Chapter 5

Chapter 5 - Slavery

“We are enslaved by that which consumes us. That which owns us. Whether physical or not, it does not matter.”
--Scribonius Largus

“He’s gone,” Alexenah whispered. She repeated the phrase over and over in her head. “They took him from me. They took me away from him.”
Alexenah slowed her breathing. Took in a long draw of air and let it out slowly. Her heart raced. She placed her hand to her mouth to veil the quiver of her lower lip. All day it was like this. Whenever her mind was free, her thoughts immediately went back to what happened in the prison cell. The guards had wrapped her in the blanket and tossed her into the covered oxcart. It was more like a cage meant for an animal. She was certain she was to be taken to the slave gallery. Isn’t that what her father told her would happen?
Alexenah relaxed her hand and unwrapped the leather cord of the treasure pouch she still held. She placed the leather straps around her neck and tied it securely, letting it hang hidden under her clothing.
She looked through a small opening in the covering. As a tear clouded her vision, she wiped it away. From the sound of the wheels on old cobblestones she knew where she was and what route they traveled. She had been down these roads many times. Although no carts were allowed on the roads until the tenth hour, they took her from the Basilica Julia, right down the oldest street in Rome; the Via Sacra. They turned to the right after they passed the Vicus Tuscus Road. She could smell the spice shops. The cart was headed for the Forum Boaricum and beyond that the Saeptia Julia and the slave market.
They turned down the Saeptia Road and she immediately was overwhelmed by the smell of freshly baked bread. Next door to the bakery was her father’s linen shop where the wealthy would gather to buy expensive clothing. Another wave of grief overwhelmed her.
The cart stopped.
The guards argued with someone.
She peeked through the cover again and saw men and women on platforms. She heard salesmen barking the wonderful attributes of their wares. She shrank back when she saw the women stripped of their clothes. The men on the revolving stage were naked, to the waist. One foot whitened with chalk. Hung from their necks were placards that read “venalis”—for sale. She then realized the wares being sold were people. They had already travelled behind the Saeptia Julia and were now at the Graecostadium where they sold slaves. She had never been here before.
They took Alexenah from her cage and moved her inside a building. There was what she perceived were prostitutes standing against stone pillars positioned around the front of the entrance.
“No, God, no,” she said as they took her through a dark doorway into a small room of this building. She noticed a strong aroma of chamomile and lavender. This was one of the public bathhouses.
Two women took her from the guards. Alexenah went without struggle.
Removing her clothes, the attendants covered her with oil. It smelled of citrus and frankincense. They then scraped the oil and dirt from her body with small curved knives. Once cleaned, they led her to the edge of a perfumed pool and dunked her in the cold water —the frigidarium.
While the women dried her, Alexenah could not help but see the attendants’ gentle care for the other women in the bath. Young and old, they were all being prepared, but for what? She looked down at the leather pouch that hung on her breast. She was surprised they had not bothered to take it from her. She was dressed in a simple white peplos dress. It fastened at the shoulders and hung loosely down to her knees. She cried when they braided her long black hair.
“Come with us,” one of the woman said in Latin. It was the first time they had spoken to her. Alexenah followed the attendant down a long hallway, up a flight of stairs and out to a large room full of people. There was music and laughter. They marched the girls in a line behind a dais. It was a platform similar to the stage that the naked slaves in the forum stood upon.
Alexenah now stood with the other girls in the Forum Banquet hall, clean, clothed and placed on show like a prized lamb at the stockyard. She counted nine girls that stood with her. She was the last in the line. Offerings. Waiting for the butcher.
She looked at the food on the tables scattered around the vast hall. She licked her lips and swallowed. When was the last time she had eaten?
Horns sounded. Alexenah covered her ears at the noise.
Regulus, dressed in all his finery approached the girls. She knew it was him by his deep voice and the unmistakable smell of urine. He had painted his face like a prostitute--white face, red cheeks and lips. Was that blue on his eyelids? He wore a curly wig of gold. Pressing forward, he called out to the girls.
“Venite, servae!” Regulus commanded. He waved for the first two slave girls to come forward and ascend the steps of the dais.
Alexenah’s grief welled up in her for some reason and she started to cry.
“You must not cry,” a warm voice said behind her in Aramaic. Her language. The language of her father! “It will be well with you, my child. You are in God’s hands.”
Alexenah wiped her eyes, and turned. Behind her was the man who spoke to her in kindness. He was dressed in robes in the style of the east. The outer robe was of good cloth. It was the make of material she used to spin at the wheel in her fathers’ shop. He wore a large blue belt girdled about his round belly. By this she knew he was a merchant.
Alexenah looked into his bright eyes and at his soft smile. His teeth were white. He stood beside a large wooden box and carried a bag over his shoulder. It looked heavy—heavy enough to make him lean slightly to one side. She wondered what it could contain.
“Step forward, my child. It will be alright,” he said.
She stepped forward in line with the other girls. The room was filled with conversation and laughter. Music burst forth as a band of rough looking men came to inspect the girls.
“Who are you?” she asked the merchant.
“My name is Joseph. They call me ‘Tin-man’,” he told her.
“Tin-man?”
“I trade in metals,” he said and pointed to the box before him. “A gift for the High King.”
“But you are Jewish, like me.” Alexenah whispered.
“I come from Arimathia. But travel a lot.”
“Do you seek the Messiah as my father did?”
“Yes, I believe the Deliverer will come soon.”
“Me too.” She said. It encouraged her to know that.
“The sooner, the better. For us all,” He said.
As they talked, the men examined each girl. She saw them clamoring around the dais. The men shouted loud words she could not understand.
“That one there, with the cup in his hand is Caradoc. He is the youngest. The next in line is his brother Togodumnus. Married. Has several children already. And the third prince is Adminius. The eldest. Lost his wife and first child in birthing. They are from an island to the north of Gaul. To them it is Albion. To Rome it is called Britannia.”
He talked to her like a teacher; stringing pearls of information onto the line of knowledge.
“Why do they come so far south?” she whispered.
“They pay tribute monies and secure protection, trade, and peace with Rome. In return, they are given gifts. Such as you.”
She felt a sharp pain in her chest. “Me?”
“Yes, perhaps. They will choose one of your group to be concubina to seal the bargain and to raise sons for Rome.”
“Concubina? You mean like our father Abrahams’ wife Hagar?”
“Yes, Slave-wife.”
“Venite! Forward!” Regulus commanded. He motioned two more girls to climb the steps of the dais.
Alexenah crossed her arms and shivered. Everything has changed so quickly, she thought. Was it just this morning that father had died? Her lip quivered again. She watched the men, afraid which one would choose her, or if they would choose her at all. She felt caught up in a whirlwind where every choice was made for her.
Regulus commanded the girls on the dais to show their teeth. A girl cried out when one of the men pinched her. The other one squirmed when they lifted her skirt.
“Be calm. Stay strong.” Joseph whispered. “Your time will be soon and then it will be over.”
“Veneite.”
Alexenah and another girl climbed to the top. They were the last. Alexenah tried to calm herself. The men were rough and barbaric. Without manners. One put his stubby finger in her mouth and she tasted ash and grease. Another grabbed and sniffed her hair.
“You will, of course, notice the rich dark color of her eyes,” Regulus said.
All the men, except one, were cruel to the two girls. She focused her attention on the oldest son. He kept to himself.
“Kindness,” Alexenah said out loud.
The girl next to Alexenah turned, stared at her and said, “You look for good in this? Ha! They are nothing more than tears on your cheeks.”
Alexenah felt her face warm with embarrassment. She suddenly felt the urge to run away and go to her father. She teared up again.
“Ah, our Tin-man from Arimathea!” Tasciovaunus yelled as if seeing an old friend. “What have you brought me today?”
“Exactly what you ordered, Great King,” Joseph said. He motioned to the box before him.
Alexenah watched as Joseph offered his box and then removed the heavy bag from around his neck and shoulders and gave it to the King. They patted each other on the shoulders and laughed. She could tell they had been long friends. As they talked, she reached to her own neck to find the small treasure bag of her father still there. His ‘bundle of life’. She cradled the treasure and prayed. “My God, don’t let them choose me. However, if it be Your will, I ask that You do the choosing.”
At that moment, Tasciovaunus strode up to Regulus and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“I have made my choice.”

Chapter 4

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 14 and comments

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.

Get to the Firefight!

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

critique

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

thoughts on Chapter 3

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.

New post

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

old stuff Chapter Eight- Barrow and Farrow

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.

old stuff Chapter six - Cutting

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.