced, but held on with a firm grip.
Straining, she swiftly tucked her chin and sunk her teeth into the man’s thumb flesh.
Marcus cursed and ripped his hand away. He sucked on the wound as if removing poison from an asp’s bite.
Servius laughed. “What about her teeth? Did you check those for virtue as well?”
Marcus reared his hand back to slap Alexenah.
"Hold!" A deep voice thundered from the doorway, "Don't damage the goods Marcus!” then in a low determined tone, “This one is to remain pure."
“Regulus!” Marcus swallowed as he stayed the blow.
Into the room came a large round man dressed in a pristine white Roman toga. It had been recently bleached. Alexenah smelled the urine used to bleach the wool. He must have money.
He stood with his hands on hips looking over the scene. He smiled. Teeth bleached too. His round cheeks reddened.
"The sale has been made. Use your cloaks.”
The man whose knee bit hard into her back removed his red cloak. He rolled it into a ball and tossed it to Marcus, who quickly placed it under Alexenah’s head
“Will that suffice, Master Regulus?” Marcus asked, a hint of sarcasm and anger still in his voice.
“Yes. Yes.” Regulus looked at her and attempted his smile again. “Let her budge now.”
The men loosed their hold slightly, yet remained patient and still.
Alexenah struggled to no avail in her cocoon.
They allowed her only enough space to trash some.
She screamed into the cloak until her voice gave out. Finally exhausted, she slumped in resignation and held tightly to her father’s leather treasure pouch. . . his bundle of life. Sudden grief overwhelmed her in a flood of heaving sobs.
Regulus stepped further into the room. He leaned down to her ear and said in his deep resonate voice, “I am Regulus. Dominus Servus. The Emperor’s Slavemaster. And you?” he paused. “You are easily broken.” His breath stank of garlic and rotten meat.
Then to the men he exhorted, “Good job. Now, let’s travel.”
At his command the three men picked her up. Marcus grabbed the red cloak. Together, they wrapped their arms around her—one around her calves, the other two around her torso. When they got to the doorway they placed a loosely woven sack over her head. Once outside into the hall, Marcus and Servius lifted her onto the shoulder of another man who waited. Like a sack of grain, he carried her out of the prison.
The deep voiced man led them outside into the heat of the day.
As they quickly moved down the hallway, she clearly heard the man’s hob-nailed boots on the floor. Alexenah counted twenty three steps.

chapter one for beginners to the site, more to follow

2011-11-24T15:13:00.000-06:00

Chapter 1 – Abba-Leh

“We begin much when we end much.”
--Scibonius Largus

Alexenah sat on the cold stone prison floor, her father's head in her lap. He lay motionless. His arms and legs were wrapped in bandages as though he was prepared for the grave. She cringed at the smell of pus and blood that seeped through the muslin cloth. His wrinkled gray tunic—threadbare and simple as the small room they were in—rose slightly with each labored breath.
On the other side of the locked door, she heard the clink-clank of hobnailed sandals as the Roman Guards paced back and forth.
“What will happen to me when you die, Abba?" she whispered, "Where will I go?"
She brushed back her long hair that had fallen across his face and noted that the color was the same as her father's—black as a raven. His eyes, were they open, were the same light brown. His lips were full, and curved up ever so slightly at the edges. She recalled how people would say to her, "You are definitely your father's child."
She took his hand gently and enfolded it with her own. His stiff and unbending fingers felt cold. She whispered his name, “Tobiah.”
She lightly stroked the thin dry flesh that was once supple and caring and talked to him. She didn’t even know if he could hear her.
“You are not even forty winters old, Abba. You are kind. Gentle. Loving. You raised me after mother died bringing me into the world. You are a clothier in Rome. Why, you have even sold linen to Emperor Tiberius himself.” She looked around the room. “How has it come to this? You have never harmed anyone or taken anything from any man! Quite the contrary, you are a giver—not a taker. Is it because we are Hebrew? How does that demand beatings and prison?” She paused, “It was only a cart accident.”
“Abba-Leh,” Tobiah said.
His sudden voice—a raspy, strained whisper—startled her.
“Abba-Leh," he repeated, "When you were very small, you called me ‘Abba-Leh’." He opened his eyes. "Am I no longer Papa? Am I now just Father?”
Then, slowly, with much effort, Tobiah slid his hand from hers and pulled out a small leather pouch from inside his tattered tunic. Pulling harder, he snapped the worn leather cord from around his neck. He grasped the pouch close to his chest and said, as if to himself, “My Bundle of Life.”
Alexenah’s curiosity grew when Tobiah undid the leather tie-strap with his quivering hands. She leaned closer to see.
With difficulty, he reached in the pouch and carefully took out a linen handkerchief, stained and soiled with age. It appeared to contain something inside its folds. He offered it to his young daughter.
Alexenah looked back to the cell door. Did they know he possessed this hidden treasure? She heard the guards arguing. Their attention remained elsewhere.
She took the small bundle from his shaking fingers. Delicately, she pulled back the layers of linen to reveal what was so precious to her father.
“It is but a rock, Abba. A pebble.”
“Do you not recognize it, my child?”
She turned it over in her hand, held it up between her finger and thumb trying to see it in the dim light.
“It looks like every other pebble you find along the road.”
“You were only a child when you brought it to me. Remember? You said, ‘Look, Abba-Leh, it's a jewel! You called me Abba-Leh. . .’”
“My pretty jewel!" Alexenah remembered. "But now, it is nothing more than a stone." She closed the linen over the stone and offered it back to him.
“Reminds me of you,” he said, gently covering her small hands with his. "It is truly a jewel." He closed her fingers over the parcel and pushed her hand back. “I want you to have it now.”
Alexenah paused, and then nodded. She carefully wrapped the stone again in the cloth and placed it back in the leather pouch. “As you have kept it in memento of me, I will keep it always to remind me of you, my father.” Then squeezing it tightly in her palm, she wrapped the broken leather neck-strap around her knuckles to bind it in her hand.
“I am of little importance, my child. Let it remind you of your heavenly Father.”
“My heavenly father?"
He paused between each few words now to catch his breath. “Yes, my dearest. Our Father in heaven placed you in His treasure pouch on the day you were born. You see, my child, you are most precious to Him. He keeps you close to His heart.”
She felt a knot in her throat. She drew her hand to her chest and felt her heartbeat against the stone. Tears welled up and overflowed as she lowered her head.
Tobiah tried to speak again. He cleared his throat weakly, "What is it you desire, my little one?"
"Desire?"
"In your life . . . what do you want more than anything?"
She thought a moment and to herself she said, "That you would not die," but out loud, she said something else, "I have always wanted to grow up and be like you."
"And have beautiful children?" His lips turned in a fragile smile.
He was correct, she thought. She was now of betrothing age and desired children in her deepest soul.
"Yes, Abba. I will have beautiful children."
"Children are a gift." He struggled to continue, he moved his mouth as if to find moisture, then coughed uncontrollably, holding his chest.
She looked for a jug, a cup for water. She thought to call out to the guards for refreshment, but, changed her mind. They would not give him anything. She... had nothing to give him. Her fist beat against her thigh.
"You can't leave me now. Not now. I want to give you a grandchild. You have to live to put the babe on your lap."
"A child?" He paused, then with emphasis, said, "Grandchildren. Yes, a double blessing." He chuckled. Coughed.
She placed her finger to his lips, “You shouldn’t talk any more, it only causes you pain.”
“There are things worse.”
“Worse than pain?”
“Not feeling pain,” Tobiah sighed, his voice growing even more weak and trembling. He looked up at her and smiled. “I wish not to escape this. I am dying. I believe more in redemption than I do in recovery. And release from heartache and pain is not always necessary to see God’s hand.”
Then quietness. A long silence interrupted only by the muffled conversation of the guards outside.
Finally, he spoke her name again. Alexenah lowered her ear to his lips.
“When I die they will take you. Sell you. Perhaps worse,” Tobiah whispered. She could barely hear his words. They were a warning.
“Should I fight them, Abba, or should I run? I will stand up to them. I am not afraid. I will resist them," then quieter, "I do not wish to be a slave.”
“Your wishes. . . will not matter. They are even now waiting outside the door . . . to take you.”
Alexenah glanced to the door. She wiped her cheeks. Bit her lip.
“There is someone greater,” he said, reaching for her face. Then, louder as he grabbed her arm, “Jehovah will redeem you. He will redeem us all.” Then he was caught up in another paroxysmal of coughing.
Alexenah wiped the blood and sputum from his chin with the hem of her dress.
“I know the promise of the coming Messiah,” she said.
He appeared to sleep. His breathing shallow, but slow and calm.
She counted the hob-nailed footsteps of the guards. The hallway was twenty-three steps long.
"Alexenah?"
She had just closed her eyes to rest when he woke and spoke to her again.
"Yes, Abba, I am here." She still held him in her lap.
" Remember Chesed, my dear Alexenah?” he whispered.
"God’s loving kindness?”
“Chesed is God’s sure love. God is good. He is kind. Do not forget this.”
"I will not forget Abba, Father. I will remember all you have taught me."
She wiped the cold sweat that covered his forehead, nodded and swallowed. She watched as he struggled for air. Each painful breath sounded like a child's rattle. It was everything she could do to not let the scream in her belly escape.
Tobiah rose up on one elbow and strained to sit up.
Alexenah held him so that he could gain breath.
Again, Tobiah took a shallow breath. He leaned his head to the side and spoke again. “Earlier you asked where you will go….Go with Him… in His loving kindness.”
She nodded.
“He will never leave you…. never let His people go ... from…his embrace.” He squeezed her hand. Slumped back down. Winced.
At that moment it seemed as if time halted. She held her breath.
He sank deeper into her embrace.
Then, his voice but a murmuring whisper, he said “When the best is torn from your life, He still holds you in the fold of His arms.” He stared up to her face. He sucked in another frail measure of air. "Oh, how I love you, my little jewel.”
She kissed his forehead, “I love you too." She paused, a tear trailed down her cheek. She ran her hand through his dark hair. "I love you too.... Abba-Leh.”
Silence filled the room. No sound came from the hall. She couldn't hear her own heart beating. His eyes opened. His pupils widened. His cheeks paled. He tensed. And slowly she felt his muscles relax.
Alexenah pulled him in and clutched him close. Putting her hand to cradle his cheek, she drew his face to hers and sobbed. "No. No. Come back to me, Abba-Leh! Abba-Leh! Come back. I will give you a grandchild. Grand children. Oh, they will make you happy."
Pain, grief and sudden despair enveloped Alexenah in their dark shroud. She rocked him back and forth as she wept until her heart could contain the weight no longer. A scream erupted from the depths of her soul as she wailed to the ceiling above.
The door opened.

chapter 14 and comments

2011-10-29T23:30:00.000-05:00

I (Jon) realized this week that there are many reasons I write. I express feelings that I have in a safe way, that is true. But, a greater motivator is to pull out the same feelings in the reader. If they cry, laugh, feel love, saddness, scared, or angry then it gives me some form of satisfaction. Not because I feel controling, but that it is exactly what I am trying to do. I want the reader to feel the same thing the character feels. To live in their skin if but for the moment. I think that if I can accomplish that in my writing, then I am passing something important to the reader. In my life, there have been times of great feeling. Great fear. Great joy. Great love. Great grief. I can bring those feelings back by a simple thought and relive them. Why should I keep those feelings to myself. So I share them.

There is a scene in what is now chapter 14 where Adminius stands looking at the possibility of continued danger to his people and ruminates on his past. He explores deep into his soul and questions if he is good enough to meet the challenges before him. A young man, who is just now venturing into who he is as a man, is doing a reading of the book for me. He told me that when he got to that scene that he stood there on that hill in the place of Adminius when he read it. Yes, he felt it. I will post the scene but I wonder, if you didnt have what leads up to the scene if you would come to the same place. WARNING: may be spoilers. Here it is in its entirety:

Chapter 14 – “Firefight”

“The smallest of things can bring great pains, or may be angels in disguise.”

--Sribonius Largus

Adminius’ driver pulled back on the reins and the wheels of his chariot sent dust into the night air. The chariots had sped quickly up the road, then across a field, and up to the crest of the hill. The warriors lined up on the edge between up and down, and waited for the people to arrive before heading into the valley and to the stream below.
Before them lay Kendall’s field. Above them, the full moon rose behind dense rolling clouds of black smoke. Eerie shadows moved across the harvested pasture.
“We will stop here, but briefly,” Adminius said.
The Charioteers, although eager, held their ground. The horses stamped impatiently for battle.
Adminius’ eyes narrowed, hunting the origin of the blaze that came from somewhere deep within the woods. The fire moved slow and had not yet crowned into the tree canopy of the ancient forest. The dark oak and hickory stood in contrast to the bright yellow glow of the growing threat to his homeland. At various intervals, red, orange, and white flashes silhouetted the massive limbs of the great trees beyond so that they appeared as men writhing in pain. Their cries came in the form of crackle, hiss, and pop of the fire as it fed on the underbrush and shinery of the forest. The air around him filled with a thick husky smell of smoke and ash. It assailed his senses. His throat closed up. He gagged. Coughed. Rubbed his eyes.
As he stood in the chariot beside Kendall, Adminius’ cloak fluttered in the wind. A large fibula in the figure of a prancing horse encircled in a ring of gold appeared to dance in alternating moonlight and shadow. He unfastened the broach from his cloak. He then pulled the material closer and clasped it again around his wide shoulders. Loose-fit trousers flapped against his calves in the brisk breeze.
He gripped the reins. His biceps strained. Shoulders tightened. Neck muscles tensed. A gust of hot wind blew his obsidian-colored hair backward, away from his face.
He reached up and tied his long dark locks tight to his neck with a leather thong, just as he would before a fight.
“The maelstrom is headed right toward us.” He said to Kendall.
“It won’t be long,” Kendall replied.
With fierce determination, Adminius stepped out of the double-ponied chariot and checked the wind again.
“The air is hot,” he said. “I can feel it on my cheeks. It is like I’m too close to the bread furnace.”
“Look how the blaze in the distance twists up to the heavens. The flames lick the top of the trees,” Kendall said.
“If the flames reach the canopy, they will jump from crown to crown and quickly become uncontrollable,” he turned to Kendall, “Once it breaches the dry grassland of the meadow valley, it will travel as fast as the wind.”
“That’s my field. All will be lost.” Kendal said sorrowfully.
Adminius feared that as well. Once in the fields, the fire would voraciously climb the hill to feed on the waiting stacks of grain and forage for more timber to devour. Then their homes.
“Merely round houses with thatched roofs!” He said, pointing toward their homes emphasizing the danger.
He looked down the road and the people on foot huffed and puffed their way up the hillside. Feeling the people were now close enough to follow, Adminius joined Kendall in the cart once more.
“To the water!” he commanded.
The chariots took off down the hill one at a time like a flock of kites diving for food into a vast lake of green.
The fire—as if it knew the battle had been joined against it—ate, leapt, roared, rippled, and then burst into crimson towers as it penetrated into the smaller pine and oak to the west.
When they reached the stream on the north side of the valley, twigs—falling fragments bearing live fire—showered around them.
Once stopped, Adminius jumped over the chariot rail and up to the bank. He quickly summed up the situation as he undid the fibula and removed his cloak. He folded it and laid it carefully into the chariot.
Adminius knew that the river would provide a barrier to the south, working as a natural fire break. He felt confident that his men knew what to do.
“May the gods be with you, Kendall. You know what to do!” Adminius cried as he slapped the rump of the horse. The chariot took off toward the small tree line downstream.
All around him, the chariots, oxen carts, and people of the Catuvellauni were eager to help and quickly went to task. Women and children brought out their buckets, skins, pots, and jars—anything that would hold water. They filled the vessels, stepped back, and formed a path to the small trees at the edge of the woodlands. Then they passed the water pots and jugs one to another until the line ended in front of the flames. There, they tossed water, soaking the ground and snuffed out the fire. Emptied, they passed the containers back down the line to refill them. They did this repeatedly, pressing as close as they could to the blasting oven-like heat.
Everyone—men, women, young, and old, helped the warriors attack. Adminius noticed that even the children did what they could. It seemed as if the dogs barked orders to the little ones. The folk acted in unison. Some sang to keep cadence.
The men grabbed shovels, rakes, and axes and headed into the slight trees by the stream on the northwest. The warrior marveled at the enthusiasm of the men as they took their shovels to the soil or used axes to cut down the brush, small trees and even the hot roots underground. They pulled back the brush and removed everything down to the dark mineral dirt. In this manner, they cut, dug, and stole nourishment from the hungry monster’s path.
Adminius grabbed a cas chrom from one of the nearby carts and joined them close to the flame. He used the foot plough to turn the earth. It was tough work. The light-weight, hand-held plough was better than the larger ploughs at turning the soil in areas of rocky soil like that on top of the hill near the tree line. His muscles strained as he pulled on the hand plow. Sweat poured off his face and down his chest and arms. As the night wore on, he called to the others encouraging them.
As they penetrated further into the woods, he felt that they were making headway. His confidence grew.
He was about to tell some they could go back to their homes when there was a loud crashing, then a “boom” near the treeline.
“Help!” someone screamed through the smoke.
Adminius dropped his plow and ran to give assistance. Bounding over several smoldering logs and pushing through thick shinery, he arrived to where the call originated. A long-dead tree had fallen. Perhaps the men had pushed too hard into the interior.
“Help me,” called someone from beneath the debris pile of limbs and branches.
Adminius shielded his eyes and saw in the thick smoke before him an older man. He was trapped by the branches and his legs were pinned to the ground.
Two others joined him and together they lifted the log away as Adminius pulled the man to safety. Adminius was relieved that the man was able to stand.
Several of the women arrived and quickly tended to the man’s wounds.
“You will be fine, look at how easy it is to attract a flock of beautiful women,” Adminius said.
Patting the elderly man on the back, he said, “Take care, Old Man.” Then he walked back up the hill and directly back to the fight. But his feet were heavy and he felt weary. Adminius stepped through the blackened brush and limbs and made his way away from the dense smoke. He broke out into the open area. He stopped and picked up the hand-plough, leaned against it and tried to breathe. Except for the last incident, the battle was going well. The fire had not jumped the stream. The firebreak made by the ploughs and the individuals, by hand, was working. He could not see any flame before him and nothing but black smoke of dying ash lay all around. He saw his chariot down by the water.
“I will find refreshment there,” he said.
Once at the empty chariot, he looked in the supplies and found a small pouch made of pig bladder, full of clean water. As he was about to take a draught, he noticed a small boy and a dog standing by the chariot. The boy stood there and looked up at the warrior. He patted the dog’s head.
“Would you like a drink?” Adminius asked.
The boy reached out and took the pouch. Adminius smiled at the young boy’s ash-covered face. He watched the child drink from the pouch and then pour water into his dirty hand for the animal to lap.
“I see you brought your pet today,” Adminius said, “Has he helped you fight the enemy?”
“He singed his tail,” the boy said. He handed the bladder back and then ran off.
Adminius laughed to himself. Seeing the boy rejuvenated his own heart.
He replaced the bladder into the chariot and then picked up his plow and headed back to the battle with the blaze. He felt calm.
He soon crested a short rise and stopped to catch his breath. He wiped the sweat and dirt from his eyes with his forearm. He then placed his right hand between the buttons of his simple cotton shirt. His thumb reached around the leather baldric across his chest. The left hand he carried behind him, holding the cas chrom. His knuckles pressed into his lower back, just above his sword belt.
“Aaah, it is winding down. In control and away from the crops and our homes,” he said.
Alone, he stood and from this vantage point, surveyed the scene before him. Down the hill on the other side was the winter harvest, bundled into standing shocks of wheat, like men standing at attention waiting for battle. Looking at Kendall’s field, still intact, he wondered if all their efforts had been enough to halt the flames.
Adminius winced remembering the fallen tree and the old man they had saved. He wondered if others had been hurt that night. Maybe the danger was not yet over. Perhaps the enemy was only resting. Regrouping. He had seen fire do that before.
He smelled the acrid smoke and ash in the night air. The heat still burned his nose and lungs. Adminius heard the crackle of the fire as it fed on the underbrush and shinery deep within the forest and knew that it was still there, heading his way. It was slow moving and had not crowned into the tree canopy of the ancient forest, yet. Up on the hillside half a league away, suddenly to the north, he saw a whirlwind of fire that danced up and down the slope. It might have been a beautiful sight if Adminius didn’t fear that at any moment it could envelop the people in its fiery embrace and they would be no more.
“It won’t be long,” he said as he took in a slow deep breath. He felt a slight breeze on his face. “It will rise again. The people must not slack now.”
He thought of his family. His brothers. His father. Only Togodumnus had shown up for the fight. Where was Caradoc? Then for an instant, he pictured Caradoc’s wife, Alexenah and her newborn twin sons cradled in her arms again. Where had she gone? He let out a breath, coughed and then swallowed ash. He watched the dancing whirlwind and suddenly felt as if his strength was pulled from him. What if the fire reached her? What if it attacked her children? How could he live with the thought of her tiny babes twisted into tiny charred skeletons? Vessels pounded in his neck. He was exhausted. How could he see this through to the end? He felt as if a tight fist squeezed his heart, forcing the life from him.
A shiver ran down his back as the vision of the whirlwind sparked a memory. Kendall had mentioned it earlier. The fire of their youth. Adminius closed his eyes and recalled the memory of a child that stood in this very place and fearfully watched solid walls of fire going the other direction toward the timberline many years ago.
Like women’s gossip, it started as a whisper of flame from a glowing discarded faggot and became the loud cry of tragedy. The flames swept quickly through the grasses, up the hill, and down the valley toward the woods. Adminius remembered the cattle running ahead of the advancing flames trying to avoid the blaze as it spread into the dry winter field. He gazed across the valley and shook his head slowly.
“I have been here before,” he said. The memory of his past flooded his mind with unwanted and long repressed pictures and feelings. “By my hand. By my hand,” he said, “It sprang up quicker than I could warn anyone.”
He had set the fire and tried to put it out on his own.
Then down by the river, as if called up by his memories the people began to sing an old song, of tragedy long ago.
The Bard’s cadenced voice echoed in his mind as the women took up the melody. They sang the Firesong.

“It was only a small brand,
From hearth fire plucked,
tossed aside by a child long ago.
Fanned by the wind,
Igniting homeland’s dry stubble.
For days, fire raged.
Rising smoke,
so heavy the sun could not shine.
Come nighttime,
the light of day.
We walked with the great King Tasciovaunus.
We sifted through the ashes.
Smelled flesh charred.
We touched the warm melted metal
still around their necks and wrists.
Twenty-three passed to the vale beyond.
The black marks of death record.
Only burnt stumps remain.”

Adminius tried to avoid the dark thoughts, but the Firesong permeated the night. It was a terrible time. A fire much like the one they fought tonight.
“The only thing that survived was the ancient massive trees of the Great Forest.” He recalled.
He shivered again as he thought of the black skulls and bodies of the cattle and of the people who died as they tried in vain to put the flames out. How could he forget the scorched skeletons of their homes? He closed his eyes, pressing them tightly until his cheeks burned. He saw the carnage in his mind as if it was happening now.
He felt alone then. He felt responsible. He felt regret. He had those same feelings now. A deep sadness engulfed him as he stood there.
“Days. For days the fire raged,” he said softly, tears welling up in his eyes. His fist clutched tightly to his baldric. The leather felt good in his well-calloused hands. No matter where the fire originated, he was resolved to quench it this time. This time he had help.
He turned to look at the people. They were singing and laughing. He could sense the feeling that they felt the worst was over.
“We spend the best years of our lives making regrets. Would-to-the-gods that was my only one. All tasks have potential for regret. This will not be one of them,” he said aloud as if that would ease his pain. “I must think. Focus on this task. Now is what matters. My men, my friends, my family, my people need my help.”
He closed his eyes. As he reflected on his past, his present was ablaze. He longed for some kind of hope that it would all end well. He longed for anything that would give him hope.
Turning away he forced the memory from his mind.
“People died… Not again. Not tonight. With the help of friends I will stop it this time!”
Walking back to the chariot, he placed the cas chrom on the board and reached for a rag. Going to the water, he knelt down. He wet the rag and washed the soot from his face.
At that moment someone kicked water at him, and as he turned, his balance shifted. Then he was pushed and he fell on his backside in the stream.
He heard laughter.
“You need a bath!”
“Togodumnus, why you little…” Adminius said as he tried to get up. He intended to push his brother into the water as he had done to him.
“Whoa, brother,” Togodumnus said, stepping back. “Can you not see I am carrying a precious bundle?”
Adminius wiped the water from his eyes and looked at the warrior before him. How long had he been standing there? Then his mind suddenly sharpened. Did he say he had a precious bundle? There, held in his arms like a child, was a bundle wrapped in a cloak.
The bundle moved.

been a while

2011-10-08T10:53:00.000-05:00

I guess I should write something. It has been a while since I last posted. (sounds like I am in a confession booth. "Father, it has been 6 mths since my last confession.") This post will be more about me than the book I suppose. It has not been easy making adjustments since my wife's passing, but I have orchestrated things to carry on. That may be why I havent written on the blog as the last thing was about her. anyway...Since my last post, I found that I couldnt get a teaching job this year. Too many qualified people out of work. So I applied and received an emergency substitute license from Kansas and have been hired on the local school district. I have also gone back to college to complete my B.S. in Pastoral Theology. (I already have another theology degree.) I am taking 9 hours and will finish the degree in december. I only had 7 hours to take to finish the degree. After that I may go on and get a masters in something like writing or ancient studies. Yea, so ambitious at 55 years old aren't I? Tom and I have been working hard on finishing the book. See the facebook fan page for daily updates. We are attending the HACWN conference in November and hope to talk to agents and publishers there. The goal was to have it completed by then, but I don't want to rush and it come out half way. I usually do well when pressured with "have to" but no one and nothing says I have a deadline, just a goal. We will see how it goes. In regards to the book, I am currently writing a scene in a tavern where Caradoc talks about attacking a town called Calleva. Someone overhears the plan and gets caught listening.... anyway. Happy writing! --Jon

updates

2011-06-22T15:44:00.000-05:00

"Theoden: [stands up from the throne] Dark have been my dreams of late.
[looks at his hands]
Gandalf: Your fingers would remember their old strength better... if they grasped your sword." - The Lord of the Rings

My life has hit a major bump in the road. My wife passed away suddenly and unexpected on Feburary 18th, 2011. She was the best part of my day. My muse and my cheerleader. I have attempted to continue the writing and find that I want to put her on every page. That may not be a bad thing, however I must keep to the plot. Alexenah will certainly pick up some of who she was, and it was always my goal to write her in as a character named Raena.

Unfortunately, I have experienced another loss. One not so great. I had worked on new chapters connecting the start to the origional beginning of the book, yet had not saved the last few editing/rewrites when my computer crashed. Obtaining a new hard drive, I spent yesterday uploading all I had saved on the book and gathered the printed pages of the latest writing. I now have the task of putting it back together and finishing this task.

I was away for two weeks on a trip with my son. During that time the plot became more real in my mind, fleshing out some of the mystery and how to present it. I feel more than ever that this is my task and whether I write anything else, that for my wife's sake, I will finish what she so willingly promoted and sacrificed so that I could pursue writing this novel. Without her encouragement, I will move ahead. I must draw upon her life as though she stands beside me. There is a quote we both liked in the movie "Conan: the Barbarian." Renee was very much like this:

"All the god's, they cannot sever us. If I were dead and you were fighting for life, I'd come back from the darkness. Back from the pit of hell to fight at your side." --Valeria

I love you still, Renee' and I miss you so.
I will pick up my sword again. -- Jon

rewrite first chapter - Aballeh

2011-03-17T11:45:00.000-05:00

Chapter One: Abbaleh

Alexenah looked at her father’s frail body. He lay motionless and quiet, his head in her lap, as she sat on the cold stone prison floor. His thin arms and legs were wrapped in bandages as though he had already been prepared for the grave. She cringed at the smell of pus and blood that seeped through the muslin cloth. His wrinkled gray tunic--as threadbare and simple as the small room they were in--rose slightly with each labored breath.
On the other side of the dark prison cell’s door, she heard the clink-clank sound of hobnailed sandals of the Roman guards as they paced back and forth.
“What will happen to me when you die, Abba?" she whispered, "Where will I go?"
She brushed back her long hair that had fallen across his face and noted the color was the same as her father's--black as a raven. His bruised and swollen eyelids shielded bright playful eyes--the same light brown tint as her own. His lips were full, and curved up ever so slightly at the edges. She recalled how people would say to her, "You are definitely your father's child."
She took his hand gently and enfolded it with her own. His hand felt cold. The fingers were stiff and unbending. The thin flesh was dry as old leather. His hands were no longer supple and caring as she remembered them. He was kind. Gentle. Loving, she thought, as she caressed her brow with her thin fingers. He was not even forty winters old. He had raised her--alone--given that her mother had died bringing her into the world. How had he come to this? He had never harmed anyone or taken anything from any man. No, quite the contrary, he was a giver—not a taker. How does that demand beatings and prison?
“Abbaleh,” Tobiah said. His sudden voice—a raspy, strained whisper—startled her. “Abbaleh," he repeated, "When you were very small, you called me ‘Abbaleh’." He opened his eyes. "Am I no longer Papa? Am I now just Father?” He squeezed her hand. Then, slowly, with much effort, Tobiah slid his hand from hers and pulled out a small leather pouch from inside his tattered shirt. Pulling harder, he snapped the worn leather cord from around his neck. He grasped the pouch close to his chest and said, as if to himself, “My Bundle of Life.”
Alexenah's eyes widened when Tobiah undid the leather tie-strap with his trembling hands. With difficulty, he reached in the pouch and carefully took out a linen handkerchief, stained and soiled with age--folded--with something inside. He offered it reverently to his young daughter as though it was a sacred temple object.
Alexenah looked back to the cell door. Did they know he possessed this hidden treasure? She heard the guards arguing. Their attention remained elsewhere.
She took the small bundle from his feeble fingers. Delicately, she pulled back the layers of linen to reveal what was so precious to her father.
“It is but a rock, Abba. A pebble.”
“Do you not recognize it, my child?”
She turned it over in her hand, held it up between her finger and thumb trying to see it in the dim light. There were sprinkles of granite that sparkled when held it just right.
“It looks like every other pebble you find along the road,” she replied.
“You were only a child when you brought it to me. Remember? You said, ‘Look, Abbaleh, it's a jewel! You called me Abbaleh. . .’”
“My pretty jewel!" she remembered, "But now. . .” she closed the linen over the stone and offered it back to him. "It is nothing more than a stone."
“Reminds me of you,” he said, gently covering her small hands with his. "It is truly a jewel." He closed her fingers over the parcel and pushed her hand back. “I want you to have it now.”
Alexenah paused, then nodded. She carefully wrapped the stone again in the cloth and placed it back in the leather pouch. “I will keep it always to remind me of you, my father.” Then squeezing it tightly in her palm, she wrapped the broken leather neck-strap around her knuckles to bind it in her hand.
“I am of little importance, my child. Let it remind you of your heavenly Father.”
“My heavenly father?"
“Yes, my dearest. Our Father in heaven placed you in His treasure pouch on the day you were born. You see, my child, you are most precious to him. He keeps you close to his heart.” He paused between each few words now to catch his breath.
As Alexenah drew her hand to her chest she felt the stone against her heartbeat. Tears welled up and overflowed as she lowered her head.
He tried to speak again.
"What is it you desire, my little one?" He asked.
"Desire?"
"In your life. . .what do you want more than anything?"
She thought a moment and to herself she said, That you would not die, but out loud, she said something else, "I have always wanted to grow up and be like you."
"And have beautiful children?" His lips turned in a fragile smile.
He was correct, she thought. She was now of betrothing age and desired children in her deepest soul.
"Yes, Abba. I will have beautiful children."
"Children are a gift." He struggled to continue, he moved his tongue as if to find moisture, then coughed uncontrollably, holding his chest. Pink foam appeared at the corners of his mouth.
She looked for a jug, a cup for water. She thought to call out to the guards for refreshment, but, changed her mind. They would not give him anything. She... had nothing to give him. She felt a choking knot in her throat.
"You can't leave me now. Not now. I want to give you a grandchild. You have to live to put the babe on your lap."
"A child? Just one?" He paused, then with emphasis, said, "Grandchildren. Yes, that would be a double blessing."
She placed her finger to his lips, “You shouldn’t talk any more, it only causes you pain.”
“There are things worse.”
“Worse than pain?” she questioned.
“Not feeling pain,” Tobiah sighed, his voice growing even more weak and trembling. He looked up at her and smiled. “I wish not to escape this. I am dying. I believe more in redemption than I do in recovery. And release from heartache and pain is not always necessary to see God’s hand.”
Then quietness. A long silence interrupted only by the muffled conversation of the guards outside.
Finally, he spoke her name again. Alexenah lowered her ear to his lips.
“When I die they will take you and sell you,” Tobiah whispered. She could barely hear his words.
“Should I fight them, Abba, or should I run? I will stand up to them. I am not afraid. I will resist them," then quieter, "I do not wish to be a slave.”
“Your wishes. . . will not matter. They are even now waiting outside the door . . to take you.”
Alexenah glanced to the door. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. She bit her lip.
“There is someone greater than Rome,” he said, reaching for her face. Then, louder, he grabbed her arm, “Jehovah will redeem you. He will redeem us all.” Then he was caught up in another paroxysmal of coughing.
Alexenah wiped the blood and sputum from his chin with the hem of her dress.
“I know the promise of the coming Messiah,” she said.
He appeared to sleep. His face more serene. His breathing shallow, slow, and calm. She counted the footsteps of the guards. The hallway was twenty-three steps long. She had just closed her eyes to rest when he woke and spoke to her again.
"Alexenah?"
"Yes, Abba, I am here." She still held him in her lap.
" Remember Chesed, my dear Alexenah?” he whispered.
“God’s loving kindness?”
“Chesed is God’s sure love. God is good. He is kind. Do not forget this.”
"I will not forget Abba, Father." She wiped the cold sweat that covered his forehead, nodded and swallowed. She watched as he struggled for air. Each painful breath sounded like a child's rattle. It was everything she could do to not let the scream in her belly escape.
Tobiah rose up on one elbow and strained to sit up. Alexenah held him so that he could gain breath.
Again, he breathed only a shallow breath, he leaned his head to the side and spoke again. “Earlier you asked where you will go….Go with him… in his loving kindness. He will never leave you…. never let our people go ... from…his embrace.” He squeezed her hand. Then slumping back down, he winced.
At that moment it seemed to Alexenah as if time halted. She held her breath.
He sunk deeper into her embrace.
Then, but a murmuring whisper, he said “When the best is torn from your life, He still holds you in the fold of His arms. He stared up to her face. "Oh, how I love you, my little flower.” He sucked in another measure of air.
She kissed his forehead, “I love you too." She paused, a tear trailed down her cheek. She ran her hand through his hair. "I love you too.... Abbaleh.”
Silence filled the room. No sound came from the hall. She felt her own heart beating. His eyes widened. His cheeks paled. He tensed. And slowly she felt his muscles relax.
Alexenah pulled him in and clutched him close. Putting her hand to cradle his cheek, she drew his face to hers and sobbed. "No. No. Come back to me, Abbaleh! Abbaleh! Come back. I will give you a grandchild. Grand children. Oh, they will make you happy."
His face paled.
She rocked him back and forth as she wept until her heart could contain the weight of grief no longer. A scream erupted from the depths of her soul as she wailed to the ceiling above.
The door latch opened.

2011-02-09T11:41:00.000-06:00

I have been thinking about the start of the book. Originally it started in a wheat field, then in a sacred grove. Now it starts in a prison cell focusing on the woman Alexenah. Feeling that she is the protagonist at the start, I went back to do some research so that I am not confused and don't confuse the reader. I was reading in the book "Story" by Robert McKee about protagonists wondering if this book has plural protags or multiple protags. And whether there is a change in protags half way through the book (which there kinda is) and he mentions that the movie "Psycho" did that. I mentioned that point to Tom and he said, "Yes, the protagonist is himself AND his mother!" so I guess if the protag is schizo, then there can definately be multiple protags in the story! Then I continued reading about characteristics of protagonists and MeKee states that EMPATHY rather than SYMPATHY is more important. You want the audience to relate to the character and say, "she is like me" rather than "I feel sorry for her." I wonder if that is shown and thus felt clearly in what is now titled the "Prologue"? That scene shows Alexenah as a child who acts like she is older and is responsible, therefore not using a child's term for her father. But what action does she take? What decision does she make? Does it show that she accepts what he says and determines to live her life that way? That can only been seen later as she is put in situations and makes choices. some changes need to be made in the following chapters, but I feel confident of where this takes the book, and more importantly where it takes Alexenah and the reader. --Jon

Prologue

2011-01-28T15:51:00.000-06:00

Prologue. -- Abbaleh

Alexenah looked at her father’s frail body lying motionless and quiet before her on the cold stone prison floor. His head lay in her lap. His arms and legs were wrapped in bandages as though he had already been prepared for the grave. She cringed at the smell of pus and blood that seeped through the muslin cloth. His wrinkled gray tunic was as threadbare and simple as the small room they were in. On the other side of the dark prison cell’s door, she heard the clink-clank sound of the hobnailed sandals of the Roman Guards as they paced back and forth.

“"What will happen to me when you die, Abba?" she whispered, "Where will I go?"
She took his hand gently and enfolded it with her own. It felt cold. The fingers were stiff and unbending. The thin flesh was dry as old leather. His hands were no longer supple and caring as she remembered them. How had he come to this? He was kind. Gentle. Loving. He had never harmed anyone or taken anything from any man. No, quite the contrary, he was a giver—not a taker. How does that demand beatings and prison?

“Abbaleh,” Tobiah said. His sudden voice—a raspy, strained whisper—startled her. “Abbeleh," he repeated, "When you were small, you called me ‘Abbaleh’." He opened his eyes. "Am I no longer Papa. Am I now just Father?” He squeezed her hand. Then, slowly, with much effort, Tobiah slid his hand from hers and pulled out a small leather pouch from inside his shirt. Pulling harder, he snapped the worn leather cord from around his neck. He grasped the pouch close to his chest and said, as if to himself, “My Bundle of Life.”

Tobiah undid the leather tie and reached in. He carefully took out a linen handkerchief, stained and soiled with age, with something folded inside. He offered it to his daughter.

Alexenah looked back to the cell door before she took the tiny bundle. Did they know he possessed this hidden treasure? She heard the guards arguing. Their attention remained elsewhere. She pulled back the layers of linen to reveal what was so precious to her father.

“It is but a rock, Abba. A pebble.”

“Do you not recognize it, my child?”

She turned it over in her hand, held it up between her finger and thumb trying to see it in the dim light. “It looks like every other pebble you find along the road.”

“You were only a child when you brought it to me. Remember? You said, ‘Look, Abbaleh, a jewel! You called me Abbaleh. . .”

“My pretty jewel!" she remembered, "But now,” she closed the linen over the stone and offered it back to him, "It is nothing more than a stone."

“Reminds me of you,” he said, gently covering her small hands with his. "It is truly a jewel." He closed her fingers over the parcel and pushed her hand back. “I want you to have it now.”

Alexenah paused, then nodded as she carefully wrapped the stone again in the cloth and placed it back in the leather pouch. “I will keep it always to remind me of you, my father.” Then squeezing it tightly in her palm, she wrapped the broken leather neck-strap around her knuckles to bind it in her hand.

“I am of little importance, my child. Let it remind you of your heavenly Father.”

“My heavenly Father?"

“Yes, my dearest, Our Father in heaven placed you in his treasure pouch on the day you were born. You see, my child, you are most precious to him. He keeps you close to his heart.” He paused between each few words now to catch his breath.

She felt a knot in the back of her throat. She drew her hand to her chest and felt her heartbeat. Tears welled up and overflowed as she lowered her head.
He tried to speak again.

She placed her finger to his lips, and said, “You shouldn’t talk any more, it only causes you pain.”

“There are things worse.”

“Worse than pain?” she questioned.

“Not feeling pain,” Tobiah said, his voice growing even more weak and trembling. He looked up at her and smiled. “I wish not to escape this. I am dying. I believe more in redemption than I do in recovery. And release from heartache and pain is not always necessary to see God’s hand”

Then quiet. A long silence interrupted only by the mute conversation of the guards outside. He spoke her name again and Alexenah lowered her ear to his lips.

“When I die they will take you and sell you,” Tobiah whispered. She could barely hear his words.

“ Should I fight them, Abba, or should I run? I will stand up to them. I am not afraid. I will resist them. We have lived our lives in peace," then quieter, "I do not wish to be a slave.”

“Your wishes. . . will not matter. They are even now waiting outside the door . . to take you.”

Alexenah glanced to the door. She wiped her cheeks. She bit her lip.

“There is someone greater,” he said, reaching for her face. Then, louder as he grabbed her arm, “Jehovah will redeem you. He will redeem us all.” Then he was caught up in another paroxysmal of coughing. Alexenah wiped the blood and sputum from his chin with the hem of her dress.

“I know the promise of the coming Messiah,” she said.

After what seemed like hours of holding him, he whispered, "Remember Chesed my dear Alexenah?”

“God’s loving kindness?”

“Chesed is God’s sure love. God is good. He is kind. Do not forget this.”

"I will not forget Abba, Father." She wiped the cold sweat that covered his forehead, nodded and swallowed. She watched as he struggled for air. Each painful breath sounded like a child's rattle. It was everything she could do to not let the scream in her belly escape.

Tobiah rose up on one elbow and strained to sit up. Alexenah held him so that he could gain breath.

Again, only a whisper's breath, he leaned his head to the side and spoke again. “Earlier you asked where you will go….Go with him… in his loving kindness. He will never leave you…. never let our people go from…..His embrace.” He squeezed her hand. Then slumping back down, he winced.

To Alexenah it seemed as if time halted.

Then, but a murmuring whisper, he said “When the best is torn from your life, He still holds you in the fold of his arms. Oh, how I love you, my little flower.” He sucked in another measure of air as he stared toward the ceiling.

She kissed his forehead, “I love you too, Abbaleh.”

Silence filled the room. No sound came from the hall. She couldn't even hear her own heart beating. Why won't he let the last breath out again? His eyes widened. His cheeks paled. He tensed, and then his muscles relaxed.

And then she heard the door latch open.

Writing Backwards

2011-01-23T16:28:00.000-06:00

I met with Jeff Gerke from Marcher Lord Press on Nov. 13th, 2010 at the Heart of America Christian Writer's Conference. He is a great promoter of "on the edge" Christian writing. He reviewed some of our writing and made several comments--both positive and negative. He noted that at times the writing uses "triplets". These are sentences that contain three actions in one sentence. It would be something like: "He lifted his head, looked into the sky, and sneezed." Whereas there is not an overabundance of these, it is something that I do at times. We will need to go back and make some changes to minimize this type of sentence. He also mentioned that POV is something to always be aware of, especially in descriptions of characters who are by themselves. And for us to watch weak sentence structure such as starting sentences with participles such as "ing" words. While he gave kudos such as "I didn't comment on this page because I was enjoying it. You really are good at description--do more of that," he asked if we could "extend the moments before the first sentence." What was life like before this incident? Who is this person--Alexenah? He felt as if he was seeing someone come into a room, killing everyone and we don't care who the people are...and we need to. As a result I have written a scene to put before it and have sent it to Tom for edit. By doing this, it seems that I am writing the book backwards!

For the record: Sometimes I read other well known authors and see them break the rules all the time. They use "ly" words, break point of view, and I just keep reading and enjoy the story.

call for artwork

2010-10-19T13:17:00.000-05:00

I will make one more post today. We would like to post any fan art you might create on our blog. If any of the story inspires you to draw or create something and you would like us to post it here for all to see, please send artwork to this email address: viatorvictori@sunflower.com.

--Jon

New chapter one changes

2010-10-19T13:12:00.000-05:00

Chapter I -“Taken”

“What we hold tightest
is the most difficult to let go.”
- Scribonus Largus

The force of Caradoc’s blow sent Alexenah smashing through the door of the roundhouse. The thick wooden door shattered. Broke off its hinges. Splinters showered into the room. She landed hard on the swept dirt floor.

The large center hearth-fire crackled, flamed, and sent dark shadows writhing across the dark mud and straw walls. In the back of the room, two newborn babies woke and cried.

She moaned. Coughed. Forced herself to her knees. Grabbed her side. Then, half crawling, half pulling, Alexenah quickly moved to the straw cot where her children lay.

Terrified, she glanced behind her to the doorway. Her husband Caradoc was somewhere outside. She heard his quick heavy breathing. Her nose bled. Lip felt swollen and cut. She pushed herself to a kneeling position, and then pulled her torn light-blue peplos dress up over her shoulder. The dress covered the lengthy lionclaw-like cuts that transversed her back, from her shoulder, to just under her left ribs. Blood flowed, pooled and stained at the small of her back where the dress was belted.

She grasped her two sons tightly to her breast and prayed to her God. “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 screamed to the rafters above her, “hear the voice of my prayer!”

Alexenah embraced her two boys and enclosed them in her shaking arms. Sinking her head down, she placed her cheek on one of their little heads. One of the babes rooted to find suckle on her breast. Unconsciously, she stroked one of the boy’s hair. “So pure,” she said, “So pure.”

At that moment, a hulking figure raged through the open doorway and kicked the broken door aside. Caradoc cursed, and then yelled as he staggered across the room to where Alexenah knelt, “Rome will not have my whelps!”
Her husband reached down, grabbed her by her hair, and wrenched her head back and to the side.

She clamped her eyes tight and steeled herself for another blow. Her arms moved to protect the children.

Then, bending low he angrily whispered in her ear, “And, neither will you! You’re just a slave-wife.” Letting her go, he struck her with the back of his other hand. Reaching down, he snatched a blanket from where the boys had been sleeping. Then, one at a time, he ripped them from her breast and wrapped them together in the coverlet.

Walking over to a table, he slammed the babies upon it. He lifted a wine jar and took a long draught of the thick red liquid. Then, laughing, he poured some of the drink down each bawling child’s throat. Putting the jar down, he bound the two together tightly in the blanket and shoved them both under his arm like a sack of potatoes.

The woman pleaded, “No!” She grabbed his leg with one hand, and frantically reached toward her children with the other. “Don’t take them. Please, please don’t take them!”

The man turned, lifted his leg, put his boot on her chest, and shoved her hard onto the floor. Again, he took a drink, banged the jar on the table breaking it. Caradoc adjusted his bundle and stormed into the night.
“C’mon boys, your mother is sick.”

* * *

A bracing wind came from the west, out of the forest itself, 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 was sure 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 bronze, fashioned so that it curved around his neck. Then he raised his face to the moon, as if he was soaking in its strength. The bronze torc shimmered in the moonlight.

His long, flaxen hair blew wildly in the wind as he took a few long steps and breached the barrier of trees into the clearing beyond.

Caradoc let his eyes adjust to the dark interior. He could barely make out a stone table and, faintly before it, a man in a long white woolen robe staring 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. He had listened from the doorway as she prayed.“She was going to cut them for her god.” He sneered in contempt.

Caradoc shook his head to clear his thoughts and remembered his purpose. No sons of his will be given to any foreign gods or to Rome. He would see to that. He said he would send my curs to Rome. For what? To train them in their ways only to send them back to replace me? Rome will not conquer me this way. I will not allow it, he thought. To give them to my brother to train as he wishes would be just as bad. No, this is where they belong.

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. Now, kill them!”

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. “These 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 his left shoulder. The man inquired as he held up the babes, “What do you desire from such a gift as this?” He then 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 grabbed a handful of the horse’s mane andturned to mount his steed once again.

“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 following.

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.

“Be quick about it,” Caradoc said. He placed the torch back in its tree-perch, crossed his arms and leaned against the cool bark of the nearest oak wondering why the Druid had left. Looking at the table he saw that the Druids had once again placed the children on the stone. The little ones stirred under the 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 the 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 they had been sifted through by the Druids who were looking for signs from the gods. There was blood collecting 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, himself, had many such heads hanging from 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 not so weak, but more like me after all. They kill for their gods. I kill for my own name. Nevertheless, both of us kill to gain position or power from others. There is no difference in that.”

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 color of a 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,dressed in Roman red, 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 other 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 his hedgerow of bushy eyebrows. The eyes beneath were dark, not only the pupils, but the iris 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.

Caradoc’s 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 till 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, pushing the sword up to his throat. Then, between his teeth, he said, “You are NOT the high Druid, I know this.”

Updates and more

2010-10-19T12:40:00.001-05:00

You will notice some changes in the blog layout and content. As Chapters are changed and updated you will see how the book has progressed. I will post new information as they are completed.

I am working almost daily on the book and have only about 10 chapters left to complete to finish this first of the series. Work is being done on the other two books in the series as well.

We are currently working on scenes involving Caradoc and a barrow, and another involving Togidumnus and . . . a chicken!

There has been some buzz about turning the book into a fantasy rather than historical fiction. I am not sure about that and would love to hear from the fans what they think. Fantasy would bring more magical elements into the work. i.e. the pugio would take on more of a magical presence. Feedback is always appreciated.

So look for new updated info and more regular blogging. To see daily activity, please find it on the Facebook page. -- Jon

new beginning of chapter one?

2010-07-01T10:15:00.000-05:00

Alexenah smashed through the thick wooden door with more than enough force to shatter it. It broke off at the hinges. Splinters showered into the room. She crashed hard on the swept dirt floor. The large center hearth-fire crackled, flamed, and sent shadows writhing across the dark mud and straw walls. In the back of the roundhouse, two newborn babies woke and cried.
She moaned. Coughed. Forced herself to her knees. Grabbed her side. Then, half crawling, half pulling, Alexenah quickly moved to the straw cot where her children lay.
Terrified, she glanced behind her to the doorway. Her husband Caradoc was somewhere outside. She pushed herself to a kneeling position, and then pulled her torn light-blue peplos dress up over her shoulder. The dress covered the lengthy lionclaw-like cuts that transversed her back, from her shoulder, to just under her left ribs. Blood flowed, pooled and stained at the small of her back where the dress was belted.
She grasped her two sons tightly to her breast and prayed to her God. “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 screamed to the rafters above her, “hear the voice of my prayer!”
Alexenah embraced her two boys and enclosed them in her shaking arms. Sinking her head down, she placed her cheek on one of their little heads. One of the babes rooted to find suckle on her breast. Unconsciously, she stroked one of the boy’s hair. “So pure,” she said, “So pure.”
At that moment, a hulking figure raged through the open doorway and kicked the broken door aside. Caradoc cursed, and then yelled, “Rome will not have my whelps!” Then he staggered across the room to where Alexenah knelt. Her husband reached down and grabbed her by her hair, pulling her head back and to the side.
She said nothing. Looked away.
Then, bending low he angrily whispered in her ear, “And, neither will you! You’re just a slave-wife.” He struck her with the back of his other hand. Letting her go, he reached down and snatched a blanket from where the boys had been sleeping. Then, one at a time, he ripped them from her breast.
Walking over to a table, he slammed the babies upon it. He lifted a wine jar and took a long draught of the thick red liquid. Then, laughing, he poured some of the drink down each bawling child’s throat. Putting the jar down, he bound the two together tightly in the blanket and shoved them both under his arm like a sack of potatoes.
The woman pleaded, “No!” She grabbed his leg with one hand, and frantically reached toward her children with the other. “Don’t take them. Please, please don’t take them!”
The man turned, lifted his leg, put his boot on her chest, and shoved her hard onto the floor. Again, he took a drink, banged the jar on the table breaking it. Caradoc adjusted his bundle and stormed into the night.
“C’mon boys, your mother is sick.”

The devil is in the details

2010-06-22T10:35:00.000-05:00

Today I am down at the Dancing Bear Lodge and working with Tom on the book. Last night we spent hours discussing plot fixes and scenes. It is evident that we are more together on what is happening than ever before. At the last critique meeting, a lady said that if we started the book with the babes being ripped from the mother's breast, then every woman who picked up the book would read it. So just for fun, and maybe to include the scene, I worked on it today. It is a difficult scene to write and portray the exact emotion needed. On another note - I have been reading a book that challenges "established facts" regarding Roman Britain and it has been a great source of information to connect some of the data points needed to fill in historical information. There has been such an upsurge of information found in the last ten years relating to coins and archeological findings in Britain. If there is NO archeological information then the established history must be questioned. I am sure that our book will cover groud never covered before on this area of history.-- Jon

getting over the speed bump

2010-05-24T11:03:00.000-05:00

Today has gone well so far. Got a very encourageing email from my brother, Tom. (Thanks Bro) and had a short class today in Latin. Lectio Septum.(www.learnlatinonlinefree.com) Makes me feel like I am learning and accomplishing something that I always wanted to learn. I know it is not for college credit, but It is free. much of my life has been self taught: guitar, mandolin, teaching, math, science, bible, public speaking, singing, choir directing, writing, and now latin to mention some of the things I've done on my own. In the past, a self-made man was highly regarded. today you have to have the degrees to prove it. (though a degree can be easily given when no learning actually happened)Anyway, back to the book...

Tom will take chapter three through the ringer again with another rewrite. Since it is off my back for now, I will turn my focus onto what happens after chapter nine. Much of that is already written, just needs to be cleaned up and given fancy garments to wear. We still have to fix the problem we have created in chapter where Caradoc comes home, but I think getting back to the creative part of the writting will be good for me. Perfection is a terrbly big speed bump.

reading to write

2010-05-21T13:06:00.000-05:00

I started reading David Gemmel's book "Troy" with a view to learn how he creates deep characterization. So far I have seen that he includes desription in the "he said" statements and doesn't break conversation with
"he said" if you know who is talking. He uses a lot of past tense "Had" words which I have tried not to use. He uses the word "Had" 12 times on page 12 alone! He uses inner thoughts as if they were giving history or information or how the person feels about something. He is not afraid to use "ly" words to describe things and states what someone looks like rather than showing it. So far, he breaks the rules I have been trying to employ in my writting. i.e. show dont tell, action rather than decription, dont use "Had" or "began" or such words. His chapters are short. Probably 6 pages would equal less than 2,000 words. I will continue to read, as I also want to chomp down on good story, and will try to decern his methods to see if they can help me. I desire to have strong characters who you hate or love deeply. I want to know them. I have probably a whole yellow notepad on who Adminius is and why he does things, but need to know how to make that information ring true and develop him deeply. The same for Alexenah, Jachin and Boaz. oh, one thing I noticed is that Gemmel said someone "said in a deep voice." I have not thought to put voices to the characters. What if Caradoc had a high pitched lisping voice? I did try to put that in Kenjars speech though. Caradoc needs a deep commanding tone. Does it sound like he is chewing gravel? or that he has worn it out by yelling too much, like professional wrestlers do? would Adminius talk softly and tilt his head to the side like the guy on CSI Miami? (I hate that head tilt thing he does. Remindes me of someone who worked at a telephone counselling service too long!)Well, gotta go. Gonna call Caradoc on the phone and listen to his voice. --Jon

writing rightly

2010-05-10T09:18:00.000-05:00

Chapter three has been quite the bugger to write. I started wanting a contemplative scene to show the inner thoughts and motives of Adminius. I felt that the man who would be able to stand toe to toe with Caradoc must be a certain type of man. But I wasnt sure how to present that in writing. Obviosly a contemplative scene goes well after an action scene. But the contemplation must be from the person involved in the action. With that being the case, that chapter should be Caradoc's contemplation, not Adminius'. Therefore the need to include more action before Adminius reveals motivation and thoughtsis the correct way to do the chapter. For some reason, I felt the need to describe the wildfire, rather than fight it. Last week I rewrote the scene including the towns people fighting the fire and took out all uneccessary stuff. (I.e. lenthy description of the chariot and the speech by Adminius before the firefight) Now I am still not satisfied and will do another rewrite putting Adminius into the fight and into the fire. I apologize to the fans, as this has been such a lengthy process. I don't know if other writers have such dilemmas or not. Tom gave me two books he recently read. His goal is for me to see how the writer makes the characters live and breathe. They seemed so real to him as he read it. It is the Troy series by David Gemmel. Real characters, really doing stuff. Now that would be really cool. Don't forget to check us out on Facebook and click on the discussion tab and join a discussion or start one of your own. -- Jon

Get to the Firefight!

2010-05-01T13:39:00.002-05:00

The Hawcn critique group were all in agreement that the third chapter has to get to the firefight quicker. (see comments on Facebook fanpage. Click on link below) In trying to write this chapter, we have tried to introduce a character that is equal to strength as Caradoc. “Character is shown in action” not description. We have rewrote this chapter many times looking for the right balance. When I try to remember the incident in my childhood that I am trying to pull from, I don’t remember anyone stopping to banter or give a speech. Everyone went straight to the firefight. The stuff written in this chapter can be used elsewhere in the book when the danger isn’t so imminent, I guess. It is not that I am trying to please a select group of people, but I want to make this right. The feedback I value most is readers. One teen young man said he, “got lost in chapter three” and almost put it down. To me, that says more than anything does. Will pick at it till it bleeds the right words, I guess. On another note, I am having to job hunt. I wish I could just sit around and write, but it isn’t bringing in any cash. It is a struggle for me, as I am afraid I will lose momentum when I get another job. (I lost the last two jobs when I had my back surgery) So any encouragement would help. Is the comment section even working? Anyway,…WRITE ON DUDE. ---Jon

fires

2010-04-26T19:38:00.001-05:00

I guess research is important. I visited the local fire department and talked to the men there about the fire scene in the book. It was a rainy day and they were glad for the unusual request. "How would someone in a chariot put out a wild fire." they said that much about fire control hasn't changed over the centuries. In sharing what my idea was, they said the only thing I was missing was dirt. With that information and after watching a show on Smokejumpers on TV I sat down and reworked the chapter. Will send to Tom for edit and then to critique group on wednesday. Things are moving again. Got a fire under my seat! --Jon

critique

2010-04-16T18:32:00.000-05:00

Yesterday's critique group with the Heart of America Christian Writer's Network was brutal. Having slowed down chapter three was not to their liking. They had trouble seeing anyone waiting and not just rushing in to fight the fire. Somehow I don't find it hard. I know men like that. Vain attempts to explain Adminius' character didnt help. I know I was not satisfied with the chapter either, so spent today hacking, cutting and reorganizing, and thinking deeply about the scene. I will take time this week to rewrite ....again and see what happens. "too slow, plodding." will not be the case. the second half of the chapter, which I didnt bring is where the action is. If character can be shown IN action rather than IN-ACTION then I will give it a try. It is frustrating to think that every decorator that enters the room wants to move a picture. If I want soemthing I have never had, to accomplish something I have never done, then I have to learn to do things I have never done and discover new ways of doing it. I am determined not to let it get me down and will write the vision. And as I once heard from a wise man, "That which does not kill me, only leaves me alive until the next thing tries to kill me." -- Jon

work

2010-04-08T10:46:00.000-05:00

Writing is work. Anyone that says otherwise hasn't written. Current work on just my side of the book includes researching flamable liquids used in sacrifice rituals, taking a class in Latin, reading and taking notes on the book: The Great Invasion by Leonard Cottrell, setting Alexenahs actions in chapter four in proper order to show change from confusion to peace, arranging pacing in chapter three, considering chopping chapters into smaller bites. (chapter three is 23 pages!) Working on final edits of chapters, etc. Waiting to discuss with Tom the chapter three changes he is editing. Will need to do some major changes in chapter four to reflect where Epos is and how to bring the babes back into the picture. May need to start over from scratch on that chapter. Considering still whether to write as one whole book the three books before I submit to a publisher or finish book one and submit that. Looking at the benefits of a print on demand publisher or holding out for the big advance paycheck. In the meantime, when I am at an impass I am trying to submit other stories and writing to magazines and compilations, and taking a stab at doing a teen dectective novel series that would be light and fun. And wondedring why no one leaves any comments on the posts. Noticed the hit ratio on the site is up with recent hits from California, Florida and Germany! Oh, well, back to work....

burning the midnight oil

2010-04-01T22:21:00.000-05:00

I was finishing some edits from chapter two today when I got to a scene that got some surprising feedback from someone in the critique group. Being a cookbook writer, he knew a little about the fire point of certain oils. He said what I had written could not happen. It seemed plausible to me, but I was wrong. I researched “oils used in sacrifices” and learned that he was right. I learned that incense was used to mask the heavy smells of burning flesh…and that incense was dangerous. It had a quick flashpoint potential. Based on his astute information, the scene now has a flash explosion … with color. See Chapter two updated today. And don't forget to check us out on facebook. -- Jon

thoughts on Chapter 3

2010-03-24T11:05:00.000-05:00

I am finishing a rewrite of Chapter 3. Chapter 3 is called “Fire.” I had to ask myself, “What does the fire mean in this scene?” If the fire represents rage, then whose rage does it represent? It represents Caradoc's rage. His rage against the Druids, his rage against his family, his rage against Rome. The rage Caradoc feels is a result of pain, shame, loss or harm. What was it that he experienced that set him off? Why does he nurse his rage with mead? Why does he want to see his family humiliated? Fire is an interesting thing. It can cauterized a wound, as well as create one. By shaming his family, will Caradoc cauterize some ancient wound? Something that shamed him? Caradoc himself is a flame. And like a flame others watch him to see his passion. They see his defiance. They want to grow close to him, to touch the flame, to follow the flame, to be consumed by it themselves Rage is exhausting. Easy to forget that tiredness. You can ignore it, replace it. Sleep it off. Hatred is always there, always seeking out to destroy. It desires to get rid of what it hates. Someone mentioned that Kenjar would not touch Caradoc. I believe he would try this. Is touch an insult? No. Not to Caradoc, not knowing who Caradoc is, would be an insult to Caradoc. Rage requires a sacrifice and need for reconciliation. Someone must pay. Caradoc needs the sacrifice. He needs this fire. He walks away from it because he doesn't want it to be put out. He seeks more fuel to fan the flames. Caradoc's rage is spreading to his homeland and in particular to Adminius. How Adminius responds is important. Whereas others would rage back. He is calm. He is thinking, he is intent. He has step by step planned actions to fix the problem. To not do this would make it worse. Rage is like 100 arrows blown into the air at your opponent. Hatred is only one arrow, and it is a long aimed blow. The object of the hatred permeates the one who hates. It is more important than anything. It is his focus. He is enslaved by it, consumed with it. There is one in the story who hates. It is not Adminius.

update

2010-03-18T11:00:00.000-05:00

Today I uploaded the updated edit on chapter one. Only minor changes with "ing" verses "ed" words, some commas and a couple of lines for clarification. Mostly tightening it up after I read it to the critique group. The plan right now is to continue reading to the critique group, finish rewrite of chapter three (fire) and four (return) and finishing the first act (or "book"). I am getting together with Tom this weekend to go over some new material and set some immeadiate goals. Doing the detail work is frustrating, but necessary. Some writers do the "write three times" method where they do a draft of the whole thing, then go back and do a second write with edits and then a third write to get ready for the editor/publisher. Unfortunately, I have not been able to do that. With every rewrite , however, I hone my craft and get better. I guess when it is sharp enough I will take it to battle. Maybe not the best way to do it, as there is always a flaw in their somewhere. I imagine their are artists who are like this, always going back to the painting and adding a dab here and there. The difference is having a work that is finished or having a "finished" work.

Fan mail already!

2010-03-16T12:18:00.000-05:00

Recieved a letter yesterday from someone. It said:

"I can't wait to read The Long-aimed Blow... You know how you said one book will inspire you to read more. Well, When I read what you wrote online for your book, The Long-aimed Blow website, it inspired me to read more good books. I realized there really were awesome ones out there."

She then said, "You are an awesome guy!" Thus, she is definately fan number one!

cleaning a cluttered mind

2010-03-09T15:12:00.000-06:00

I finished going through a box full of papers today. Separated out the research, ideas not implemented yet, other writing other than TLAB, maps, artwork, “how to write” stuff and trash. The stack for research was large. Need to separate it out. I have studied so much for this book. From the history of Pre-Roman Britain, Druids, Forests of Ancient Britain, eyewitness accounts of forest fires, swords and weapons, coinage, dealing with socialized psychopaths, child and physical abuse, food, current archeological digs, names, languages, etc. I have maps of Roman-Britain, Celtic-Britain and current Britain on my walls. There are two shelves of books in my office, and even a real roman helmet, spatha sword, and pugio for “inspiration”. Everyday I get “google alerts” with new information. I.e. did you know that Sarah Jessica Parker traces her lineage back to Caradoc? I love seeing pictures of the very landscapes the book mentions posted by people who live there. And, I still think I don’t know enough. Tom is constantly reminding me of things he knows about the history. He will challenge me to look up what something looks like (chariots for instance) to make it right. Someone once said that the research was the fun part and the writing was difficult. That is true to a point. There is that time when you get lost in telling the story and forget the time, as you become the character in the scene. Yeah, that is fun... and you don't have to file it. -- Jon

New post

2010-03-08T15:39:00.000-06:00

It has been six months since my back operation. I am just now getting around and able to do things again. Right after the surgery, I removed the daily blogging and only kept the book chapters up online. I am now ready to continue the process blogging. There are comments made on the Facebook Fanpage; but, they do not have my thought processes in regards to writing. Right now there are stacks of paper in my living room as I try to organize what has been done up until now. There are research papers, character studies and many yellow notebooks of ideas and thoughts on the book. If I compiled all of them I would have written this book several times over. I am making changes to the first four chapters to change the misinformation on who Epos is. He is “protector” but not “savior”. That role is given to Adminius. This caused some re-writing. Especially with chapter three. Been receiving ideas and writing from Tom on chapters in the “second act” of the book. I am also getting involved again with a writer’s critique group and have started reading to them the book from the very beginning. They are a great source of encouragement. I saw a book in Borders bookstore yesterday that I liked the cover. Reading about the author, I saw he lives close to me. Thought about looking him up or communicating with him about the writing / publishing process. I go far on a little encouragement, so drop a line to my email, make a comment on here, or check out the facebook page. -- Jon

Chapter Eight- Barrow and Farrow

2008-01-08T12:51:00.000-06:00

Chapter VIII - “Barrow and Farrow”

“It is not what you are running from,
but what you are headed toward
that makes you who you are.”
--Mardus of Macedonia

Boaz looked toward the place where Primus was pointing.
“See, he already is a hunting hound.” He said. He looked around, picked up their sacks, and put them on his back.
“Come on, brother!” Jachin yelled.
“Hold back. What is it?” Boaz replied, huffing with the added load.
The dog was looking at the field between the wheat field and the woods on the other side. Mother cautioned against going into the woods. The fear was reserved mainly for the Great Forrest in the far north, but Boaz knew that it had been almost ten years since the great fire at the sacred grove. That great tragedy had brought death to so many of the Druid priests. To this day, no one had found out what had caused the blaze. Curious it was that it was during the same time that their great grandfather had disappeared. That was a powerful time, but that was long ago. Boaz had often heard his father say, whenever anyone brought up the subject, that it was a “good day”, and “a day of cleansing and new beginnings”. Truly, the Druids had rebuilt and had become stronger than ever since that mysterious night. To most, the warnings didn’t apply anymore and certainly not to these small woods.
As Boaz reluctantly started to the edge of the field with his brother, he pictured the men of their tribe traveling in groups of at least two or more on a hunt. He longed for the day he and his brother could join the men, using Primus, the great hunting hound, to bring the animals at bay. Swords would make quick work to gain the prize of the beasts cornered by the dogs. He envisioned the hound flushing out the birds from the hedgerows into the open fields where they would have a clear shot with their bows or slings.
Shifting his now more cumbersome load he topped the hill and came to the end of the rows of grain. Climbing the gated, stone wall he looked for Jachin. Where had he gone this time? There, less than half a league ahead of him, he spied him in the pasture; he was gesturing his brother to be quiet. Boaz ran up to him and was about to chide him for leaving him when he saw what Jachin was looking at. There in the pasture was a big black bull. The formidable beast stood alone in the pasture, grazing lazily on the sweet grasses.
“Let’s scare it.” Jachin said.
“Let’s don’t”
Jachin picked up a rock. “This will make him mad. Watch.”
He flung the rock high into the air. It didn’t come close to the animal at all. The second rock was better aimed, yet missed, whizzing past its head. The animal never made a move. It kept right on chewing.
Boaz picked up the next stone and tossed it with all his might. The projectile caught the bull right on the back flank. He took in a quick breath. They heard the thud as it hit the muscled flesh and the boys looked at each other and grinned. Boaz was pleased that his stone had landed on the mark, but felt a little puzzled when the bull lifted his foot as if a fly had bothered him, ignoring the boys’ attempts to move the beast to action.
Not to be outdone, and always more willing to take the risk, Jachin bent down and carefully picked up a rock the size of his fist. He drew in closer toward the animal. Taking careful aim, he hurled the stone, giving it everything he had.
As the rock sailed high into the air, the old farmer come over the hillside.
The man had not noticed the boys until he crested the hill. He must have seen Jachin first, standing with another rock ready to throw. The man draw his sword as he called out to them, “Does your father know you boys are out here?”
Jachin turned to Boaz and was about to say something when Boaz saw the rock he’d thrown come down - right on the bull’s head - between the horns - hard.
The bull let out a bone-chilling bellow, turned around and looked straight at the boys. He then stamped and dug his hoof into the ground flinging dirt high into the air and snorted so that puffs of dust made it appear as if the beast was breathing out fire. Eyes wide, showing white, the animal charged toward them.
Without another breath, the twins took off running as fast as their little legs could go toward the stone fence where the pasture edged up against the woodland. Jachin ran ahead as Boaz tried to catch up. Boaz let out a whoop when he saw his brother leap like a deer completely over the barrier. He had jumped the fence in one bound, his bare feet touching nothing but air.
When Boaz got to the wall, he found a broken place in the stones. Tossing the two bags he still carried over the wall, he tried to squeeze through where the brambles and thorny vines that had grown up in the gap. However, the more he pushed the vines and branches trying to get to safety, the more he tangled in the thicket. He knew that he had to get on the other side quickly or he would be as good as dead. He could not imagine what it would feel like to be gored by the beast behind him. He didn’t want to see the blood and feel the pain. He frantically tore at his trousers trying to escape in time.
With his bracae stuck in the thorns, he heard Jachin begin to laugh. As he turned in fear to look behind him, expecting to see the bull right in front of him, he closed his eyes.
Jachin laughed again.
As Boaz opened his eyes only a squint, he couldn’t see the bull. Then, just at the edge of the horizon, he saw the dreaded beast. It was being calmly led away by the farmer back over the hill. It had only bluffed the charge and didn’t even chase them after all. Boaz let out a loud anguishing “Aaagh!”
Jachin helped his brother out of the thorns, slapped him on the back, and then took off again as if nothing had happened. He ran straight into the woods.
“Wait, you idiot!” Boaz called out to him.
“It’s all part of the adventure!” Jachin yelled.
He had forgotten his pack again. As Boaz picked them both up he saw the tear in his pants. He tried to pat the tear down as if it would stick back into place. Mom will not be pleased, he thought.
Out of breath and feeling that he’d already had more than enough adventure, he slowly walked into the woodland after his brother. He heard a dog barking in the distance.
* * *

Following the area of least resistance in the woods Jachin came into what first appeared to be an open glen in the midst of the trees. The sun was almost directly overhead and illuminating a small hill in the middle of the open area. It rose as tall as a man and appeared round. Jachin had never seen such a mound but had heard of them. Boaz came up behind him and said, “Whoa, do you see that? A burial mound. Right here in our own woods!”
Jachin started to run to it and Boaz grabbed him.
“Haven’t you heard the stories?”
“What stories?”
“You know, about the monster that guards the graves”
“I heard they were just little Pixies”
“No, brother, don’t even touch it. It will bring trouble. Like a thunderstorm or a bad illness…”
“Or maybe seeing dead people’s bones? I’m checking it out.”
Jachin had seen cairns before. They were stacks of stones that marked where someone had been buried. His family usually burned their dead and covered the ashes with the stones. Some stacked so high they called them “stone men”. But an actual burial mound was different. It was old –very old.
He walked around the earthen mound. There were large stones sunk deep in the ground at different intervals. As he got to the other side he saw the opening.
“Hey Boaz, c’mere. There’s a door. Let’s go inside.”
“Let’s not.”
“C’mon chicken.”
He coaxed Boaz over. He really didn’t want to go inside alone. It was dark in there. The side jams of the doorway were stone and brush hung down over the lintel. It was barely a man’s height. Poking his head in, he smelled the must and dryness of the interior. There looked like a passageway leading into it some distance. The walls outside had carvings. He touched them and felt the deep grooves of the swirls and zigzags of the artwork.
“I wonder how old this is. And who is buried here?”
Then he heard the noise. Boaz must have heard it too because he grabbed Jachin’s shirt. Then they heard the Primus growl behind them. They slowly stepped back from the doorway and toward the tree line. They heard sounds coming from the mound. Moans and scratching.
“I’m leaving, brother.” Boaz said.
“Im right behind you.” Jachin replied.
As soon as they were in the woods they headed in the direction of the road. If they could make it there, then Jachin knew they would be safe. As they stepped onto the road Jachin let out a sigh and said “It’s all part of the..” but he didn’t get to finish.
Someone grabbed him and pushed him to the ground. It was a group of boys from Camalodinum out for a march. Jachin knew they were getting ready for the Beltane games where they would be chosen as men of the tribe. The smallest of the group- and somehow in spite of his size- the chosen leader of the gang was known as Toenen. Though older than the boys, he only stood up to their chin in height. He knew who Jachin and Boaz were, everyone did, and he made fun of the ‘half-breeds’ whenever he could. Jachin knew they could get away with it, especially since Caradoc didn’t care. He had heard his father tell others that taking care of children was as bad a being called a lover of men. And if they got beat up, all the better to make them strong.
“Well, what do we have here? The Comhghans out for a stroll?” He said using the term most people called him and his brother. It meant “twins”. They were never called by their names. Just “Comhghans”.
Jachin tried to get up but Toenen put his foot on his chest.
“Where did you little pigs come from?”
“We came from the woods, we found a barrow.”
“A barrow” Toenen said laughing. Like a castrated boar?” They would sometimes castrate the hogs and they would get a hump on their backs as they got older. Therefore, they called the hogs ‘barrow pigs’.
“Not good for much of anything but to fatten up and kill for meat.” The boy jibed as he kicked at Jachin on the ground. “You must be the ‘barrow.’” He laughed again and the other boys laughed as well. “And you,” he pointed at Boaz and several boys grabbed him from behind. “You look just like him. You must be Farrow.”
Jachin tried to catch his breath. He knew what a farrow was too. It was a young pig, usually the runt. A name used for children who were born deformed and taken to the cliffs and killed.
“Barrow and Farrow”
“Barrow and Farrow” the boys said as they marched around Jachin and Boaz. Then two of the boys picked Jachin up by his hands and feet and they carried him down the road. Herding Boaz behind them, they did a mock parade shouting, “Barrow and Farrow, Barrow and Farrow.”
Before long, they grew tired of their game, or tired of carrying Jachin. They dropped him on the ground, and removed his trousers. Toenen gave him a few more jabs and left them in the road. The gang ran away swinging Jachin’s pants in the air. “Barrow and Farrow. Barrow and Farrow. Barrow and Farrow…” the voices trailed into the distance.
Jachin lay there naked except his shirt. He ran his hands through his hair over and over. Everything had gone fine that day until he looked in the grave mound. Boaz helped him up and together they ran back down the road to their hill fort.
When he got back home, he quickly found another pair of trousers and ran to the pig sty and sat amongst the pigs. Maybe that was all he really was. Just a pig. Useless. Even his name had no meaning. Maybe it meant pig in his mother’s tongue as well.
“I will never be anyone. I am nothing. Look at my arms. They are small. I will never be strong. I am just a barrow.” In his mind he didn’t think of the pig, he thought of the grave.
Sitting in the mud, he heard a voice. It was his uncle Adminius. Jachin hunched down hoping he wouldn’t see him. He covered his face.
Whereas Caradoc was in the south procuring land holdings for the tribe, Adminius had stayed behind to care for things. Jachin knew Adminius was not fond of his brother’s warring and refused to participate, claiming need to care for the land at home. Recently he had brought over a big sow to mate with Caradoc’s boar. The boys loved to play with it and had named the hog “Caesar”. Apparently Adminius had just finished putting the sow into the pen when Jachin had chosen his place to hide.
“Come here boy.” He said in a soothing tone. Jachin sat there. “I won’t hurt you. Come sit with me on the wall.” He sat down and Jachin knew he would wait all day if he had too. That was how his uncle was. Very patient.
“Don’t want to.” Jachin said quietly.
Adminius heard the boy and without saying a word, walked over to him. He pushed a sow aside and sat down next to Jachin in the mud.
Jachin turned his head.
After a long silence, Jachin felt Adminius reach over and put his hand on the young boy’s shoulder. Then Jachin was pulled in by the warrior’s strong arm, close to his uncle’s chest. He tensed at first but relenting, he let Adminius hold him there.
Jachin felt like the little bird that had fluttered in his tunic. Just as this little fowl had come to Jachin for help, he knew he could always go to his uncle if he needed him. He buried his face into Adminius’ tunic and wept.
They sat there quietly. Adminius never asked him anything. He just sat there with him until Jachin wiped his tears, got up from the pigpen and walked back to the house.

Chapter seven - Sanctuary

2008-01-07T20:24:00.000-06:00

Chapter VII - “Sanctuary”

“Neither stars nor sanctuary can make a man safe.
Security comes from courage to face fears that are within oneself.”
--Mardus of Macedonia

“Boys! Boys! Take it outside! If you have that much energy, go feed the pigs! Run with the horses but don’t run in the house! Do something, anything, but take it outside!” Alexenah yelled as the twins ran out the front door of the roundhouse.
“Alexenah, they are only boys,” Mara said, “They never fight to hurt one another. They always stop when one of them gets mad.” She gave Alexenah a big smile.
Alexenah wasn’t so sure of that. “They will have plenty of time to fight when they become men.”
“They are almost nine summers old, my lady, and ready to be trained as warriors and given the markings of the tribe.”
“That time will come soon enough, Mara. For now-- I want them to enjoy life and just be little boys.”
. . .

“It’s all part of the adventure!” Jachin yelled, and took off running from the hillfort down the road, ahead of his brother.
Boaz sighed as he saw his brother toss his sack to the ground.
“Where’re you going, Jachin?” he said. He put his hands on his knees and took in a few breaths. He had stopped at the place where the pathway turned to the right and ventured into the woods. It went where the men used it as a hunting trail - away from the direction Jachin had gone. At the junction stood a statue of Ludh, the British god of fun and laughter. Boaz jumped up and removed Jachin’s cap from the statue.
“This doesn’t show respect,” Boaz said as he folded the cap and put it in his own knapsack.
Boaz called out again. ““Hold back! I’m coming! Where’s Primus?”
It was the beginning of summer – Beltane -- and the sun had risen to a beautiful bright day. He felt a light breeze coming out of the woodland against his ruddy cheek. He smelled oak, birch, dry leaves and a hint of something pleasant. “It’s a good day for adventure, but I want to go to the woods.” He looked up to the statue, “Why does he always do that?’ he said, “We could’ve gone hunting.” The statue seemed to stare down the road in the direction of Jachin, and Boaz imagined the face laughing. “Oh, well,” he sighed, as he looked once again longingly down the well-traveled hunting path. “That’s where Primus went. I’m sure of it.” He strained to find any signs of the wire-haired mutt they had brought with them. The woods tugged at his heart, there were so many fun things to do in there.
“There’s boar! And deer -- the red and brown ones -- and birds.” He argued with the statue. It remained in a silent guffaw.
“Yea, I know, we find the game, but can’t catch it.”
Boaz kicked at the dirt. He was caught at the crossroads of two different choices. The dog was nowhere to be seen, and his brother had gone the opposite direction.
“I hate when Jachin does that!” He said, gesturing with both hands in frustration at the statue. “You don’t even care that he ran off – again -- without me.”
Turning back to the trees, he cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled loudly, “Primus. C’mon, boy!” There was no answering bark.
The young boy took one last look into the woods, then picked up both his and his brother’s sack and took off down the cobblestones. He saw Jachin up ahead turn and run straight into the wheat field. At this time of year the green stalks of grain had grown to a height just over the heads of the two boys, and Boaz couldn’t see exactly where his brother had gone.
“I guess I should’ve known. Jachin always feels safe in there.”
Arriving at the place where he last saw his brother, he yelled into the grain.
“Jachin! Primus! Where are you guys?”
“I’m over here, Boaz!”
Boaz strained to see where the voice was coming from in the sea of green wheat.
“Jachin,” Boaz cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled again, “Where’s Primus?” and he stepped into the field of grain looking for his brother and the pup.
“Primus! C’mere boy! Where is that mangy dog?”
Just then, Jachin came running out of the thick shocks of grain right in front of Boaz, purposefully knocking him to the ground. “Umph!” Boaz tried to swing out as he went down to no avail. “Hey, whatcha...”
“Sorry, brother. Uh- I, uh, yea- didn’t see ya.” Jachin said.
“Yea, right.” Boaz said as he reached up to take Jachin’s offered hand of assistance. Boaz grabbed it and pulled hard, bringing Jachin down to the ground next to him. They briefly tussled into the wheat, rolling over and over, knocking it down flat as they went.
“I got you, now!”
“N’uh, I got you, Jachin.”
“Ow, that hurt! Hey, let go!”
They stood there looking at each other and Jachin brushed his hair back out of his eyes. Boaz was taller than Jachin by only a finger’s width. No one except the twins noticed the difference. To everyone else they were mirror images. Both had hair the color of the ravens from the north. Their owlish eyes were gray as the fog that seemed to hang on after a storm. Their round, ruddy, sparsely freckled cheeks flushed as they looked at each other for that brief moment. Boaz thought this made Jachin look embarrassed and shy most of the time. As they got older, they tried to accentuate their differences, or create some of their own. Despite their mother’s wishes, they dressed differently as much as possible. Today they had on the usual bracae. Their mother had dyed these long woolen breeches in colorful vegetable oils. Boaz’s favorite hue was blue and Jachin more often wore shades of green. They both wore tunics of brown, the ones with the sleeves that were popular at the time. Their feet were bare, footwear being kept for special occasions or for trips to the town.
Jachin wore his hair longer than Boaz did and pulled it back and piled it on top of his head as Boaz had seen some of the older men do.
Boaz brushed himself off.
“You only do your hair like that because you think it makes you look older than me.”
“I am older. I think it makes me look taller.”
But Boaz knew that when his brother was distressed, he had the practice of running his fingers through the dark curly locks, wiping the bangs to one side, out of his gray eyes, thus ruining his attempt at being unique. This habit would give him a disheveled look.
“That looks cute,” Boaz said, “just the way the other boys like it.”
Jachin gave him a look, squinting his eyes so that they looked like the new month moon. Boaz felt his steely gaze burn.
“That’s enough. We’re finished now.” Jachin said and tried to wrestle Boaz down to the ground again.
Boaz tried to make a voice like his mother, “Boys! Boys! Take it outside! If you have that much energy, feed the pigs! Run like horses!”
They both ran around like horses and made oinking sounds until they were out of breath. Then they both fell down together and lay on their backs looking up at the clouds. Breaking the silence, Boaz said, “He took off! Haven’t seen ‘em. Have you?”
“Who? Father? He’s always gone.” The corners of Jachin’s mouth rose just so slightly; his eyes glinted. They would never do this in their dad’s presence and live. That was part of the feeling Boaz was experiencing. There was a part of him that was starting to get afraid. What if their father hadn’t left after all? What if he came back and was even now watching their antics in the grass?
“No, stupid. I meant Primus.” He punched Jachin on the arm as they stood to their feet.
“Ouch. Hey, lift me up. I’ll find him.” Jachin said trying to see over the tall grass.
Moving behind his brother, Boaz leaned forward, crouched down and put his head between Jachin’s knees. Jachin sat back on his brother’s shoulders. Grabbing Jachin’s legs, he stood up, lifting him above the wheat grasses.
“I don’t see nothin’.”
“Hang on. Quit moving your legs!” Boaz said, trying to hold his brother.
Making a small adjustment, Boaz lifted him up higher, this time with more effort using every bit of strength he could muster to balance.
* * *
Thus settled on his brother’s shoulders, Jachin saw a sea of dark green wheat waving in the gentle breeze of the afternoon. The grain was so thick this year that he couldn’t tell where Primus was.
Jachin lifted his hand high into the air with as much bravado a young man can have and yelled, “I’m king of all the tribes in Briton!”
Boaz yelled up to him, “I have to talk to my brother in Camalodinum about the Red-crest Roooomans!”
Jachin almost lost his balance as Boaz reared up on his legs.
“Oh, and don’t forget his favorite Inn is there.” Jachin said as he acted as if he was wiping the dregs of the brew from his long moustache with the sleeve of his shirt.
Drum, drum, th-thr-drum, a covey of quail took flight by the tree line at the edge of the field startling Jachin. “Turn me around!” He said thinking that perhaps the dog had scared them up. “There’s birds!”
“Primus likes to hunt,” Boaz said.
“But he is still a young pup.” Jachin said picturing in his mind the dog running and fumbling over everything, his large paws pounding the ground. The dog would usually find the covey only after he had run over them. Trying to catch the birds as they took flight is a big game to Primus, Jachin thought.
“He jumps up and down, snapping and yapping for a long while even after the birds fly away.”
“Someday when he calms down,” Boaz said with a confident voice, “he will be a great hunter.”
When I get older, I will too. Jachin thought, as he strained his eyes into the distance.
“Well?”
“I’m looking, I’m looking”
“I’m getting tired” Boaz whined, “I’m gonna drop you if you don’t hurry up!”
“Just a little . . . more . . . time. Just buckle up your breeches, Brother.”
The way the grass moved like waves reminded Jachin of last summer when they had gone to the pond to hunt frogs. He remembered the way the sun sparkled off the broken surface of the pond. It seemed magical to him. As he watched the moving heads of grain, it threw off his perception. He started to get dizzy. His head fogged and everything started spinning around. He felt nauseated as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip. His mouth was dry. Careless of keeping his balance, he raised his hand and ran his fingers through his hair.
“Let me down! Let. Me. Down! Nothin’, to see up here! Let me down! Boaz? Boaz! Let me...”
Boaz dropped to his knees, and then fell forward with the weight. Still holding on to Jachin’s legs, he took him down with him to the ground.
Thrashing his legs forward, Jachin stuck them out, landing amazingly on his feet.
Boaz crashed to the ground.
Stumbling back a step, Jachin turned around and looked at his brother, his eyes wide and eyebrows raised high. His hair was sticking up in front.
Boaz sat up, shook his head back and forth.
“Are you okay, Jachin?”
Everything was still spinning. “Yea, just got a bit dizzy is all.”
“Did ya see ‘em?”
“No.”
“Jachin, you sure you’re alright?” Boaz sounded concerned.
“No, uh, yea. The wheat is way too thick,” then clearer and pointing, “He may be way over by the trees.”
Boaz stood up and grabbed Jachin’s arm moving it to the correct direction. After a few minutes they together yelled into the walls of grain.
“Primus! – Priiiimuuuussss!” Putting two fingers in his mouth Boaz whistled loudly for the dog. Nothing. The wind rustling through the wheat was the only answer they received.
“Hey Boaz? You remember last summer when we took Primus with us to the big pond near that old forest up north?”
“Yea, I ‘member, Jachin. You stole Father’s bow and took his new arrows.”
“I borrowed them. Besides, he made me do the fetching --”
“You mean ‘fletching’!” Boaz corrected as he smiled broadly, laughing at his brother.
“Yea, that too. Anyways, I thought we could get ‘em back in place before he noticed they were gone. ‘Sides I made the arrows, I thought he wouldn’t mind us using them for the hunt. You, know, testing them to see if they flew true or not.”
“Yea, using them- not losing them, Jachin!”
“How was I supposed to know arrows don’t float? It was the pond, I know it! It was cursed or sumptin’. Just swallowed them up it did.”
“Yea, right, just like when you thought there was a bear under our beds that ate your sandals!”
“Well, it did!”
“Yea, right.” Boaz rolled his eyes.
Jachin wasn’t sure what to do. He could never win an argument with his brother, so he just laughed. “Ha, we never did catch any frogs!”
“Next time let’s use a net or tie a string on the arrows or something, alright? What were we going to do with them anyway, if we got one?”
“Don’t know.”
“It was sure funny, though, to watch Primus jump into the pond and chase after every barb you flung into the water. Guess he thought we were playing a game and had thrown him a bone or sumptin’!”
“Yea, Brother. He brought back everything he could find. Sticks, lily pads, an old boot….”
“Yes, everything –- except –- THE ARROWS!” He hit Jachin on the arm again, and they both went down wrestling. They giggled and laughed together, loudly and unafraid, hidden in the tall grain.
“Hey Jachin?”
Hearing the serious tone of Boaz’s voice, Jachin’s laughter calmed down.
“Uhhh, yea?”
“Father never found out you took those - did he?”
“Naw, he never noticed. He didn’t ever acknowledge my craftsmanship or even thank me for making them for him in the first place. He didn’t care. I just wanted him to like me is all. He called them ‘boar’s dung’ and threw them toward the fire in the hearth. But, of course, he was too drunk and missed the hearth completely. He yelled at me and said that I was nothing but a ‘goat-driver’ and they were ‘half-skewed’.” Jachin used words similar to what his dad had actually said, but felt uncomfortable using the language of their father’s angry words. “Yea, he then tried to hit me . . . like always.”
“Whad’ya do, Jachin?”
“I ducked, and tried to escape the blow. I hit the table and knocked over a jar of Mom’s ointment or something.”
“Is that when you got that blue stain on your arm?”
As Jachin rolled up his tunic sleeve to show Boaz the unique mark, they heard something crashing through the wheat field.
“It’s a great . . . big . . . giant . . . BEAR!” Jachin said excitedly in a breathy whisper as if yelling through clinched teeth.
Boaz laughed, “I know where you’re going with this.” And then in a tone of mocking fear he said, “Oh, no, not THE Great Big Bear . . .from the . . . uh, oh, yea, the Forever Forrest!”
“Yea, the Forever Forrest! And us with no weapons!”
Boaz grabbed Jachin’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Jachin? Uh, we really could use those arrows now!”
“Well, Brother, you could just scare them away with your big muscles . . . “ He brushed Boaz’s hands from his shoulders, “and your ugly face!”
Boaz let go. “We’ll be killed dead for sure. No one will ever find our bodies to cry over! But, then again . . Who’d cry over you, anyway?”
Jachin punched Boaz in the belly, but laughed at the remark anyway. They were about to go at each other again when they heard a low, menacing, deep growl, not unlike what they thought a wolf would do before attacking innocent little lambs. The twins looked wide-eyed at each other, screaming at the same time:
“RUN!”
Attempting to run crosswise through the grain rows was difficult. At first they ran together, fearful of what was behind them. The sound they had heard sent chills into Jachin’s bones. This was no game. The noise grew louder, more ominous, and ...closer.
“AAAgh! We are gonna die!” his brother screamed.
“Maybe you are, Boaz, but I’m not gonna die.” Jachin called back.
“What?”
“Not as long as I can out-run you!”
As he ran on past his brother, he slapped Boaz upside the head. Jachin ran away from what sounded dangerous trying to put as much distance as he could from it. Then he ducked down to hide in the grass. He tried to still his breathing and be as quiet as he could, pretending no one would ever see him there. Another roaring growl and then Jachin heard what sounded like a little girl’s scream.
“Oh, no! Not Boaz!” He could hear the sounds of the fight in the grass; the tearing, the growls, the awful sounds of his brother being torn to pieces. He envisioned a wild boar three times their size, tusks as big as thrashing scythes.
With a sense of urgency, he pushed his fear aside. In determination, he steeled himself for the fight. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, he turned back toward the frightening sounds of the melee and confusion. Not knowing what else to do, he ran as fast as he could, retracing his steps to help Boaz. Jachin knew he could joke around with his brother, but no one else could mess with Boaz and get away with it: not as long as he was around, at least, not here in the wheat field. If he couldn’t kill the beast, boar, wolf, or . . . whatever; he’d at least try to help Boaz get away to safety.
He had gone farther ahead of Boaz than he realized and it took a while in the deep grasses to find his way back to the sounds. Searching, listening, dreading, he kept parting the grass with his hands.
“I must keep pushing.” He knew Boaz would have done the same for him.
Frantically, he came to an abrupt halt at a clearing where the grain was smashed and trampled down. He broke into the area of the devastating attack. Expecting to see a horrific scene of blood, guts and death, there before him was his brother on his back -- being smothered by a big gray and reddish-brown, wire-haired animal.
It was all over Boaz with his giant paws, long snout, a face that looked like he had a scraggly old man’s beard, drool included, big brown eyes, and his short wagging tail: licking his brother’s face and hands with his enormous tongue. He watched in amazement as Boaz tried in vain to ward off the dogs obvious affection for his young master.
“Primus! Boaz! You found him!” Jachin ran over and dove into the ruckus pile, landing right on Boaz’s belly. They both hugged the dog and accepted the loving attention he gave them in return.
To Jachin, this was what life was all about and today was paradise. No cares, no fear, no father. The only thing missing was that their mother, their dear Matrona, was not with them. ‘The best mother in the land’, according to the boys, was back at the hillfort.
Jachin thought to himself: These three: Mom, Boaz and Primus, are the number one, most important things in my life. Thank the Good All-seeing One I at least have them!
The rest of the day the boys spent in adventures as they reenacted the stories of renowned heroes. They fought unseen monsters, rescued fair maidens; avoiding their grateful kisses - only briefly - and then pretended to better the other and being the best at wooing the girls, practicing elaborate kisses in the air. Jachin felt that they were one hundred times more skilled than any of the other boys in all the land at mastering, beating and subduing the “dreaded enemy”. They did this over and over again, always winning the day, never tiring of the playful fun. They used sticks for swords and dirt clods for arrows, in this magical Wheatfield of Dreams.
With Primus, the war hound, as their constant companion, these two, thought Jachin, in truth, could do anything. When together there was nothing they could not accomplish, no obstacles they couldn’t overcome. It was as though they fed off of each other’s energies. Although they really couldn’t read the others thoughts and anticipate intent, it seemed to others that they were somehow magically connected. It had happened more than once that the boys had noticed that someone had made the sign against evil just as they had walked by. The twins were so much alike; so inseparable, so confident in each other’s presence that it truly seemed they could conquer the world, even Rome, if they wanted.
The sun was growing low in the sky, the shadows lengthening, as the boys tried to see who could jump the highest. Primus had taken off again somewhere into the grain. Taking a short run to get momentum, Jachin jumped as high as he could. As he reached the zenith of his jump, he was completely surprised when a little sparrow flew out of the sky above and right into his tunic! He heard the cry of an eagle as he came down with the bird fluttering in his shirt. He had not known that it was a bird at first, but after hearing the eagle and feeling the movement on his chest, he quickly figured it out.
He knew he must have had a strange look on his face, because Boaz stopped jumping and came over. Jachin put one hand out to stop him from coming further and the other to his mouth to tell him to be silent.
Making sure the animal was safe he spoke into his shirt. “It is ok. I’ll take care of you.”
“What are you doing, brother? Have you gone completely mad?”
“Shhh, there is a bird in my shirt.”
“Riiight, and I have a mouse in my breeches . . .”
“No, really, I do!” Jachin gave him a look to say he meant business and wasn’t playing around. It was one of those looks that signified that it was time to stop wrestling.
“You are safe little one. The evil won’t harm you now.”
Jachin felt the warmth of the bird on his belly and felt the rapid beating of its heart slow as the bird stopped flapping. It felt good. He vowed, “I will always keep you, take care of you and protect you from harm.”
“You got to let it go, ya know?” Boaz said softly.
“No I don’t.”
“You’ve hurt it, or killed it. Either way, it will surely make you sick. Birds are nasty – unclean.”
“Boaz, it’s not dead. It’s still alive. I can feel its heartbeat!” He felt his own as well. He couldn’t believe this was happening.
Just then, Primus came out of the grass and right to where Jachin was. He came up slowly and put his nose up to Jachin’s stomach. He smelled the bird. Jachin was afraid he would scare the bird away; but he didn’t. As Jachin looked carefully down his tunic to see if the bird really was still alive, Primus started growling. When the dog let out a loud bark, the little bird flew out of the shirt, into the air, and away.
Boaz gasped in astonishment and looked in wonder at his brother.
“The bird was really there!”
Jachin turned to chastise the dog.
“How could you do that?” He had kept the bird so safe!
Primus wasn’t looking in the direction of Jachin . . . or at the direction of the escaped little bird. His focus was on something in the tall grasses to the south.

Chapter six - Cutting

2008-01-06T19:35:00.000-06:00

Chapter VI - “Cutting”

“Words are like knives. Beware their sharp jagged corners.
And a sharp nod of the head can fell great oaks.”
---Mardus of Macedonia

“Are you okay?” Adminius asked her.
“Yes,” she shook her head and in her own tongue said, “Thanks be to my God”
He stepped closer to her. “Why do you continue to put up with him?”
“What do you mean?” she replied.
“How can you not wish to pay back or escape his evil?” He looked at her dark eyes, the bruise beginning on her cheek, and the split of her lower lip and her hair that had fallen out of its ribbon. “I don’t understand your actions, Alexenah,” He said.
She lowered her eyes.
He reached out to her cheek. “The way you are around him is not normal. He treats you as he treats no other women. Believe me I have seen it. Caradoc struck you for no other reason than that you were standing there. Again I ask you. How can you not strike back?”
Alexenah politely brushed his hand away and stepped back from Adminius’ touch. And then stooping, she began to clean the dishes off the floor picking up each piece carefully so as to not cut her hands, focusing on the task so she would not have to see his gaze.
He stood there with his hand held out to her as if waiting for her to fill it with the answers that he sought. She knew he would be silent until she responded. He would stand there forever. He was looking at her. She didn’t want him to see the warmth she felt in her cheek. She wiped a trickle of blood that was coming from her nostril.
Steeling herself she rose, faced him and placed the broken pieces of glass into his outstretched hand. Then with straightened spine and soft words, she spoke to Adminius.
“We take God’s gifts and abuse them and yet He is kind to us. When we are His enemy, He loves us. Why should we, who are so blessed by Him, return cursing for cursing?”
Adminius raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure I understand.” He said grasping the broken shards tighter. “When I would fight a battle,” He looked at her lips and the blood. “There were many times that I would ache afterwards- all night sometimes-and not wish to rise in the morning. But the pain was something I could easily bear. I will gladly take a blow in battle, if…” He paused, “If I knew I could strike back. Yet, now I watch you work in peace,” he continued as he put down the shards of broken ware, “and take a blow as if it was joy to do so. You do not fight back or protect yourself or even so much as make it seem that you were unhappy with his actions. It is like you are doing him a favor by letting him hit you.” He shook his head. “I do not understand your god.”
Alexenah looked at him and softly smiled.
Adminius sighed, and then continued, “Our women are treated as equal in our tribe, but you are treated by him as less than a slave. I do not accept this abuse and demand just treatment. He is beyond what is proper- even with slaves.” His shoulders tensed and his fist worked open and closed.
Alexenah reached out and put her hand to Adminius’ chest. She felt his quickened heartbeat.
“You must not attack him when he is already hot.” She said softly. “It is like opening a lid when the pot has been boiling for a time. Patience is the key.”
He continued to stare into her eyes and she saw his anger soften. She felt his breathing slow. She smelled the smoke still in his hair from the night before. Had she let him look too long? His reaction frightened her and she turned away. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks again. She stepped back, brushed her hair off of her shoulders, and turned her back to him and said, “Adminius, my greatest love is for my God; that is the relationship that I hang on to. That is my focus, and it allows me strength to show kindness to whomever I wish.” And then kneeling, she picked up the rags Mara had used to clean her children and she finished, “And I must think of my children.”
After a brief silence, Adminius said, “You sacrifice, don’t you?”
“What do you mean?” she said.
“I have heard that your people sacrifice to their god. Is that right?”
She nodded. “Yes, that is true.”
“Why, then, do you place yourself as a sacrifice to my brother?”
“I do not sacrifice myself to him, but I sacrifice to please my God.” She wiped the blood from under her nose as she stood again. “It is my hope that the Almighty will one day put all things right. It is only for me to show the Law of Kindness and let Him do the rest.”
“Certainly, you cannot expect some god will come down, rescue you and fix this man.” Adminius took the rag from her, dipped it in some water and drew closer to her. Tell me, what is this law of kindness you speak of?” As she explained, he tenderly wiped her face clean of the blood.
“This law? It is called goel in my tongue.” She said. “It means ‘to redeem or deliver’. It is my hope that one day God will raise up a redeemer for all men, even for my husband.” She looked to see if he understood. He made no acknowledgement. Her heart ached. Oh, how she wished others knew more about her God and His ways. She wanted so much to show this man how her Lord had from the beginning of time showed His everlasting love to her people. She longed to share the stories of how He protected and guided and delivered them from their enemies. How he had done the same for her. She bowed her head and said, “Perhaps my kindness will one day lead my husband to that redeemer.”
“Where is my wine sack?” Caradoc said as he burst in to the house. He stopped three steps into the room, looked at Adminius, then to the rag the man held and the closeness of his brother to his slave-wife.
“You are mine,” he said to Alexenah – not even looking at her, “and don’t you forget it.” Then he stepped between her and his brother, grabbed her arm and gave Adminius an exacting look. Then swinging her around, he yelled into her face, “I paid for you with boot lick money.” Then looking at Adminius, he swung back and then struck Alexenah in the face with the back of his hand. ”For blasted freedom I paid Caesar his tribute!” He said as she slumped to her knees. Caradoc raised his hand to strike again. Adminius stepped forward, reached out and quickly grabbed Caradoc’s wrist staying the blow before it could be delivered. He squeezed hard. Then, not showing any sign of fear in his eyes, he pulled a knife and raised his own hand to strike Caradoc.
Alexenah let out a gasp.
Adminius looked at that moment at Alexenah and she looked back. With eyes full of fear she shook her head. Adminius hesitated and then abruptly let go of Caradoc’s wrist.
Pulling away from his brother’s grasp Caradoc rubbed his wrist and then quickly turned toward the curtain where the babies were asleep. He marched toward the twin boys asleep on the palette in the dark recess of the room.
“And these whelps of yours. . .” he said.
Alexenah drew in a breath.
Adminius lunged forward. He reached out with the knife toward Caradoc prepared to thrust it deep into his brothers back. Just before Adminius could strike, Epos stepped from behind the curtain and pushed Caradoc aside away from the boys and the blow of Adminius’ knife. The giant then stood -hands on his hips- between Caradoc and her sons.
Adminius lowered his blade.
Alexenah slowly let out her breath. When did he come back into the room? How long had he been there hiding in the shadows? She wondered.
“Hmmmf.” Caradoc said catching his balance. “You son of a whore,” he said to the long-faced giant, “Get outside now, with the rest of the men-wives. We need to go.” Taking in one last look at Adminius as if to challenge him Caradoc put his thumb underneath the leather baldric of his great sword and walked to the doorway. On his way past the table, he pushed it behind him - toward Adminius - sending everything that was left on it scattering and clambering to the floor.
Adminius looked to the giant. Epos smiled. Adminius nodded to the man and then turned to look at Alexenah. “This law of kindness is difficult to enforce.” With that he picked up a cloak and both men left the room. Epos gently closed the door behind them.
Alexenah clutched her hands to her belt as all three men left the room.
* * *
In the quiet aftermath of Caradoc’s rage, Alexenah removed the knife from her belt and went to the babes. Going to the twins behind the curtain she pulled back their covers and pulled them up to her in a long quiet embrace. Then laying them on the floor, one at a time, she took the knife in her hands and circumcised them. As she did so, she prayed in her native tongue. “Creator of the universe. May it be Your gracious will to regard and accept this as if I had brought this baby before Your glorious throne.” She then cut the foreskin of the firstborn as she had seen it done many times. And then she cut the other son saying, “And You Lord, in Your abundant mercy, through Your Holy Angels, give a pure and holy heart to …” She stopped a moment. She needed a name. Looking around the room she saw the huge house poles holding the roof of the roundhouse in their mighty grasp. They reminded her of the pillars of Great Solomon’s Temple of old. She remembered her loving mother describing their majesty and grace. She had many times heard of the massive stone walls, the golden furniture and the great porch across the front of the Temple. She smiled and looked at the crying babes, “Give a pure and holy heart to Jachin, and his brother -- Boaz, both sons of Caradoc, who are now circumcised in honor of Your great Name.” Then, wrapping them up, bundling them tight and warm, she laid them both down in the bed. She then got a bottle off of the table and she soothed them with wine on their lips - as was the custom - and continued her prayer. “May their hearts be wide open to comprehend your Holy Law, and I pray that they may learn and teach, keep - and fulfill - your laws.”
As Alexenah wept before them, she suddenly felt a presence behind her. She slowly turned to see who it was. She had not heard the door open or the man enter. When he came into the room she didn’t know. Epos stood there quietly holding a bag in his hands. She stepped aside as he stepped up and kneeled before the babies. He opened the bag and slowly and reverently took something out of it. He then laid it gently before the babes at their feet. It was a golden roman sword.

Chapter five - Explanations

2008-01-05T13:27:00.000-06:00

Chapter V - “Explanations”

“If you listen to the tales of travelers,
you will find them full of embellishments.
They tickle the ears and numb the heart.”
--Mardus of Macedonia

Tears flooded down Alexenah’s cheeks as she drew the twins close to her breast. Her face lifted to the ceiling and she opened her mouth in a sobbing silent scream of relief. Then, disregarding their filthy condition, she kissed them over and over. With the two boys cradled in her arms, she rocked back and forth as she had done on the road hours before. She kissed them again, gently on their foreheads - both of them - and held them tight against her heart. “My Lord,” She sobbed. “You have brought my sons home.”
Mara gasped, grabbed some rags and ran to Alexenah.
One of the boys gave a tiny moan.
“They have been drugged!” Mara exclaimed and looked over her shoulder at the large man still standing there. He stepped back toward the door and bowed his head.
Everyone was looking at the mother holding her babes. Adminius, turned to Caradoc and with his hand still on his sword started to speak, but was cut short.
Caradoc stood up rather quickly and faced the crowd “I took the boys to be dedicated to Belinos.”
The men turned toward him.
“To dedicate?” Adminius said.
“To murder.” Alexenah whispered. She held the boys tighter as Mara tried to clean them with the dampened rags.
“He only thinks of himself,” Mara whispered back. Alexenah gave her a shocked look that she had said this out loud to her mistress.
“Ahhh, You mean, to sacrifice.” said Togidumnus so all the men could hear. “That is good is it not?”
Caradoc stepped to the center of the floor raising his hands to quiet the room and boomed out his explanation
“Our great father, is he not named Cunebelinos? Is he not truly the great hound of Belinos? The war hound of a god?”
Alexenah made a face.
“Honor. Honor to our father was to be given by a great sacrifice.” Caradoc continued.
“The children are a gift from the gods in certainty.” Adminius said.
“Alas it could not be.” Caradoc said shaking his head woefully.
“They are strong and healthy.” Fergus said
Kendall nodded and said, “They could be useful in the fields.”
“As well as carrying the burden in military endeavors when they became of the age to be warriors. Couldn’t they?” Fergus said sticking his chest out.
Caradoc grunted.
Looking around at the men in the room he then stepped toward the hearth fire in the

center and put his arm around Caedman.

“Will they not be trained as warriors?” Caedman said, “Will you not give them

the markings of our people?”

“They are not of our tribe” Caradoc spat as he picked up a stick from the embers.
“What do you mean? Are they not your children?” Adminius interjected.
Caradoc turned to Alexenah. “Ask her.” Then turning to Adminius he said, “She is a slave.”
Caradoc cleaned some bark off of the stick in his hand and then

brandished it like a sword, pointing it toward Adminius. “If I claimed them would they
receive the woadmark? Would they run with the others in hunt, or with you in battle?” He nodded to Fergus. “Would they have a voice? On the High Council? I dare say they will not.” Hitting the stick on a log on the fire he declared, “They are NOT mine”
“Then what good are they?” Togodumnus said to the others.

Caradoc played with the stick in the flames before him.

“They could learn a trade, or you could sell them. As you say, they are

basically slaves anyway; are they not?” Caedman said.

“Who knows what will become of them. Of the gods? I do not know. Whatever they are or what ever their plans are,“ and he threw the stick in to the fire, “I’m done with them.”
“But, brother, “Adminius questioned, “Why did you bring them back?”
Caradoc ignored him.
“What did the Druids say?” Adminius insisted stepping closer.
Caradoc did not look at his brother but pulled over a chair and grabbed another mug of mead.
Adminius hung on. “Where were you when we were battling the fire last night?’
“Yes, tell us,” said Togidumus stepping between Caradoc and Adminius with another chair, “Tell us the story.” and he too took a seat by the fire. Several of the others moved closer to hear the tale.
As the men moved into position, Alexenah made ready garments for the children and now that they were clean, she dressed them as Mara quietly prepared their sleeping place. As she lowered them to the pallet on the floor she kissed their closed eyelids. It was then that she smelled the wine on their breath and understood their seeming peacefulness. She glanced to Caradoc and bit her lip in a tight frown.
Caradoc stared back at her.
Togidumnus looked at his boots. “Please tell us your story, brother”
“When I got there I was too late,” Caradoc said to the men. “I had hoped to dedicate them. I went to the grove -- like I said -- and found it desecrated. I was too late to help the dead.”
“I can’t believe they are all dead.” Fergus said.
“Yes, slaughtered,” Caradoc said “I saw firebrands. I followed. Yes, to the south it was.”
“Firebrands.” Togidumnus said rather matter of factly.
“Amazing, who were these marauders?” Adminius questioned.
“Antrebates”
“Really? From the south, they must have…’
Caradoc slammed his mug down hard on the table, “I caught up with them at the Andredsweald…”
“The wood where no one dwells?” Caedman asked.
“Yes, yes. I circled around them and saw their camp. I came upon them unawares in ambush and fought with them there.” He looked at the men one at a time and then refilled his mug. Walking through the men he pushed them aside and waving his mug in the air he said, “A terrible deed had been done. I was fortunate to arrive when I did.”
“Yes, you were my brother.” Togidumnus said.
“I fought with the marauders and chased them running away like dogs taking their wounded with them like bones to their hidey holes.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I returned to the grove. The men were all beyond rescue except the one over there.” He pointed back to the giant not realizing he was sloshing his mead from his mug in the gesture. The men stared in silent awe.
“Giant, Is this true?” Kendall gestured for the man to join them.
“He will not answer?”
“Does he not speak? Is he dumb?”
“He cannot speak. I rescued him from certain sacrifice and flame and he has given me his life. Look at him. Even now he stands in obeisance,“ Caradoc said clapping his mug to his chest.
The men nodded to each other.
“That we can see. Amazing!” Togidumnus said.
“And, what a face it is!” Togudumnas said.
“Ah yes, you will surely see why I call him Epos”
“A horse?” Caedman said.
“Yes, that he surely is.”
“You now have a shield bearer.”
“Admirable.”
“How did you say the fire started? I cannot believe they would do that.” Adminius said.
“It was obviously the Atrebates who killed the druids and set the fire to destroy the grove.” Caradoc yelled. “They wish to give the land away and only wish to remove all obstacles to Rome.”
“This was a strike against our very heart.” Caedman said.
“My brethren, honestly if it be told, I believe Rome is involved somehow and if no one else will join me, I have my purposes. I will get to the bottom of the matter and bring it to Cunebelinus himself.”
“It is Tasciovaunus, not Cunebelinus, whose purposes are important, brother. You are not king here.” Adminius said.
“I know who the high king is. But I will not sit idle on this.” Caradoc threw his mug to the ground. Everyone jumped
“Yes, it would be good,” said Togidumnus, “Cunebelinos will know what to do. He would be proud and you can tell him yourself. Did you hear? Cunebelinos has called us to Camalodinum.”
“News travels fast doesn’t it.” Caradoc mutterd.
“He has summoned all the leaders of the tribes, even the Iceni King.”
“Prasutagus won’t come. His wife won’t let him.” Caradoc said. “Prastagus is tied to his wife’s skirts.”

The men laughed.
“Prastagus will be there, as will all the chieftains. “ Adminius said
“Verica will certainly be there.” Fergus said.
“Hmmf,” Caradoc said as sat down and poured another draught of the bitter beer. “Don’t think so.”
“The Atrebates live closest to Rome. Verica only does what he can to maintain a delicate balance.” Adminius said.
“And brings in Roman gold.” Caradoc said putting both arms on the table and leaning into the table. “The red-crests will pollute our land for certain; they make everyone a bloody-red Roman.” He took drink, sat back, spit mead on the ground. Then raising his glass high in the air, exclaimed loudly, “Let them try to take – MY – freedom!”
All the men raised their cups and cheered. All except Adminius.
One of the boys began to cry.
Alexenah looked up to see Adminius looking at her.
“Well. Well. It has been a long night” Adminius said in a calm voice. And then he pulled up a chair, sat at the table and said “You need not be worried, brother. Caesar himself could not take our lands? Could he?”
Togodumnus broke in before Caradoc could answer Adminius’ question. “Brother, Caradoc, you were only doing what was right. Adminius, our brother only gets angry at the mere mention of anything to do with that ‘evil city’ because the Roman’s are indeed a threat to our beloved land.”
“But Togidumnus, it is a constant, frustrating obsession for him.”
Alexenah rose, directed Mara to watch the boys and approached the table. She picked up another cup and gave a furtive look to Adminius. How could he get pulled off subject so quickly? It was what Caradoc wanted, she thought. Couldn’t he see this? She had seen the two fight many times about Rome. Adminius was open to the idea of trade, yet would not say so. She saw it in the way he would tense his jaw and remain silent as Caradoc went on about his own ideal world. She saw Adminius as a man who considered all options evenly while Caradoc sought only fulfillment of his own desires.
“Caesar? He left with his tail between his legs” Caradoc finally spoke. “The Romans are not brave Catavaulini. They are rapers of our land. They create desolation and call it – peace.”
Alexenah could hear the beer in his voice and knew at this point, that this would not end well.
Caradoc knocked over his chair as he stood, slinging mead out of the mug. As he stumbled back a few steps Togidumnus caught his arm.
“I declare. I…declare. I declare, to you all,” he said sloshing his mead, “it will not be long until the Roman legions invade and the red-crested soldiers will kill, or worse -- enslave the whole island for their evil purposes. Their commerce is only bait, a front, a ploy, a trick. Blast it, a prostitutes ploy –“ and looking at Alexenah, “a way to sneak in unawares and take what they want.”
Alexenah saw concern on Adminius’ face as Caradoc slurred his words and rambled on.
“You tell it, Caradoc. Yeah! ” Togidumnus said steadying his brother.
Caradoc took a step toward Adminius. “There are some in Albion who embrace the empire and what Rome could bring to their island,” he said.
“Brother, can’t you see what is before your eyes? The trade so far had been good in the south and many are becoming wealthy because of it. The flourishing continent to the south of our island is not as far away as some would think; it is just across the great water. What a great opportunity for us to prosper. We have been trading tin with them for years.”
Caradoc looked at the cup in his hand and dropped it to the floor with a clang, then brushed Togidumnus away and stumbled over to the fire and said in a hushed tone, his back to the men, “When our traders of tin, copper, and even our precious wheat, came home from their travels,” he turned to face them,” did they not tell wonderful stories of beauty and grandeur?”
“This is true,” they agreed.
“Ahh, that it is, “ Caradoc continued as he turned and opened his arms wide and bowed in mock reverence to Alexenah, “The men in the south of this Island and their oh-so-beautiful wives, seeing how others might profit, have a way of saying, ‘Should our neighbor’s wife have things I don’t have?’”
The men chuckled at his tone.
Alexenah’s cheeks burned. The comment mocked her for something she had never thought, let alone had voiced. She did not have a desire for material things. She lowered her eyes, clasped her hands and took a gentile step backward.
Caradoc swung around and in a flourish and pointed to each man one at a time as he continued, “Because of their endless envious moaning, their weak husbands were not willing that they should be without any new trinket or the latest Roman . . .uh..nuh.. who-knows-what!” He then went over and grabbed a towel from the hands of Mara and draped it around his head and said in his girlish voice. “Aren’t I be-you-ti-ful?” “Aaagh!” he said , “The southern merchants sought more stuff only to get more status, and thus ultimately gain peace with their woman folk.” He tossed the towel across the room. ”That is their only purpose in sucking Rome’s teat!”
Putting his foot up on Adminius’ chair, Caradoc grabbed him by the side of his head and leaned into his face looking him straight in the eye and said, “They wish to be …..” he wrinkled his nose and wagged his head, “ROMA POPULARI”.
Alexenah took a deep breath and remembering the proverb prayed that Adminius would not answer this fool according to his folly.
Adminius didn’t blink, didn’t say a word.
The men stared at each other.
Then in a quiet voice Adminius replied. With all the men watching him, he said,
“The lands, roadways, great buildings, and great riches are all immense in Rome. I know. I saw it too.” Brushing Caradoc’s arm aside he stood and faced him. “You were there with me, Little Brother, remember? And,” He said, “I brought only memories back with me. What did you bring home?”
Caradoc narrowed his eyes. There was silence.
Alexenah shivered. She touched the knife rolled in her belt. The air in the room seemed to thicken. The suspension of time felt to her just how it would feel putting your hand into an adders den. This snake would either strike or leave. She was afraid of what her husband would do next.
“Yes, we both saw it.” Caradoc in a strained quiet tone.
He bowed his head and walked to the center of the room and talked as though he was remembering wonderful things. “Large meeting halls carved out of stone. Great water roadways that ran for many leagues seated high above the ground on arched pillars,” and in a tone of mock admiration Caradoc then said, “the strict discipline of their blasted armies.” Then to the men and not to Adminius he said, “And you want them here? Vast buildings to block our peaceful countrydside views? The cities, the filth of their sewers? The change to our ways of peace?”
Togidumnus reached out and put his arm around his brother and addressed the men. “The Roman baths… did you see the roman baths? I hear the men not only bathe together, but have elaborately built houses made for the sole purpose of relieving themselves.”
Caradoc laughed, “Yes, my brother, they do.” Caradoc said.
In one swipe of Togidumnus’ tongue the men began to laugh.
Caradoc elaborated. “There are rooms with as many as a dozen toilets where men would sit and talk of the business of politics while doing their daily natural business. They sit there all day and gossip like a bunch of old women about their leaders and what the people in the community are doing. It is as if they are in a public tribal council. To them it is an acceptable, social thing to do.” He waved his hand and leaned Togidumnus into the men. “Do I want to make it more personal and include names?” He pointed at Adminius “No one in Rome thought it unclean or uncivil. Why not go in the woods like everyone else?“ His voice trailed as he took Togidumnus aside and told him of the vices of their enemy.
Alexenah looked at Adminius and his rolling eyes said, “We have all heard this many times.”
Adminius walked over to Alexenah and in a soft voice said, “Even in his cups his oration can move people.”
She nodded and he continued, “Caradoc speaks often about the disgraceful acts of the great civitas. Using words that the Romans call everyone who wasn’t Roman, he goes around telling everyone he can about the ‘barbaric’ and ‘savage’ ways of Rome. It has been like this for years. One day he will do more than talk. He can’t win this fight. Not this way. Not tonight. He will not win by lofty speeches. One day he will get an army together. Mark my words -- and I am afraid of the outcome.”
“Adminius,” Alexenah sighed, “I too have been in Rome. The people there called him ‘Caratacus’. Latinizing his name was just another way of controlling others, he had said. For that, he may have somewhat against them.”
“Did you know his name – Caradoc,” he told her, “means ‘love’ in our tongue? He feels it is fitting. He loves this land of ours, even when others are not loyal.”
“Yes, he does act as if he is the protector of the land and you can see he takes that role seriously.” She watched him tell the men of how he would fight the Roman scum to his last breath. “In that, I can honor him, Adminius, but… the name’s definition has no meaning to our relationship. Even when I gave him -- not one child -- but two, it only made him angry as though I too am his enemy. I don’t understand.”
Caradoc threw another stick into the fire and got up to leave. “Let’s get on to

Camalodinum.” He said. Then, looking at the giant, “Hey, Epos, Ready the horses.”

The men laughed and pointed at the large man as he bowed. She felt sorry for him. When the man -- Epos he would obviously be called from now on -- came and stood by the babes earlier he had nodded to her. She understood the look in his eyes. With the look came the strong feeling in the deepest part of her that with this man around the boys would be safe. He was not here to serve Caradoc, but to protect her sons. She promised to herself to ask this man later what had really happened.
At that point in her musing, Caradoc stumbled past the table, knocking it over. Then he turned, struck her on the face with the back of his hand. Through tears she watched as he went outside, the men following him.
Adminius was the last to head for the door. He paused, turned and then walked back to Alexenah. She felt uncomfortable with him there. They were now alone.

Next chapters - chapter six, seven , and eight- found in July , 2008 posts

Chapter four - Return

2008-01-04T13:09:00.000-06:00

Chapter IV - “Return”

“A hospitable person will not fail for friends.
When one returns from a long journey, kindness must be shown.”
--Mardus of Macedonia

Alexenah beat the cold ground with her fist. “Save my children, Oh Lord! Hear the voice of my prayer!” She screamed in the direction where her children vanished into the night. Putting her hands to her face, she felt the puffiness of her eyes that held no more tears. The only sounds were the echoes of her cries into the darkness as she rocked back and forth on her knees. “He took them from me.” She sobbed. Her shoulders heaved. She pulled at her hair and, making a moaning sound, beat her fist against her thighs. She had chased her husband as far as the hill-fort’s massive gate where her heart could bear the weight no longer. Earnestly she prayed. “My God, My God, My dear God. Please hear me.” She repeated it over and over until her voice strained. “In You I put my trust,” She squeezed her eyes shut. She strained to seek solace from her God. “Almighty, let Your eyes see what is out of balance. A man would kill his own children? I cannot understand.” She sank, exhausted, clinging to her skirts that had once held her sons. Like the coming morning fog she saw in the distance, she could feel the darkness of fainting flood her mind. She took a deep breath. There was the smell of smoke, yet she ignored it. “I need every breath to pray for deliverance”, she told herself. Then she sat quietly, just looking down the empty road leading away from the hill fort.
She didn’t know how long she sat there staring into the darkness. In the stillness, she thought of the Patriarch of her people -- Abraham. He had taken his child to the mountain to give him up to his God. Her people passed down the story from generation to generation to show her the Almighty’s tender care for Abraham’s people. He had trusted that the Lord would provide a way of escape for his son. She needed that care. Only a year ago her parents had died in a cart accident. As the only female in the family, she was taken from her home by the tax collector and sold to Regilus the Roman. He later gave her as a slave-wife to Caradoc. He brought her to this land. She had tried her best to serve her husband, to learn his language and his harsh ways. All she could hold on to was her faith in the God of her fathers and the stories of her people. Abraham’s son was saved from the knife of sacrifice that day so long ago. She knew the same love could be shown her children. Alexenah sighed deeply and lifted her face to the coming dawn. “This must be what it was like when Sarah had her son taken from her that day so long ago.” Raising her hands to the fading stars she cried out to her God, “Great Jehovah, protect my sons! I give them to you and withhold them not. You can see my heart.” She crossed her arms to her chest and bowed lower. Her breathing slowed. “My lips will not sin against this man. Caradoc is my husband. By your will I will honor him as you have commanded. I will accept whatever portion You give unto me. Show me Your loving-kindness and I will be satisfied. Save my sons and deliver them from evil.” As she prayed, a peace began to edge out the dark places in her heart. She stopped sobbing.
Alexenah stood, once again wiping her eyes with her dress. She straightened her shoulders. As she looked up, she was startled to see the silhouette of a man against the fog and the red rising sun. She brushed her self off, bowed her head in obedience and waited.
“Alexenah?” Alexenah! Is that you?”
Alexenah lifted her head and let out her breath into the air. It was not Caradoc. It was her brother-in-law – Adminius. As he came running towards her she saw the look of concern on his face. He stopped when he got to her. Breathing heavily, he stood there for a minute and just looked into her eyes. She once again lowered her head. “Alexenah?” He said as he lifted her chin and then brushed a lock of her hair away from her face. Feeling uncomfortable, she stepped back. She brushed her hands on her dress and looked at him. His hair was pulled back. His clean-shaven face smudged with soot, ash and mud. His sword was at his side. He did not wear a cloak, only drab, brown trousers. He smelled of sweat, smoke and blood.
She turned, so that he did not see her perusal. As he called her name again she saw a chariot top the hill behind him and then another and another.
Before they reached them Adminius took her by the shoulders and asked, “Alexenah, where is your husband?”
She did not understand. She stared at him. She shivered in Adminius’ gaze. The memory of his touch scared her.
“We came to warn him.”
Adminius’ men jumped down from the chariots as they came up to the gate. “Where is Caradoc?”
Adminius stepped away from Alexenah and greeted his men.
She looked at the men around her. There was Togodumnus, Caradoc’s youngest brother, and the rest were Adminius’ men. She knew them all. Caedman – a wise warrior, Kendall who lived in the big valley, Teague, the poet, and Fergus the strong.
She bowed her head, “He… is…. not.”
“That is not good to hear,” sighed Adminius as the men started to walk up the hill to the fort.
“We believe we have been attacked!” Fergus yelled out and everyone joined in at once, talking at the same time.
“By whom we do not know.”
“The druids have all been killed!” Teague shouted.
“It is so, we saw the grove.”
“Or what remains of it.”
“It was Atrebates,“ Togodumnus said.
“Obvious only to you, Togodumnus.”
“The Atrebates?”
“Tincommius, or Epillis?”
“Probably the young Verica himself!” Togodumnus said, this time with a confident nod of his head. “They will not join our cause against Rome.”
“Let’s not place blame,” Adminius said holding his hand up to his men. “Let’s go inside to discuss this.”
“I fear for Caradoc’s safety. King Tasciovaunus is not to be found and now Caradoc is missing as well. This is not good at all.” He motioned to the drivers to put away the horses.
“Why not search for him?” Togodumnus asked.
As the men walked to the great roundhouse of Caradoc, Alexenah felt a tension from the group that was unsettling to her.
Adminius continued, “The call has gone out to the tribes to gather at Camelodinum. We need rest and food before we continue our journey.” Then to Alexenah he said, “I hope that will not put you out.”
Alexenah replied, “Our home is your home.” She pointed to the roundhouse. “The fire is warm.”
“Yes, it is,” he said as she directed him toward the doorway.
. . .
Adminius leaned against the post in the middle of the room by the fire. A slave girl, Mara was tending to the fire. Alexenah nodded to her and immediately began to prepare for the early morning meal. Adminius noticed the girl was local, wearing the colorful dress of their people, and spoke roughly, when she spoke to Alexenah. Alexenah’s appearance was strikingly different from the Celtic woman. She was wearing a light brown peplos style dress. The dress was fastened on the shoulders and fell to just below her knees. It was a very simple, but useful style. He watched her as she pulled her raven locks back and tied it like a pony’s tail. Her eyes were brown; not a dark brown but a soft brown, easy to look into -- like a good cup of herbal tea, Adminius thought. She was slender, even after just having children. He had learned a little about her over the years. Alexenah was born to Jewish parents. She came from Capernaum. Yes, not like the others at all, he thought. In the last nine years, Adminius had seen strength in her nature that let problems run off her, as rain would bead up and flow off an oiled leather boot. She was strong of muscle and mind; always pleasant, never sullen or discouraged about anything. Adminius could not understand how his brother could treat her unkindly.
As he warmed himself by the fire in the center of the great room he watched her work to care for those who were not her own. She moved to the window and drew back the coverings. Soon the sun would come up and brighten the room. Smoke from the hearth drifted up into the rafters where meat cured and flowed out the opening in the thatched roof above.
“Like a thick wool cloak that still keeps you warm and dry even when it gets wet in the winter snow.” He said out loud to himself and moved closer to the warmth of the fire.
“Yes, the fire at home is always the warmest. Don’t you think so, brother?”
It was Togodumnus. He was a man who rarely spoke his mind, but tonight was full of words.
“We really fought that fire all night, didn’t we?”
“We? Where were you? I tried to find you and you were gone. Where did you go brother?”
“I was there.” Togodumnus replied.
Adminius thought nothing of it at first, and had later ruled the absence an unwillingness to do any work. This was part of Togodumnus normal demeanor.
“Yes, brother. Warm, and cozy like.” Togidumnus said again.
Adminius noticed a shaking in the man’s voice
All the men began to enter the roundhouse.
“We saw the smoke.”
“It smells good. Stew?”
“Ahh, I smell a feast coming. Where is the drink?”
Alexenah was used to holding impromptu feasts and Adminius turned to find the table was well set, with drinking cups, pots of mead and fruit in bowls.
Before he sat down with the men, Adminius once again looked around the room. He looked at the great pillars, the coverings and tapestries. Yes, his brother Caradoc lived well, he thought. He marveled at his practice of attempting to show wealth on the outside when everyone knew his status. Yet Caradoc degraded others for doing the same. He looked at the sleeping rooms and then he stopped. In all the noise, something was missing.
“Where are the babies?”
Alexenah held on to hope as she picked up a knife from the table before her. Clutching it with both hands to her chest, she begged God for His help.
“Alexenah, where are the newborns? Twins they were, right. I would love to see the little ones.” Adminius smiled.
She didn’t answer. She busied herself with the chore of helping Mara serve the men. Silently she prayed for strength of heart to face this day and was startled when the oaken door of the roundhouse swung open, hitting the back wall with a thud. Bright sunlight flooded in. The room went deathly still as everyone turned to see who it was.
Staring at the shadow in the doorway, Alexenah tried to swallow but it caught in her throat. She held the cutting knife tighter in her hands until her knuckles turned white. Her heart stopped as a man stormed into the room.
He was breathing heavily. Alexenah could see his breath in the cool air. His hair was matted and tossed. His mustache, all too familiar, hung loosely on either side of his chin. His breeches were splashed in blood and dried mud caked his chest. He smelled of sweat and smoke. “It’s him.” She said, without thinking. “My God, what has he done to my children?” She tried not to gag.
“Caradoc!” Togodumnus laughed, pounding the table several times with his cup, “Brother, you are back.”
Caradoc surveyed the audience in the room and then smiled. He then reached out toward Togodumnus and pulled him in an embrace and held him tight. Alexenah saw Caradoc whisper something in his brother’s ear, give a quick “be-careful-what-you-say” look, and then slapped him on his back.
“You are alive!” Fergus said raising his mug.
“Where have you been all night?” Caedman said.
“We thought you were lost.” Teague put in.
Caradoc stepped to the table sending several men scurrying to get out of his way. He then sat down, grabbed a mug, a pitcher of mead, and poured a draught of beer for himself. He drank it quickly down, belched loudly, and then wiped the dregs from his long moustache with the back of his arm. Mara hurried to fill his cup again.
“You,” Caradoc said pointing his cup at one of Adminius’ men, “take care of my horse.”
Kendall raised his eyebrows and looked to his captain.
Adminius nodded.
Kendall quickly started for the doorway, but stopped suddenly.
The room darkened as another man bent down low to step through the open door. His large frame blocked the sun from the room. As he rose back up, his head nearly reached the rafters in the thatched roof. All Alexenah could see was a big shadow looming in the doorway. For some reason it reminded her of hope. She felt her heart beat again within her chest. Relaxing now, she picked up a stone, backed into the recess of the room by the sleeping area, and began to sharpen the knife.
“Another visitor?” Adminius said.
“Food!” Caradoc yelled as he guzzled down his beer. He didn’t even look up.
“Tell us your story, man. Who is this? What happened? Don’t make us wait.” Kendall said.
“I thought I told you to take care of the horse!” Caradoc roared.
Kendall stepped around the visitor and gave a last look to Adminius before he left the room.
“Where have you been, brother?” said Adminius. “You look like ….” Adminius stopped in mid sentence. The large man who had just come in was slowly moving toward Alexenah. Looking at the man, Adminius said, “Brother! You will tell us who this is that has followed you home.” The room grew silent as they stepped toward the man. Fergus drew his sword.
Alexenah squinted at the man coming toward her. She felt no fear. She had never seen such a formidable man. His dark face was disfigured, yet soft. His eyes pointed down at the temples, giving him a sad look. Yet, he smiled a toothy grin. She saw a bundle- was it Caradoc’s cloak? - he held in his large massive arms. She took in a quick breath between her teeth as the man moved slowly toward her. He clung to the cloak- like it contained fragile precious glassware from a far land. Stopping within arms reach, he bowed his head deeply, knelt down and gently stretched out the bundle toward her as if it were a precious treasure.
Alexenah wrapped the knife into the fold of her dress, then quickly wiped her hands on front of her dress. She looked up at the man in disbelief as he laid the bundle in her outstretched arms. The room was quiet now. Blood rushed from her face and she slumped down to the floor on her knees and bowed her head. She held her breath as she opened the cloak one fold at a time.
There was a tangled mess of oil and ash. ‘Remnants of the fire” she thought. She could smell feces and wine. There was blood on the cloak.
“My sons!”

Chapter Three

2007-01-03T16:24:00.000-06:00

Book one – chapter three- Fire

“There are flames that warm the soul and those that frighten the heart.
The most dangerous are those small embers that burn deep . . . and long.”
---Mardus of Macedonia

The two-wheeled British war chariots dashed up the hill and halted in a position of gallantry. The Charioteers, dressed only in trousers and flowing cloaks strained to hold the double horses in line. Armed warriors shouted to their leader for command.
Adminius looked down into the valley and saw the fire spreading. The flames twisted and turned, pulling energy into the inferno and raising high into the night until embers mingled with the stars above. Smoke made it difficult for Adminius to see the total extent of the inferno. Flames stretched beyond the tree line and moved into the dry grass of the fields. To his left was a small creek – a little more than a stream- gleaming in the waning moonlight. He called to his men on either side of him. “The land is ablaze with treachery! Quick, let us make an end to this evil!”
Grabbing the reins from his driver, he slapped the leather onto the back of the pair of ponies yoked to the chariots crossbar. The chariots – five in all-each holding two men, rushed toward the flame before it could reach their farmlands.
Adminius knew what they needed to do. Fires, usually started from lightning strikes, had been dealt with before. There had been no storm that night.
They drove the chariots into the creek. The warriors jumped from the boards, splashing wildly as they doused themselves, the ponies and the wicker sides of their chariots in the cool water or the stream. They then took large hides from the chariots and soaked them until they were almost too heavy to lift. These they attached to the back of the chariots to let them drag the ground as they rode. Removing their saturated cloaks, they gently wrapped them around their horse’s eyes- speaking soothing words as they did so.
Adminius stopped short of the creek, grabbed a hide, took a cruise of oil and poured it on to the hide, and placed it behind his chariot. Climbing back into the chariot he yelled to the others, “Follow me! Guard the gap and extinguish this hell!”
Adminius drove his team straight toward the conflagration, pulled hard right on the reins turning the team, and skid the two-wheeled chariot right into the flames. The trailing hide caught aflame. Adminius let out a whoop and aimed the fiery chariot across the open field.
The men shouted at the sight, drew their swords, and rode along the flame path Adminius had made. In this manner, they took advantage of the stream, the open area and the natural lay of the land to create their firebreak ahead of the brushfire. They worked way into the early morning.
. . . .

Alexenah beat the cold ground with her fist. “Save my children, Oh Lord! Hear the voice of my prayer!” She screamed in the direction where her children vanished into the night. Putting her hands to her face, she felt the puffiness of her eyes that held no more tears. The only sounds were the echoes of her cries into the night as she rocked back and forth on her knees. “He took them from me.” She sobbed. Her shoulders heaved. She pulled at her hair and, making a moaning sound, beat her fist against her thighs. She had chased her husband as far as the hill-fort’s massive gate where her heart could bear the weight no longer. Earnestly she prayed. “My God, My God, My dear God. Please hear me.” She repeated it over and over until her voice strained. “In You I put my trust,” She squeezed her eyes shut. She strained to seek solace from her God. “Almighty, let Your eyes see what is out of balance. A man would kill his own children? I cannot understand.” She sank, exhausted, clinging to her skirts that had once held her sons. Like the coming morning fog she saw in the distance, she could feel the darkness of fainting flood her mind. She took a deep breath. There was the smell of smoke, yet she ignored it. “I need every breath to pray for deliverance”, she told herself. Then she sat quietly, just looking down the empty road leading away from the hill fort.
She didn’t know how long she sat there staring into the darkness. In the stillness, she thought of the Patriarch of her people -- Abraham. He had taken his child to the mountain to give him up to his God. Her people passed down the story from generation to generation to show her the Almighty’s tender care for Abraham’s people. He had trusted that the Lord would provide a way of escape for his son. She needed that care. Only a year ago her parents had died in a cart accident. As the only female in the family, she was taken from her home by the tax collector and sold to Regilus the Roman. He later gave her as a slave-wife to Caradoc. He brought her to this land. She had tried her best to serve her husband, to learn his language and his harsh ways. All she could hold on to was her faith in the God of her fathers and the stories of her people. Abraham’s son was saved from the knife of sacrifice that day so long ago, she knew the same love could be shown her children. Alexenah sighed deeply and lifted her face to the coming dawn. “This must be what it was like when Sarah had her son taken from her that day so long ago.” Raising her hands to the fading stars she cried out to her God, “Great Jehovah, protect my sons! I give them to you and withhold them not. You can see my heart.” She crossed her arms to her chest and bowed lower. Her breathing slowed. “My lips will not sin against this man. Caradoc is my husband. By your will I will honor him as you have commanded. I will accept whatever portion You give unto me. Show me Your loving-kindness and I will be satisfied. Save my sons and deliver them from evil.” As she prayed, a peace began to edge out the dark places in her heart. She stopped sobbing.
Alexenah stood, once again wiping her eyes with her dress. She straightened her shoulders. As she looked up, she was startled to see the silhouette of a man against the fog and the red rising sun. She brushed her self off, bowed her head in obedience and waited.
“Alexenah?” Alexenah! Is that you?”
Alexenah lifted her head and let out her breath into the air. It was not Caradoc. It was her brother-in-law – Adminius. As he came running towards her she saw the look of concern on his face. He stopped when he got to her. Breathing heavily, he stood there for a minute and just looked into her eyes. She once again lowered her head. “Alexenah?” He said as he lifted her chin and then brushed a lock of her hair away from her face. Feeling uncomfortable, she stepped back. She brushed her hands on her dress and looked at him. His hair was pulled back. His clean-shaven face smudged with soot, ash and mud. His sword was at his side. He did not wear a cloak, only drab, brown trousers. He smelled of sweat, smoke and blood.
She turned, so that he did not see her perusal. As he called her name again she saw a chariot top the hill behind him and then another and another.
Before they reached them Adminius took her by the shoulders and asked, “Alexenah, where is your husband?”
She did not understand. She stared at him. She shivered in Adminius’ grasp, his touch scared her.
“We came to warn him.”
Adminius’ men jumped down from the chariots as they came up to the gate. “Where is Caradoc?”
Adminius stepped away from Alexenah and greeted his men.
She looked at the men around her. There was Togodumnus, Caradoc’s youngest brother, and the rest were Adminius’ men. She knew them all. Caedman – a wise warrior, Kendall who lived in the big valley, Teague, the poet, and Fergus the strong.
She bowed her head, “He… is…. not.”
“That is not good to hear,” sighed Adminius as the men started to walk up the hill to the fort.
“We believe we have been attacked!”
“By whom we do not know.”
“The druids have all been killed!” Teague shouted.
“It is so, we saw the grove.”
“Or what remains of it.”
“It was Atrebates,“ Togodumnus said.
“Obvious only to you, Togodumnus.”
“The Atrebates?”
“Tincommius, or Epillis?”
“Probably the young Verica himself!” Togodumnus said, this time with a confident nod of his head. “They will not join our cause against Rome.”
“Let’s not place blame,” Adminius said holding his hand up to his men. “Let’s go inside to discuss this.”
“I fear for Caradoc’s safety. King Tasciovaunus is not to be found and now Caradoc is missing as well. This is not good at all.” He motioned to the drivers to put away the horses.
“Why not search for him?” Togodumnus asked.
As the men walked to the great roundhouse of Caradoc, Alexenah felt a tension from the group that was unsettling to her.
Adminius continued, “The call has gone out to the tribes to gather at Camelodinum. We need rest and food before we continue our journey.” Then to Alexenah he said, “I hope that will not put you out.”
Alexenah replied, “Our home is your home.” She pointed to the roundhouse. “The fire is warm.”
“Yes, it is,” he said as she directed him toward the doorway.
. . .
Adminius leaned against the post in the middle of the room by the fire. A slave girl, Mara was tending to the fire. Alexenah nodded to her and immediately began to prepare for the early morning meal. Adminius noticed the girl was local, wearing the colorful dress of their people, and spoke roughly, when she spoke to Alexenah. Alexenah’s appearance was strikingly different from the Celtic woman. She was wearing a light brown peplos style dress. The dress was fastened on the shoulders and fell to just below her knees. It was a very simple, but useful style. He watched her as she pulled her raven locks back and tied it like a pony’s tail. Her eyes were brown; not a dark brown but a soft brown, easy to look into -- like a good cup of herbal tea, Adminius thought. She was slender, even after just having children. He had learned a little about her over the years. Alexenah was born to Jewish parents. She came from Capernaum. Yes, not like the others at all, he thought. In the last nine years, Adminius had seen strength in her nature that let problems run off her, as rain would bead up and flow off an oiled leather boot. She was strong of muscle and mind; always pleasant, never sullen or discouraged about anything. Adminius could not understand how his brother could treat her unkindly.
As he warmed himself by the fire in the center of the great room he watched her work to care for those who were not her own. She moved to the window and drew back the coverings. Soon the sun would come up and brighten the room. Smoke from the hearth drifted up into the rafters where meat cured and flowed out the opening in the thatched roof above.
“Like a thick wool cloak that still keeps you warm and dry even when it gets wet in the winter snow.” He said out loud to himself and moved closer to the warmth of the fire.
“Yes, the fire at home is always the warmest. Don’t you think so, brother?”
It was Togodumnus. He was a man who rarely spoke his mind, but tonight was full of words.
“We really fought that fire all night, didn’t we?”
“We? Where you you? I tried to find you and you were gone. Where did you go brother?”
“I was there.” Togodumnus replied.
Adminius thought nothing of it at first, and had later ruled the absence an unwillingness to do any work. This was part of Togodumnus normal demeanor.
“Yes, brother. Warm, and cozy like.” Togidumnus said again.
Adminius noticed a shaking in the man’s voice
All the men began to enter the roundhouse.
“We saw the smoke.”
“It smells good. Stew?”
“Ahh, I smell a feast coming. Where is the drink?”
Alexenah was used to holding impromptu feasts and Adminius turned to find the table was well set, with drinking cups, pots of mead and fruit in bowls.
Before he sat down with the men, Adminius once again looked around the room. He looked at the great pillars, the coverings and tapestries. Yes, his brother Caradoc lived well, he thought. He marveled at his practice of attempting to show wealth on the outside when everyone knew his status. Yet Caradoc degraded others for doing the same. He looked at the sleeping rooms and then he stopped. In all the noise, something was missing.
“Where are the babies?”

Next chapter - Chapter four and five found on July 26,2008 post. Also changes to chapter three found there.

Capter two - Sacrifice

2007-01-02T23:46:00.001-06:00

Chapter II - “Sacrifice”

“What you give up

may be that which brings you more.”

-- Scribonius Largus

There stood before Caradoc large blocks of uncut granite, which rested on other stones of similar size. They made a table like structure -- the Druid altar of sacrifice. Monoliths of this type of stone stood in fields, not forests. They were natural but not local.
Kenjar, once again, wrapped the twin boys in the cloak and positioned them on the cold stone.
“So, this is what they do on nights like this – in secret,” Caradoc said to the giant still tied to the tree. “What is their purpose for such things?”
The man looked up at Caradoc and said nothing.
“They believe they are connected to the land, but not to the gods. So, they attempt to approach the gods through these paltry sacrifices. If it appeases the gods, fine, as long as it does what I came here for. Bull’s breath! Certainly, this is not the first time this Druid has sacrificed for something other than blessing the land.” He slapped the man on the shoulder. “Ha! But I’ll wager, it’s the first time they have sold power to a man.”
He watched as the ritual played out before him. The men were all dressed in robes; but not of the same cloth. Some of the men wore dark woolen robes, others in drab white. Kenjar, with his bright red splotch on his shoulder, stood out from the rest.
“Tonight, you and I will see the things no ordinary man is allowed to witness,” Caradoc said. He looked down again at the man below him and kicked him. “Unconscious, again? Hmmpf, well at least I will witness this evil.” Crossing his arms to his chest, he leaned against the tree. “This is going to be interesting.” At first, he had only the idea of ridding himself of the twins, but now Kenjar’s suggested ritual gave him a greater purpose. His mustache twitched as his lips stretched into a sly grin of content.
Through the flickering torchlight and smoke, Caradoc watched as the priests fell into solemn reverential preparation. They chanted softly – eyes closed, palms upward as if to receive something from above. Caradoc wiped his nose back and forth with the back of his hand and sniffed haughtily in disgust at the piety of what he still considered nothing more than butchers and men-wives. “We are both takers of men’s souls. They kill in the name of gods; I kill in my own name.” He repeated.
The Druids who were dressed in black then placed their hoods over their shadowy faces and their chant became a lilting, melodious incantation. Two men in white stepped up to the table and removed the black blanket from around the babes, tossing it aside leaving the boys naked on the hard stone. As Caradoc watched, he saw those in dark robes as they moved to the outer rim of the grove, forming a circle around the stone table before him. They walked in a sun-wise direction and made low guttural sounds like a calf moaning for its mother’s milk. Caradoc strained forward as Kenjar took a thick cord from the assistant. The warrior’s eyes grew wide as Kenjar stretched it out to its length. It glowed and shimmed in the firelight. It seemed to Caradoc to be woven together with pure gold. Kenjar then took the ends of the strand and as his assistants lifted the infants, skillfully wound the cord, tying the two together.
“What I do is not to immobilize the bodies, but to provide a conduit for the spirit-energy between them.” Kenjar explained.
“Good. Makes sense,” Caradoc said. Then as he moved closer through the Druid circle of power he touched the braided bronze torc around his own throat. “Gold is hard to come by.”
The babies cried as the priest took alabaster wine-flasks and poured the cold fluid over the top of their heads and down to their kicking feet. One child sneezed.
“This wine is the life-force. Energy placed into the children.” Kenjar said, and then turned to Caradoc and in a whispered tone that could barely be heard above the growing noise in the grove, “The life-force of the land will fill the bodies with power and purify them until they shine. Soon they will hold such power that you will be able to look right through them like a skin that is pulled and stretched too tight on a drum. As a drum must be struck to release its magic, you must strike at just the right time. Just before the skin appears as if it will break, you must strike to release their spirits. Did you bring a knife?”
Caradoc reached for his sword.
“No, that will not do. It is too large.” Kenjar said as he gently placed his hand over Caradoc’s.
“Yes, I know this -- you fool.” Caradoc jerked away. “Hacking is for battle, not sacrifice. Everyone knows that. If it was to be a sword I would have just killed them on my own.” He clinched the hilt of his sword tightly. “Haven’t you got a knife?”
“Druids have knives for sacrifice, but this particular ritual requires a blade not of our own making.”
“Where do you think you might find one?” Caradoc said sarcastically. He shook his head in wonderment at the novice. “Maybe one of your sacrifices has a blade for us. Surely you don’t let them take all their weapons to the other world with them.”
As he perused the area, Caradoc noticed a metallic glint on the ground before the large prisoner still tied to the tree. He went over, bent down and picked it up.
“Is this yours?” he said pointing it towards the man, “Of course not, Horse-face!”
He pulled the blade from its sheath – an old leather scabbard burnished with age, bound by tarnished bronze filigree. Grasping the metal hilt, the weapon slid from its casing as though he had drawn it from a vat of new butter. He let the scabbard drop to the ground as he felt the weight of the blade in his hands.
“Some kind of alloy.” He said as he held it to the light. “Never seen anything like it, the color of the noonday sun it is.”
Bigger than a dagger, yet not quite a sword, he examined it carefully. A street-wench seeking solace for the evening could not have drawn his attention as did this blade. Caradoc reveled in its beauty. The hilt had carvings of bird’s wings, battles, and what appeared to be a wolf giving suckling to children. There was writing, but he could not distinguish its purpose. He turned the blade over and over in his hand feeling the perfect balance.
“Roman pugio, an officer’s blade, I would surmise.” Kenjar said breaking the enchantment.
“We will use this!” Caradoc pointed the blade at Kenjar’s face.
Kenjar reverently took the blade from the warrior, looked at the carvings, smiled, and said “Yes, this will do well.” Caradoc heard him then say as though he spoke through a thick cloth. “You must ready yourself for the thrust.”
Nodding his head, Caradoc said, “I am always ready. Just tell me when to strike.”
Kenjar took his arm and guided him closer to the table. Caradoc shrugged him off and removed his cloak tossing it to the ground next to the horse-faced man. Underneath he had no tunic –only trousers. He raised his arms to allow the priest’s ministrations.
Gesturing for Caradoc to kneel, the Druid then took a cruse of perfumed oil from an attendant and poured it over Caradoc’s head. As it ran down the warriors back, the attendant spread it evenly on Caradoc’s tense muscles. His flesh shimmered brightly in the flickering reflected firelight of the sacred grove. Caradoc breathed in the oil’s pungent vapor as he allowed the men to stand him at the foot of the stone table.
The Druids danced in frenetic rapturous ritual display. They placed the severed head of Tasciovaunus on the end of the table.
Caradoc hardly noticed. If not for the random shouts and piercing cries from the infants, Caradoc would have succumbed to the droning spell-chants. He swayed. Gritting his teeth. Squeezed the pugio, letting the feel of the solid metal keep him in conscious thought. Grasped in both hands he raised it to the sky. His knuckles whitened. Sweat and perfumed oil dripped down his long braided mustache. He licked spicy oil from his lips in anticipation. Let it linger on his tongue. Smelled the aroma. Drew it into his lungs. Longed for the moment when Kenjar would tell him time for the fatal strike had arrived.
He stayed there looking through the tree canopy to the sky above. The moon, the stars, the dark expanse. Caradoc took it all in; the sounds, the lights, the smells, the taste. “All for me.” He murmured. Felt the hilt of the ornate weapon.
A movement at the corner of his vision caught his attention. He turned to where the horse-faced man was waking. The giant was watching everything, like a spectator on the first row at the Beltane games.
Caradoc grinned broadly and said to him, “You see? You see? This is better than I could have imagined. I almost rode away from this!” He pointed with the blade to the table. “The gods - blast them – they give me their consent!” He shook the blade, his eyes wide.
Turning back to the man he thought he saw him nod in agreement. “You are right to agree. Not only do I, this night of nights, rid myself of my opposition, but now I will dispose of these vermin half-breeds, and in the process, gain the power I want. The power I need.” He looked to the sky again, his chest swelled, and through clenched teeth he hissed, “Power I deserve!”
The cacophony of noise deafened, like the sound of many crows -- cawing, screaming, and praising him -- announcing to the world, “You are the greatest of all Catavelauni. Better than Tasciovaunus. Better than Cunebelinos your father. Better than Adminius,” His chest heaved as he heard it in his mind. He couldn’t remain still. “…and by my own hand,” He glared at the pugio, “I am better than my enemies! I will rule them all!” Then, looking one last time to the foreigner, he bellowed, “I will stop Rome itself!”
The Druids wailed as they swayed to the musical sounds of their chant. Kenjar spoke indecipherable words as they reached in together and lifted the babes up over the table. One of the men in white then poured water on the table to clean a pure spot to place them; they dried it with sheep’s wool and carefully put the naked newborns down again onto the purified stone. The Druids then cut upon their own forearms with polished deer horns. They stepped forward, lowered their arms, and one by one, circling the table, let the blood flow down onto the children and the stone of sacrifice.
Caradoc could see the two little boys tied to each other, struggling against the golden cord. Their chubby legs kicked. Then, as he watched, to his amazement, they turned toward each other, looked into the mirror image of themselves, and then relaxed into an unnatural calm. As they quieted, they both turned and looked right at their father.
Caradoc noticed for the first time that their curly black hair was like their mother’s, but their eyes were grey like his own. Then, as if they knew what was about to happen, he watched them reach up and join their tiny hands.
The Druid song came to an abrupt halt. The sudden silence cut through the grove like a knife and for some reason Caradoc heard in his mind his wife’s prayer for the twins.
“Great Jehovah, protect my sons…”
Caradoc felt a shudder run down his back.
“Great Jehovah, protect my sons…”
His arms relaxed.
“Great Jehovah, protect my sons…”
He lowered the blade. In a low voice he growled, “They are together in this.” He grunted, shook back his long locks of hair and lifted the blade high again.
The babes then let out a wail - like rabbits caught in a trap. Caradoc shivered.
The Druid song returned. Reached a higher pitch than before. Echoed the little one’s cries. When the melodic rhythm reached a crescendo, Caradoc watched Kenjar reposition the head of Tasciovanus - the gift of power to the gods – and set it now before the feet of the two boys on the table. It was wrapped in a thin cloth.
The white-robed Druids came forward. One carried a torch. The other, a vial. They doused the gruesome head of the once majestic king with the liquid until it saturated the muslin cloth. And as the men set the head on fire with the torch, Caradoc raised himself on the balls of his feet. His face beamed.
Fat and blood sputtered and splattered onto the table as the muslin quickly burned away in a splendid spray of sparks. The exposed hair quickly burst into flames with a sickening smell. He could hear a noticeable sizzling sound coming from inside the cranium. The two boys struggled in the golden cord, thrust their legs back and forth in the mingled wine, oil and blood; their mouths open wide in cries that could not be heard over the noise of the priests.
Caradoc raised his tense arms and his own voice strained to be heard. “This is it,” Caradoc screamed. “This is the time. My time. I can feel it!” His nostrils flared, as he smelled the burning flesh and hair. His lungs burned. Every muscle tightened. Power pulsed in his muscles and the sinews of his upraised arms. His shoulders ached. He reveled in the feeling.
“My plan will work, I know it.”
Caradoc clamped his eyes shut. He tensed every muscle. Stretched his arms. Forced the knife to its zenith.
Caradoc felt pleasure. Pain. Power. It rose from deep inside him in his body. Like a notched arrow on a bowstring stretched beyond its measure – he strained for release. Then, from deep within the warrior, there welled up an uncontrolled tribal guttural war cry. He raged, “Now! I will do it now!”
Clouds moved over the moon above creating an eerie shadow over the scene. Caradoc felt off balance as he tensed to slash the blade downward. He closed his eyes tighter in concentration. Dizziness flooded in.
Suddenly, in the background, the tone changed. The singing halted. Something was not right. Something bumped into Caradoc. He stepped backwards. Opened his eyes. He watched in angry confusion as the men backed away from the table of sacrifice. They screamed out in anguish and put their hands to their faces. Some fell to the ground and put their heads between their knees, hands out in front of them in supplication to their gods.
“What in blazes is going on? This isn’t right.” He cried out. “Get out of the way!” He grabbed one of the men by the throat and squeezed hard.
“Finish the sacrifice, we were there, I was ready. I felt it. I knew it was time! It WAS time! What are you doing? Finish it!” Caradoc flung him to the ground as he lunged past him to strike with the dagger before it was too late.
“No, stand back!” Kenjar said as he forcefully grabbed Caradoc’s arm at the wrist, holding him with both hands. “They desecrated it! They dessss-e-crat-ed it!” He screamed. Caradoc saw the man’s face – red as flame, eyes now white in the depths of those dark sockets. “We can’t proceed! Don’t you understand? It is finished. They have no souls.” Kenjar turned him to the table. “They have NO SOULS!”
Caradoc looked in the direction he was pointing. “What? Speak. What are you saying man?”
Kenjar pointed “There. There. Can’t you see?”
There on the table Caradoc saw the blood, smelled it, and another odor; a sick putrid smell. Worse than a pigsty at midsummer. Worse than the burning flesh of the high king’s head still smoldering on the table. Then he saw it; the dark and sickly meconium mess on the table between the legs of the kicking babies. One of the twins had released his bowels. The stool spewed and spread over the table. The smell made his stomach jump. “It’s just dung, you fool!” He stepped toward the table and raised the blade again. Perhaps it was not too late. “They are still on the table. The words have been spoken. Let’s do it!” He swung the blade upwards.
“NO! The power. The spell has been cast.” Kenjar yelled. He tried to step in front of the warrior. Tried to block the blow. “The power must be sent somewhere, it cannot remain here!”
Caradoc did not understand. The druid moved fast. He batted at Caradoc’s arms. He stretched his fingers for the blade
“The power,” Kenjar repeated, jumping up and down, “we gave the spell of power. It cannot remain with the babes!”
Then, suddenly, the golden blade tore from Caradoc’s clutching grip and flung away into the smoky air.
Caradoc’s fingers pulsated with pain. Had Kenjar in his excited attempt to stop the blow, knocked the blade free? He reached for his sword. “I will take care of this one way or another. Out’ta my way, man!”
As he slung the druid aside, he stopped. There before him stood the horse-faced foreigner holding Caradoc’s cloak and the pugio in his hand.
Caradoc said,“Number Nine.”
He then drew his sword and lunged at the giant. The big man stepped aside. Barely missing the children, Caradoc’s blade hit the stone table hard. The jolt sent the flaming head of Tasciovaunus rolling off the table to the dry grass of the grove below. The ground blazed before him. The flames barred his path to the man who was now the object of his wrath. Caradoc swung his blade into the flame as though the stroke would kill it. He looked for a way to attack. A way to reach the foreigner. As he fought at the flame, the fire reached one of the white-robed priests. Bright flames spread quickly to his waist as the man ran frantically to the edge of the grove, right into one of the large oak trees. Hitting the dark obstacle in his way, the man dropped a cruse of sacred incense. The cruse exploded and aromatic dry powder sprayed into the flames lapping at his robe. As he fell to the ground, the incense flashed a bright colorful explosion upward into the trees.
Caradoc could see that he would never reach the horse-faced man this way. He turned back to the table.
There, the giant leapt over the flames, undid the golden bonds, and grabbed the two boys into his arms.
“Noooo!” the warrior yelled as he saw the man swaddle the children in a bright red cloak, and then bound straight into the thick smokey blackness.
Caradoc hunted. His eyes searched for answers and a path to stop the man from taking the children. He looked to the now empty table, then to the sacrificed bodies and their entrails sizzling in the sacred grove. Fearless. Uneasy. “This has all gone wrong.” He said.
He stood there in the midst of the fray. He pulled at his mustache. He brushed against the torc around his neck.
“Power.” he said grabbing the torc at his neck. He put his hands to the side of his head to block the sounds. The smells and smoke was thick. He gagged. He looked down and spied the remains of Tasciovaunus’ smoldering head. He kicked it. “I need to escape, but not without the power I was promised!”
He searched. The druids scrambled. They erratically tossed dirt and water into the flames. Back and forth, they darted. It was a dance of dazed confusion. One of them bumped into the warrior.
“Move!”
Caradoc instinctively swung his sword catching the druid under the left arm. He felt the blade sink to the rib cage and bite hard as the man’s bones cracked. The warrior set his jaw, squinted his eyes, and then smiled. He withdrew his sword from the slumped body, and in a single motion attacked another.
“Here’s my sacrifice!”
Every swipe of his blade was calculated; every move, impulse. He felt more powerful with each killing stroke.
“If two sacrificed babes would make me strong, eight sacrificed priests would make me more powerful than any man.”
One by one, he sought them out in the grove. In his battle rage, he leapt through flame and smoke. He attacked. He counted. He cut them to the ground.
Reaching the sacrificial table again, he thought he had killed them all.
A whimper.
With one great shove, he sent the stone tumbling to the ground. There, underneath the table, crouched a man. He was dressed in white save a red spot on his shoulder.
Caradoc grabbed Kenjar, yanked him erect, and pointed the great sword under the druid’s ash and mud covered chin.
“You are the last. You are mine, you goat! You will not tell anyone about this night.”
The man paled.
“From now on you will do as I say. Cheat, steal, lie…kill! Can you do that?”
The man stared at Caradoc’s face. He pushed the sword closer until a trickle of blood ran down Kenjar’s taught neck. “Do you understand? I offer you a path for your own desires of power. Only a fool would reject me. Are you a fool?”
Kenjar stiffened, and then relaxed as though he had weighed the opportunity in balance to his fear. Caradoc glared into Kenjar’s face. The man’s deep-socked eyes diverted downward. Kenjar raised one bushy eyebrow. It was only a tiny gesture. Caradoc recognized the softening resignation and released the man. Then to Caradoc’s pleasure, the man sank slowly to the ground and knelt in obeisance. Caradoc breathed deeply and smiled.
A baby cried in the dark.
“Though I have taken much from them this night, I have given the gods a great offering. The flames confirm their acceptance and fire will finish the deed.” Pushing Kenjar away he laughed, and touched his torc. “There is much left to do before all is as it should be.” He looked as Kenjar slowly stood.
Ignoring the man, he turned to go, sheathing his sword. Flames jumped from limb to limb above him.
He walked to the edge of the trees.
Kenjar followed.
The horse was where Caradoc had left him. Although the horse was wide-eyed and skittish, Caradoc grabbed the reigns and mounted the steed. Smoke rose above him through the trees and concealed the carnage from the sky itself.
“Yes. Yes, this will work out well.” Caradoc’s chest rose. When his lungs were at their fullest, he held his breath and closed his eyes.
As the fire roared into the night, Caradoc was sure nothing had survived. Not even the horse-faced man could escape those flames. Caradoc turned the steed to face the grove one more time. “Good-bye Horse-face, take the paltry rubbish with you to your death. The blaze will cover the truth of this night; but soon all of Albion will see my glory.”
Then he bellowed a triumph into the night. ”Victory is mine!”
A startled Kenjar grabbed his robe and ran into the dark woods. Caradoc knew he would see him again.
The warrior laid the reins tight on the neck of his steed, turning him towards the mountains. He then leaned down into the horse’s neck, held tight enough to rip out the mane itself, and kicked the animal hard. Caradoc rode into the dark.
In the opposite direction, a giant shadow of a man took great galloping steps, and he too ran away from the grove. In his long arms, wrapped securely in a red Roman cloak, he carried two very frightened little boys, a golden cord, and the pugio.

Next chapter - Chapter Three posted Dec 26,2007

First Book - Chapter One - Power

2007-01-01T12:20:00.001-06:00

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.