Feather

of

Hawk

REBELLION

Dave Michael
Copyright © 2017 Dave Michael

All rights reserved.
To the memory of my mother
TABLE OF CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

# Chapter one

78 A.D.

The Great Forest of Caledonia.

Ancient Scotland.

Season of the Lamb – Spring.

Shafts of sunlight speared through the branches of giant pines. Scattered rays melted the mists of the forested glens, illuminating the dark places of the Great Forest. Here, the hawk hunted down the swallow, stalking the small bird along curling streams in swift flight. The swallow let out an agonized, screeching tweet, feeling the sharp talons of the hawk tear through its flesh and fragile bone. The swallow was powerless as the hawk glided, prey in its vice-like grip, through the shade of forest pines. Here, the shadow of death lurked behind the mask of untamed beauty. Here, a warrior's fate could change in the blink of an eye.

On one of the forest tracks, Calach the Swordsman carried a long spear on foot. The warrior-prince crouched, fingers exploring the muddy prints left by the wild boar. This boar was smart. Three times the wild creature had attacked him that morning. The last attack had disabled his horse. Calach had to put an end to the crippled mare with his own dagger. At times, he felt like he was the one who was being hunted by the most cunning of animals of the Great Forest. Restless winds lifted Calach's ginger hair that flowed to his waist. He wore a cloak of grey-white wolf fur over a green chequered tunic. The fur was fastened with a golden brooch of amber stones. The Feather of Hawk, a simple hawk's feather, fastened to a leather cord around his neck, hung about his sturdy chest. Stroking his thin ginger moustache, he crept ahead, shifting his head side to side, ears listening for the slightest sound of the boar.

He slinked through the wooded glen to the lip of a riverbank. Motionless, he gazed; two heads on high wooden stakes on the opposite riverbank. This was the river boundary; across the river were the lands of the hated Vacomagi tribe. This was as far as he would venture in the hunt for the boar.

The wild boar scurried to his back and let out a savage squeal. Its sharp tusks stabbed Calach's calf and swept him off his feet. The boar lunged across the river and rushed past the staked heads.

Calach hopped in circles, clutching his wounded leg, and the long spear dropped from his hand. Lifting the spear from the grass, he let out a roar of defiance as he threw it beyond the river. The spear crossed over the staked heads, passed through the tree line, and struck deep into bog land. The fire of rage burned in his heart; he would kill the boar with his bare hands. He bolted across the low river, leapt onto the far bank, and rushed unwittingly into enemy territory.

Calach's boots crunched on crisp leaves, as he slowly walked ahead, in a clearing. Pausing, he looked upon his leg that was constantly throbbing. He hobbled four paces, when his right boot tripped on a rope. The rope whiplashed past his head. Dead leaves danced in the morning air. A death net, a heavy body within, swooped across the clearing and struck his back. Thumping to the ground, he dashed to his feet, drew a dagger and challenged the enemy in the swinging net.

The blood veined eyes of a corpse welcomed him to the lands of the Vacomagi.

He lowered the dagger. An upside-down, dead man in a net was no threat. Thumping horse hooves, snapping barks of dogs, their sounds grew louder as the enemy Vacomagi neared. He limped away in a desperate bid to make it back to the river boundary.

Iolair Mor, a Celtic warrior prince, with black hair that fell to his waist, wearing a cloak of raven feathers, trotted his brown stallion into the clearing and circled the corpse in the net. He halted the stallion and sneered at a group of hunters, who entered on foot. They scoured the undergrowth with probing, stabbing spears. Two wolfhounds, noses to the forest floor, raced up and down the clearing to pick up the scent of the intruder. They prostrated their bodies on the ground by some yellow gorse and let out prolonged howls. A tracker lifted a sliver of Calach's green tunic from the thorns of the gorse and gave the find to Iolair Mor.

Iolair Mor crushed the sliver of wool in his palm and held a taut fist as he spoke. 'The intruder heads for the boundary. We shall make a sweep from here to the river.' Iolair Mor was Calach's blood brother, but had plotted against King Brude, his own father. The plot was discovered and he was forced to flee in the night, swearing an oath of loyalty to the chieftain of the Vacomagi tribe, who was a staunch enemy of King Brude.

Iolair Mor, galloped at speed past thin stems of forest pines. Suddenly realizing the band of foot warriors lagged behind, he sharply pulled the reins of the stallion and came to an abrupt stop. He flashed his head around. His imagination saw enemies everywhere. He held out a shaking hand and calmed his mind by taking deep breaths until the hand steadied. He did not want his band of warriors to suspect his heart was contaminated with fear. He teased the horse through the trees and entered a mud trodden animal track, the mud so deep that the stallion could not press on.

Face-of-Moon-Circles, a face of tattooed half-moons and a tattooed bald head with strange geometric shapes, joined the warrior-prince with the band of hunters.

Calach watched the hunters, perched on a branch of an oak tree. Unnerved by Iolair Mor's presence; the fact that his own brother hunted him down, turned his blood cold and he lost all concentration. Losing balance from his unstable nest, the warrior-prince toppled from the high, mossy branch.

The sound of Calach's thumping body and shrill cry grabbed the interest of the hunters. Face-of-Moon-Circles pointed towards the river and cried out, 'That way.'

Calach's legs weakened, while he ran with all the strength he could muster. He kept peeking backwards at the Vacomagi hunters who closed. His pulsating heart could have popped through his chest at any time. The fire of adrenalin sped through his veins and carried his legs as fast as a warrior attacking a shield wall. No matter how fast he sprinted, the hunters remained at his back. Calach's legs gave way. He tumbled into a clot of mud that spoiled his tunic and smothered his face. He recovered. Evading axes and spears that whistled through the air, he threaded through tree stems, leaping over and ducking under fallen trunks, and stopped at the river's edge. He pulled the dagger from his belt and gave a pained stare at the only weapon he carried.

Iolair Mor and the band of hunters searched where the river thinned. Here, a man could cross on the bedrock. They wondered how a man could disappear into thin air. The intruder's blood trail had led them to the river boundary. One of the warriors remarked that only a forest spirit could disappear like this. Iolair Mor paced around the grassy bank. Now and then, he stopped dead, shrugged his shoulders, and shook his head. His sullen brown eyes cast their look to a beaver's den upriver that formed a bridge of logs across the water. He knelt and scanned the wild grass. Spots of blood on the tall blades of shivering grass answered the question. He stood upright and showed the warriors a speck of Calach's blood on his finger. 'The intruder is human, a human who bleeds like I bleed.' He peered up at an old willow tree with drooping branches then called over to a big, lurching warrior, named Bear. 'Bear, stay here. Wait and see if the intruder returns. And no distractions. The rest of you, head back to the clearing.' Something in the back of his mind told him the intruder would try to rescue the body in the net. Celtic warriors had a strict warrior code in which no warrior would be left dead or wounded.

Bear, a warrior with a mammoth body of bulging muscles, but the mind of a pea, plodded to the foot of the old willow, holding a large battle-axe in both hands. He wore a long cloak of bear fur, and a bear's claw, fastened to a cord about his neck. Kicking up clumps of earth with his boots, he lingered beneath the willow and convinced himself that no man would be stupid enough to take on a pack of armed hunters. Rippling water from the beaver's den alerted him. He raised the axe and readied for combat. After some time he lowered the axe and laughed, amused that the sounds of a little fish splashing about the river had frightened him. He stamped down the clumps of loose earth he had churned up and decided to play a simple game to pass the time of day. Slumbering over to where the den met the bank, he tested his weight by pressing a boot on the logs. The urge to run to the other bank brought a smile to his lips. With the battle-axe shank in his shovel-like hands, the huge warrior ran along the logs of the den that crossed the river. Big squelching boots clambered and slid over the mound as he shambled along. The giant warrior wailed with rough laughter with each pace he took.

Calach, hidden in the water, punched a hole through the logs. Gripping Bear's ankles, he pulled the giant warrior to a watery grave. Bubbling breaths of the Vacomagi hunter surfaced. Bloody water stilled in the gaping log hole.

Face-of-Moon-Circles, wielding a long spear, waited beneath the old willow. Lured by the sound of scattering, screeching birds, he had searched the riverbank but found nothing. After some time, the tightness in the muscles of his neck and shoulders dissipated and calm returned to his heart. The sight of skipping salmon on the river caught his eye. He was aware of the danger to his life, but also aware of the fish in the river that would fill his hungry stomach. Laying the long spear upon the ground he eased himself from the bank into the river, making clumsy attempts with his bare hands, to catch a leaping salmon. He dived and splashed about then stopped to see where the fish had gone. A hand wrapped around his mouth. Face-of-Moon-Circles clutched at the hand that stole his life breath. Calach's arms and legs coiled around the Vacomagi's body and dragged him below the water.

The warrior they called Smiler, who held a permanent grin on his gaunt face, hung about a cluster of pine trees in a wooded glen. He had tracked the intruder's footsteps to a spider's web that wafted in the wind between blades of long grass. A fly struggled to free itself from the web. The more the fly struggled, the more it became entangled in the broken threads. Alerted, the spider darted to the fly. The sight widened the grin on Smiler's lips. To his right, flickers of blinding, yellow light got his attention. Calach's golden brooch of precious amber stones dangled on the end of a branch. Smiler scanned the clearing, and temptation overcame his warrior sense. He dropped the long spear and reached out to touch the brooch. A lustful lick crossed his lips as his fingertips touched then secured the find. Blood spurted from his mouth. Smiler's sharp, shrill cry echoed in the solitary glen. The Vacomagi warrior stumbled to his knees, Calach at his back, holding Bear's captured battle-axe. Smiler sucked in and wheezed out the precious gulps of air. The desperate breaths grew shorter and shorter as he stared about, believing the forest spirit had finished him.

Iolair Mor frowned, sitting in the saddle of his horse. The bodies of two warriors floated on the river. A third dead warrior, Face-of-Moon-Circles, was draped over a branch of the old willow. Never before had he lost so many men to one warrior. There was only one warrior capable of such devastation: his blood brother, Calach. He ordered two warriors, an old man and a boy, to guard the body in the clearing. The remaining four warriors would escort him to the Vacomagi settlement.

Shantoch, the old Vacomagi warrior, and his son, Arrow, guarded the hanging corpse of Corun. The old warrior worried for the life of his son. Shantoch paced up and down the clearing, with his hand clasped on the hilt of the long sword on his belt. Arrow stared at the body in the net that swung in a cold breeze. 'Let's go back to the settlement.'

'Iolair Mor gave us an order.' Shantoch spat and grinned at the hanging corpse.

'Iolair Mor wants to save his own skin. I say we save ours,' said the boy.

Shantoch signalled his son to stop talking, pressing a hand over Arrow's mouth. He sensed imminent danger as he rolled his tongue around his dry mouth. He inspected the surrounding trees. A droplet of blood from Calach's leg wound dripped down his forehead. Shantoch's mind raced as it tried to solve the puzzle of the dripping blood. He arched his neck backwards and stared up. A black shadow plunged from a branch. Shantoch attempted to unsheathe his long sword, but Calach's hand got there first.

Calach seized Shantoch's hilt, snatched the blade from its belt scabbard and placed the tip of the sword at Shantoch's throat. 'Not so quickly, old man.'

The young lad stiffened with fear and thrust out a dagger.

'Tell your son to drop his weapon,' said Calach.

Shantoch could tell by the look in Calach's eyes that this warrior was not to be taken lightly. The old man nodded to his son, who dropped the dagger.

'You and your son shall live. Tell Iolair Mor, next time, he should not send the old and the young to fight Calach the Swordsman.' He gestured with a flick of his head. They were free to go. Once they had left, the warrior-prince threw Shantoch's sword into the brush and carefully tucked away The Feather of Hawk, his most sacred belonging, into a leather pouch on his belt. Calach covered Corun's corpse with his cloak and tunic and used the rope of the trap to strap the body in. He eased the torso onto his robust shoulders and disappeared amongst tree shadows. He would take the fallen warrior home. Torches would light the death fires. Corun's soul would dwell with the ancestors.

Iolair Mor trotted on horseback along a forest track; a four man escort ran alongside. A rider approached on a grey mare.

The Vacomagi princess, Sky, forced him to halt by blocking his way with her horse. She wore brown leather trousers and a crimson woollen tunic. Her shoulders were covered with a cloak of lynx fur and a silver torc, topped with horse heads, circled her neck. She brushed the strands of curling, auburn hair away from her face to reveal her sea blue eyes. They were piercing blue eyes that all who met her never forgot. 'Why are you in such a hurry?' Iolair Mor did not answer. 'What happened to the hunting party? Warriors are missing.'

'They are all dead.' Deep down, he was afraid of Sky, who had a fierce reputation amongst warriors. Iolair Mor lied. 'A band of warriors have breached the boundary.'

She hissed her words. 'So you did not stay to fight to the death. Brave Iolair Mor, who wanted to be the King of Caledonia, but always runs from danger. If you cannot, then I will put an end to these enemies of the Vacomagi.'

He watched her ride away and punched his thigh wishing it was her face. 'Ride. Ride to your death. I am not so stupid.'

Sky longed for revenge as she galloped deep into the heart of the Great Forest. Hooves of her grey mare paced at battle speed. She galloped past towering oaks and alders. Calach's naked back wove in and out of the trees ahead. She held her long spear aloft, ready to strike death into his heart. Every time she drew near, he pushed out of range of her spear throw.

Calach ran into a clearing with a carpet of leaves. He placed Corun's body on the ground and took in sharp breaths. Pounding hooves of the mare. He piled autumn leaves over the body, pulled the dagger from his belt, and faced the oncoming horse. Should he fight or run?

Sky's grey mare circled the enclosed space surrounded by pines. Calach was nowhere to be seen. Her horse neighed to warn her of the oncoming danger. She remained resolute, as she circled and held the spear shaft in a rigid grip.

Calach pounced from an overhanging rock, and leapt onto the back of her grey mare. Both enemies tumbled from the saddle and pounded the leafy floor. The screeching horse dashed from the ambush. Calach leapt onto Sky's stomach, wrapped his hands around her throat, and strangled her. She gave him a sharp blow to his rib cage with the wooden butt of her axe. He shrieked a bark of pain, leaping to his feet. Calach shook his head in disbelief that she had managed to hurt him. She leapt to her feet and held the axe in the air. He pulled the dagger from the belt of his trousers. The two Celts challenged each other with dagger and axe; both wanted blood.

'Come on then.' The words frothed on her lips.

'You first.' Calach taunted. 'I thought we could be friends.'

'Welcome, friend.' She aimed a wild side-on strike at his head.

He ducked out of the way of the incoming iron, and the wind of the passing axe brushed the hairs on his scalp. Grabbing her by the scruff of her tunic, he put the dagger's edge to her throat. He could have killed her, but the sight of her sea blue eyes brought back the vision of a hissing lynx he had once hunted.

Sky watched the coward turn and run and drew back her axe. His fast running back was within striking range. Her arm froze; an impulse in her heart blocked her from launching the axe. She came to her senses and hurled the axe at his back that disappeared into the forest. She dropped to her knees and took in gasping, deep breaths. Why had she betrayed her warrior instinct? She had the chance to kill him. She recovered the axe from the trunk of a tree and struck the detested vision of his face in the bark. Her piercing screams frightened the small birds that scattered skywards from their nesting sites. She shredded the bark and stopped only when her hand began to ache.

Calach trotted into the clearing on her stolen grey mare. 'Now, where were we?'

She sneaked a look at the axe in her hand.

'You've already cut my hair once this morning. Oh, by the way, thanks for the horse.' He laughed so much, that when he trotted off; he almost fell off the moving mount.

Iolair Mor, with nine warriors on horses, entered the clearing and pulled his horse in front of her. He smirked at Sky. 'You let him get away.'

She thrust the iron axe head at him. 'Your band of warriors had only two legs.'

'Your horse?' Iolair Mor looked away to conceal his mirth.

'He stole it.' Sky lowered her head with the shame.

He looked upon her, lips shut tightly so as not to let the laughter burst free. 'Stole it? And how did he steal it?'

She raised her head, and there was hatred in her eyes and seething voice. 'He stole it, and he will pay with his blood.' She let out an unfettered war cry and struck the tree with the axe. The band of warriors sniggered at her unbridled rage.

'Temper, temper.' Iolair Mor strutted his horse before the mounted warriors. He spoke in a low, steady voice, 'We must kill this intruder before he kills the pride of the Vacomagi.' He flipped his head, an order for a warrior to bring forth a fresh horse.

Sky grabbed the reins of a brown stallion and leapt into the saddle blanket. She gave Iolair Mor a venomous glance. 'As you talk, the intruder escapes. But, I forgot you were always one for hot air when it came to battle.' She kicked the underbelly of the horse with her boots and shot off to the boundary.

Iolair Mor stared pensively in the direction where Sky headed. 'Do not follow. Let her burn off that anger of hers.'

Sky dismounted at the river boundary. Raging torrents made the river impassable. In some places, clumps of reeds had been trampled, and horse tracks were imprinted in the mud. For a while, she followed the tracks south, but warrior instinct took her north.

#  Chapter two

Sky rode to the place the Celts called the Badlands. She picked up the tracks left by the horse thief. The sun melted beyond leafless tree tops. The land became more unyielding the further north she travelled. In places, the bracken-infested forest was so dense, it stalled her progress. The hatred in her heart pushed her onwards.

She cantered her horse across a bleak marsh. Leafless trees loomed from graves of rust-coloured water pools. Their distorted, lifeless forms reflected upon the still surface. Creeping crests of fog hung low above the mud track. The hesitation she had shown in the clearing baffled her. _Why? Why did I not kill the intruder in the clearing?_ Warm visions came to her mind; Calach's face in the forest, his words. _'I thought we could be friends.'_ A smile came to her and she laughed. How could she think such thoughts of an enemy she would kill on sight? Perhaps, she would spare him and make him her slave. Vague shapes of horned figures caught her eye. The horned apparitions wove in and out of the dead trees on the fringe of a water pool and vanished. 'Yahhh!' She lashed the horse's shoulder blade with the reins. The stallion gathered rapid momentum, flicking up clumps of mud as it charged away.

A Horned One leapt from a dead branch, grabbed the bit of the horse's bridle, dragged it to the earth, pinning it down with arms wrapped around its throat. The attacker twisted a stag horn deep into the stallion's throat. The stallion panted and snorted its final breaths. Sky, her leg trapped beneath the trunk of the dying horse, struggled to set herself free. A second Horned One, body draped in deer furs, horns that came out of the animal skin on top of his head, dropped to his knees next to Sky. A sharpened horn, clutched in both hands, began its descent. Her eyes pleaded for mercy. No quarter was given as the sharpened horn fell. Horse hooves shook the ground. A dagger flashed through the air and penetrated deep into the back of the Horned One, who crumpled to the mud.

Calach leapt from the saddle of the grey mare, cupped two strong hands under Sky's armpits, scrambled her into the mare's saddle. He jumped into the saddle, behind her, gripped the reins, and dug his knees into the horse's sides. The Horned Ones emerged from the hidden places of the marsh. They hurled spears, slingshots, and boulders at the two fugitives. Calach drove the horse on, punching a hole through the mass of attackers. Dodging flying spears, by shifting the weight of his torso to the left and right, he kicked down those who crossed his path. The more of the enemy he disabled, the more appeared, blasting horns of ram. He pushed the horse towards an opening beyond a cluster of hawthorn bushes. The mare flew through the bright passage with walls of spiked thorns. A high-pitched, prolonged neigh soared from the horse's mouth. The grey mare's eyes bulged out of their sockets as it toppled over a cliff edge. Calach and Sky were thrown off the saddle. The hairs on their heads lifted into the passing air as they plummeted to the river.

The Horned Ones came to an abrupt halt on the cliff's edge. Vengeful warriors raised horns, spears, and bone daggers. Animal like cries filled the air.

The dark blanket of night enveloped the forest when the exhausted duo and mare limped out of the river. Calach was the first to get to his feet. He held out his hand to Sky, whose fingers clawed the wet grass on the riverbank. His eyes met hers, when a rumble of thunder broke their gaze, and the skies opened with a flourish of rain. Calach thrust his hand out. 'Take my hand. My hand. Take it. Look. An entrance of a cave.' Calach pointed out a cave that was nestled behind a waterfall. 'Stay there, and the Gods will wash away your bones. Now...my hand.' Hard rain pounded her beautiful features. She took the hand.

Inside the cave, sounds of cascading water were broken by the sounds of crashing thunder. The two warriors, drenched by the storm, sat on separate flat rocks in the comforting womb. Calach stared at the dripping entrance. 'The Horned Ones, my father used to talk about them. We are lucky to be alive.'

Sky did not look at him and spoke after a long silence. 'I was stupid. I didn't know where I was going.'

'In the clearing, you had the chance to kill me?'

'Your legs were too fast for me. You had the chance to kill me?'

Calach stared at her, but she did not look at him. 'It was your eyes, the way you snarled. You reminded me of a lynx I hunted in the mountains. I caught her unaware. She was protecting her two young cubs. I raised my dagger, and the lynx hissed. She hissed, and she spat, and our faces nearly touched, but I could not kill her. Killing her would have been...it would have been like killing part of myself. Anyway, I've had plenty of practice running away.'

'Why run when you can fight?' Sky's tone was harsh.

'Fight another day, my father's way.'

'Your father?' She looked at him for the first time.

'My father is Brude, King of Caledonia.'

'Your tribe? The People of the Wild Boar?'

'Right first time. And you?'

'The Vacomagi tribe. We are at war with the People of the Wild Boar. That makes you my enemy.' She rose and walked to the open mouth of the cave. Rain dripped down slimy rock faces. 'I fight no matter the numbers.'

'There's more to life than fighting.'

She turned to him, 'This morning, I would have taken off your head and your arms and your legs.'

'And here I am, still got my head. There's not much in it, though. And now, what about now? Would you kill me now?'

She took the axe from the back of her belt and pointed the head at him. 'Maybe. Maybe not. Keep your eyes open when you sleep.'

They both laughed, and it did not matter that they were from tribes who were at war.

Calach patted the flat rock. 'Please.' An invitation for her to sit with him. His face lit up as Sky's whole demeanour relaxed, and the Vacomagi warrior sat at his side. 'The Horned Ones invited chiefs of Caledonia to a feast. To sue for peace, or so they said. The Chiefs didn't realize they were the feast. The Horned Ones boiled them in a big pot. Ate them to the bone. We have a new policy, no more meetings with dreaded Horned Ones.'

'You might get stuck in their teeth.'

Their laughter echoed in the chamber of the cave as the rain hammered down.

The morning sun restored peace to the forest. Sky sat on a felled tree trunk on the bank of the river boundary. 'You reached out over the boundary. Why?'

Calach skimmed the river's silk surface with a flat pebble. He turned, 'Why not?'

'The ambush? How did you know I was there?'

'Just passing.' Calach's ruby cheeks could not hide the lie.

She understood his embarrassment and looked away to help him out. 'You could have left me there. Why save the life of a Vacomagi?'

'Why take one?'

He could be brash but there was a shy side to him, which she found attractive. Her struggle was not with Calach, but with herself. 'I have to go back to my people.' She jumped to her feet, patted down her crimson tunic, then escaped to the side of the grey mare. Sweaty palms took hold of the leather reins.

Calach rushed over, caught her arm, and spoke over her shoulder, 'I have felt...I have felt...strange since I met you.'

She flicked around and rubbed her sweating hands together. Her eyes met his. She saw the fire; she saw the tempting fire in those eyes. It repulsed her to love an enemy. It lured her, a handsome enemy. 'They will be waiting.'

He placed both hands around her slim waist and lifted the warrior woman into the saddle of her horse. Part of him did not care what he said or did. He would never see her again. 'You forgot something.' Kissing the air with wet lips, he patted his cheek with a finger, demanding a kiss.

'To take your head off.'

He pulled her axe from his back. 'Your axe.'

'I might have known, a real romantic.'

'Still got specks of blood from my head on it.'

'Next time you might not be so lucky.'

'So there is a next time?'

'You keep it. A keepsake.'

They shared a goodbye of lasting smiles as she crossed the low water. She mounted the opposite bank of the river and disappeared beyond the trees. Calach's face dropped and he dipped his head. A bird sang out. He flipped around and roared at a skylark on a branch, 'And what are you so happy about?'

# Chapter Three

The Roman garrison fort of Eborecum.

The occupied Roman South.

General Agricola prepared to meet the Celtic chieftains. An Egyptian slave dressed him in the fort's headquarters. The interior décor of the office was frugal; a shuttered window that let in streaks of light, a solid oak table covered with military maps, timber floors, and walls lit by two torches.

Tiberius, an old military legate, entered the office. 'The barbarian Chieftains have arrived, General?'

Agricola raised his arms. The slave placed the General's leather breastplate over a padded jerkin. 'Tell them to wait.' Agricola sat in his simple oak chair as he waited for the Celtic chieftains, whom he believed to be no more than simple savages.

Several chieftains entered, some with black-toothed smiles, and bowed before their new master. Two Praetorian guards set a timber chest, lined with bronze strips, on the oak table.

Agricola's brown eyes observed these tattooed chieftains with wild eyes, rough moustaches, and beards. He extended an arm and beckoned the Votandini chief to stand at his side. He spoke in the tongue of a Celt, as he had done in all meetings with the leaders of the tribes of Britain.

'The Votandini chief, Gallus, here at my side, feeds my troops with his crop,' he pointed a finger at the chest that Gallus opened, 'and for this, Rome is generous. Your down payment, gentlemen. The days of tribal infighting and civil war are over. Roman peace will prevail. Do you understand?' The chieftains agreed with exaggerated nods like obedient dogs. 'The client Chieftains will pay homage and taxes to the Emperor, Titus. Your tribes are now aligned to Rome.' He dismissed the chiefs with a casual brush of his finger.

Crowna, the Veniconae chieftain, turned from the pack and gave a dirty look at two Praetorian guards at the General's side. 'Your guards remain in my presence.'

Agricola remained tight-lipped as he assessed the savage lion before him.

Crowna, with a bushy red-ginger beard and bald, tattooed head of spiral circles, sniggered, 'General? I swore allegiance to Rome. I gave you my word. You question my loyalty with the presence of your men?'

The General dismissed the guards with a slight shift of his eyes to the door.

Crowna dipped his head in the awkward silence. He peered up and made eye contact with Agricola, holding down his temper, seeing the doubt in the General's gaze.

Agricola strode to the oak table and stood with his back to the big Celt. He studied the contours and lines of the tribal boundaries on the military maps. Trying to find practical solutions to the problems of occupation was no easy conundrum. This astute tactician was well able for the job. 'The Dumnonii, are they allies?'

Crowna walked over and scanned the maps. 'They are allies.'

'For or against Rome?' Agricola's sharp tone pushed for an answer.

Crowna put his bear-like hands on the table and lurched over the maps. 'Against.' He spun his head around to get some kind of response or praise from the Roman. The long silence agitated him. He scratched his bushy beard and shifted his hefty torso about. Perhaps, Agricola thought he was a spy planted by the Caledonian tribes in a bid to gather intelligence. 'What does the General suggest?'

'A line of forts and watchtowers.' Agricola dotted a finger on a circle on the map. 'Fortress of the Sun...' The finger crossed the map and tapped on a curling black line of a river, '...to here.'

'The river Tavia?' A hand covered Crowna's bearded mouth, and he hid a growing smile.

'We cut the Caledonian tribes off from their southern allies with a series of small forts and raised timber watchtowers, a thousand yards apart. That should do the job.'

Crowna barked a hoot of laughter. 'By the time you do this, the Caledonian tribes will be crawling all over us.'

Agricola faced the chieftain. 'We have already done this. Your eyes behold the Northern Line.'

Crowna gave a nod of approval. 'Divide and Rule. The Roman way.'

Agricola spoke in a calm, controlling voice, 'My father told me, gold buys betrayal.'

'Then your father was a wise man,' Crowna laughed. His face straightened, and the laughter ceased, seeing the General maintain a frosty stare.

Agricola strolled to the window and peered out a gap between the wooden shutters at the staked walls of the fort. A two-man, armed patrol walked along the rampart; beyond the fort, the dreary brown hills were capped with snow. Blue-black clouds threatened a downpour. 'Loyalty is proven by a man's deeds.'

Crowna was tired of all the unspoken suggestions. He slammed his fist on the table. 'If the General wants to say something, then say it!'

Agricola turned from the window, walked to Crowna, and faced him. 'Have I your heart and mind, Crowna, or just the shadow of a heart and mind?'

Crowna struck a secret dagger, concealed within his sword belt, into the map. 'If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead, my friend.'

A warrior sounded a long, tubular bronze horn on a raised platform above the causeway entrance. A dome of grey cloud, which stretched from horizon to horizon, unleashed endless drizzle on the Caledonian settlement.

King Brude waited at the opening of the entrance of his roundhouse to see what all the commotion was about.

A shepherd boy sprinted across the causeway. He stopped at Brude's roundhouse, gasping for breath. 'The northern chiefs ride. The northern chiefs. They bear the white fleece.'

Solemn faced Chieftains, mounted on battle stallions, approached the settlement from the south. Crowna held out a white fleece with both hands and led the mounted entourage across the causeway. After dismounting, he knelt at Brude's feet, and saluted with a lowering of the head. He got to his feet and presented the King of Caledonia with the fleece of peace. Brude took the fleece, and gave it to the shepherd boy. Crowna saw that half of Brude's face and left eye were covered with a black leather mask, edged with gold studs. 'What happened to that face of yours?'

'I met a two-faced Janus.' Brude smirked. 'I thought I knew whose side Janus was fighting for.' The king's green eagle eye scrutinized the gathering of sword warriors with long swords on their shoulder scabbards. They wore colourful chequered tunics, shoulder cloaks of animal furs fastened with golden brooches, and silver torcs around their necks. Brude fixed on his traitor son. 'Iolair Mor, my own son who plotted against me, now he cannot look me in the eye.' He snapped a bite of laughter, seeing the Old Vacomagi chieftain, with Iolair Mor at his side. 'Well, well, the Old Vacomagi, himself, the rattle snake that leads the adders.'

Crowna spoke. 'The Roman General has built roads and watchtowers on our southern border.'

The Old Vacomagi cleared his throat and spat, 'A new frontier the Romans call the Northern Line. They have cut us off from the tribes of the south.'

'The Roman's name?' demanded Brude.

'General Agricola.' Crowna's eyes stayed on Brude.

'Agricola.' The name was no surprise to the King of Caledonia.

The Old Vacomagi sat up in the saddle of his mount. 'You know him?'

Brude placed his fingers on the half leather mask on his face. 'This mask always reminds me of General Agricola. It reminds me of that night we met our Roman friends to discuss a treaty of peace. This mask reminds me of the night when the smiling faces of Rome turned their swords against us. I invite all the chiefs of our northern lands to a meeting in the Great Hall of Caledonia.'

Calach tied his brown stallion to a rail outside the Great Hall. Over forty battle stallions, clad in bronze armour, were roped to the curling rail. He waited for Danu, his half-sister, who galloped across the wooden causeway. He recalled how the morning fog had crept through the forest, like the slow breath of a malevolent giant. The dense fog had impeded the progress of the hunt. The boars of the Great Forest had lain low and used the fog as cover. A messenger on horse had arrived and told him of the crucial meeting of the tribes. Danu, holding a long spear in one hand, reins in the other, trotted up on a light grey stallion. She pulled her horse alongside Calach's. 'What are you thinking?'

Calach scanned the open entrance of the Great Hall. 'Something's not right.'

Danu, who wore a brown leather tunic and a silver torc, topped with boar heads, took out a hair pin and let down her red hair. She stared at the entrance. 'Father is like the cat that has nine lives.' She smiled. She always held a mischievous smile on her lips.

Calach's stallion whinnied, and its head shifted up and down. Calach patted the horse's mane and soothed it.

Danu leapt off her saddle and leaned on the pole of her spear with both hands. 'Looks like trouble.'

He tapped Avenger, his long sword that was fastened in its shoulder scabbard. 'This is my safeguard against all troubles. I call her Avenger.'

Danu broke into laughter, 'You love that big sword of yours too much?'

Calach prodded her arm with his finger. 'One day, I'll use my big sword on you.'

'I can't wait,' she said. They laughed then Calach looked to the open entrance of the hall.

In the Great Hall, Brude sat in his oak throne on a low timber platform. The throne had arms of boar tusks and a boar head as its high back. The King's icy stare made the chieftains keep their hands on their sword hilts. Calach and Danu walked through the open entrance and flanked Brude's throne. Their hands hovered above the hilts of their long swords. An assassination attempt was always possible. The pole bearers clasped wooden carved poles topped with bronze animal totems of bull, bear, lynx, horse, and more. The animal heads almost touched the raw thatch above the roof rafters. Brude glimpsed the pole topped with the boar head, 'The People of the Wild Boar, that is my tribe, and though some of you may disagree, I am the rightful King of Caledonia. We are here for the first time since those dark days, when the war of the tribes began. I welcome the Vacomagi Tribe, the People of the White Horse, the Veniconae Tribe, the Lynx People, the Bear People, the Tribe of the Red Stag, and the many tribes of Caledonia who stand here today. Speak your truth, and I will listen.'

Crowna crossed a hand to the golden shoulder brooch of his brown chequered tunic and sauntered forward. 'We seek a lasting peace that will end the civil war and unite us against the common enemy of Rome.'

Brude waited for the strong, creaking oak doors to close. The chamber of the hall darkened, and the darkness reflected Brude's inner mood. Slender beams of sunlight filtered through the fire hole and lit the flesh of the King's half-face. Fingers tapped the arm rests, and he glanced at the Feather of Hawk that hung about Calach's chest. He addressed the large assembly. 'I am flattered that my friends come to see me in their time of need.' His eyes picked out Iolair Mor, who stood next to the Old Vacomagi. 'Iolair Mor, my eldest son, the last time I saw you was on the battlefield. You were wielding an axe and trying to kill my loyal warriors.'

Iolair Mor brushed the raven feathers on his black bear cloak and stepped forwards. He held a hand to his chin and contemplated what to say. 'If the tribes keep on with this bloody war, then the tribes will perish by the sword of Rome.'

'We must unite or we will die,' added Crowna.

All the while, Brude weighed up the Old Vacomagi, who had aged since their last encounter on the battlefield. He now had a pallid white face creased with lines, and a wispy, drooping moustache that was thin as fingers. Long, straggling white hair fell to his waist. The bags beneath his eyes spoke of battles and betrayals. 'The Old Vacomagi will not speak to me. Oh, I forgot, he has spoken to me with his poison, with his sneaky ambushes; he has even spoken to me with his cloak and dagger assassins. Speak.'

The Old Vacomagi stroked his moustache and took one pace forward. The chieftain's silence and upright composure brought the hall to silence. His pale blue eyes remained on Brude for some time. 'One lone wolf does not bring down the strong stag.'

Brude barked with stinging laughter. The laughter suddenly ceased, and he gave a calculating stare to his old rival. 'I might have one eye, but it sees that half the chiefs who stand in this hall are wolves who would bring me down in a moment of weakness.' He directed a spiteful tongue at Crowna. 'There is one lone wolf here, given one shred of opportunity, would cut me down in a breath.'

Crowna snapped out an arm, pointing an accusing finger at Brude. 'What does the great King infer?'

Brude leapt to his feet. 'My words surprise Crowna, who has already formed an alliance with Rome behind my back.'

'I will kill you for that.' Crowna drew a dagger from his belt and dashed at Brude.

Brude lashed out the words, 'Seize him.'

Calach formed a wall of flesh with his body that blocked Crowna from Brude. Danu seized Crowna's throat with her hand and shoved him back. Hands and arms pulled Crowna back from the brink and wrestled him to his knees. An assortment of daggers and sharpened horns threatened Crowna's upper body and neck.

Crowna growled his words, 'Get your hands off me, you filthy cockroaches.'

Danu thrust her dagger's edge across Crowna's throat. 'I say we cut him to pieces. Feed him to the dogs.'

Brude rushed past Calach's raised sword, gripped Danu's hand, and snatched the dagger from her grasp. 'Stop. I command you to stop.' Warriors froze. 'We fight like rabid dogs. This, before the enemy puts a foot on our lands. Drop your weapons.' Brude threatened the whole assembly with the swivelling dagger blade, 'I said drop your weapons.' The clatter of an assorted armoury struck the ground. Brude stabbed Danu's dagger into a timber upright. An exhausted voice pleaded, 'Let him go.' Brude roared, 'Let him go.' The chiefs let go their vice-like grips.

Crowna skulked on his knees, idly glaring at those who had held him down. The freed lion maintained a vacant stare at Brude.

Brude offered a hand. 'Take my hand. You wouldn't be the first to lose your head and regret it.' The voice softened, 'Take the hand of your king, and you will be forgiven.' Brude lowered his head and sighed, 'Then so be it.' He shuffled back to the oak throne, collapsed into the seat, and his hand sank into the flesh of his cheek.

Crowna got up and brushed himself down. He opened his mouth to speak. The chiefs jeered and shouted him down, and his words were drowned out. He strutted before the chiefs, clapping his hands with exaggerated motions of his hands. He pointed out some chiefs and intimidated them by running a finger along his throat. Turning to Brude, he shouted above the noise, 'How can you seek a truce with this nest of vipers, who dare to insult me, and you do nothing?'

Brude raised a hand, and the hall eventually went silent. 'What do you suggest I do, Crowna?'

A chief called out, 'That we kiss Roman arses like he has done and invite the enemy to sleep with our wives?'

Crowna composed himself above the laughter, straightening his chequered tunic and took Brude's eye, 'You were my friend once. I respected you then, but that was long ago. You are weak. Rome is strong.' He waved on his armour bearer, who surfaced from the throng. 'I leave you all to your misery and your fate.' Seizing his long sword in its scabbard from the armour bearer, he flung the scabbard belt over his shoulder, and fastened the buckle of the strap. The big Celt stormed out, footsteps thumped the wooden boards, and he kicked open the oak doors with a boot.

Despondent voices remonstrated with the King of Caledonia.

'You just let him leave like that?'

'Has Brude lost his wits?'

'The traitor will return and kill us all.'

Brude's body sank into the chair, and his prolonged silence frustrated the waiting chiefs further.

'A decision must be made.'

'Will you seal a truce of the tribes?'

'You are the King of Caledonia.'

'Decide.'

Calach thrust out Avenger, his long sword, alternating the blade back and forth along the faces of the dissenters. 'Silence. Silence.' Clamours ebbed until the hall silenced. 'We shall reconvene this meeting, once our King has decided.'

The hall reluctantly emptied and the oak doors were closed.

Calach set his long sword on the low platform and sat on its timber. 'What now? You need to make up your mind or the tribes will splinter into pieces.'

Brude clutched the arms of the throne with both hands and pondered a world of strife.

Calach slipped the cord of the Feather of Hawk from his neck and held the sacred amulet in his hand. It was you who sent me as your envoy to the Queen of the South. The people were weary of us that day we rode into their southern hill-fort. The warrior they called Hawk ran from the gathering and gave me her most sacred belonging, the Feather of Hawk. She told me that whoever wears this feather will have protection from all enemies. That day, the people reached out to us. We were warrior Celts with one voice, with one sword against Rome, and we felt then; we felt that nothing could stop us. I remember that night as clear as I see this feather. We drank from Morghana's poisoned cup. The traitor Queen laughed as fires blazed. My finest warriors were cut down with Roman swords. I was the sole survivor, and I believe with all my heart that the Feather of Hawk protected me that night. This is not the time to fall to pieces. Father...you must be the sacred feather that will protect and guide our people from this scourge of Rome.'

Brude rose to his feet. Calach's words brought back the old self-belief he had always carried in his strong gait. 'Calach, get to your feet. I have something to tell you, and it is for your ears only.' Placing two hands on his son's shoulders, he whispered in his ear, 'Why cut off the branch when you can pull out the root?'

'What is this nonsense?' asked Calach.

'This is no nonsense. Remember these words. The man who tells them to you will bear orders from me.'

'What man?'

'A man you must trust with your life. A man you must trust as you would trust your father. Why cut off the branch when you can pull out the root? Do you understand?'

Calach absorbed his father's words. 'Understood.'

'Good. Get them back in. The civil war is over. I will seal a truce of the tribes.'

Calach slipped back the Feather of Hawk around his neck. 'We will not attack the Northern Line?'

'We must have many faces, many faces, Calach. For now, we will spy on our Roman friends. We will spy, and we will wait. Patience, Calach; patience, son. The heron waits patiently for the fish.'

# Chapter four

Season of the Sun - Summer

Oxen cart wheels turned upon the wooden rafters of the Caledonian causeway. The bride-to-be sat in the cart's rear, surrounded by fussing attendants. She wore a golden torc around her neck and armlets of twisting gold. Her green woollen dress was embroidered with the head of a golden horse. The Old Vacomagi and Iolair Mor led the bridal procession on foot, into the heart of the settlement. They held the reins of two horses of tribute that the Celts had named White Cloud and Raven. Iolair Mor, holding both reins, escorted the stallions to Brude.

Brude stroked Raven's mane. 'I hope he doesn't bite.' Brude cast a shifty look at the Old Vacomagi.

The Old Vacomagi snapped a bite of laughter. 'Show your sword, and Raven will pluck out that eye of yours clean out of its socket.'

Brude let out a belly laugh; the laughter spread to the large assembly and eased old tensions. He browsed about for the groom, who was nowhere to be seen. The snorting of Calach's horse on the causeway drew his attention.

Calach, sitting in the saddle of a brown stallion, yelled, 'You think you can sell me like a block of stone, old man?'

Brude yelled back, 'I am your damn father, and you will abide by my will, upstart.'

Calach rotated the stallion around and headed to the sanctuary of the Great Forest.

Brude summoned six strong warriors with a curl of his index finger and gave the order. 'Catch this fleeing cub.'

Calach sat on the lip of an old stone well, transfixed on the axe of the Vacomagi woman. He remembered its beautiful owner, the day she had threatened him with the axe, and how they had spent the night together in the cave. Clopping horse hooves neared as the search party advanced. In a temper, he chopped the axe into the rope coiled around the well block. The axe snapped the rope. A wooden bucket plunged down the shaft, striking stone walls before ditching into the murky water.

Warriors on horse wedged in the mounted Calach as they crossed the causeway of the settlement. They brought their horses to a stop amongst the gathering. Calach dismounted and kicked a water trough with his boot. He flipped around and shrieked at the crowd, 'Idiots!'

Iolair Mor was the first to greet the groom by blocking his path. 'Who is getting married in the morning?'

The Old Vacomagi placed an arm on Iolair Mor's chest. 'Let him pass, Iolair Mor. This marriage will seal a truce of the tribes.'

Iolair Mor gave Calach a deadly stare. 'I have some unfinished business with you, brother.'

'I have a wife I don't want to marry, a brother who wants to kill me, and the day is not over yet.' Calach's shoulders drooped in an act of submission. He brushed past Iolair Mor and took his place at Brude's side. 'Is that all I'm worth, two horses?

'Keep your big mouth shut or,' said Brude.

'Or else?' demanded Calach.

Brude struck his son's rib cage with an elbow. He welcomed the bride-to-be with a contrived smile, but Calach's spluttering and coughing ruined the moment.

'Well, say something,' Brude ordered Calach.

Calach shook his head as the lady skirted past him, masking her face with a hand, and stomped to the bridal tent. 'Pleased to meet you,' he spoke to her fast moving back.

'Get on with it,' pressed Brude.

Calach's boots slithered towards the bridal tent, a dark green awning with golden trim. He stopped at the open entrance and muttered, 'The unity of the tribes is all and well, but I have to live with the consequences.'

Inside the tent, the woman stood with her back to him, her arms crossed, and her foot tapping the ground. He opened his mouth to speak then closed it. Skipping outside the tent, a thousand eyes forced him to get back in.

Much empty time and silence passed between the bride and groom to be. Calach's fingers fidgeted and fumbled with the hilt of Avenger. She held her back to him, head stooped, and her tapping fingers clasped around her arms. He tried to think of something to say or do until his mind had exhausted a world of possibilities.

The Old Vacomagi and Brude snooped around the back of the tent. They pressed their ears against the awning and tried to listen.

'All this time and not a word spoken,' said Brude.

'Bad blood,' said the Old Vacomagi.

'I used my best warriors to get him here.'

'Said she would rather kill herself than marry a man I forced upon her. Stuck a hairpin in my arm.' The Old Vacomagi lifted the sleeve of his tunic and showed Brude a tiny wound in his forearm. 'I tell you, it's bad blood.'

Brude turned to his old adversary. 'My head is pounding. Walk with me to the river.'

Calach spoke at last, 'Two horses. Is that all we are worth? Two horses? Your father, my father, they don't give a damn about the feelings of their own blood. They would do anything for a quick alliance.' He waited for a reply. Perhaps, his words had hurt her. His voice softened, 'No offence?' He waited for a reply. She remained silent and gave no insight into her mind. Calach paced back and forth, tapping his fingers on the hilt of Avenger, not knowing what to say or do.

Brude and the Old Vacomagi breathed in the warm air at the riverside. The light breeze lifted their long hair as they viewed the lands they loved. They said nothing in the satisfying silence.

'We are nothing without the land,' said Brude.

'A people with no land are like an arm with no hand.'

'So you're a poet now?'

'Aye. I'm a poet, and I know it.'

Brude threw back his head in a bray of laughter. 'For your sins, you've found a new vocation.'

The Old Vacomagi felt a mixture of joy and guilt fill his big heart. 'You know, I was plotting against you.'

'I know,' said Brude.

'I sent assassins, but you were smart.'

'Smarter than you.' Brude smiled, and there was a devilish look in his eye.

The Old Vacomagi shook his head. 'How stupid we have been. We wasted the blood of good warriors, strong warriors. It was all for nothing.'

The fumbling fool broke the silence inside the tent, 'You see, there is another.' He noted her head raised, and she showed sudden interest. 'You want to know about her? She is strong. She is wild. She is as wild as the thistle that grows on glen and moor, and her eyes could melt the ice off the frozen tops of the mountains. She has eyes that remind me of the pale blue ocean. She burns. She burns with fire, a fire inside, but her heart?'

'Heart?' she whispered.

'But sometimes...sometimes her heart can be like a cold stone that would rather draw blood than show feelings. It is time to end this charade.' He offered his hand.

Sky strode to him, and pressed her slim finger against his lips. 'Cold as stone. Rather draw blood than show feelings. Talking about yourself again?'

Calach wanted to crawl off into some little hole and hide forever. 'There were lots of good bits?'

She slipped off the veil and pulled him close until their lips almost touched, 'Talk with your lips, Calach the Swordsman.'

Brude and the Old Vacomagi strolled towards the settlement. White Cloud and Raven, their son and daughter at the reins, shot across the causeway. Brude slapped the Old Vacomagi on the shoulder. 'We have our alliance.'

White Cloud and Raven, Calach and Sky in their saddles, bolted through the Great Forest. The two warriors explored interlacing forest tracks that threaded their endless weave. Calach halted Raven on an open moor, and Sky drew her horse alongside. They watched a group of wild horses, led by a powerful grey stallion, roam around the barren landscape.

'You think you can outrun them?' asked Calach.

'What about you?' Sky challenged.

The grey stallion's light trot suddenly exploded into a headlong striding gallop, leading the wild horses over the moor with its elegant pace.

Calach and Sky pushed on their mounts in hot pursuit and raced amongst the pack of wild horses.

Voltar the Druid, wearing a crème hooded robe, offered a silver chalice engraved with spiral circles, to the kneeling prince of Caledonia.

Calach took the sacred cup, drank the sweet nectar, then passed it to Sky, kneeling at his side.

In the evening, in the Caledonian settlement, warriors sipped ale and feasted on boar, deer, and pig. The civil war seemed a thing of the past. Men, women, and children danced around rousing flames to the beat of drums and sounds of horns used in love and war. The homestead was a hive of games and competitions between rival warriors. They wrestled in mud, threw boulders, and held special displays of the sword. Calach, whose name was the Swordsman, used two swords to display his fighting prowess.

Iolair Mor did not take his gaze away from his younger brother. At times, during the long night, he eyed Calach's golden brooch of amber stones in his palm. He swore never to forget the humiliation of when he had lost so many loyal warriors to Calach in the Great Forest. He thought himself a mere underling, who had watched Calach's rise with the favour of his father. The day would arrive when he would have his revenge. Until that day, he would wait.

The Moon lit the land on that first night, when man and wife first met in their newly built roundhouse.

Sky combed her long auburn hair, and her sea blue eyes reflected in a bronze mirror. She cupped a strip of hair in her hand and combed its gleaming, damp strands.

Calach lifted the cow hide door and stepped inside, unbuckling the belt of his shoulder scabbard, he placed Avenger on a rack above the door. His footsteps slipped over the wooden boards, and his strong hands cupped her bare shoulders. Pressing his cheek against hers, the vision of his face next to hers in the mirror would be one he would never forget. Calach kissed the back of her neck, his lips rolled down her spine, and he kissed her tender flesh.

Sky gasped as her whole body writhed with pleasure. She pressed back her head, and her wild hair streaked to the floor. She dropped the comb to the wooden boards; her whole being shuddered with delight beneath the torchlight.

Man and wife made the sacred union of flesh and soul upon the bed of animal furs.

The following morning, the two newlyweds ambled on foot along slender forest tracks. Cooled by tree shadows, they stopped on a rocky plateau next to a stream with a plunge pool. The dark past melted as the lovers kissed amid birdsong. The sound of cascading water, from a mini waterfall that fed the plunge pool, sang its soothing melody.

She stole her lips away, turned, and stared at the waterfall. 'Why do all good things come to an end?'

Calach sensed her change and rested a hand on her shoulder. 'All things begin. All things end.'

Sky faced him. They interlocked fingers. 'Do you ever wish you could stop time-stop time, so this could be forever? We could hunt together, gather wood together, walk hand in hand by the river, glimpse the rippling light on the water, feel the wind in our hair. Just me and you, locked away like little bubbles in the stream. No-one could ever steal these moments.'

Calach took the Feather of Hawk from his neck and slipped the cord over her auburn hair. 'The Feather of Hawk. It was the gift from a warrior of the south called Hawk. The feather has power.'

Sky's fingers pressed against the feather about her chest. 'Power? What sort of power?'

Calach put his hands on her shoulders. 'The feather will protect you from all enemies. Trust me...I know.'

A breeze lifted her hair. 'I will always love you, Calach.'

Calach tried to open his mouth, but could not say a word. Showing feelings and expressing words of love were alien things. He kissed her forehead, sealing an alliance of the soul.

# Chapter five

The Roman Garrison Fort of Eborecum.

The border of the occupied Roman South.

Season of the Darkness –Winter

General Agricola, the Roman Governor of Britain, stood on the timber rampart, between the two watchtowers of the North Gate. Distant hills, mountains, and shrouded misty peaks troubled him as he viewed the unconquered lands of Caledonia. _This barren, bleak, and unyielding place, where the winds chill a man's bone to the core. For what purpose have the Gods brought my legions to this misery_?

Tiberius, the military legate and commander of the fort, walked in haste along the rampart. A cruel wind blasted the old man's dark yellow cloak. Wrinkled, blue-veined hands kept pressing down the cloak around his bare knees. The old senator, with a thin face and grey white beard, stopped at the General's side. Both men said nothing. They stared at the wet and sorrowful picture.

Tiberius broke the deadlock. 'You cannot see them, Julius. Invisible, angry hosts of air, they lurk; they wait for the right moment to pounce and devour our flesh. What brings us to this forsaken place of the Gods?'

Agricola acknowledged Tiberius with a faint smile. 'Victory, Tiberius. Rome needs victory. Rome shall have her victory, whatever the consequences.'

A weak voice replied, 'Does Rome need swamps? Marshlands? Never ending rain that gives a man the fever? What I would do for my nice warm seat in the Senate.' Tiberius turned to Agricola, 'A wise man would know that to advance further north would be to invite disaster.'

Agricola met the baggy, drooping eyes of the old fort commander that spoke of nightmares and sleepless nights. 'We barely possess the manpower, let alone the resources to maintain the Northern Line.'

'Then you agree, to go further would be folly?'

'Sit the winter out, as usual. Emperor Titus agrees.' Agricola's fingers tapped the timber rail; niggling doubts preyed on his mind.

Tiberius picked up on Agricola's tapping fingers. 'This weather is not normal. Four months of storm upon storm. I am a superstitious man, General.'

A wry smile came to Agricola. 'And I am a logical one, Tiberius. I never let soothsayers or prophets of doom dictate to my reason or will.'

'Emperor Titus agrees with you? We consolidate ground already taken?'

'Titus agrees. We do not venture beyond the Northern Line. We isolate the savages of Caledonia from the savages in the south. The island of Britain shall remain cut in two.'

'Advance no more.' Tiberius dropped his head with relief.

'That's the gist of it.'

Tiberius wanted to hop around and punch the air with his fists, but a flash of flickering light blinded his eyes. A crack of thunder shook the staked wall timbers. Showers of hailstone bounced on the timber rampart. Tiberius' voice quivered. 'The Gods are angry.'

'No, Tiberius. The hail falls.'

'Dispatch!' cried a plume-helmeted Centurion from the balcony rail of one the timber watchtowers.

A drenched horse-rider, with an unshaven face, thrust the dispatch to Agricola beneath the arch of the gatehouse. 'From the new Emperor, Emperor Domitian, sir.'

Agricola froze to the spot with the shock. 'And Titus?'

'Emperor Titus is dead, General.' The rider thrust the dispatch out further. 'Domitian, his younger brother, is the new Emperor, sir.'

Agricola ran a hand through his wet black hair, 'How...why?'

The rider smiled to reassure the General. 'No foul play was involved, sir. The Emperor died of natural causes.'

' _Fear not, I will mould an empire that will last for a thousand years.'_ It was the voice of Titus in Agricola's mind. _Agricola's old friend and patron, Titus, the Emperor of Rome, stood on the marble steps of a Roman villa. Titus held out a dispatch, 'Your orders. Give my regards to Britain.'_

_Agricola gripped the reins of a four-horse chariot_ _and_ _took the dispatch from Titus. The long silence spoke the unspoken. The two close friends knew, deep down, they would never meet again._

' _And Julius? Remember, Rome has greater Gods than the savages,' said Titus._

Agricola weaved the chariot along the winding avenue and passed through the open gates. The wheels of the chariot lifted dry dirt as if passing through an unearthly sand storm.

'General. General?' barked the rider, holding out the dispatch. The mud-soaked horse whinnied as the messenger pressed. 'Sir!'

The bite of the rider's word stirred Agricola from the memory, 'Natural causes. Of course, natural causes.' Agricola's fingers trembled as he took the dispatch. He shared a glimpse with Tiberius. The Gods were angry.

General Agricola repeated the words, 'natural causes' in mocking tones, as he paced up and down the office of command. He walked to the oak table and spotted something unusual about the red wax seal on the dispatch. The seal was not of the Eagle of Titus, but the hideous face of the God Jupiter. It was the seal of the new Emperor, Domitian. He cut away the seal with a dagger, unrolled the parchment, and read:

'Hiding like a frightened lamb is no way for a Roman General to conduct himself in the field. My army needs no time to consolidate its victories in the south of Britain. While you hesitate, the savages in the north gather courage. You will lead my legions into Caledonia in the winter months. The prize? The total conquest of Britain. I expect a swift and decisive victory.'

To the population, who lived in the hundreds of scattered settlements of Caledonia, it was a normal winter's day. The sun sat sullen in the morning sky. The dull light cast dismal shadows in glens and forests. Smoke bellowed from the roofs of roundhouses and drifted to the bleak horizon. Children with hunting hounds collected firewood from the forests. Farmers gathered cattle from the fields. Hearths heated iron cauldrons as families sheltered from the bitter winds of the north.

In the Caledonian Settlement, Sky and Calach embraced by White Cloud's saddle, outside their newly built roundhouse.

Calach placed a hand on the Feather of Hawk that hung about her neck, 'Wherever you go, I am with you.'

She placed her hand over his. 'I'll be back before the darkness falls.'

He put his arms around her waist and lifted her into the saddle blanket. 'Give my regards to your father and tell Iolair Mor he should smile more.'

'He still hates you for that little scrap in the forest.' Sky laughed. 'I know him; he always holds grudges. Watch your back.' She hauled the reins, half-circled the stallion, and galloped across the timber causeway. Her horse blazed a trail through swirling blades of long grass and vanished over the horizon.

Sky halted White Cloud on the rocky plateau, where she and Calach had spent the first day of their married life. She looked around from the horse's saddle. Withered thistles and flattened grass gave a bleak welcome. Colours of summer had faded and died, but the memory of holding Calach in this place was etched in her heart. Cascading water from the mini waterfall, a constant, relaxing sound, invited her to bathe. She dismounted, and slipped off the Feather of Hawk. Lifting her axe from her belt, she placed it by the sacred feather on the rock. She took off her belt, cloak of lynx fur, crimson woollen tunic, and boots. Naked, she strolled to the edge of the rocky plateau, lifted her arms into the air, and dived into the plunge pool. The bite of icy water sent a shock wave throughout her body. She rose in the centre of the pool and sucked in quick breaths. A constant, beaming smile on her face, she cupped handfuls of water and cleansed her face.

The hissing north wind stirred. A sharp blast of wind buffeted the stallion's mane. White Cloud whinnied, disturbed by the noise, and trotted on the spot. The Feather of Hawk was carried on a crest of shrill wind along the rock and slipped over its edge. The sacred amulet landed in the ravine and floated downstream as Sky bathed.

Sky put on her crimson tunic then bent down to lift her belt. _The Feather of Hawk!_ Her hands made a panicked search of the rock. An ominous feeling took hold of her as she searched. The feeling, like an empty, heavy void in the pit of her stomach, did not go away as she rode to the Vacomagi settlement.

She cantered on horseback through the Vacomagi settlement. Warriors practiced sword skills in a fenced enclosure. Young children played hide and seek before timber roundhouses.

Iolair Mor galloped at great speed from the grasslands of the south. He met her on the timber causeway.

'The Romans attack.'

'How many?'

Iolair Mor's stallion twisted its head in broad, contorted sweeps and let out a piercing neigh, 'Five hundred horses, more.'

'We must warn our people,' she said.

'Ride to Calach. Tell him the Roman army invades. 'His stallion took a stride onward, jerked its head, and jolted him in the saddle. 'Tell Brude they march, they march, and they kill. You must ride.' A crack of the reins on the stallion's neck, then Iolair Mor headed to the heart of the settlement.

Sky galloped past wintry lochs. Snow-capped mountains framed the frozen landscape like a beautiful painting. She pushed the stallion on, digging her knees hard into its flanks.

A warrior sounded a bronze horn from a raised platform within the Vacomagi Settlement. Farmers and warriors were caught in fields and dragged in the nets of the Roman cavalry. The Roman riders speared innocent women and children, who tried to escape. Groups of circling raiders hurled burning torches onto the thatched roofs of roundhouses. A Roman horseman speared the back of the warrior who sounded the horn. The thin bronze tube, with its horse's head, dropped from the timber platform and buckled in the mud.

Sky thundered over a timber bridge that traversed a river. A taut rope, placed across the oak rail beams, whipped White Cloud's front legs and snapped. The stallion let out shrieking neighs, clattering to its knees, and slid along the timber road. Catapulted off the saddle, her body rolled over the timbers and came to a grinding stop. She groaned with agony, her bloody fingers clutching the rough timbers of the road. A spear came from pine trees on a hillock that overlooked the bridge. The spear entered her back and shattered the vertebrae in her lower spine. Her high pitched cry echoed across the river glen. A thousand needles ran up and down her legs. She patted her legs. No sensation.

Lucinius Gracchus, a young Roman officer, and Marcus the Centurion took their horses onto the dirt road. They were amused at the woman who struggled to crawl along the timbers. They rode their horses, spears raised above their heads, to the bridge.

She had heard their galloping hooves and used both hands to haul herself along the timber road to get to the bridge rail. With each pull, she winced in agony as her limp legs dragged behind. Her crimson woollen tunic snagged on a shard of wood that stuck out of the timber. Voices, laughter, and clopping hooves closed. She pulled the tunic taut and released it from the shard, leaving a shred of wool behind. Dragging herself up, she used the timber rail as a fulcrum. The torture in her back made her almost pass out. Her only escape, the rushing waters below. A stabbing pain, like a red-hot poker, spiked through her upper back. A second spear had pierced her. She arched backwards and let out a wrenching wail. Using all her strength, she hauled herself over the rail and plunged into the river. She sank deeper and deeper into the depths of icy water, so cold it numbed the terrible pain.

Lucinius Gracchus and Marcus the Centurion pulled their horses alongside the rail. Looking upon the rapid moving, mud coloured water, they were disappointed. 'Probably dead,' said Gracchus.

'I make that three-two.' Marcus held a gloating grin and rubbed his hands in victory. 'Three to me, two to you.'

'Three-two? I have killed at least four this morning.' Gracchus held a pleasing smile. This little amusement was his idea.

'Alright, alright, three-two it is. Come. Let's see how we fair on the next game.'

'Live like cattle. Die like cattle,' said Gracchus. The two killers galloped off the bridge and started along the forest track.

Sky pulled herself onto the riverbank, downstream of the bridge. She slowly snaked along the wild grass, tugging and pulling hand by painstaking hand at the clumps of grass, in a frantic bid to push on. Her lifeless limbs dragged behind as she inched to within reach of a giant boulder. The strength sapped from her body. She rolled onto her back, and unable to move a muscle in her body, stared at the dismal clouds. Her breaths became staggered and gravelly. She closed her eyes. Calach's face was in her mind. A smile came to her as snowflakes floated from above. The white flakes kissed her face. Her eyelids fluttered then closed. A teardrop trickled down her cheek. A faint mist left her lips as her final breath melted in the frosty air.

Calach sheltered from a blizzard in the cavern of a dead oak tree. Stark branches of the tree clawed at blue black clouds. Swirling, angry swathes of sleet and hail battered the tree. A crack of thunder. A bolt of lightning struck a large branch of the oak. The snapped, fiery branch crashed into the snow. Calach shot to his feet and snatched Avenger from its scabbard. Holding the long sword aloft, he stared at the smoking branch. Warrior instinct knew something was wrong; it was horribly wrong.

Shards of hailstone ravaged man and horse as they crossed the timber causeway. Calach brought Raven to a halt on the settlement side of the Caledonian causeway. The homestead was deserted. A white cloak of snow covered the roundhouses and fenced enclosures. Raven shuffled on. The black stallion neared the black, rectangular entrance of the Great Hall. Calach dismounted. Step-by-step, the warrior edged towards the open entrance. A sudden feeling of danger struck his heart. He immediately stopped and looked back. Avenger was in its saddle scabbard. A slithering snake ran up and down his spine and raised the hairs on his head. He ignored the chill feeling and edged on to the luring entrance.

Inside the Great Hall, a dozen Roman infantry, short swords drawn, waited. Crowna peeped through a hole in the timber and spied on Calach. He whispered to the Centurion at his side, 'Brude's son, the Man of the Sword, the General wants him alive.'

Brude, a dagger at his throat, the hand of a legionary pressed over his mouth, tried to cry out a warning.

The Centurion shouldered Crowna aside and glimpsed through the spy hole. He pointed the iron tip of a gladius to the entrance; the order to attack.

Brude bit the hand of his captor, reached behind, slipped the gladius from the Roman's belt scabbard, and thrust the sword into the Centurion's back. 'Run, son, run! A trap, it's a trap!' The cornered wolf swung the gladius at the sword bearing troopers, who were like stalking hyenas.

The Roman troopers overwhelmed Brude with an avalanche of thrusting stabs of their short swords. Legionaries, wearing segmented body armour and helmets, blazed to the entrance to murder Calach.

A red cloaked Roman, gladius in hand, ran at Calach's back. Calach pivoted sideways. The thrusting gladius slipped past his waist. Gripping the trooper's neck and scrotum, he lifted him off the ground and threw him into the storm of red cloaks, who poured out of the entrance. The Roman attack stalled. Calach leapt into Raven's saddle and sped to the front causeway. Halting the horse, he looked back at the Great Hall. From every corner of the settlement, red-cloaked Romans came running, hurling their spears that whizzed about Calach. Romans blocked the front causeway with a burning cart, leaving Calach no choice but to press on to the rear causeway. He galloped Raven past groups of snow-capped roundhouses, at the back of the settlement, and crossed the rear causeway.

He took the horse around the flank of the fenced settlement, throwing the Romans into total disarray. Raven thundered to the burning cart that blocked the front causeway. Roaring flames frightened the sturdy stallion — it had never been trained to take on fire. The black horse stopped dead, nearly ejecting Calach from the saddle. Calach made out the hazy shape of his father who stumbled out of the entrance of the Great Hall.

As smoke and flame spewed from the hall, his father clutched onto the entrance post for dear life. Blood seeped through Brude's chequered tunic. The King buckled to his knees.

Calach's boots kicked Raven's underbelly. Raven shrieked an ear-stabbing neigh, raced ahead, and leapt through the inferno.

Crowna ran to the aid of Brude, clasped the King's sinking body in his arms and eased Brude to the ground, 'This was not supposed to happen.'

Calach leapt off the saddle, knelt, and looked in horror at Brude. He grabbed his father by his shoulders, 'Get up, father! You must get up!' Armed Romans appeared from the back of roundhouses.

Brude grabbed the back of Calach's neck, drew him close, and his slurry voice pleaded, 'You must leave me, Calach.'

Calach placed a loving hand on his father's forehead. 'I cannot leave you.'

Brude grinned, 'Caledonia has lost its King. It cannot afford to lose the son of a King.' Whispered words struggled to leave his lips, 'Why...cut off the branch...when you can...pull out the...?' Brude's body flopped in Calach's lap. Rolling his head to the side, his eyes remained open in death.

Every fibre in Calach's being begged Brude to live. He looked up at Crowna with a red-hot hatred, 'This is the result of your treachery.'

Crowna looked away. The terrible sight was too much. 'He is gone, Calach. He is gone, son. You have to let go, son. You have to let go.' Red-cloaked Romans, gladii drawn, with rallying cries and shouts, closed for the kill. 'They will kill you, Calach. I didn't bring them here for this.'

Danu's horse leapt over the burning cart at the front causeway. She dove off her saddle and got to Calach. She glared at Crowna, 'What happened here?'

'Get him out of here!' There was no time for explanations. Crowna and Danu gripped Calach's arms and yanked him off the body of his father. They forced him into Raven's saddle. Crowna struck Raven's buttocks as the Romans charged. The stallion paced to the causeway, just out of the grasp of Roman hands. The two battle stallions, Calach and Danu in either saddle, flew over the burning cart and fled south.

Calach and Danu arrived at the Vacomagi settlement. They took in the devastation from the saddles of their horses; scattered bodies everywhere, many were burnt and looked like black scarecrows. The rafters of the roundhouses were still smoking, their scorched, fallen timbers so hot, the view of the roundhouse shells looked hazy and distorted. They pulled their horses to a halt before the charred ruins of a roundhouse where a speared body, face down, lay.

Danu slipped a battle-axe from her belt and thrust the head to the clouds, 'Murderers!'

Calach sat immobile in the saddle, dead eyes stared ahead. There was only one question in his mind; where was his wife, Sky?

Danu noted the dead look about him and thought this was not the man and warrior she had known since childhood. Both warriors dismounted. She paced up and down in little lines, stopping now and then, thumping her thigh with a fisted hand. 'She might have made it to the mountains? What if—' Her words were broken by the whinnies of White Cloud, Sky's stallion. Snapping its neck back and forth, the north wind sweeping its mane, White Cloud let out short bursts of shrieking neighs.

Calach's sharp eyes stared at the distressed stallion. He took a few moments to unravel its motivation. He mumbled, 'He wants us to follow.' He called out, 'He wants us to follow.'

White Cloud led Calach and Danu to the snow cloaked bridge, where Sky was attacked. Incessant flakes dropped from the heavens. The falling snow was so constant that the warrior's shoulder cloaks and tunics became a blotched coat of white as they scoured the bridge.

Danu shivered with the freeze; the howling wind blasted her as she searched the snowy road.

Calach, oblivious to the world, walked to the bridge rail, a haunted gaze fixed on the river below. The hand of an invisible giant crushed his head and pressed his body into the snow.

'Calach.' A shred of Sky's torn crimson tunic dangled from Danu's hand.

Calach leapt across, snatched the piece of wool from her grasp, stroked the precious shred with his fingers, then raised his head to Danu, 'Where?'

'Snagged on timber. Beneath the snow.' She found it hard to look at Calach, straying her head as she told him the story of the find. Danu had dreaded showing him the shred, her adopted father, King Brude, now, perhaps Calach's wife, murdered by Rome.

Calach, transfixed on the shred, was unaware of the sheets of sleet that whirled and whipped about.

Danu walked to the rail and gripped the oak with her hands. She listened to the rushing water and tried to calm her fast beating heart. She was an orphan of war. Brude had rescued her when she was a child during one of the tribal wars. Brude and Calach were the only family she had known. She loved them both, as she would love blood kin. She knew Calach like she knew the back of her hand and feared he would lose his life in the bloody reprisals. To distract her mind, she took in the detail of the landscape through the fuzziness of sleet; two strips of snow covered banks, flanked by leafless pines, in several places the trees had toppled over, and their stems crossed the banks, some with tops submerged in the river, the river itself, a rapid flowing, brownish white froth. She stilled her eyes on a giant boulder, capped with snow that stood sentinel where the river turned. She focused on the boulder. Her eyes tracked down to where the enormous boulder met the snowline. She discovered a snowy white mound with human form. It was the resting place of Sky.

Danu and Calach stood on either side of the snowy mound at the foot of the giant boulder. Calach, a glazed look, chin touching his chest, had not the heart to brush the snow away.

Danu cupped a hand on his shoulder, 'Strong. You must be strong, Calach.'

'It is her.' The north wind almost drowned him out.

'We do not know it is her.'

Calach bellowed with the fire of anger in his voice, 'It is her. And all our words and all our tears will not make her rise.' The world was an unstable, floating bubble that barely held his feet on the earth. He closed his eyes, and wished it would all go away. But the snowstorm raged as the two warriors pondered beneath the giant boulder.

Danu clasped his head with both hands and brought it to her chest. She cradled him like a young boy. Clamping her hands over his cheeks, she drew his face close. 'We must know. One way or the other, we must know.'

Calach pulled away from her and looked upon the mound. He knelt. An arm eased out, fingers uncurled, and he brushed away the layers of snow. Each gentle brush of snow gradually revealed the pallid face of his beloved. She looked like a beautiful sleeping princess, who could wake at any moment with the magic touch of her prince. He wanted her to wake as his fingers stroked her angelic face. He stopped stroking her face and drew back his hand. The warrior prince's penetrating glare looked upon her. In his mind, he begged her to wake; he begged her to open her sweet lips and talk. One precious word was all he begged for. The demented sound of the wind went on and on and the realization sank in; she was gone...she was gone. Calach's death cry echoed in the glen as he punched a deep hole in the snow. He dug up the mound with speedy hands and lifted her body from the white pit. He clutched her tightly in his arms, lips kissing her face and forehead. While Danu dug the grave with her axe head, Calach giggled and spoke to his wife as if she were still alive. The words were so fast and so hushed that she could not make sense of them. He stared wildly at Danu. 'We knew love. We knew love.'

Danu clutched the axe shaft. The iron head was soiled with earth and snow, from the freshly dug grave-pit. She stared at Calach, who cradled his beloved in a tight embrace. Kissing his wife's cheeks, he placed her body into the grave. She dropped the axe and pushed the earth and snow into the pit with her hands.

Calach looked upon his wife's face for the last time. He heard her voice, 'Do you ever wish you could stop time. Stop time so this could be forever.' The voice stopped, replaced by snapping winds. The last handfuls of snow blotted out her face and memory. He tried to speak but his throat closed. A blackness deep inside, strangled the voice. A burning black poison came from the void of his stomach and spread through the blood of his veins. The burning black had no emotion; it had no feeling, and no heart. It stole the light from his eyes. The warrior's love had been replaced with hatred. 'Kill them all. Kill them all.' Calach muttered through gritted teeth. Body, solid like a rock. The old smile gone, he paced off.

Danu caught up with him, pulled his shoulder back, and forced him to turn. She had to shout above the snowstorm. 'Where are you going?'

Calach scowled, 'To kill an Empire.'

'One man against the might of Rome? Ha!' Danu gripped his shoulders and punctuated her words by shaking him, 'Think with your head, Calach. Think with your head, not your heart.'

'Get out of the way, Danu...' There was a madness about his narrow eyes. 'I warn you; do not try to stop me. The Romans want a war. I will give them their war.' Calach stormed off.

She threw her arms up into the air and watched him trudge through the blizzard. She yelled, 'Enough blood has been spilt.'

He yelled back, 'Only the blood of our people.'

Danu held down the fire that wanted to burst free and take him on. 'Our heads must rule, not our hearts, Calach. If you want to go, then go, but know this — the future of our people lies in your hands.'

Calach stopped dead in the snow. He had to fight the hatred in his heart against the intellect of his head. Hailstones bounced on and off him as the storm raged within and without. He shouted above the scourge of the tempest. 'Then we shall seek our people, Danu; we shall seek them.'

# Chapter six

General Agricola halted his white stallion on a snow-laden track alongside a riverbank. It had been a long day's march for him and his Ninth Legion. Some men gathered water from the river as tree shadows withdrew in the failing light. Others sat on fallen tree trunks and flat rocks. Several men jumped up and down, flinging their arms around their red cloaks to help the blood circulate.

Agricola dismounted. He overheard the men's conversations. They cursed the snow and the sleet that were a constant, cruel companion. They questioned what the hell they were doing there. But it was a soldier's lot to moan and grumble. Agricola scrunched the snow with a boot and brushed the white blotches of snow from his black cloak. Large, feathery flakes kept streaking down, and the black cloak was white again. _Where to pitch the marching camp? It had better be soon. Darkness brings danger from marauding bands of the enemy._ Sneering, he rubbed the flakes from his eyes and cloak. 'Rufus. Tell the men to hurry.'

Rufus, the scar-faced Centurion saluted with a fist to his leather breastplate. He went amongst the groups of men. 'Move out. Finish what you are doing. You heard me.'

The snow stopped. A miracle of sunbeams poured from a gap in the clouds, and strips of light shone on the river's surface. Agricola spotted a feather that was snagged amongst the tangled twigs of a toppled tree that crossed the river.

The tip of the feather's quill, hanging from a leather cord, stroked the waterline.

Slyly peeping, he made certain the men were not watching, trudged a few paces through the thick snow and knelt on the bank. He outstretched his arm, fingers untangled the leather cord that held the sacred feather. The Ninth Legion formed blocks along the snow road. Agricola's thoughtful eyes scrutinized the Feather of Hawk in his palm. He thought the feather to be worth all the gold of the empire to some savage. Agricola's mother, from Gaul, was superstitious. She saw signs in the flight of birds and other fanciful visions. He had laughed at her backward ways. He did not know why, but something deep down told him to keep the feather. It went against the logic that dominated his mind. He donned the Feather of Hawk and made sure the quill was tucked well within the folds of his padded jerkin, out of the sight of prying eyes.

In the temporary Roman marching camp _,_ Agricola slept upon a bed of furs. He rolled about in violent, jerking motions, the feather about his neck, muttering and shouting the words, 'natural causes...natural...gods are angry gods...natural causes...angry gods.' Four standing torches lit the interior of the command tent. Their flames blinked in a hissing wind that seeped through the gaps of the closed leather door.

An intruder, a face hidden within the black shadow of a brown hooded cloak, slithered past the rows of field tents in the camp. He eased his boots in and out of the snow, careful not to make a sound, as the soldiers slept. The intruder sneaked past the camp's timber store. His black leather boot stepped on a piece of wood concealed beneath the snow. A loud crack of breaking wood echoed on the night wind. Freezing on the spot, he grasped the hilts of two reaping hooks on his sword belt — he knew his life was in great danger.

The sound of the cracking wood had raised suspicion of one of the guards outside Agricola's tent. He booted the shin of his slumbering comrade, who slept on a stool, waking him. 'I heard something; stay awake. I'll check it out.'

The plumb guard grunted and watched his comrade disappear into the black. Not long after, his heavy eyelids closed, and he was asleep.

The intruder crept past the sleeping guard and slipped inside Agricola's tent. He lurked at the foot of the General's bed. Dirty hands hovered over the iron hilts of the reaping hooks. A low, hoarse voice spoke in the dull glow. 'A fine bed, General. Not like my bed of straw.'

Crowna burst into the tent, blocking the intruder's oncoming hooks with his long sword. The clang of iron upon iron. The cries of battling warriors. Three standing torches, knocked down during the struggle, set the tent alight.

Agricola jolted awake and reached for a gladius above his head. Elongated shadows of the two battling warriors danced a dance of death on the tent walls.

Crowna's fighting arm was slashed with a curved hook. A jet of blood spewed from the slash in his upper arm, and he dropped his long sword. The big Celt seized a standing torch as a weapon with his left hand.

The intruder darted forwards with speedy swipes of the hooks.

Crowna blocked the hooks with the iron of the standing torch and whacked the iron shaft across the intruder's back.

The intruder lurched forwards, slashed a hole in the side of the tent with a hook, and dove through the open slit.

Crowna lunged after him and tackled the assassin to the snowy ground.

Outside the tent, daggers drawn, they fought a battle for life or death. Armed Romans, hearing the commotion, flew from all quarters of the camp to the command tent. Crowna pinned down the enemy with the weight of his hefty torso. The General's loyal chieftain yanked the hood off the intruder's head, revealing a man with a bony, emaciated face. The intruder tried to shout, but Crowna's hand smothered his mouth as he ran the assassin's heart through with the dagger. Centurions and legionaries formed a circle around the two battling warriors. They let out a rousing cheer when the body of the assassin rattled to cold death. Satisfied he had killed the intruder, Crowna got to his feet holding the dagger. 'The assassin is dead,' he said, fighting for breath, 'and you lot took your time.'

Agricola had been invited to open the newly built bathhouse in the garrison fort of Eborecum. A crowd of Roman and Celtic dignitaries gently clapped in the reception area of the bathhouse. Agricola carefully observed these toga clad savages, who stood at ease with their Roman masters. The clapping ceased. He greeted the gathering with a raised hand then gave a speech.

'The opening of this new bathhouse, dedicated to our new Emperor, Emperor Domitian, symbolizes the deep and growing bonds that unite Celt and Roman. Who would have thought that we would be standing here today, united as one family, one army, under one banner? The glorious banner of Rome. Roman Generals did not come into your territories with a desire to gain personal wealth. No, we came here at the invitation of your forefathers, who were so overcome with civil war and political strife that this country was close to collapse. We use our recent victories to impose those burdens, to which we all must succumb, the taxes we pay to Rome and the pledges of allegiance from your sons who fight in our auxiliary units. This is all we ask for the price of Roman peace. We name this building...' Agricola slipped off a silk purple veil and unmasked a marble bust of Emperor Domitian, 'The Bathhouse of Domitian.' A flash of disdain crossed his eyes as he viewed this marble God. 'Symbols are not made of stone. See with your own eyes; we are the real proof; we are the living symbols of flesh and blood who stand side by side. Together, we enjoy the peace that imperial civilization has brought. Let our good fortune prosper through discipline, obedience, and loyalty. Think. What is the alternative? Civil war? The ruin that follows rebellion? This is the story of the British tribes, who were torn in two, before the Roman army set foot on these warring shores. If we, Romans, were to be expelled by some misfortune of the Gods, think of the consequences. What else would follow? Worldwide conflict in which neighbour would fall upon neighbour, opening the dark doors of an age with no order. It would be an age in which beasts, not men, would reign.' Agricola took a scroll of parchment from his Egyptian slave. 'On this special day, I would like to make an announcement. There stands amongst us an ordinary man, a modest man, and the man I speak of did not flinch in the moment of danger. You all know who and what I am talking about. You all know this man as one of your Chieftains, but I know this man as my most loyal and trusted friend. Gentlemen, please give a warm welcome to Crowna, Chieftain of the Veniconae Tribe. 'Applause echoed in the bathhouse.

Crowna, the reluctant hero was pushed forward and took his place at the General's side.

Agricola opened the scroll, but Crowna could not read the ink on the parchment. The Roman General did the job for him and spoke in the tongue of the Celt. 'For services rendered. Crowna, Chieftain of the Veniconae Tribe, you are now a Citizen and Freeman of Rome.' He handed the scroll to Crowna. 'This is your property. I have made you the Imperial Scout of my Ninth Legion. I place my trust and the lives of my men in your hands. Do not disappoint me.' Agricola faced the audience. 'This frontier is stable, this frontier is secure, this frontier will hold.'

# Chapter seven

Season of the Lamb –Spring

The winter had been long and hard. Calach had chosen the location of the rebel stronghold where the land was inaccessible, remote, and not on any Roman map. Three staggered bog roads, several miles long, led to the fort. In places, warriors had to dismount from their horses and struggle over the marshy terrain. Attackers would find themselves lost or bogged down in the dangerous approaches. Calach trained the refugee resistance in the stronghold. Day by day, more refugees joined the cause until the secret base was overflowing. There were few trained warriors, nor did Calach's forces have the weapons they needed to wage war. On the dirt tracks of the Great Forest, the Celts deployed hit and run tactics to counter Roman aggression. They constantly harassed the Roman enemy and cut their supply lines.

Roman guards patrolled the ramparts of the slave fort in the occupied zone of Caledonia. The square muster area was bordered by several timber barracks. Enslaved men, women, and children were flogged as they chiselled a cliff face riddled with mine shafts. Boulders were crushed into smaller stones and loaded into oxen carts. The small stones were utilized to build Roman roads that criss-crossed the occupied zone.

Calach and Danu spied from a hilltop overlooking the fort. Fir trees shielded them from the guards, who patrolled the ramparts.

'When do we go in?' Calach was impatient for Roman blood.

'Just stroll in and kill four hundred guards.' Danu turned away from him and studied the Roman defences. 'Two deep dikes before we get to the wall. Open trenches raked with stakes. Watchtowers with prying guards. A death trap.'

It took Calach and Danu one day's ride to get back to the stronghold. The last part of the journey was made on sludge tracks. In places, they were forced to dismount and walk alongside their horses, so as not to get stuck in the sludge.

Spear warriors watched the incoming horses from the earthen ramparts with a staked, circular wall. A curving, ascending dirt track took the two riders to the isolated stronghold perched on a hilltop. The two horses galloped across a timber bridge and thundered through the open gates.

Calach and Danu entered the round muster area, surrounded with simple timber huts roofed with turf, and halted their horses. Men and women, boys and girls practiced for battle with improvised weapons.

'We strike the slave mine when two suns have passed,' Calach said from Raven's saddle.

Danu's tongue lashed out, 'Strike with what? Old men. Children. Rusted scythes and clubs against swords and armour.' She caught that dead look about him. This obsessive desire for revenge had made him careless. During the winter months, she had noticed his long morose silences, broken by bursts of violent rage — always for no reason. She had to be careful with her words in his presence, as the slightest thing could spark his raging anger.

Calach barked, 'If you have any better suggestions?'

Danu gave a mild smile. 'Ants fighting giants add to the fact that professional soldiers, trained day in day out for war, defend the slave fort.'

He turned his head and viewed a group of old men using long sticks as spears. 'They have the heart to fight, Danu.'

'Hearts do not win wars, Calach. Weapons of iron, shields of bronze, sword warriors, and riders with chariots win wars.'

'We may as well throw in our hands now.' Calach's shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes.

Danu tried to encourage him, 'The wind will change. The tide will turn.'

He opened his eyes and fired his words at her, 'Until then?'

Danu took in his remote stare. 'We wait, Calach. We wait.'

The words burst from his lips, 'Wait until they kill us all. We wait, we wait, and we do nothing. Wait for what?'

'A miracle.' Danu heard thumping horse hooves on the timber bridge. She shifted her eyes to the gate.

'Riders approach. Riders approach!' Shantoch's son, Arrow, cried from the gate area. Over one hundred and twenty Celts, riders on ten war chariots, sword warriors on horses, and warriors on foot, made sweeping circles of the muster area. A loud cheer went up. Old and young were reunited with loved ones.

Shantoch dismounted and called over to his son at the gate, 'Well, Arrow? What are you waiting for, laddie?'

Arrow ran into the open arms of his father. Shantoch dropped to his knees and wept. Many had no loved ones to greet. They sat alone, lost in thoughts of grief and loss.

Calach glimpsed Iolair Mor, his estranged brother, who strolled from the large gathering.

Iolair Mor, bearing a long sword in a leather shoulder scabbard, stopped before Calach. 'Your wife. She was a legend. I am sorry.'

'This is my new family.' Calach embraced him. 'Welcome. Welcome.'

Iolair Mor stepped back, red faced, embarrassed by the intimate act, and scratched his head. 'I have come to join our new family.'

Danu paced alongside the Old Vacomagi chieftain, and they headed to Calach.

The Old Vacomagi gripped a battle-axe. 'Well, if it's not Calach the Swordsman. Are you still a two-faced con man?'

'Aye. He is that and worse,' said Danu with a wry smile. She lifted the battle-axe and showed Calach the polished silvery head. 'The old boy brought his favourite toy.'

The Old Vacomagi took the axe from her and thrust the polished head before Calach. 'Maybe it's time to give these Romans some of our Celtic hospitality.'

Calach edged a finger on the blade. 'Sharp, the way I like it.'

'Especially made by Iberian craftsmen,' said Danu.

Calach's mood lifted. He beamed a brief smile, the first smile since the dark days of the invasion. 'You were always one for axes, Danu. I've seen you cut down six men with one.'

'They deserved what they got and besides.'

'Besides what?' asked Calach.

'You still owe me a horn of ale for that little ambush I got you out of.'

'What ambush?'

Danu laughed. 'You must have a bad memory. The People of the White Horse. They were about to impale you. Stripped you naked if I recall.'

'Told you to keep that one to yourself.'

'Calach begged for mercy.'

'Now, you're just making it up.'

'Like any good story. I will tell all these warriors the forgotten tale, my own version, unless you quench my thirst...'

Calach cut in, 'We seconded wine from a Roman trader.'

'Seconded? He stole their wine. Said we should save it for a rainy day.' Danu looked up at the clear blue sky. 'But it's not raining.'

'Iolair Mor? If I say it's raining today, what would you say?' asked Calach.

Iolair Mor peered at the dry blue sky with plumes of passing white clouds. 'Pouring down.'

'Then, it's time to break open the wine.' Calach laughed aloud and surprised himself. The whole camp let out a rousing cheer when they heard the call to feast.

The rebel stronghold bustled with the noises of everyday life; bread was baked in ovens, meat was cooked in fires, and the people shared their food and drink as they told their tales of atrocity and loss. When darkness descended, the Celts danced around blazing fires. They opened the captured wine, housed in dozens of Roman amphorae, with broad strokes of their long swords that cut clean through the brittle clay. Red wine gushed from broken pots, straight into the mouths of thirsty warriors. For the first time since the invasion, the laughter and singing of men, women, and children was heard. The feasting continued for two days and two nights.

On the third morning, Calach poured a horn of stale wine into the smoking embers of a fire. He glanced around. Sleeping, snoring warriors littered the muster area. Lifting Danu's axe from her sleeping clutches, he twirled the iron head, leaned backwards and hurled the axe at the gatepost with all the might he could muster. The axe head sank into the timber and split the post in two. His face glowed with satisfaction, and he nodded several times, definite nods with definite purpose. This was the time he had longed for; this was the time of the blood revenge against the hated invaders.

Maximus the Slaver, with a thirty Roman horse escort, galloped away from the closing gates of the slave fort. The escort, led by a red cloaked Centurion, headed along the dirt road to the tree-line.

Calach, mounted on Raven, waited for the escort in the middle of the road. He raised Avenger and aimed the tip at the slavers, making certain the slavers had seen him, then melted back into the forest.

The escort ventured through several tracks of forest. Calach trailed them along the contours of the high ridges, driving Raven at breaking speed. The Centurion observed Calach, keeping level with the escort. 'Stay on the road. He's trying to lure us into a trap.'

Two oak trees crashed in front of the slavers on a secluded forest track. Distressed, neighing horses yielded. Romans dismounted and patted down the horses to soothe their fretting nerves.

'Centurion, return your troops to the fort —' Before Maximus could finish; a third tree plummeted and blocked the rear escape. The escort unsheathed their short swords and cast their blades around the forest. Birdsong rang out. Sweating palms clutched the hilts of gladii. The men looked to the Centurion. A trooper dropped his sword.

'Pick it up you fool,' bawled the Centurion. 'Steady lads. Wait for 'em. Wait. Wait.'

Droplets of sweat dripped down Maximus' cheeks. He wiped his face with the sleeve of his cream cloak and swaggered to the side of the Centurion. 'Centurion. Do something.'

The Centurion took off his plume-helmet and wiped his flushed face with an arm. He relaxed a little then squared his shoulders back. 'You lot, clear these trees...' A spear whipped from the dense foliage and lodged in his neck. Clutching the shaft of the long spear with a hand, he spat out a glob of blood.

An avalanche of long spears rained down from both flanks of the forest. Iron barbs cracked and shattered troopers' bones. One by one, Roman shields dropped and littered the mud road. Soldiers cursed Roman gods. They dropped to their knees. They twirled around. They buckled to the dirt as the sky of falling barbs thudded into flesh and bone. Agonized cries turned to low murmurs and mumbles as their bodies reeled in the dirt. An eerie silence fell upon the site of the ambush.

The escort lay dead, but their horses were unharmed. Warriors stripped the Roman corpses of uniform, weapons, helmets, and body armour. It did not take long for the Celts to disguise themselves as the Roman escort.

Maximus cowered, his treble chin wobbling, as he hid amongst the leafy branches of a toppled tree. He fastened a hand around a branch, bobbed his head up, and spied on the Celts. When he thought they were not looking, he scrambled over the branches and rushed along the track. A gold chained medallion, with the smiling face of the god, Neptune, bounced up and down his chest.

Sounds of the slaver's puffing and panting drew Calach's attention. He lifted a spear from the hand of a dead Roman and weighed the distance of his running prey. 'Run rabbit, run.'

Danu pressed a hand on Calach's forearm that was about to unleash the spear. 'Wait. Use him to get us in.'

Calach defied her, 'No prisoners. They were my orders.'

Iolair Mor moved to Danu's side and stroked his chin with his thin fingers. 'She is right, he could give us more time to get in. Lives would be saved.'

Calach pushed Iolair Mor aside, raised the spear above his head and aimed it at Maximus' plodding back. Spritely advancing forward, he stretched his arm backwards and let loose a war cry as he lanced the spear. The spear whisked through the air and struck the centre of Maximus' back. The plum Roman collapsed to a heap on the mud road, with the spear sticking out of his back.

Calach leapt into the saddle of a captured Roman horse, wearing the Centurion's blood stained red cloak and plume-helmet. He concealed Avenger beneath the saddle blanket in preparation for the assault. Thirty warriors, disguised as the Roman escort, sat in their saddles and waited for Calach's order. He looked ahead for a long, long time, a vacant nothingness to his demeanour. The warriors wondered what he was thinking. They all knew of his great loss and let him be. At last, he gave the order, 'No prisoners. Kill them all.'

Calach led the disguised warriors on the captured horses to the opening timber gates of the slave fort.

Marcus the Centurion, killer of Calach's wife, walked out of the fort and stood at ease by the gate post to welcome the incoming riders. Narrow, squinted eyes focused on the head of the escort. Where was Maximus? His lips quivered. 'Close the gate. Close the...'

Calach slammed his captured stallion into Marcus and sent the Roman reeling to the ground. Marcus was trampled to death with the hooves of the attacking horses that rampaged onwards. The Roman's horrible cries were drowned out with the stomping hooves and warrior battle cries.

Romans on the rampart raised the alarms, beating iron rods with iron triangles. Legionaries stormed out of barrack doors and gathered for the counterattack.

Calach brought the horse to a halt on the edge of the muster area.

Danu steadied her horse alongside Calach's. 'They know we are here.' More Roman defenders flew out of the barrack blocks and appeared from every quarter of the camp. 'We should have used him.'

Calach did not acknowledge her and gave the order with a taut, sullen face, 'You and Iolair Mor, take the gate.'

'But...' protested Danu.

Calach boomed, 'That is an order.'

Danu snarled, 'So you give orders now?' She booted the flanks of her stallion and charged to the gate, where the Romans had formed a double shield wall beneath the archway. They stood back-to-back, shields forming a red tortoise shape, to hold off attackers within and without the fort.

Calach dismounted, Avenger in hand, and slapped the captured horse's rump. The horse strutted off and let out a series of snorts and neighs. Calach thrust Avenger before him and locked his fingers around the hilt. The blade stilled in the air as he waited to deliver retribution. Hordes of red cloaks ran at him. A stabbing thrust of a gladius to his chest! He blocked it with the long sword that half circled, then sliced deep into the trooper's shoulder bone and almost severed the Roman's upper body in half. A thrusting spear at his head. He knelt in a flash, and stabbed through the Roman's stomach; the sword tip came out of the attacker's back. Calach momentarily held the red cloaked, helmeted Roman and twisted the blade around his intestines, savouring the sound of agonized pain before shoving him off. A Centurion grabbed Calach's sword arm. Calach's smashed his elbow into the Centurion's jaw, shattering the enemy's teeth, and the blow sent the Roman backwards. Two jabbing, probing spears at his front. He slipped the deadly barbs by sprinting behind them, slicing through their backs and legs in broad sweeps. Three sword-wielding legionaries attacked from three directions. Calach evaded the oncoming swords, weaving his lithe body through the storm of red cloaks, countering with wheeling motions of the long blade that severed Roman flesh in rapid succession. Calach the Swordsman stepped methodically onwards; each cut and thrust of Roman sword and spear was met with the Celt's brutal response.

The clashing din of sword upon sword, the tortured cries of pain, and the rallying cries of Celts and Romans filled the muster area of the slave fort.

Danu and Iolair Mor fought the guards in the gate area, hacking down Roman armour with heavy axes from the saddles of their battle stallions. Warriors attacked the Roman shield wall that staunchly defended the ground beneath the archway. The Celts opened a pathway for Danu's horse to tear through. She galloped at battle speed and cracked a gap in the wall, raising her axe to cut down the Roman defenders.

An old, black toothed Roman veteran grabbed Danu's long hair, snatched her off the saddle and smashed her to the ground. Yanking her head up, he raised his gladius to slit her throat and barked, 'I'll kill you bitch.'

A battle axe tore into the veteran's back. Iolair Mor wrenched out the axe, using his boot as a fulcrum on the Roman's buttocks, and gave a curt smile to Danu.

Celts on foot poured through the gateway and polished off the Roman shield wall. Wounded Romans begged for life, but were given instant death. Killing over, the warriors began a broad assault of the mine. They fought like their warrior gods, as they battled on, using swords, axes, scythes, and long spears. Slave miners used sledgehammers to break open the chains of bondage and joined the rebel cause. Freed slaves, armed with rocks, boulders, and chains, slew the Roman defenders in the muster area and across the ramparts. The fury of the freed slaves, matched with the resolve of Calach and his warriors, crushed the last sparks of Roman resistance.

Calach, exhaustion upon him, stopped battling amongst the dead and wounded in the muster area. With no strength left to fight, he dropped to his knees and sucked in the badly needed breaths.

A freed slave called out, 'Time to run!'

'Everyman for himself,' said a voice in the gathering crowd.

Calach waited until he caught his breath and got to his feet. 'You may run...you may run, and you will be cut down like a lamb to the slaughter, and you will die. Or you may join us; join us, fight with us, and earn your freedom.'

A powerfully built man lurched above the crowd and scoffed with laughter. He shoved his way out, pushing people aside with his big hands. A broken slave chain dangled from his wrist. 'What about Olaf the Fierce?' The long blond haired Olaf spoke with a deep, deliberate voice. He lifted his slave tunic and showed the scars of whiplash on his back. 'I was a slave to your Celtic lords. Why should Olaf the Fierce fight to enslave himself to new masters?'

'Calach understands your sentiment. I swear, once Rome is purged from our lands, no man or woman will be called a slave.'

Olaf touched Calach's thin moustache and long ginger hair with his mucky fingers. He looked at Calach directly. 'You are a man, not a God. Words of a man. But that is all they are...words my friend. The sun shines, the darkness falls, there will always be masters and slaves.'

Calach paced up and down the clustered groups and staggered lines of the liberated. 'They call me Calach. Calach the Swordsman. I am a free man.' He paused. 'I am a fighter, not a speaker. If you want fancy speeches, then you have come to the wrong man.'

Olaf spoke, 'Speak. They will listen.'

Calach thanked Olaf with a dip of the head, 'Rome. Rome brought you here to be their slaves. We...we came here to bring you your freedom. Rome...Rome murdered my father. Rome murdered my wife. They were murdered by a man who calls himself a god. They were murdered by a man who calls himself the Emperor of Rome. We have a message to this Emperor God – the blood of our people is not for sale!' A rapturous round of clapping and supportive calls urged him to speak on. 'Yesterday, you were slaves; today you are free. We are Celts; we have always been a free people. Now, a free people united against this common enemy of Rome. Tyranny we despise. Our brothers and sisters we love. If you want to go then go; there is no shame in this, just go. You will not be harmed. To those who stay, I say this only once. If you stand with me...if you stand with me, then I will stand with you.' He took a long break and his fiery eyes picked out each man, woman, and child. Wiping the blood from his ginger moustache, he roared, 'Will you stand with me?'

The crowd let out one enormous cheer. They would stand with Calach. Victory shouts went around the muster area of the captured slave mine. Freed slaves and warrior Celts tossed their weapons and captured helmets into the air. They raised Calach onto their shoulders and paraded him around the muster area. They shouted his name. They chanted his name, 'Calach the free. Calach. Calach. Calach.'

Iolair Mor lifted his voice above the noise and raised the question to Calach, 'What do we do now?'

Calach shouted above the din of victory, 'We make this rag tag rabble an army.'

During the summer, Agricola immediately moved his troops by land and sea onto the offensive. Roman marines mounted surprise attacks along the coastline of Caledonia. Celtic blood washed through the burning land. The civilian population took the brunt of those brutal reprisals.

# Chapter eight

Season of the Moon - Autumn

The far north of Caledonia.

Danu had searched the remote cave, where Calach rested from the exhausting business of leadership. She approached Iolair Mor, who sat on the stone lip of a well, on a grassy plateau, outside the entrance. He threw pebbles down the deep well shaft. She coughed, only a few paces from him, to get his attention. He did not look at her, but rolled a pebble between his index finger and thumb. 'He's not here.'

'He will show.' Danu shook her head and laughed a hard, contrived laugh. She did not approve of talking to the back of Iolair Mor's head.

Iolair Mor flipped the pebble into the well shaft. 'We are wasting our time. We should leave.'

Olaf and Shantoch, bearing weapons of a battle axe and long spear, rambled up a gravel pathway to the well.

'We have searched.' Olaf slipped the axe from his shoulders and rested the flat head on the ground. He leaned on the butt with a hand. 'So this is his sanctuary?' The four warriors shared looks of derision as they glanced around.

Hours passed.

Iolair Mor sharpened a dagger on the stone lip of the well. There was an intense look about him as the blade made a horrible scraping sound that made Danu's skin writhe.

She barked, 'Do you have to?'

Iolair Mor stopped scraping and smirked, 'My brother's probably stuck in some bog somewhere, mud up to his chest.'

Danu, sitting next to him, cast a hard look. 'I heard the only warrior who gets stuck in the mud is you.'

Iolair Mor shot to his feet, dagger in hand.

'You always take his side. Nothing I do counts. The slave mine. I saved your skin, and this is how you thank me?'

Danu sprang to her feet, tilted headlong until her nose almost touched his. 'You have a big mouth that nags and nags. All day, you brood, and you do not say what's going on in that odd little head of yours. And I don't like talking to the back of your thick head.'

Iolair Mor stomped to his horse that was roped to a crumbling fence. He spun back to her, 'You think it is only poor Calach who suffers. I, too, lost a father I loved.'

The sound of Raven's hooves on the pathway got their attention and ended the argument.

Calach carried a lamb on his shoulders. Raven followed. Flies buzzed around the stallion's sweaty head, and the horse snapped at them with its big teeth. Calach set the struggling lamb free; it ran to its bleating mother amongst a flock of sheep on the gravel pathway. Calach gathered bundles of firewood strapped to Raven's side and lobbed one into the arms of Iolair Mor.

'That's what I call a welcome in the hillside,' said Iolair Mor.

Fire logs burned in the wide, open hearth of Calach's cave. The smoke wafted upwards to a natural hole in the roof. The four guests drank strong ale from horns of bull. They watched the dancing flames of the fire.

Calach broke the spell. 'What brings you all to the middle of nowhere?'

Iolair Mor looked to Danu. She saw the pressing look, opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated. The scowl on Iolair Mor's face demanded she did the talking. Danu gathered courage, taking in a long breath, then spoke, 'The southern tribes? Do they have the right to choose to live under the Roman yoke?'

Calach carefully viewed the warriors one at a time. 'Resistance in the south is futile. The tribes in the south are too busy fighting eachother than fighting Rome. We know this, Danu,' Calach indicated the conversation was over with a raised hand, eyeing the flames before he took a sup from the horn.

Danu stood. 'What if we had one chance, one last chance to unite our people against Rome?'

Calach got to his feet and ambled around the fire with the horned cup in his hand. 'Here, I wake when the first flickers of light kiss the land. I gather crop, I cut wood, I feed animals. A simple life was all I ever craved. Tell me, why are you here?'

'We have held secret talks with the tribes of the south,' said Iolair Mor.

'They will unite, and they will fight if you will lead us, lord,' said Olaf.

'With the tribes of the south and north united...the tribes of Britain would be united.' Shantoch acknowledged the others with a quick look and waited for a response.

Calach stared at each of his comrades, giving away nothing.

Danu kept the momentum of hope going. 'Venutius, the King of the South, lives, Calach. He lives. He escaped the ambush in the south, that night the warrior Hawk gave you her sacred feather, that night the traitor Queen tried to take you out. '

Calach stared at the molten, hissing timbers that glowed like a burning sun and the sight of the rising smoke lulled him back to that day, that dreadful day he had tried to erase from his mind –

The warrior-prince's mind was a storm of conflict as he bolted on horse through plumes of ashen mist. Calach obsessed whether the meeting with Queen Morghana was a trap. Betrayal? Betrayal was a cold black snake that would slither around and slowly strangle the life out of the British Celts. He banished the word from his mind.

Calach galloped out of the misty wall and was greeted by the amber light of the rising sun. The dirt road clearly led to the open gates of the southern hill-fort. The summer wind stroked the plains of wild grass at either side of him and lifted his long, ginger hair. Fisted hands pulled the stallion's reins to the silver sewn boar head on his leather breastplate. The horse clambered to a halt. That day, Calach, twenty-one harvests old, looked like a warrior god of the Celts, with jawbones and brow as solid as the bronze plate on the stallion's head. Calach's green eyes, as sharp as the long sword he carried on a shoulder scabbard, scanned the vast circular wall of timber stakes, whose ramparts crawled with spear-carrying guards. He carefully looked at the guards on the ramparts, who watched him with keen interest.

Inside the hill-fort, Calach searched for Queen Morghana, the Queen of the South, and glanced at King Venutius, who rode behind. Calach brought the stallion to a halt. 'Where is Morghana?'

Venutius, Morghana's King, led the mounted entourage of heavily armed Celts, and pulled his stallion next to Calach's. 'The she-wolf has started the meeting without us.'

Calach watched a crowd gather ahead and saw the lines etched on the brow of Venutius. 'You worry too much. Look around. A dozen of my finest sword warriors on their battle stallions – they guard our flanks and will lay down their lives if they want trouble.'

Venutius glared at the silent gathering. 'The question is, are they here to welcome us or to kill us?'

A warrior, wearing a feather, fastened to a leather cord about her neck, left the throng. Calach leaned forward in the saddle. 'Who is she?'

Venutius smiled, and his hunched shoulders loosened. 'She is the warrior, Hawk. She guides the tribes of the south with her ancient wisdom.'

Calach was enthralled. 'She wears a feather around her neck?'

'The Feather of Hawk. It is the most sacred amulet of the tribes of the south,' answered Venutius.

Hawk outstretched her arm and offered Calach the gift of her feather. 'I give you, Calach the Swordsman, my most sacred feather.'

Calach looked upon Hawk's face of spiral tattoos. 'Why is this feather so special?'

Hawk clasped her hands around the feather in Calach's palm. 'Hawk is my animal guide on the mountain. Wear her feather and no weapon, mortal or immortal, used against you shall prevail.'

Calach nodded his approval. 'I gladly accept your gift. Turning his attention to the crowd, he spoke with the pride of a warrior-prince, 'Hawk tells us that this feather is her most sacred belonging, but it is more, much more.' He raised the Feather of Hawk into the blue skies. The crowd broke the tense silence, engulfed the warrior Celts, and roared their welcoming approval.

Calach shared a brief smile with Venutius. 'That's what I call a welcome.' Calach and King Venutius were hopeful that they had arrived in time for the crucial meeting called by Queen Morghana. They viewed the vast roundhouse, where the meeting was underway. 'So that's the meeting place — the Great Hall that dominates the high ground,' said Calach.

Venutius scowled. 'We'd better not keep my faithful wife waiting any longer.'

Calach and Venutius, guarded by spear-carrying warriors, burst through the oak doors of the Great Hall and interrupted the speech Morghana was giving.

Queen Morghana sat on her golden throne. Morghana, a woman in her mid-thirties, viewed the uninvited hosts for some time. She did not seem upset; her face remained placid at the disrespectful entrance. She gave a tight-lipped smile at Venutius. 'Husband, welcome.'

'I am not your husband.' Venutius spat out the words and pointed to the red-faced and stout warrior, Storic, who stood left of the throne. 'You chose to live with that drunken dog turd, Storic — that cutthroat and liar who stands next to you — or have you forgotten? I got tired of arguing with you, Morghana. You were my lover, and you were my best friend, but I see the black raven has made its nest in your heart. You have called this meeting to sell your people and sell your soul to our mortal enemies of Rome, and we are too late to stop you.'

Calach admired the beauty of Morghana, who wore a turquoise woollen tunic, embroidered with the design of a golden torch with darting flames. She bore a shoulder cloak of white wolf fur, fastened with a golden brooch. The golden torc, a thick necklace with spiralling threads around her neck impressed him even more, but it was her beauty that captivated him; the way her black hair curved over her breasts, the way its silky mass flowed past her slender waistline, the way her powerful brown eyes dominated the hall. He understood now, for this was the first time he had set eyes on her, how the middle-aged Venutius had left his wife after he had first set eyes on Morghana.

Venutius nudged him with an elbow, 'I told you we would be too late. That damn schemer has betrayed us!'

'No, Venutius,' said Morghana, 'we have voted against an alliance with Rome. I put the motion to the council. We are agreed; the southern tribes will resist the might of Rome until the last drop of our fighting blood has been spilled.'

Calach laughed jubilantly and slapped Venutius' shoulder. 'I told you she would see things our way. I knew it.'

Venutius clenched his hands like fighting fists. 'You do not know her. She is worse than that damned god Janus, with his two faces. She has three faces.'

The Druid brought forth a golden torch with a bright burning flame for all to see and handed it to Calach.

Morghana spoke, 'Calach the Swordsman, prince of Caledonia, the eternal flame of the southern tribes is your flame. Let the flame of our people burn in your heart for a thousand years. May the Gods protect us from the fires of our enemies...'

Venutius snatched the burning torch from Calach's hand and hurled it to the ground, 'Enough of your horseshit, you snivelling snake, Morghana. I know the game you play so well. You may fool those who stand in this hall, but you do not fool me with that poisonous beak of yours.'

The hall of warriors and chieftains gasped as Venutius stamped out the flames of the torch on the timber boards with his boot. This was a most awful omen; the eternal flame of the southern tribes had never been extinguished for as long as warriors could remember.

Morghana kept her calm composure, arms relaxed upon the golden arm rests, as she sat upright in the throne, 'You will control your temper within our walls, Venutius. Those who make responsible judgements must take their time. Rome has invaded half of Britain. All that remains of our Celtic lands are a few tribes of the south and the northern tribes of Caledonia. Those tribes that resisted were wiped from the map. I admit I have been rash in the past, too quick to choose one side or the other. Rome was not built in a day. Now, will you forget the past and join us for a little entertainment?'

'Rome was built in eight hundred years. Rome was built with the blood of the Celts, the same blood I know you have sold for gold and favour.' Venutius withdrew his long sword from its belt scabbard. He thrust the tip of the blade to Morghana's throat and stunned the hall with his outrage. 'As for your entertainment, this sword is my only entertainment. It is entertained when it is cutting down our enemies of Rome. I say you are a friend of Rome, Morghana, which makes you my enemy, and that gives me the right to slice through that pretty little neck of yours.'

Morghana eased to her feet. 'Lower your sword. I command you to lower your sword.' She placed her hand over the tip of the long blade and lowered it; all the while, her eyes stalked Venutius. 'It will take time for you to see that my change of mind is genuine. If I did anything wrong, it was the fact that I considered an alliance with Rome to protect the lives of our people from slaughter and humiliation. I see before me, fearless warriors, spear warriors — I see sword warriors who will stand and fight. They will stand, and they will fight side by side in the greatest alliance that the tribes of Britain have ever seen.' The warriors and chieftains gave a rousing cheer and raised their long swords and spears in a show of approval.

Morghana clapped her hands. Servant girls and boys brought in wooden tables and jugs. They poured the jugs of ale into ceramic tankards until the brims overflowed. 'Drink to Dagda, the good God. Drink!' Servants passed around the cups to cheerful warriors. 'Drink! Drink, for the night is yours, and soon the glory will be yours!'

Calach grinned at Venutius. 'The easiest vote of my life.' He lifted a large jug from a table and emptied it in one go. 'That's just for starters.'

'You can drink her poison, but you will pay the price, my friend.' Venutius rammed his long sword back into its belt scabbard and stormed out of the Great Hall.

Calach believed Venutius had let personal issues override tribal concerns. He shook his head in disapproval as he strolled to Morghana and stood before her. 'My apologies, great Queen. I see your disappointment. Venutius holds grudges. He will see our way with straight eyes. I will see to that.' Calach jumped onto a wooden table and brandished his dripping tankard of ale to all. 'I am the envoy of the King of Caledonia, and I say that our two peoples are one.' The warriors gave their approval, beating hilts of long swords on shields and boots on timber boards, much to the pleasure of Morghana.

As the night wore on, barrels of honeyed ale and amphorae of wine were broken open with long swords. A sea of alcohol was consumed, and the hall broke out into song and dance. Warriors traded battle stories, and the hospitality continued until the early hours.

Heavy snoring filled the Great Hall. Flames of two wall torches, fastened to two timber uprights, flickered in the wind. The sleeping Calach and his followers did not hear the ghostly gust of wind sweep through the slight gap in the oak doors. The hissing wind extinguished the flames of the wall torches.

Calach stirred from his restless slumber. The inner entrance was lit with a strip of starlight that came through a gap in the oak doors. He heard muffled voices beyond the doors and edged a pace forward, 'Show yourselves.'

The sturdy oak doors slammed shut.

Calach kicked and dragged his comrades from their sleep. 'Betrayed! We are betrayed! They have stolen our swords.' Warriors awoke to falling, burning timbers and choking smoke.

Outside the Great Hall, the Roman General Agricola, wearing a hooded, dark yellow cloak, sat on his blinkered white horse and raised a hand. Roman soldiers, wearing black capes, wedged in the oak doors with an oxen cart laden with bales of straw. Agricola gave a slow, deliberate nod to the black-cloaked Roman officer, Lucinius Gracchus, who threw a burning torch into the back of the cart.

Calach pulled a hatchet from his belt and lifted an oval bronze shield from the wooden boards. An uncut fire log next to the central hearth caught his eye. 'The fire log! Ram the doors open with the log.'

Roman horsemen torched the thatched roof. Crackling, snapping thatch became a blazing inferno. Soldiers torched bundles of dry wood and straw bales piled around the hall's perimeter. Ravenous flames consumed the wattle walls and timber support beams. General Agricola turned to a black caped, hooded figure on a horse at his side. 'This should warm them a little, Morghana. And how was your little encounter with our savage friends?'

The figure removed her hood. The traitor Queen welcomed the burning of the Great Hall. 'Calach was a pushover. Venutius, well...not so easy.'

The Caledonian warriors cracked open a gap in the doors and ran the gauntlet of the searing flames. Chequered tunics and fur cloaks were set alight, then a fierce hand-to-hand fight began as Celt and Roman battled amid night fires. The Celts fought with the weapons they carried on their belts whilst they slept: daggers, short swords, hatchets, and sharpened stag horns, but the enemy was many, and they were few.

Calach side-stepped a lunging Roman gladius, smashed his shield into the attacker's jaw, and advanced. He blocked two incoming Roman short swords with the bronze shield, countering with rapid strikes of the hatchet that hacked into the gaps of the metal plate of the Roman helmets. The screams and dying cries of loyal warriors burning alive distracted him. Pleas of 'Save me! Help me!' were drowned out by battle cries, deafening flames, and the chink-chink of metal upon metal. A Roman plunged a fire torch at Calach's face. The warrior-prince briskly slipped his head to the side and struck blow upon blow to the Roman torch holder's head with the shield and axe, battering him to the ground. Calach reared up and wiped the blood spatter from his face. A Roman horseman charged out of the smoke. The polished iron of the horseman's raised gladius flashed in the firelight that was framed with battling shadows. Calach slipped two paces into the horse's side. With a fast up-thrust of the axe head to the Roman's chin, he knocked the rider clean out of the saddle. Leaping into the saddle, he kicked the underbelly of the horse, and pressed ahead. Romans blocked his escape with pointed spears and glinting gladii. He parried their blows with the bronze shield as he rode the horse roughshod through the Roman troopers amongst the chaos of fires, screams, and the high-pitched neighs of his captured horse.

Five Roman horsemen gave chase, forcing Calach to leap over a wall of sharpened stakes. The Roman horses refused to make the dangerous jump. The horsemen watched Calach's back become smaller, before it was swallowed by the black of the night.

'Calach. Calach. Venutius will need an answer,' pressed Danu.

'Venutius waits for your arrival,' said Iolair Mor.

'He hides in the hills with his forces. He asks, will you ride south?' Danu's eyes sparkled. 'Will you unite the tribes?'

'The King of the South will need an answer,' said Iolair Mor.

Calach snapped out of the memory, moved his gaze from the fire, and took in their trepid faces. He poured the ale from the horn into the fire. 'We will meet with Venutius.'

'When do we ride? asked Danu.

'Now,' replied Calach.

Glum faces came alive. The warriors emptied their horns of ale into the fire. Dampened flames spat and hissed. Calach was the last to leave the cave. Wheeling around at the entrance, he looked back. Grey smoke bellowed upwards and fanned out along the roof of the cave. Viewing the smoke for some moments he tried to banish thoughts of betrayal.

Five battle horses, Raven amongst them, chewed grass on a flat plateau that overlooked the forested hills of the south. When darkness fell, the five warriors slept on the ground, wrapped in their saddle blankets, exhausted from the two-day ride.

Calach had short spurts of sleep, but awoke again and again. Finally, his leaden eyelids closed and the faint whistle of the wind lured him to sleep. _He was floating under water. Icy fluid numbed his body to the core. He peered up at shafts of sunlight that streaked through the surface of a river. The thin shafts of yellow gold faded in the bottomless pit below. In the silence, a warmth and ease purged the icy chill of his whole being. He stopped battling for breaths. Floating weightlessly, he wanted to let go of life. He wanted to be free at last. The vision of his wife, Sky, drifted towards him. She rose, through the streaks of yellow gold, from the murky depths of the bottomless pit. Her long auburn hair straddled the water as she opened her arms wide. Her closed eyelids opened to reveal her sea blue eyes. Her warm hands caressed his face, and she gazed into his eyes. They kissed and the tender kiss went on and on._ Calach jolted awake on the plateau. He longed to be back in that warm place, but the night wind froze his bones to the core. He got to his feet and looked about. The other warriors snored in restful sleep.

He wandered up and down stony trails above the camp. Stopping on the peak of a ridge, he peered up at the stars that sparkled like millions of tiny diamonds engulfed by black. It took a long time for his mind to relax. Dreams of his beloved wife kept him awake most nights. He had tried to put the memories behind by storing them in the remote locker at the back of his head. Hate had replaced the grief. Nothing would get in the way of the bloody revenge he sought. Feelings were enemies. Tears were dangerous strangers he had chained deep down in that dark locker of the mind.

Iolair Mor joined him. The two brothers sat together on a flat boulder. Not a word was spoken. The nervous Iolair Mor shuffled around and fidgeted with the raven feathers on his cloak. 'So these are the lands of the south. First time here.' He turned to Calach. 'Do you ever ask yourself what's this all about?'

'Always,' said Calach.

'And?'

'And what, Iolair Mor?'

'Do you find answers?'

'Sometimes, there are no answers, just more questions.'

'Whatever we do, nothing can bring them back.' Iolair Mor's sad face dropped.

'We don't need to bring them back,' said Calach.

Iolair Mor lifted his head. 'We don't need to bring them back? What does that mean?' There was a hint of anger in the voice.

'They live, brother. They live in my dreams.'

'Your dreams?'

'She waits for me; all of them wait, mother, father. They wait in the clouds. I see their shadows in the clouds. Shadows of the dead stand in a circle. Only...only they are not dead. They live. They look down upon me, and I... I feel their love.' Calach unfolded his arms, bent his head backwards and took in the delight of the starry night.

'Do they talk?' asked Iolair Mor.

'Sometimes.'

'And what do they talk of?' Iolair Mor clutched Calach's shoulder and had to have an immediate answer.

Calach saw the longing for the answer in his look. 'They say there is a land with no tears.' For the first time since the invasion, he was at peace. 'They say this land awaits us all.'

'I would like to be in the land with no tears.' Iolair Mor looked to where Calach was staring, the stars.

'One day, you will; one day, you will be in the land with no tears, and one day, there will be no more waiting, no more war.'

Iolair Mor jumped to his feet. 'You are in great danger.'

Calach broke into laughter. 'Fear not.' He bounced to his feet and placed his hands on his brother's shoulders. 'Iolair Mor, my little brother, if you're not trying to kill me, you're trying to save my life. One good thing has been born through all this blood.'

'What's that?'

'I have got back the brother I thought I had lost forever.'

The two brothers clasped arms. Warriors, brothers by blood, they forged an alliance of the soul.

The following morning, heavy fog smothered the lands of the south. On the plateau, the five warriors prepared their battle horses for the meeting with Venutius. Without warning, Calach strode towards Raven.

Danu, fastening the buckle over her saddle blanket, spoke over her shoulder, 'Where are you going?'

'To meet Venutius,' said Calach.

Iolair Mor paced to Danu's side. 'Alone?'

Calach gripped Raven's reins and saw the disgruntled faces. 'A risk to one is enough.'

Olaf and Shantoch's words overlapped,

'You must lead us.'

'You go to your death.'

Calach's stern look gave them his answer. Springing onto Raven's saddle, he hauled the reins. 'You will remain here until I return.' The four warriors opened their mouths to protest. 'Enough. My words are final.' The heels of his boots kicked Raven's underbelly. Calach's back dissolved through a wall of fog.

'Only a fool refuses not to listen to good reason,' said Iolair Mor.

Clouds of dense fog veiled the clearing, in the forested glen, where Calach prepared to meet Venutius. He slipped Avenger from its saddle scabbard then slid the long blade back into its leather. Venutius was a true friend of his father. The bearing of such a sword would break the etiquette of a truce meeting. The sound of running water from the meeting place, a ravine, calmed uneasy thoughts.

'I don't like it,' said Iolair Mor from the saddle of his horse on the plateau.

'We will trust Venutius,' said Danu, who stood alongside Iolair Mor's horse.

Iolair Mor's frosty glare stayed on Danu. 'Calach was betrayed by Morghana in these lands. And Morghana is the wife of Venutius. This could be a plot hatched by them.'

Danu drew a dagger from her belt and thrust the tip to Iolair Mor's chest. She felt the blood rush to her head, but took a deep breath to stem her rising temper. She eased the dagger away from him. 'We must have patience, Iolair Mor.'

Iolair Mor accepted the unspoken apology by dipping his head. They had both spoken in haste, but the morning was tense and without humour. 'I am just saying I don't like it, Danu. I say we keep an eye on him, watch his back.'

'Calach gave us an order,' said Olaf.

'We stay here, like it or not,' said Shantoch.

Iolair Mor lifted the reins. Danu gripped his wrist to stop him. He heaved his wrist from her grip, 'You can do what you like, but you will not stop me.' He struck the neck of his stallion with the reins. Rider and horse dashed past tree trunks and were blotted out by the fog.

Danu sheathed her dagger, thought for some time, then turned to Shantoch and Olaf. 'Iolair Mor is right.' She leapt into the saddle of her horse. 'Shantoch, Olaf, follow me. We will go to the meeting place.'

Calach, masked by fog, waited on the bank of the ravine. Distant sounds of chariot wheels on earth. Sounds of chaffing, neighing horses caught his attention. He barely made out their dim shapes; two harnessed stallions strapped to a chariot yoke dashed in and out of tree stems. Their patchy outlines emerged from the trees on the opposite side of the ravine. Two brown stallions swept in from the tree shore. The war chariot and rider halted. The battle stallions blew puffs of white into the freezing air.

King Venutius leapt from the wicker platform, fronted with bronze shields. Seeing Calach, he lifted a hand of welcome. The King of the South wore a long sword on his belt. The hilt of a second sword stuck out of his shoulder scabbard. A brown cloak of bear fur covered his broad shoulders. He looked upon the slim stretch of water that separated him from Calach, and welcomed Calach with a cheery smile. 'Venutius welcomes the son of Brude as he would welcome a son of his own blood.'

Calach called across the divide, 'Venutius. You are alive.'

'I told you that she-wolf would betray you. But would you listen? Where are your swords?' asked Venutius.

'My sword rests in the comfort of my saddle scabbard.'

'I carry my swords in my sleep. Trust no-one, Calach.'

Calach was the first to step into the shallow ravine. The two warriors paced towards each other, their boots sloshing amongst the displaced water. They would unite the tribes of Britain. They would make the Celtic dream of freedom a reality. They opened their arms wide to embrace. The leaves rustled, but there was no wind. They swivelled their heads. The forest was strangled by an ominous silence. Arrows whizzed about their ears. An arrow impacted Venutius' upper arm. Venutius pulled out the tip and gaped at the bloody barb. An arrow struck Calach's left forearm, another, Venutius' right calf.

Screaming neighs of horses. Chariot wheels pounded the ground. Blurry figures in black cloaks charged out of the tree line from both sides of the forest.

Calach snapped off the arrow's shank from his wounded forearm and stared at the feather quill, soaked with blood.

Venutius drew a long sword from its belt scabbard. 'Go, Calach. You must leave me.'

Calach remembered the dying words of his father. 'I am not running this time.'

Six war chariots, three on each bank of the ravine, encircled their position.

'Too many of our heroes are dead.' Venutius offered his arm to Calach. The two warriors clasped arms. Venutius heaved a second sword from his shoulder scabbard and spoke hurriedly, 'You must lead our people. I said go.'

The King of the South wielded the two long blades about and waited for the imminent assault.

'Is that an order?' Calach smirked.

Venutius half smiled, 'Friendly advice. Now get out of here, before I change my mind.'

Calach took a long, last look at Venutius before he sprinted along the water of the ravine and vanished into foggy plumes.

Romans leapt into the ravine. Flash lightning strikes of Venutius' long swords brought injury and death to the Roman troopers, but the numbers were against him. He fought them off for as long as he could, giving Calach time to escape.

Rufus, the scar faced Centurion, body-tackled Venutius to the water. A flurry of fists, boots, and wooden clubs struck the king's body. Rufus forced Venutius' head under the water then yanked him up by his long, silver-grey hair. Rufus brandished Venutius' face at two hooded figures that watched from the platform of a two horse chariot.

Lucinius Gracchus, the killer of Calach's wife, gripped the reins. At his side, the traitor, whose face was hidden in the black shadow of a hood.

Venutius spat water from his choking lungs and fought for breaths as the cloaked Romans pinned him down.

'Is this him? The Man of the Sword. Calgacus? Is this the man?' Gracchus asked the traitor at his side. The traitor gestured his head, left to right, this was not Calgacus.

Low mist masked the base of a standing stone that stood in a hazel grove, and gave Calach cover from his enemies. With gritted teeth, a sheen of sweat on his crinkled face, Calach eased out the blooded iron arrow head from his forearm and threw it aside. Treacle, like blood, oozed out of the wound. He tore a strip from his tunic and bound the forearm taut with the woollen cloth, then knotted the two ends. He pressed his back against the cool stone, but the throbbing, burning pain in his arm and shoulder would not subside and kept him awake. _Who betrayed? They are close, but who?_ The floating layers of fog clouded his mind, and he closed his eyelids. He opened his eyes in an instant and gripped Avenger's hilt that lay in his lap. He scanned around, barely able to make out the faint shapes of trees blanketed by the fog. He was safe. His hand loosened its grip on the hilt, and he fell into a deep, deep sleep. _The hoot of an owl rang in his ears. The white owl had wide black eyes with a frozen stare. The more Calach saw the owl, the wider its eyes became. And in the black of those eyes was all that was dark in the human soul._ A black figure, wearing a black hooded cloak, hovered above him. The figure's face was covered with a brown sack; slits for the mouth and the eyes.

'Traitor,' the word fizzed on Calach's lips. He peeked at Avenger in his lap.

The traitor placed the tip of a gladius to Calach's throat.

Calach glared up. 'Who are you? Who are you?'

The traitor lifted the sword to slice through Calach's jugular.

Huge white teeth shot out of the mist. Raven snapped the traitor's arm. The masked foe let out a shrill cry, and the gladius dropped to the long grass. Raven let out fighting neighs and gruff snorts as it head butted the hooded foe away.

Calach grasped Raven's reins and patted the horse's head until it calmed. The traitor had fled. Calach lifted the gladius from the long grass and saw the sliver of his own face in the silver blade.

Twittering birds awoke Calach, his back upright to the stone. He struggled to his feet and buckled his shoulder scabbard that carried Avenger. Rough, high pitched squawks pierced his ears. A solitary raven with a chipped beak strutted up and down the jagged top of the standing stone. Calach eyed the black nuisance. 'You mock me, raven.' He shook his head and half-laughed. 'You mock yourself.' Jumping into the horse's saddle, he gave the black bird a fleeting glance, then galloped north.

Drizzle poured from ashen clouds on the long journey back to the rebel stronghold. Calach trotted across dreary plains, littered with grey rocks and boulders. The greens, browns and blacks of the forested landscapes, a blended mix of bleakness, passed him by. There was only one thing on his mind, the traitor?

It took him a day and a half to get back to the stronghold. A loud cheer went around the camp when Raven trundled through the open gates. Calach hauled the black stallion's reins in front of his hut.

Iolair Mor, Olaf, Shantoch, and Danu waited in front of the black and white cowhide door. The relief in their faces spread throughout the stronghold.

'In my hut, now,' ordered Calach from the saddle.

Inside the hut, the Celtic leadership gathered around the base of a felled oak that was an improvised table. In the corner was Calach's bed of straw, covered with animal furs. Two unlit torches jutted from two support beams that propped up the circular turfed roof. Looming questions were in everyone's mind. Who was the traitor? What man? What woman ? What smiling face deceived them?

'The traitor has been spying upon us since the start.' Danu peeked at Iolair Mor. He was the first to leave the plateau. Was it just a ruse? '

'Every time we ambush, they know when and where we will strike.' Shantoch glanced at Olaf. When Olaf neared the meeting place, he had sneaked off, without a word. Olaf was a mercenary, a soldier for hire; perhaps, the lust for Roman gold had bought his loyalty.

'The seed of the traitor was planted long ago.' Iolair Mor slipped a look to Danu. She was not a blood sister. She would not be the first to sell her people for gold and favour. 'You saw one traitor, but how many traitors stand amongst us?'

Calach shook his head and rested two palms on the oak table, 'Enough talk of the traitor. We must not let the issue of the traitor divide us or sway us from the goal. If we break the Roman shield lines, we can throw the enemy back into the sea.'

'No simple task, lord,' said Olaf.

'Boudicca's army could not break the Roman shield lines. The Iceni paid the price, meeting the Romans in open battle,' said Calach.

'An old veteran once told me a story. In Pannonia, he saw the Roman shield lines break before his eyes.' Olaf smiled, and the smile spread amongst the leadership.

Calach looked at his comrades in arms, 'Perhaps, these Romans are not so invincible.'

Olaf thought before he spoke, 'All I need are boats. My men are scattered over your Caledonian Islands.' He looked about and waited for an offer.

'I will get you your boats,' said Danu.

Night and day, the smiths were busy hammering swords, shields, and armour. Night and day, spear warriors walked the ramparts. They kept their watchful eyes upon the miles of surrounding bog and marsh. No attack came.

The nights and days turned to months in which, under Calach's supervision, the refugees trained for battle. The people he trained had never handled weapons and had to learn the use of the sword, spear, and shield in a brief time. Danu taught the Celts how to ride, muster, and fight with war chariots on differing terrain. Iolair Mor, Shantoch, and Olaf showed farmers, shepherd men, and women how to throw spears and fight with swords from moving mounts. The Celts knew what was at stake, and they all sought the same revenge that Calach desired. 

# Chapter nine

A group of spear warriors on foot escorted a warrior, wearing a sack over his head, from the open gate of the stronghold. Danu, Olaf, Shantoch, and Iolair Mor broke from training in the muster area and joined Calach. The Celtic leadership inspected the hooded man.

'What does he want?' asked Iolair Mor.

Arrow, Shantoch's son, held a dagger to the prisoner's neck. 'Say she's a message for Calach's ears only.'

Calach took the dagger away. 'Leave us.'

'He could be an assassin,' said Danu.

'I'll take my chances.' Calach waited until the Celts had gone back to their training. He lifted the sack from the warrior's head and carefully eyed the young warrior, a face painted with dark blue streaks of lightning. 'This pressing message?'

'Why cutoff the branch when you can pullout the root?' The messenger bowed his head. A gesture of allegiance to Calach. He raised his head and killer blue eyes waited for an answer.

Calach heard the voice of his father in his mind, _'A man you must trust with your life. A man you must trust as you would trust your father.'_

The messenger revealed, 'You will meet the one you have been waiting for. First, listen, then you must act. What passes from my lips is for your ears only.'

In a temporary Roman marching camp, a barren, windswept moor in the far north of Caledonia, General Agricola moved to a table in the command tent. Using a candle, he hastily poured over the maps during the night. He ignored Gracchus who loitered at his side. 'Crowna has given us the location. We have the army of Calgacus cornered.'

'When do we attack?' Gracchus asked.

'At first light.' The General dotted his finger on the map, a large ink circle that represented the rebel's field camp. 'An ancient, unused hillfort, called Damia. It lies across the river from our position.'

Two dozen Roman guards lay dead inside the muster area of a watchtower fort, a remote Roman outpost on the Northern Line. Under the light of the full moon, Calach ordered the Celts to strip the Roman corpses of weapons, armour, and uniforms. Once the bodies were cleared, the Celts used pitch forks to spread dry hay, loaded off carts, around the muster area.

Iolair Mor marched behind Calach, who paced to the watchtower. Calach placed his boot on the bottom rung of the ladder. Iolair Mor looked up as Calach climbed. 'Light the fire beacon. That's what I call a great plan.' Calach ignored him and clambered the ladder that led to a square, black man hole.

On the watchtower platform, a roofless, square platform with a wooden rail, Calach threw a burning torch that was held in a brazier on an upright, into a huge bronze cauldron. He watched the sparking embryo of fire flicker and flash amongst the fresh timber and dry gorse. The flame burst into tails of furious fire that quickly became a blazing mass. A dazzling yellow-red glow was soon visible for miles around.

The intense heat sweated Iolair Mor's brow and turned his face red. 'And the whole Roman Empire knows we are here.'

'The first wave after the calm predicts the storm.' The flames stirred in Calach's eyes.

'Riddles, my brother speaks in riddles.'

Crowna, the stern night rider, on a brown stallion, wearing a cloak of bear fur, rode his horse towards the Roman garrison fort of Eborecum. Gritting his teeth, he stormed through the open gates of the fort of the Ninth Legion. It was easy for the guards to recognize Crowna in the moonlight. Crowna had saved the life of General Agricola. Agricola had rewarded the fierce Celt by making him the chief scout of the Ninth Legion. Crowna had become a true legend amongst the Roman ranks.

Crowna burst open the door of Tiberius' private quarters with a boot.

The commander of the Ninth Legion was eating veal and drinking wine at a table. Tiberius wiped his mouth with a napkin. 'Crowna? It is late in the night.' The red, merry-faced commander poured wine into a golden goblet and offered it to Crowna, 'Drink with me.'

Crowna knocked the cup from Tiberius' hand. The goblet clattered, and red wine washed over the slabbed floor. 'As you swig your wine, the watchtowers of the Northern Line burn.'

The seriousness of the situation sobered Tiberius, who shot to his feet. 'The towers burn?'

'You heard me the first time. They burn.'

Tiberius' hands shuddered at his side. 'What should I do?'

Crowna rebuked him, 'You are the commander of this garrison fort. You should know what to do. Dispatch the Ninth Legion. Cut this rebellion down, before we are fed to the pigs.'

Tiberius laughed off the ridiculous suggestion. 'I cannot send out a Legion in the middle of the night, without the proper authority. The General gave strict orders. I must keep the entire garrison in the fort, no matter what. I can only act under orders from central command. Orders are orders.'

Crowna punched the table. 'Central command! Orders. Do you wish to wake with a savage standing over you and your throat cut? This is war, not some day trip on the Tiber, and in war, you do not play by the rules of some training manual. Wake up Tiberius.'

Tiberius nervously rubbed the palm of his hand with a thumb and thought long and hard about what to do. 'I will give you half a cohort of horses. That is my only offer. You will not sway me on this, Crowna.'

'So be it. But if this little enterprise fails, then know this; it is your neck on the line, commander.'

The half cohort of Roman horses, two hundred riders, galloped at break neck speed along a forest road. Crowna raised an arm and the column came to a halt. From his viewpoint, a glowing mini-sphere of bright orange, from the cauldron of the watchtower, looked like a shrunken sun through the stark tree branches. The big Celt pointed out the distant blazing beacon to the Roman Centurion who rode alongside. 'The watchtower beacon burns, now, do you believe me?'

'What now?' The Centurion glanced about the forest, with its creeping shadows, distant wolf cries, and the light whistle of the wind unnerved him. 'This backwater could be teaming with savages.'

Crowna's horse snorted as he took in the view of the far away beacon. 'I'll ride ahead, make sure the enemy has not seized the tower. Wait here. I will return.'

Crowna rode to the gates of the watchtower, his horse's hooves spitting up specs of mud on the straight, narrow road flanked by compact woodland. He viewed a line of spear warriors who blocked the road before the watchtower gates. The big Celt halted the horse ten paces from the armed guard and stroked his bushy beard. 'I always like a welcoming party. 'Leaping from his mount, he swaggered on foot towards them. Three warriors moved ahead of the rest and threatened his chest with their long spears. A playful grin came to his lips. 'I have a little business to attend to...with Calach. I am unarmed. I seek a meeting under truce. You are sworn by your warrior oath not to harm me. Take me to him.'

Shantoch strolled from the group of spear warriors and placed the tip of his long spear to Crowna's lip. 'You can meet Calach, then I will stuff this sharpened iron down that big traitor mouth of yours.'

Inside the muster area, four torch bearing warriors escorted the prisoner from the open gates. Spear tips pressed against Crowna's back and neck as the Celts led him to Calach, who was talking to a few warriors.

Iolair Mor kicked the back of Crowna's leg and forced him to his knees, 'The traitor returns.'

Crowna saw Calach approach and raised his head and arms, 'No weapons. I am carrying no weapons.'

'We have searched him. He's clear,' said Shantoch.

Crowna looked around and was impressed. 'A fine band of warriors you have gathered. Your father would be proud, Calach.'

'My father. You dare speak of my father.' Calach was tempted to slice the traitor's throat with his dagger there and then, but something in the back of his mind stopped him.

'There is a traitor amongst us.' Crowna pointed an accusing finger at the warriors who held him captive. May be it is him, or him, maybe me, maybe not, could be you?' He pointed a finger at Calach. 'Oh, if looks could kill. Calach is always so angry, so miserable. May be you should lighten up a bit, make them laugh, make us all laugh, 'ey Calach.'

'May be he has lost his wits,' said Danu.

Iolair Mor unsheathed a dagger from his belt. 'This will wipe that jolly smile off his face.'

Crowna dared to stand. Spear tips pressed deeper into his back. Casually, he raised his arms high and faced Calach. 'Your father should have been a travelling story teller, but my performance was more polished, I think you would agree.'

Iolair Mor put the dagger to Crowna's throat.

'Enough, Iolair Mor.' Calach placed his arm on his brother's chest. 'Wait.'

'And let this dog bite us again.'

Crowna felt the edge of the blade press against the skin of his jugular. 'Iolair Mor, before you cut my throat, I ask for some quiet words...for Calach's ears only?'

'Lower your weapons. I said, lower your weapons,' The warriors reluctantly obeyed. Calach clasped a hand around Crowna's throat. 'Speak. Then I will kill you.'

'Why cut off the branch when you can pullout the root?' Calach's released his grip, his puzzled look examined the fierce Celt who smiled like a demented fool.

Crowna continued, 'These are the words of your father. He staged it all. We spent a week rehearsing the damn thing. We got it so polished that we were sick of doing it. Your father forced me to learn it line by line. Damn fine actor your father, and yours truly, you would agree?'

Calach spluttered with the shock of the discovery of the outrageous ruse. 'You are the poisonous seed my father planted in the Roman garden.'

Crowna's face was deadly serious. 'Such a poisonous seed that will bring down the great tree of Rome.' The big Celt sounded sharp shrills of laughter, then the laughter became an unfettered, bellowing howl. He stooped, holding his hands to his stomach until tears rolled down his cheeks and he could laugh no more. It took Calach time to catch on, but he did. The band of on-looking Celts believed both of them had lost the plot, but the daring plot was about to unfold.

Crowna, on the saddle of his horse spoke to the Celtic warriors under the glow of the fire beacon, 'We haven't much time. The darkness is our friend.'

'He's going to get us all killed,' said Iolair Mor.

'You will trust Crowna,' ordered Calach. 'You will trust Crowna as you would trust my father.'

The Centurion on horse, escorted by Crowna, led the mounted cohort to the watchtower gates. Crowna had told the Centurion that the watchtower had been besieged. The Celtic attackers, seeing the cohort arrive, had fled to the forest. It was safe to leave the horses outside the gates of the watchtower, under strict supervision. The Centurion looked cautiously at the watchtower ramparts. Six Celts, disguised as Roman guards, patrolled. He ordered eight men to stay with the horses outside the fort; the rest of the men, he ordered to dismount and enter.

Crowna watched, from the saddle of his horse as the Roman troopers marched through the open gates. When the timber doors were chocked within, he gave a nod with his head to warriors hidden in the woods. Celts crept up on the mounted guards, snatched them from their mounts, and polished them off with daggers. Warriors jammed the gates with two oxen carts loaded with dry straw, throwing burning torches into the back of the carts, setting the straw alight.

The Roman cohort was packed tightly inside the muster area. The legionaries had heard the dying cries and calls of their comrades outside the walls. They passed fearful glances. They scanned the ramparts. The Roman guards had ghosted away. Worse, smoke sifted through the gaps of the timber staked wall. The troopers tried to force open the gates with their hammering hands and boots, but it was too late.

Calach popped up from behind the rampart and raised an arm to the Celts outside the watchtower.

Outside, Danu saw Calach's signal and gave her signal with a raised arm. The Celts pushed on six battle stallions strapped to a large cart, weighted down with heavy sacks of grain.

Inside the muster area, ropes tightened around the upper beams of the watchtower. The thick ropes creaked with tension above the Roman heads. The Centurion gaped up at the straining ropes that stretched beyond the staked wall. Calach waved a hand, smiled and winked at the trembling Centurion. The warrior-prince disappeared beyond the wall. The stout timber beams of the tower cracked then shattered. The watchtower toppled upon the Centurion and his doomed men. The tumbling cauldron rained molten balls and shards of fire upon the cohort. The dry straw the Celts had put on the ground spread a ravaging fire. The muster area was a burning hell of screams, black smoke, and flame.

Crowna blazed his horse through the open gates of the garrison fort at Eborecum. The guards on the towers were too busy warming their hands around burning braziers than being concerned with the business of their chief scout.

Celtic warriors, led by Danu, used ropes fastened to iron boat anchors to scale the walls of the fort as Crowna rode along the principal road. Warriors crept along the ramparts and used arrows to take out the Roman guards in the gate area. More Celts swarmed over the walls of the fort like bees to easy honey.

Lucinius Gracchus entered Agricola's tent, in the temporary marching camp, one day's ride from Eborecum. He shook the General from his sleep. 'Sir. A dispatch rider from the Ninth Legion has arrived. An urgent message from Tiberius.' Gracchus thrust the scrolled parchment before the General's blood-shot eyes.

Agricola seethed, 'You read it.'

Gracchus read the dispatch. His eyes opened wider the more he read. He lowered the parchment. 'The entire Northern Line is in flames. Tiberius has sent out a half-cohort of horse to subdue the revolt. He asks if the Ninth Legion should march to quell the rebellion?'

The Roman General observed the encampment, an ancient hill-fort called Damia, from the earthen ramparts of the temporary fort. The disused Celtic fort was positioned far across the river from the where Agricola stood. Thousands of tiny torch lights moved, beneath the starlit sky, within the circular wall of the derelict fort. It seemed the hill-fort was crammed with Celts. Crowna had convinced him that the enemy was camped there. Something deep in his gut caused growing unease. He dismissed the ludicrous feeling that gnawed. Crowna had saved his life. Crowna was a Citizen of Rome but the feeling would not subside. He turned to Gracchus at his side. 'Gracchus. Take four scouts and ride in to the enemy camp.'

'But sir, the savages will cut us to pieces.'

'I will cut you to pieces if I ask you again. Ride, damn you.'

Gracchus and the four Roman horsemen ascended a winding, overgrown turf avenue that led to the entrance of the derelict hill-fort. Celtic guards held long spears on the crumbling gate walkway. 'Odd. The guards do not challenge us,' said Gracchus from the saddle of his trotting horse. The scouting party cantered through the narrow, rectangular gap in the circular stone wall. Inside the hill-fort, several hundred sheep with flaming torches strapped to their fleeces, gave them a bleated welcome. The army of sheep ambled around the old fort that was an orchestra of bleats. The gate guards were no more than lifeless scarecrows stuffed with hay and clothed in tunics and cloaks.

'He is clever. I have to admit he is clever.' Agricola scanned a map on the table in the command tent. He saw the blood drain from Gracchus' face. Agricola put both hands on the table and looked up at the cloak hooded traitor, who had tried to take Calach's life. 'If the army of Calgacus is not here then where the hell is it?'

The traitor's finger slid along the dozen square ink symbols, the Roman watchtowers on the Northern Line. The finger slipped further south and dotted the biggest square on the map, the garrison fort of Eborecum.

'Eborecum!' The Roman General's heart thumped against his chest. 'Eborecum. If I lose the Ninth Legion, I could lose the whole of Britain. The target of Calgacus was always the Ninth.' He glared at the traitor, whose face was concealed in the black shadow of the hood. 'We are betrayed!'

Calach, sitting in Raven's saddle, saw the small circles of bright yellow, made by a warrior who waved a fire torch, beneath the arch of the gatehouse at Eborecum. The signal to go in. He was the first to dash out of the hidden position of the forest. Five hundred mounted sword warriors, who had been waiting in the shadows of pines, leapt from the den of the forest and followed. The Celtic night raiders carried flaming torches on their hurtling horses as Calach led the charge through the open gates of the Roman fort.

Flames of the Roman fort of Eborecum turned the night sky into an orange-red glow. Clouds of mustard coloured smoke blotted out the stars. Roman cries and screams echoed throughout the camp. Legionaries fought the flames with red cloaks, blankets, and buckets of water. Sword-brandishing Celts on horses burned and killed at random. Escaped horses ran along the principal roads of smoke and fire.

Tiberius took to the backstreets to escape the madness. He stayed close to a timber barrack wall, when he felt razor sharp iron across his throat. The menacing face of Crowna, holding a dagger, confronted him.

Crowna's voice was low with menace. 'Going somewhere, little pig? I told you, you might wake up one of these dark nights and find a savage standing over you and your throat cut.'

Inside the Bathhouse of Domitian, Calach and Olaf kicked in the oak doors and entered. Their long swords checked the arched alcoves with bronze statues of Roman Gods mounted on plinths. They walked upon the sandstone paving stones and stopped before the marble bust of Emperor Domitian. Calach pushed the bust off its oak plinth with a brush of his hand. The bust toppled and shattered on the paved floor. 'Accident.' Calach slipped a smile to Olaf and looked about the bath house, seeking the next object to destroy.

Olaf grinned and slapped Calach on the shoulders. 'Who's going to save Rome now?'

Crowna pushed Tiberius through the doorway. 'Meet Tiberius, the commander of this cess pit.'

Olaf mocked Tiberius, 'What about him? Looks like he's in charge, lord.'

Tiberius straightened his toga and tried to keep some semblance of dignity by standing upright in their presence. 'You men should know that, as I speak, a whole legion marches to this garrison fort, and they will destroy this futile attempt of rebellion.'

Olaf shoved the Roman around with his big hand. 'All I see is your precious fort burning and your precious legion with it, old man.'

Tiberius gaped at Crowna. 'You. Crowna. You are a friend of Rome. You killed the assassin. That night in the General's command tent, while the General slept, you saved the General's life.'

Crowna clutched Tiberius' shoulders with both hands and his nose almost touched the Roman's nose. 'True. I saved the General's life. But that night, I killed an informer because...how should I put it, that informer was going to inform on me.'

The safe, secure world of Tiberius crumbled. He realized how vulnerable he was, and approached Calach with his hands cupped like a man preaching a desperate sermon. 'What do you want? Gold? I will give you gold. We could come to some sort of arrangement. You would be especially rewarded. Rome needs allies. Work with us, and you shall be shown favour, Calgacus.'

Calach laughed, an ugly laughter that stopped in an instant. He gripped Tiberius' toga and drew him close, 'My name is Calach the Swordsman. As for Rome...Rome has already shown me favour. Ask my father, ask my wife; they were shown Rome's favour. Tiberius, you will live. You will live to deliver this message to the General and the Emperor. Tell them to leave the lands of Caledonia, and we will leave Rome alone. Come against us, and we will destroy all imperial forces with a united Celtic army.'

Iolair Mor ran into the chamber. 'Roman cavalry. A thousand, more. Pouring through the gates.'

General Agricola and the column of Roman horses charged through the North Gate. The Roman relief force was met with the chaos of burning buildings and masses of marauding animals. The General and his men, despite an extensive night search, did not find a single Celt in the fort. Calach and the Celtic horse raiders left through the South Gate and melted into the forest as the sun rose.

The General palmed the base of his neck as he stood on the principal road of the fort. A strange sight met his eyes, where the road met the South Gate. Tiberius was naked; his wrists had been strapped to the saddle of a trotting donkey. The mule let out several shrill 'eeeaaws' before it was stopped by a group of legionaries. The soldiers read the words scribbled in charcoal on a plank of wood roped around the neck of Tiberius...

ROMANASS

SEEKS

NEW LEGION.

# Chapter ten

Season of the Darkness - Winter

Shards of rain beat hillsides of bracken and long grass. Calach, wearing a cloak of deer fur, looked upon the old homestead that sat beneath low, black clouds. His ginger hair and rough beard were shifted by the iced winds of the north. He sat alone in Raven's saddle on a hill that overlooked the ruins of the old Caledonian Settlement.

Raven snorted as he crossed the causeway. The wind lifted some broken wooden rafters, taunting Calach's ears like a rattling drum with its broken rhythm. The warrior's lacklustre gaze took in the homestead from the saddle of the horse; roofs with broken wattle walls, scorched, caved in rafters and fences that had been destroyed by the Romans. There were memories here, too many memories. Raven's hooves punched holes in mushy layers of old snow-pocked by tears of rain. The horse trundled to what remained of the Great Hall. Calach heaved the reins before the ruins of the hall, and Raven came to a halt. He closed his eyes. A flash vision in his head. _The wounded Brude staggered out of the smoking entrance._ Calach's eyes shot open, and he had to steady himself in the saddle.

Avenger's tip cracked through an iced sheet of a water trough in a fenced enclosure. The fractured lines splintered like the threads of a spider's web. Water gushed through the puncture hole and poured over the cracked ice. Visions and sounds of childhood flooded back to Calach, who closed his eyes. _He was twelve harvests old. A summer day, the boy sat on the rim of the water trough. A wild black stallion Brude had tried to tame had broken free from an enclosure. The stallion tore across the wooden causeway to the freedom of the Great Forest._ _'Take a good look, son; what do you see?' Brude stood next to the boy, and he seemed like a giant to the young Calach._

The boy found it hard to conceal his mirth from his father, 'I see your horse. Running away.'

' _I see majesty, grace, power, a strong heart that no man can break. This is what makes us who we are, Calach.'_

Calach's eyes instantly opened, he was back in this barren place, his father's laughter swept over the rain-swept bogs then faded to the hissing wind. He fixed a pensive gaze upon the remains of the ruined roundhouse, where he and his wife had lived. Here, they had once whispered secret words of love and desire under the light of the moon. The warrior found himself back in that warm place.

He was lying on a bed of comfortable furs with his love. They were naked, so at ease with each other, like two swans interwoven and wrapped by timeless bonds of the soul. She galloped away, through swirling blades of long grass and vanished over the distant hill.

The images and sounds faded to the sight of the hostile land that made the hatred return. He touched his chest, but the Feather of Hawk was gone. A rider on a swift war chariot, fronted with bronze shields, approached from the south. Danu, Calach's half-sister, leapt out of the chariot and removed her boar-crested helmet. Her flowing red hair streaked to her waist as she walked to him. 'The Roman army marches. We have five suns, seven at the most.'

Danu and Calach walked across the timber causeway and paused for reflection. They leant on the broad timber oak beam and stared upon the passing river waters.

'At night, when the forest sings no more, what do you see Danu?'

Danu took time to answer, 'My vision dreams, like everyone else.'

'You remember our father? My wife?'

'They live forever in my breast.'

'Some nights...some nights, I see her face...she calls my name, beckons me to follow. Her face dissolves; it dissolves to the face of the traitor. The eyes of the traitor, they stare and stare. I ask, 'Who are you? Who are you?' The vision never answers. It never answers.'

Danu heard the distress in his voice. She cradled him in her loving embrace, then took her head back, still holding onto his robust shoulders, 'So, what is the plan of escape?'

'Five suns. That's all we need.'

Danu let go the shoulders. 'You want to stay and fight?'

'We are not running this time. There will be a battle for Britain.' Calach clenched a fist and raised it. 'We have one last chance to deliver a death blow to Rome.'

'Do you love me, brother?'

'What a stupid question.'

'Would you die for me?' She turned away and scratched the back of her hand with her fingernails. The gesture spoke of her confusion and secret longing for him. She broke the long silence, 'I asked you the wrong question.'

Calach placed a hand on her shoulder and turned her around. 'Ask me the right one.'

She opened her mouth to speak, and the dread of the effect of her words made her look to the ground. 'Would you live for me? Give up the sword?'

Calach's nostrils flared. 'My little orphan sister Danu, what is this you ask of me?'

'We could leave this all behind.'

He violently gripped her chin, lifted her head, and there was brute anger in his voice, 'Leave my people like some coward in flight? Only you could get away with talking to me like this. Any other warrior would be on the end of my sword.'

Danu's voice exploded, 'This is not about them; it's about you.'

He fumed, 'About me. About me?'

'You use their names to satisfy your ambition.'

Calach lashed his dagger to her throat. 'You dare question my honour?'

'The truth answered with blood. Kill me if you want; it's all you've known.'

Calach lowered the dagger. A black heaviness weighed upon him. Dipping his head to his chest, he closed his eyes, wishing he could be in some other place.

Danu seized his neck with two cupped hands. Her heart sang with the suppressed passion of all the years of longing as she pressed her lips against his.

Calach opened his eyes wide, grabbed her elbows, and flung her to the ground.

Danu gripped his wrist with both hands and was dragged along the timbers of the causeway as he marched to Raven. Her unbridled heart cried out, 'In the dark hour of the moon, I dream of your flesh burning my flesh, your flesh inside me, our flesh, our fire making the circle.' Her teeth sank into the flesh of his calf like a wolf to carrion.

He let out a screech of pain, grabbed her hair, and pushed her face into the slushy snow that covered the timber decking. 'Bitten by a serpent.'

'I have loved you since I was a child.'

He twisted streaks of Danu's hair around his hand and forced her to look at him, 'My little orphan sister. We are bound together by the misfortune of war. But it was my misfortune ever setting my eyes on you in the first place.' Calach did not care about her pleading, soiled face. He marched on and leapt into Raven's saddle.

Danu called out as Raven brushed past, 'She is dead, Calach. She is dead.' She watched her love disappear to the bleak horizon. Her heart yearned only, always to be with him.

Calach stared at the cold wash that smothered the mossy pebbles at the edge of a loch. The sound of the soothing wash dissipated his anger. A peaceful heart returned. These irrational emotions had taken him too far, and he knew it. He despised the man who had spoken words of hatred to someone he loved as a blood sister. He muttered the question, 'What is Calach? A man with no heart. A man who would cut down his own sister.'

Calach sent emissaries to all the settlements throughout Caledonia. Using diplomacy and force of argument, he won over many tribes to the cause. The British Celts, north and south, all those that despised Rome, formed a great alliance. This was the first time in their history that the Celtic tribes of Britain had joined as one. But they all knew what was at stake-the very survival of their race.

The people were evacuated and escorted to safe regions. Crops and homesteads were destroyed, so as not to give succour to the advancing Roman army. Old men and women wept as they watched their roundhouses burn. Animals that could not be herded were slaughtered. Earthen grain stores were opened, and the precious crop torched.

Danu viewed Olaf's wieldy bronze helmet with two bronze bull horns that bounced up and down as he rode through the gates of the stronghold. Olaf's wet appearance, his puffing and panting brought wry smiles of amusement to the band of Celts. Olaf pulled his battle stallion before the leadership, who waited by Calach's hut. Danu's sharp tongue could not help itself, 'We have a bull that can ride and fight on horse.'

Olaf muttered obscenities under his breath while he dismounted. He took off the helmet, turned it upside down and water dripped from the lid.

'Glad you could make it, Olaf. Has it been raining?' Crowna tried to keep a straight face.

'I have a good reason for my lateness.'

Iolair Mor took the horned helmet from Olaf. 'How many bulls did Olaf kill to get this?'

'Olaf had to swim with the fishes,' said Danu.

Olaf fumed at Danu, 'Those damn boats of yours were full of holes.' The flames of his anger made the Celts wail with laughter. After cursing them all, he joined in the revelry. When the laughter settled, he turned to Calach, 'You have prepared the way for my warriors?'

Calach formed the shape of an arrowhead with both hands and thrust them forward in a cutting movement. 'Your warriors have all they desire.'

'Then my men are ready.'

'What is the plan?' Danu did not engage Calach when she posed the question. She grimly stared ahead.

'We stand and we fight. A battle on the open ground,' answered Calach.

An argument broke out to the idea of fighting on open ground. Voices vehemently protested.

'He will get us all killed.'

'We have no choice!'

'Suicide!'

Iolair Mor threw in his objection. 'But no army has ever beaten the Romans in battle on open ground.'

The warriors argued. Calach raised a hand to stop the clamours. 'The truth is we have no choice. Our people are starving.'

Danu cut in loudly, 'Calach is right.' She gave a tense smile to Calach. 'The Romans have destroyed or stolen most of our crop. We must return to sow our fields someday, or we will starve.'

Calach was grateful for her support. They shared a fleeting glance then Calach continued. 'This battle I speak of? We will choose the ground. We will have a few surprises for our Roman friends.' He waited for their response.

'Better to fight than die of hunger,' said Crowna.

'I would rather die a free man than die a slave to Rome,' said Shantoch.

'My men will fight. They will lay down their lives for you,' said Olaf.

Calach turned to his brother, Iolair Mor, at his side, 'Well, Iolair Mor? Are you for or against?'

'The Romans will cut us to pieces...count me in.'

'Then Calach will fight and die at the side of all his brothers and sisters. It is time to give the sacred oath.'

The warriors knelt. Calach slipped Avenger from its belt scabbard and held the glittering blade above heads of the loyal assembly. 'We kneel here, knowing the destiny of our people lay in our hands. Caledonia pays homage to her Gods. We ask for a just and lasting solution to the long war. With every beat in our breasts, we will honour the legacy of our ancestors. Let us never forget the memory of our dead as we fight for the freedom of the living.' The warriors got to their feet, unsheathed their swords, and placed them across Avenger. 'One sword. One heartbeat, the heartbeat of a free Caledonia.'

General Agricola, wearing a cloak of black bear fur, remained fixed on a map of Caledonia. He stood under the canopy of the command tent in bright daylight. Tiberius, Gracchus, and other senior officers waited for his orders. Agricola grimaced and was unaware of the presence of those at the table. _'Perhaps, I have pushed the legions too far, too quickly. It would be the ultimate humiliation, being forced to withdraw and march south, our tails between our legs.'_

Gracchus spoke, 'Starving soldiers make mutinous soldiers.'

Tiberius broke in, 'If we carry on any further with this madness, then we will have more men in the infirmary than on the field.'

The Roman General broke from his thoughts, 'No gentlemen. While there is a beat in his heart, an enemy wind blows against us. We must remain resolute.'

A dispatch rider entered. 'News from the informer, sir.' He delivered a dispatch into the General's hand.

Agricola opened the parchment and read it. 'He wants to fight on open ground. The enemy will assemble at a place in the far north, 'The Slopes of the Rising Sun.' The Legions are to assemble at once. We shall march day and night until we arrive at the final destination.' He slammed a fist onto the map, 'Let this savage feel the fist of Roman fury.'

# Chapter eleven

The Slopes of the Rising Sun.

The far north of Caledonia.

Three hundred war chariots formed a wedge before the peak of the great slope of a low mountain. Calach's chariot was at the head with Danu at the reins of the yoked horses. Behind the wedge were the massed ranks of the Celtic army that numbered over thirty thousand warriors. Their jagged lines bustled with colourful excitement as they waited for Calach's order to battle.

Calach turned to Danu; seeing her trembling fingers on the reins, he sensed her apprehension. 'There's something I've always wanted to ask you, Danu.'

Danu broke from concentrating on the two legions that advanced far down the sloping plain, 'Then ask me, now.'

'That day in the lands of the south, that day the warrior Hawk gave me her most sacred feather. Why?'

Danu gave him an incredulous look that showed her surprise at the question. 'Hawk and her people believed in you, now...we believe in you.'

Calach took in her words, with a slow, purposeful nod then faced the wall of encroaching red shields.

Danu dried her sweating palms on her tunic and clenched her fingers around the leather reins. 'A great army stands against us.'

Calach had a look in his eyes of an eagle that narrowed on its prey. 'We bleed. Romans bleed.'

She glanced back at the thousands of warriors that were crammed around the slope's peak. 'We came so far, so far.'

Calach handed Danu a fire arrow. He gave the order with a lift of his head to the sky. 'To freedom or slavery.'

Danu plunged the tip of oiled cloth into a burning torch held by a warrior. She pulled the bowstring tautly until it almost snapped and let loose the arrow. The flaming arrow soared to the storm clouds. Black smoke streaked from its tail. This was the signal for the Celts to ready themselves for the imminent assault. Thirty thousand Celts beat sword hilts, spear heads, scythes, and clubs against shield bosses. The beat became one steady, pulsating beat until the noise reached a deafening crescendo.

General Agricola, wearing a leather breastplate adorned with a silver eagle, sat on his white stallion, surrounded by senior officers and heralds. He observed the position of the Celts from the Roman hill of command positioned on the lower plain.

Gracchus pulled a brown stallion alongside. 'A quick victory, General?'

'The Second Legion Augusta must widen their flanks.' The General feared the numbers of Calach's army could overwhelm the spearhead of the Ninth Legion with an all-out assault. Gracchus lowered an arm, the command for the heralds who sounded a burst of low-pitched trumpets.

Ten blocks of cohorts, five on each flank of the Second Legion Augusta, promptly fanned out along the Roman front. The armour of the two legions clattered a metallic din to the beat of marching boots. Wild birds scurried from their nesting sites in the long grass. The beast of Rome cast a slow moving shadow on the landscape.

Danu broke Calach's thoughts by placing a long spear into his hand. 'Time you had words with them.'

Calach's steely gaze viewed the loyal army he had gathered. 'Speeches. You know I hate giving speeches.'

'Your words shall be our weapons.'

Calach used the long spear, damping it downwards, to quell the noise of the vast assembly. The clamours subsided to silence, but shouting dissent came from elements of the crowd.

'This Roman army is invincible.'

'Calach will get us all killed.'

'Fighting on open ground is suicide.'

Calach raised his voice above the growing dissent. 'Warriors! Warriors! Warriors. Listen to me. Listen. Fear not. Be strong. Look to the clouds. In the clouds, I see the faces of our fathers; I see the faces of our mothers, our brothers, our sisters. When battle beckoned, the traitor of fear always cast the shadow of doubt in their hearts. They fought enemies many said were invincible. They made a friend of fear. Their doubting minds became strong wills of iron that no man, no army, and no empire could break. They bled. Yes, they bled. They bled, and they laughed as they bled. They bled, and they died for this land we stand on. In the clouds, I see the face of my father, I see the face of my wife, they remind me, the Celts have always been a free people.'

The dissenters grew silent. Calach sensed the changing mood. Pausing for reflection, he placed a relaxed hand on the chariot-rail.

'The Romans have stolen all of our lands. The land we stand on is all we have left. Here we stand, our backs against a wall of sea, with the enemy forcing us to fight in the open. There is no way back; the only way is forward. Here we stand, defiant in spirit, sharp in mind with the eternal fires of freedom burning in our hearts...and here we stand, the last of the free.'

Calach stepped back on the wicker platform, and his green eyes scanned the ranks of the united army of Celts. He saw the face of Arrow, the young warrior boy, in the crowd. He saw many faces he had gotten to know through the bloody struggle. He stepped up to the chariot-rail. 'The only way is forward. I say forward. What do you say?'

There was a moment of silence then voices rang out from the massed ranks.

'Forward!'

'Aye, forward.'

'Forward. Forward! Forward!'

They chanted the word to the beat of hilts on shield bosses. Celtic war horns made a deafening reply.

'Will you stand with Calach? Calach thrust the spear skywards. A battle roar answered. The sound eased. 'Will you fight with Calach? The warrior prince's voice raged as he pointed the spearhead to the Roman front. 'Will you die with Calach?'

Thirty thousand Celts roared their approval. They let out crazed battle cries that raised a growing smile on Calach's lips. He gave the long spear back to Danu. 'What did you think?'

'Not bad...for a beginner.'

Calach pinched her cheek with his fingers. 'You're so hard to please.'

The wall of red shields advanced. Olive skinned faces of legionaries; faces almost hidden by silver helmets with shining cheek plates were visible. Hatred had filled the vacuum of Calach's lonely heart since the start of the invasion. All he had yearned for, all he had waited for was this moment. He said softly, 'It is time.'

She slapped the horse's backs with the reins. Calach's war chariot hurtled down the slope, the iron wheel rims churning up clumps of earth mixed with turf. Three hundred chariots broke the wedge and hotly followed. Tough clans of battle hardened warriors paced behind. They brandished long swords, long spears, round bronze shields, axes, sickles, and heavy hammers. The assault, led by the bravest of the brave, stormed like an unstoppable hammer to the Roman anvil.

Danu heaved the reins, and the chariot halted. The whole Celtic army came to a sudden stop. Hundreds of Olaf's men, long blond-haired warriors, hand-picked mercenaries, wearing body mail, carrying battle axes and oval bronze shields, emerged from the groups of static chariots. The Celts pushed thirty horse driven carts to the front. Each cart was yoked with six battle horses, clad in bronze head and body armour. Chain mail hung from their shoulders, giving them protection from enemy arrows and spears. Each cart was laden with a stripped tree; a gigantic spear strapped to the yoke. Its shaven tip thrust past the end of the yoke and pointed at the Roman front. When the horses gathered momentum, the mercenaries leapt into the rear of the carts. The clash of metal sounded as they formed an impenetrable wall of iron with their bronze shields. Olaf's mercenaries and their lethal missiles sped down the slope towards the Roman wall.

'Sir? Your orders sir?' pressed Gracchus.

Agricola looked on as Olaf and his mercenaries hurtled to the Roman centre.

A Roman officer rode between the front lines. 'Steady lads. Steady. Centurion! Your men will hold the line, or by the Gods, I'll lash that back of yours.'

The ground shook beneath legionaries' marching feet. The pounding of heavy horse hooves on the earth. The screams of racing chariot horses. The crashing thuds of cart impacts. The cries of wounded soldiers crushed under hooves and wheels. One trooper was impaled on a giant tip that carried his skewered body through the splintered lines. Olaf's warriors leapt from the carts, battle axes and shields in hand, and fought deep within the Roman fold.

Danu pushed Calach's chariot at the dishevelled centre of the Ninth Legion. Thirty thousand warriors paced on with rallying cries, tearing through the gaps and penetrated deep into the Roman ranks.

Calach leapt from the chariot into the sea of angry hosts. The whites of Roman eyes. Glints of sunlight flashed off short blades. Open mouths shouted obscenities. Time slowed in Calach's mind. Warrior power surged from his feet upon the earth, seeping through his legs and body to the crown of his head. Two hands clasped the hilt of Avenger. Warrior and sword formed a weld of flesh and iron. Romans showed glimmers of fear in their eyes as they lunged gladii at his head and torso. Avenger took on a life of its own, like an instrument with its own mind, its own way to dance the dance of death. The long sword sliced through Roman flesh as Calach, pressing forward and onwards, battled deeper and deeper into the Roman heart. Screams of searing pain, the clash of iron upon iron, and the sound of war cries filled his ears. Open flesh wounds oozed Rome's lifeblood as Avenger swept down from the brooding clouds. Two gladii went for Calach's back.

Danu cut down the attackers with swift axe blows. She fought like a blood sister, her two light axes reaping Roman flesh, as she advanced and fought alongside Calach.

Calach wiped the blood from his face and fought to catch his breath. 'They're like locusts. You kill one; ten more are crawling over you.'

More locusts stirred and more were cut down by Calach and Danu. Calach's warriors made the blades of wild grass drip red with Roman blood. The battleground echoed to the din of clashing metal and tortured cries. A relentless, savage hand-to-hand fight unfolded for every inch of ground until, at last, the Celts beat back the invaders to their starting point.

'Your orders, General?' begged Gracchus.

Agricola knew the Legions could take no more. 'The Ninth to retire. Hold the Second Legion Augusta in reserve. Auxiliary Legions to the front.'

Beating drums regulated the advance of the two auxiliary Legions; their solid block formations marched up the sloping plain. In one movement, ten thousand troopers slid their short swords through their shield gaps.

Calach gauged the progress of the fight from his moving chariot as Danu took him to various points of the battlefield. The auxiliary Legions cut down warrior Celts with ruthless precision. The Roman machine stabbed and sliced its way onwards, marching over mounds of warrior dead and wounded. Calach ordered the war-horns to sound the retreat.

The Celts promptly regrouped about the peak of the mountain. Olaf rested a sledgehammer on the ground. Sweat streaked from his brow and he had to rub his watery eyes. He winked at Calach. Danu pumped herself up, cutting the air with her axes, in preparation for the next assault. Crowna swigged ale from a flagon and wiped the froth from his bushy beard. 'Lambs to the slaughter.'

'I couldn't agree more,' said Calach.

'I was talking about us.' Crowna joked, 'If we should meet again, Calach, then the drink is on you.'

'I say it's your round, Crowna.'

The Celts laughed. An act of defiance as the murderous wall advanced. The clattering beat of Roman armour grew louder when Calach glanced around the plateau. Warriors stood shoulder to shoulder; the whole Celtic army waited for the signal to attack. He uttered to Danu, 'Let's go.' A war cry bellowed from the depths of his gut as Danu pushed the chariot on for the second assault.

Chariots punched holes along the Roman front. Roman auxiliaries, fresh to combat, quickly filled the gaps and replaced the fallen. Brave Celts pulled shields from the enemy. Warriors slowed the Roman advance by sacrificing their lives to short swords. They used sledgehammers and fists against the wall. Others threw themselves over the wall and brought on combat behind the enemy lines. All were butchered. The auxiliaries cut the Celts to pieces, with slicing, jabbing swords, maintaining their solid shield wall as they advanced.

Calach leapt onto the timber yoke of his racing chariot and signalled with a battle axe taken from the hand of a dead warrior. Celtic horns sounded the retreat. The Celts separated into several groupings and took new positions behind the hillocks and dips on the flanks, positions hidden from the view of the Roman command.

'Order the Second Legion back in,' said Agricola.

'But sir, the savages have retreated,' said Gracchus.

'Do you wish your wife to be a widow?' Agricola growled the words. Three fire arrows, a Celtic signal, rose above the slope's peak. The General scanned the plain of battle. He knew the Celtic horse would try to outflank his position, but had no idea from what direction the attack would originate. He calculated the lay of the land and considered what flank he would choose to attack from if he were Calgacus. The outcome of the battle, the destiny of the whole occupation of Roman Britain that had lasted over forty years, depended on his decision.

Gracchus hounded, 'General? What flank do we deploy our horses?'

Iolair Mor, on horse, waited alongside the Old Vacomagi in a quiet forest location with two thousand mounted Celts. He spotted the fire arrows that dipped to the trees, the order to move out.

Iolair Mor led the Celtic horse past trunks of giant pines that flanked the battle site and entered the water of a shallow ford.

Calach knew the time for his army to encircle the legions had arrived, an attack from the front and rear, then he would destroy the hated invaders with one decisive blow. The Celts stormed over the hillocks; they rose from the dips of both flanks, pouring down the slopes like hordes of angry ants and charged the Roman front.

Roman cavalry, four thousand strong, blazed from the forest and ambushed the Celtic horse at the river crossing. Roman horsemen cut the Celts to pieces and bypassed their position in a swift counterattack. Iolair Mor defended blow upon blow of Roman short swords. Small round shields of bronze and wood were no match to a sky of falling Roman spears and short swords. A spear pierced the Old Vacomagi's shoulder; an arrowhead impacted his chest. He fell out of the saddle and landed chest first in the water. Iolair Mor dismounted in the heat of the crushing attack, pulled out the arrow head from the Old Vacomagi's chest, and dragged him to the safety of the trees.

In the hidden shelter of the forest, Iolair Mor supported the dying chieftain in his arms. The Old Vacomagi voiced his last words, 'We are nothing without the land. We are... we are...' His breath wheezed in and out with a staggered rhythm and eased to nothing. His body flopped to death.

Calach and Danu led the fighting on foot. They battled amid the Roman ranks. There was only one question on Calach's mind; where the hell were Iolair Mor and the Celtic horse?

Storm clouds of Roman horsemen came over the brow and skirted the slopes of the mountain, ravaging the Celtic army from its rear. Still, the warriors of Caledonia fought with every ounce of strength they could muster; this was no battle, but a bloody rout.

A mud, blood-spattered Calach, fighting on foot, brandishing Avenger, hacking flesh and bone, had lost count of the numbers of the enemy he had killed and maimed, but no matter how hard he and his warriors fought, they could not break the Roman wall. Calach knew the victory they longed for was merely a dream. Only months before, the Celts sowed the soil with their crop; now they sowed the soil with their blood. He eyeballed mound upon mounds of warrior dead that littered the long grass. If they continued with this futile struggle, most of the Celtic army would be dead by the close of day. Avenging blood had only brought more blood. He muttered, 'This must stop. It must stop.' He signalled the horn blowers, using the head of the battle axe to signal the retreat.

The Celts fled over timber causeways that had been constructed across the rivers and bog land where the sloping plain met the forest.

Calach raced on foot to the rear left flank and was met by a warrior who gave over Raven's reins. Leaping into the saddle, he galloped to one of the causeways that warriors were crossing. Calach had read the mind of the Roman General well before the battle. He knew Agricola would be forced to pursue. This was not the total victory Rome so desperately needed. The last remaining Celts set the causeway crossings alight, leaving only one intact and only one means for the Roman forces to cross.

In a fit of unexpected rage, General Agricola ordered the legions, against the advice of the senior command, to pursue the rebels. The Roman General led his men to the last causeway, which traversed a narrow river.

Olaf and his mercenaries, battle axes in hand, waited by dozens of giant pines, for the bottleneck of Romans on the causeway to enter the killing grounds. Legionaries entered the trap, an open plain of rich scrubland. Olaf's mercenaries axed the trees. The open scrubland quaked with crashing timbers that crushed and wounded the encroaching Romans. Arrows and spears took out those who survived, but Agricola wove the white horse through the maze of death and galloped deep into the heart of the Great Forest.

Blood seeped through Danu's tunic. She clutched the deep wound in her side as she sat. Hundreds of wounded, exhausted warriors, the retreating Celts rested around the steep hillside of a forested glen.

Calach, galloping Raven, bearing Avenger on a shoulder scabbard, burst through the tree line and dismounted by Danu. 'How many alive?'

'Twenty thousand, maybe more,' said Danu.

He stroked her forehead with a finger. 'Nobody won here. We must scatter until we meet in the cave.'

Danu seethed with pain as she rocketed to her feet. 'We cannot stop now.'

Calach placed caring hands on her shoulders. 'Brave Danu, the war is over. We will re-group. When ten suns have passed, we assemble in the cave, then take it from there.'

Iolair Mor trudged down a slim, bending mud trail on foot, holding the reins of a battle stallion. He slumped through the forest pines then flopped his backside on the top of a tree stump. Head in hands, he said nothing.

Calach and Danu had only one question on their minds: where was the Old Vacomagi?

Iolair Mor's hands dropped from his face. He looked at both of them, and the look in his eyes answered their question.

Danu grabbed Calach by the scruff of his tunic and confronted him face-to-face. 'What did they die for? Answer me! What did they die for?' She shoved him away, her head lowered, and the blood drained from her face. She slumped to the ground.

The leader of the Caledonian tribes stared into Iolair Mor's vacant eyes. Birdsong floated upon the branches of leafless trees as the three warriors contemplated their loss in separate, lonely worlds.

Calach looked upon Danu. 'Empires rise, empires fall. This empire, this empire will fall one day, a thousand days, a thousand years, who knows how many years, but it will fall. Then you will know what this was all about.' He clamped his hand beneath Iolair Mor's armpit and lifted his brother to his feet. 'Help me get Danu to safety.'

Calach and Iolair Mor tucked their hands under her armpits and eased Danu to her feet. They flung their arms around her shoulders and walked her down the slippery track.

At the foot of the glen, they placed her into the back of a slow-moving wagon, laden with dead and injured warriors. Calach watched the cart disappear amongst the exodus; thousands of lone stragglers and clusters of battle-worn warriors retreated along a sludge road.

Calach brushed against leafy branches as he galloped along forest tracks. Raven leapt from the top of a flat boulder and passed through two tree trunks. The tips of the bare branches tore red stripes of blood into the stallion's side and forced an anguished neigh from its lips. Raven's front legs collapsed. Warrior and horse slid down a steep, muddy embankment and plunged into a wide river. Calach used all his strength to fight the strong currents in a bid to stay afloat and swim to the opposite bank. Raven got caught up in a vicious undercurrent, and Calach watched his warrior horse being swept downstream.

Mid-river, a mutilated head struck Calach's legs. He looked upon a bloated, distorted face of open wounds. Calach froze in a panic, and plummeted beneath the ice-cold water that filled his lungs. He shot to the surface, coughing, choking; he spat out the water and struggled for precious breaths and found himself floating amongst hundreds of dead warriors. He swam to the body that had struck him and rolled it around. It took him a while to discover who the distorted face belonged to. The dead warrior was Arrow, Shantoch's young son. He clasped one hand around Arrow's chest, amongst the flotilla of dead, and fought the strong currents to get the body to the riverbank.

Calach knelt and stared at Arrow's corpse that lay on the mud bank. He stroked the boy's matted, bloody mess of hair. _I remember that day I saved your life in the forest._ He looked down and found it hard to take in the grotesque face. _It would have been better to finish you then than see you like this._ Hand by slow hand, he dug up the mud of the bank. The rain poured down the sides of the makeshift grave and formed a constant pool at its bottom. Calach placed Arrow's body in the mud and buried him with his bare hands. He stood and stabbed Avenger into the earth. Rain beat his face when he clasped both hands around the hilt, and viewed the muddy mound. 'All of this...for what?' A flash of flickering light, a rumble of thunder, a crack of thunder shook the ground. Torrents of heavy rain-pocked the earth with mini craters. Calach raised his head, arching his neck backwards, and the rain drowned his long hair and washed the mud from his face. He snarled his words at the tempest, 'You Gods of stone, you have betrayed us; you have stolen our blood, for what...for what?'

# Chapter twelve

General Agricola's white stallion blazed a dirt track where the trees were so many that day seemed like night. A roaring bear charged from the tree shadows and startled the horse. The screeching stallion careered off-track and took no heed of its master's whipping rein on its neck. The horse let out shrieking, piercing neighs as it hurtled through the darkness. The stallion sharply yielded. Agricola catapulted from the saddle and tumbled down a precipitous hillside. The general's torso crashed against large boulders, snapping slim tree trunks as it plunged like a stone falling from the clouds. With each collision, he let out snarls of pain. Rolling through brambles and bracken, he thudded to the flat foliage and lay unconscious; the leather breastplate smothered with forest ferns, bruised limbs floating in a shallow ravine.

Agricola groaned the instant he awoke. He blinked and rubbed his eyelids with the fingers of his right hand. The left hand was numb and the feeling gone. The pain in his ribs magnified with each breath he took. His blurry vision gradually cleared, and he took in the slim trunks of forest pines that surrounded him. Struggling to his feet in a shaded glen, he let out a shrill cry from the scorching pain from his ribs. Broken bone stuck out of his left wrist, and the hand was useless. He unfastened the lace of the leather breastplate with his quivering right hand and shed the leather skin. The padded jerkin and torn trousers were the only clothing left on this pathetic wretch. Kneeling, he scooped handfuls of icy water with his hand to cool the fire of his bruised face. The muscles in his whole body tightened. The presence of someone or something lurked at his back. He spun around, shading his eyes from glaring shards of sunlight with a hand. The Roman gaped at the silhouette of a savage with the hilt of a sword on a shoulder scabbard. The figure stood in a threatening, still silence. Agricola gathered courage. 'Tell me...tell me what you want?' The silence angered him. 'Talk to me. Damn you. Talk to me. I order you to talk!'

The figure unbuckled his shoulder scabbard and dropped the long sword. 'My father, my wife. But you...you stole them from me.' Calach rushed forwards, grabbed the back of Agricola's neck, and forced his head under the water. 'What gave you the right?' Cruel laughter echoed through the forest glen, as the warrior-prince watched the air bubbles rise and felt the General's writhing body struggle for life. He waited until the body weakened and pulled up the choking, gasping, prisoner. Calach dragged him by his hair, threw him against the trunk of a fallen tree and clenched fist before his face. 'Give them back. Give them back!' His fist cracked Agricola's jaw. Merciless eyes looked upon the prisoner. 'What gave you the right?' The forest resounded with Calach's blood-curdling screams as he rained fist upon fist to the hated face. Calach pummeled the hated Roman until his own knuckles bled. He stopped, sucking in replenishing breaths, pulled the dagger from his belt and put the edge of the blade to Agricola's throat. 'Now you know what it's like.'

Agricola spat out a mix of bloody saliva and broken teeth. Eyes rolled in their sockets when he snapped out the words. 'I have a wife, a child.' In a bid for mercy, he pulled the Feather of Hawk, concealed within his padded jerkin and thrust out the quill.

At first, Calach thought his eyes were playing a cruel trick. Had he lost his mind? How had the Gods magically conjured up this lost amulet? This was the sacred gift he had given his wife on that day that seemed so long ago. He snatched the Feather of Hawk from the Roman's grasp and cradled it in his palm. His eyes changed from a glaze of stony green to a softening glow as, little by little, the hatred dissipated. The feelings he had long ago returned; the love of his beloved wife, Sky, the love of his father, the all-powerful, all-consuming force flooded his senses as his two strong hands cupped the frail feather. For the first time since their deaths, he shed silent tears. The tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped off his chin. But they were not tears of grief; they were tears of joy.

Agricola crawled backwards and took sanctuary in a rocky alcove framed with ferns. With the one eye he could see with, the other eye closed with an egg-sized bruise, he studied Calach like a wounded animal that had been hunted down and cornered.

Calach walked several paces along the ravine, all the while fixed upon the sacred feather. He halted and donned the Feather of Hawk about his neck. He turned. 'One day...one day, this will matter not. Me? You? Blanks in the history books of Rome.' He paused and his eyes revealed there was something that troubled him. 'The traitor?'

Agricola struggled to speak, 'Lucinius Gracchus...my junior...junior officer...the only one who knows.'

'Gracchus never revealed the name?'

'It was Gracchus' little secret.'

Calach walked away.

Agricola called out, 'Where do you go?'

Calach turned. 'That is my little secret. My war is over. By the look of it, so is yours, General.' He strolled up a zigzag, overgrown pathway and disappeared through the foliage.

General Agricola knew Calach was no savage. No empire would extinguish this burning flame. Rome could never win this war as long as Calach spread the idea and dream of freedom. His eyelids shuddered then closed. He was in a deep, deep sleep that could last a thousand years.

It took Rufus, the scar-faced Centurion, and the search party six days to find the General who roamed the wilds.

The General, a bruised face, his left arm in a leather sling, watched burning funeral pyres on the great expanse of used battlefield. He slouched in the saddle of the white stallion, his right arm dangled loosely.

Gracchus pulled a horse alongside. He opened a scroll of parchment and rattled out the casualty numbers, 'Over eleven thousand auxiliaries dead.' Lowering the parchment, he noted Agricola's detached look. 'Six hundred and ninety-two legionaries' dead. Of course, we will not include slave soldiers in the official dispatch. You round the figures up and six hundred...six hundred. This will be Rome's greatest victory.'

Agricola snapped a bark of bitter laughter. He lifted his head up as an imperial dispatch rider galloped straight towards their position up the ascending mud track.

The rider halted the horse and thrust the dispatch before Agricola. 'From the Emperor, sir.'

Agricola's limp hand took the parchment without looking at the messenger who galloped back down the track. He bit off the red wax seal of Jupiter, spat it out, and glimpsed the words written in black ink by the personal hand of Domitian. _'Rome shall be informed of my great victory. The usual triumphal procession in my honour...'_

The General's cracked lips let out short spurts of laughter that caused stabbing pains to his ribs. Wincing as the dagger strikes of pain gnawed at the bones each time he laughed, the general's shrill laughter echoed across the slopes of flames and smoke from the funeral pyres that littered the used battlefield. Crushing the imperial parchment in his palm, he dropped it to the mud like a piece of foul litter.

Gracchus protested, 'You throw away an imperial dispatch?'

Agricola grabbed Gracchus by the throat, and there was super strength in the hand.

Gracchus's eyes expanded, his closed windpipe prevented him from breathing and his toes left the ground.

'You murdered his wife. You murdered his wife! And I know that you will sleep soundly in your bed tonight. But know this; I would not sleep too soundly if I were you. He knows all about your twisted game.' The General released his grip and smirked at Gracchus, who, falling to his knees, violently coughed, and sucked in the badly needed breaths. The General's white stallion shouldered Gracchus aside and trundled down the track.

Agricola trotted the stallion down the slippery slope. Man and horse became cloaked by the plumes of shifting smoke from the pyres of the dead.

# Chapter thirteen

The far north of Caledonia.

A thousand warriors, lit by the glow of wall torches, waited in the immense cave. Iolair Mor, Danu, Olaf, Shantoch, and Crowna gave their weapons to their armour bearers. They waited on a stage of natural rock that was an ideal, natural amphitheatre for the secret meeting of the tribes.

Crowna addressed the gathering, 'Emperor Titus is dead. He is dead, but mark my words, another killer will take his place. This is the time to strike death into the heart of the Empire. The threat of mutiny spreads like a plague in their garrison forts. This is our opportunity to wipe Rome off the face of the earth. We talk and we talk until out tongues ache with talk. Our messengers tell us that Calach wants to negotiate a peace with the enemy. Agricola is a broken man. Gracchus, the murderer of Calach's wife, is the new commander of the Ninth Legion. Calach is so passionate about getting his peace. I have heard he will allow Gracchus and his Ninth Legion to live an easy life in the garrison fort of Eborecum. Eborecum. The same fort where King Venutius, rots in a stinking prison cell, reduced to a starving hostage. If Calach is so passionate about getting his peace, then where is he? I do not see him.' The crowd began to sway to Crowna's words. 'Calach tells you not to poke the snake. I don't know about you, but if a snake crosses my path, that viper will find my hand wrapped around its throat and its poisonous life breath squeezed out of its lungs.'

There were cheers, and a few jeers from the assembly. The Celtic leadership remained silent. The hall stirred, and Crowna noted the distraction of the spear warriors who peered around. Calach, bearing Avenger on a shoulder scabbard, walked through the massed ranks. Danu and Shantoch led the chant, 'Calach. Calach!' Crowna took a few steps backwards as the hall chanted the name. Calach was lifted onto the stage by three warriors. Crowna turned his back in disgust as the leader of the Celts waited for the chants to die.

Calach addressed the assembly. 'Rome has no power or influence over our lands.'

'Ha! Ask Gracchus what he thinks about that,' barked Crowna.

Calach ignored him. 'The price of war has cost us dearly. We have lost many brothers and sisters. I understand that revenge beats deep in your hearts. I, like you, have lost everything worth fighting for. We may let blood answer blood, we may let fire answer fire, and if we keep on with this war then fire will answer fire until there is nothing left to burn. Is this the dream we fought for? To fight for, to die for a scorched, lifeless land fit for ravens to feast on the flesh of our children. I put it to you that... '

Crowna butted in, 'Your father would be ashamed of you, Calach.'

'I have my own mind,' said Calach.

'Then use it. Our inaction will only encourage the enemy. You know this.'

'I speak for our people,' insisted Calach.

Crowna stepped forwards and faced Calach, 'You speak for no-one but yourself. Their prisoners told us how Gracchus boasted of how he killed your wife. He boasted as he drank his wine around the soldiers' campfires. He hunted her down with a spear like he hunted a hog in the forest. She suffered, Calach. She suffered.'

Calach pretended not to be moved, but his pupils enlarged and a beat of hatred stirred in his heart. The fire cooled in an instant and he turned to the crowd. 'I put it to this assembly that we vote...we vote for war or we vote for peace, by the spear.'

One by one, the warriors dropped their spears on the left or right side of the stage.

Two cream robed druids finished the spear count. Voltar the Druid walked over and looked upon the two mounds of spears almost equal in number. Conferring with the druids as the Celtic leadership looked on, Voltar lifted one of the long spears. 'The tribes vote for peace.' He pointed it to the ceiling of the cave.

Crowna grabbed the spear from Voltar's grasp, pushed the druid aside, and snapped the shank across a knee. 'That's what I think of your peace, priest.' Crowna's armour bearer quickly handed him a long sword in a scabbard. Crowna put the scabbard belt over his shoulder and glared at Calach while buckling the leather strap. 'Gracchus lives, and you do nothing.' Leaping off the stage, he moved with force through the throng.

Danu went to stop him, but Calach pulled her back. 'Let him go.'

'Hot heads will get us all killed,' said Danu.

'Maybe he was right.'

'No, you were right, Calach.'

Calach and the assembly heard the sound of horse hooves on stone as Crowna's horse charged off.

'Where is he going?' asked Calach.

'To kill Gracchus,' said Danu.

# Chapter fourteen

The Roman Garrison Fort. Eborecum

The following night, Crowna teased a two-ox cart, loaded with dry straw, across the timber bridge. Halting before the closed North Gate of the fort, he glimpsed a burning fire torch nested in a wall brazier. Sitting in the wagon seat, holding the reins, he covered his head with the brown hood of a cloak.

Two red-cloaked Roman guards marched through the opening gate and approached the stranger. They kept their hands on the hilts of their gladii that dangled from their hips. A young guard with an unshaven, olive-skinned face inched little by little towards the big Celt.

Crowna spoke from the darkness of the hood, 'Damn busy roads slowed me down.'

The veteran guard, with a wrinkled and pock-marked face, stopped spearing the straw on the side of the cart. 'Ask the idiot what he is hiding.' The young guard tilted forwards and tried to discern the face within the hood. Glancing beneath the wagon's seat, he started to probe about with his free hand.

A voice came from the black shadow of the hood. 'Straw is all you will find.' Crowna shifted about in the seat as the veteran speared straw in the cart's rear. 'I told you that you will find nothing.'

The young guard's fingers prodded a sharp metal edge buried deep within the straw. _An axe head!_ He opened his mouth to raise the alarm. Crowna's hand smothered the open mouth and cracked the guard's forehead into the wagon seat; the impact knocked the Roman clean out. The big Celt leapt off the wagon, dragged the guard by the scruff of his neck and threw him off the bridge. Crowna slipped the large battle-axe from under the wagon seat as the veteran ran at him, spear in hand, and the big Celt bellowed a war cry. The axe circled twice in the air before it tore through the veteran's chest. Crowna peered up; a red-cloaked guard on the rampart let loose a spear. Wind from the incoming spear whooshed past his shoulder and cracked into the cart wheel spoke. He picked up the dead veteran's spear and lashed it upwards with all his power. The spear whisked to the gate-rampart and went through the wall guard's throat; the Roman's body slumped behind the wall stakes. Crowna pulled the two oxen by their roped bridle and positioned the cart beneath the archway of the gate, releasing the animals by cutting their harness straps with a dagger. He drew the burning wall torch from its brazier and tossed it into the cargo of straw. Sliding off the cloak's hood, he looked through the open gates at the Principal Road, lined with timber block houses, that dissected the inner fort. He uttered the word. 'Gracchus.'

The granary block, barrack blocks, animal pens, and stables burned. Alarms of ringing triangles, beaten with iron rods, sounded throughout the fort. Roman troopers tried to put out the fires with buckets of water and blankets.

Outside the prison block, a Roman Centurion with a black bearded soldier at his side watched flames rise above the timber stakes of the North Gate.

'Our orders are to stay here and guard the prisoner,' said the Centurion.

'What if the savages overrun the fort?' asked the soldier.

'Stay alert and —'

Crowna bashed their helmeted heads together and dropped them to a heap. Wrapping the Centurion's red cloak around his cloak of fur, he glanced around to make sure all was well.

Crowna's axe smashed through the prison cell door. Gripping the axe in the open doorway, he took in the pitiful sight of King Venutius. The prisoner, with an overgrown beard and filthy streaks of long hair, crawled to the dark corner of the cell and curled up in a ball. The big Celt thought he was in the wrong cell. 'Venutius? Is that you?' He turned to leave.

'Wait,' said the feeble voice of the prisoner. Venutius removed his bony slim fingers from his pale face. 'Take me with you.'

Crowna moved to Venutius, knelt and brushed away the streaks of matted, filthy hair. He took a closer look at the grimy face. 'Venutius, what have they done to you?' He thrust the axe head before Venutius' face. 'Take my axe.'

Venutius was ashamed of his trembling hands that took the axe.

Crowna looked away and pretended he did not notice. 'Wait for me at the North Gate. I have a small bit of business to attend. If anyone puts their big nose in...,' he tapped the axe head, 'use this.'

Gracchus locked himself in his private quarters. Taking in slow, deep breaths to calm his fast beating heart, he barred the door with a wooden block. The commander of the fort, the killer of Calach's wife, turned and stiffened.

The huge figure of Crowna, with a rough ginger beard and bald tattooed head, loomed over him. The big Celt put a dagger to Gracchus's throat. 'Nice and cozy here, commander. The way I like it.'

The bound and gagged Gracchus sat on an oak chair at the end of a dining table. Crowna sat on the table and stuffed lumps of pork from a quarter eaten pig on a silver plate into his mouth. Dagger in hand, bits of meat spattered onto his beard as he talked. 'When I was a young lad, I used to listen to my father slaughtering the pigs. I went in the pen with him once, and it...it disturbed me. Those pigs. They scuttled, they grunted, they shoved, they pushed each other around as they tried to get away from my father. They would squeal. A piercing squeal. I can still hear those squeals some nights.' He abruptly stabbed the dagger into the table and was amused at the fear in Gracchus's expanding eyes. 'Do me a favour...I promise this will end quickly. The name of the traitor!'

Gracchus's defiant gaze told Crowna he would not divulge the name.

Dagger in hand, Crowna rose to his feet. 'A hero, eh. I always like a hero.' The huge shadow of the big Celt enveloped the Roman noble.

Crowna commandeered an escaped horse, a petite brown mare, on the Principal Road and galloped to the North Gate. Dozens of stampeding horses funnelled out of a side street and blocked his escape.

Calach galloped Raven along the Principal Road and saw the tattooed, bushy bearded Crowna above the tightly packed mass of horses. He pressed his boots into Raven's underbelly, attempting to push the stallion on, but was brought to a standstill by the crazed pack.

Crowna lashed the mare's neck with a roped rein but was forced to a halt by the wall of horse flesh. Seeing Calach's head just above the heads of the distraught horses, he shouted, 'The name. I have the name...' His words were drowned out by the sounds of stamping hooves and terrified neighs.

The black-cloaked, hooded traitor observed Crowna from the slated roof of a barrack block; the turncoat ran along the tiles, leapt from the roof onto Crowna's back, and yanked him out of the saddle of the mare. When Crowna's body crashed to the ground, the traitor stabbed him between the shoulder blades with a dagger.

Calach leapt off Raven's saddle and fought his way through the screaming tangle of horses on foot. Kneeling, he cradled Crowna in his arms. Blood seeped through the big Celt's stolen red cloak. Calach put his fingers to Crowna's lips and felt a shallow breath.

Crowna rolled open his eyes. 'Gracchus is dead. The traitor...' He pointed to the opposite side of the road, to the open entrance of the fort's forge, then passed out.

Calach, through the mass of moving horse legs, watched the back of the hooded traitor slip into the forge's entrance.

Calach entered the forge and scouted his dagger around. He scanned around; hot furnace charcoal, thin veils of smoke wafted to the oak crossbeams, broken clay moulds scattered on the floor, they were moulds for swords and spearheads whose coarse, unpolished iron leaned against a timber wall. He crept past rows of chains that hung from the rafters. A slight clinking noise to his right, he flicked around and pointed the dagger at a single chain that swayed from a rafter. The chain stilled. He let out a breath of relief and lowered the dagger. The hatred in his heart had simmered, since Crowna had disclosed how Gracchus had boasted about his wife's murder around the Roman camp fires. The warrior-prince touched the Feather of Hawk that hung about his chest, but the love in his heart was gone. The black poison had returned, and all he thought about was a thousand ways to kill the traitor. It had kept him up for endless dark nights. He had gone over and over names, lists of names and more names. The names swirled in his brain. Who had betrayed?

The black-cloaked traitor, a heavy chain in hand, dropped from the roof rafters, and wrapped the chain around Calach's neck.

Calach used both hands to try to loosen the grip of the chain, but there was no time.

The traitor dragged Calach to the smouldering furnace, pushing his face to the steaming, red hot coals.

Intense heat burned Calach's face. Hot beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and cheeks, and the skin on his face blistered. Reaching out a hand, his fingers fumbled on the handle of an iron poker that snuggled amongst the glowing coals. The pressing chain blocked his windpipe and turned his face beetroot. In a last attempt, he gripped the poker handle and thrust the red hot tip onto the back of the traitor's leg. The traitor snapped a sharp shrill of seething pain, and Calach felt the chain instantly loosen. Clutching his throat with both hands, he inhaled deep, replenishing breaths. Pivoting around, he stared at the open entrance, but the traitor had fled.

Calach laid the wounded Crowna across Raven's saddle, and he leapt into the saddle of the petite mare. Holding onto Raven's reins, he rode the mare hard and fast to the North Gate.

'Stop!' A red-cloaked Roman on horse challenged. Calach ignored him and bolted to the North Gate. He glanced back at the spear-wielding rider, who was about to unleash his weapon.

Venutius ran out of hiding behind a parked cart and rammed his battle-axe into the rider's rib-cage. The Roman lurched backwards and abruptly hauled the reins; anguished screeches as the stallion sprung on its hind legs. Venutius raised the axe to deliver the death blow; he hesitated, the wobbling axe lingered in the air. The stallion landed on its legs, and the Roman, despite blood gushing from his side wound, lanced a spear that punctured Venutius' stomach. Venutius let out a raging war cry, plunging the axe into the rider's leather breastplate. The blow, an instant kill, took the enemy clean out of the saddle. Venutius lugged the Roman's spear out of his stomach; an angry yelp released the torment of suffering, and he threw the spear away.

Two Roman horsemen rode at Venutius. They raised their short swords and were about to cut him down.

Calach snatched his long sword from its saddle scabbard and hurled Avenger; the sword speared the air and cut clean through the first horseman's stomach and came out of his back.

Venutius ducked out of the path of the second rider's sweeping sword and countered with a devastating axe blow to the horseman's back.

Calach snatched Avenger from the dead horseman on the ground and watched Venutius curse the writhing pain of his wound.

Venutius gathered courage and pulled himself upright, and hauled the axe over a shoulder. The old king gritted his teeth, and grinned as he strode to Calach. 'Hornets stir wherever Calach goes.' He peeped over Calach's shoulder at Crowna, who was slumped across the Raven's saddle. 'What happened to him?'

'There is a traitor amongst us.' Calach saw blood seep through the King's dirt grey tunic.

'Only one.' Adrenalin gone, the pain suddenly struck Venutius, who rested a hand on Calach's shoulder. Noisy clamours came from far down the Principal Road. Clusters of Roman horses and foot soldiers gathered for an all-out assault.

'Give me the axe,' Calach spoke with urgency. 'Take my horse. Take Crowna and get out of here. I have some hornets to attend to.'

'Is that an order?' Venutius gave over the axe. The King forced a steely grin from Calach. 'And Calach, watch your back!'

The two warriors shared a look of mutual admiration that was broken by the rallying cries of storming legionaries. Venutius leapt into Raven's saddle, Crowna's body slumped before him, and stormed to the North Gate. Calach leapt onto the bare back of Crowna's captured mare and brandished the battle axe for some moments. Waiting until the sword-waving enemy was almost upon him, he dashed to a side street. The plan succeeded; he drew the enemy away from the fleeing Venutius.

Calach charged along the side street with the Roman horsemen at his back. Ahead, cattle with long horns leaned their heads over a timber fence. Storming to the animal pen, he chopped the planks of fence to pieces with the axe. Horned cattle crashed out of the pen and blocked the path of the pursuing horsemen. Job done, he tossed the axe aside.

Calach galloped through the deserted back streets of the fort, his only thought, making it to the North Gate in one piece. Emerging on the Principal Road, he pulled the roped rein to his chest and brought the petite mare to a sudden halt. A fire-storm spread beneath the archway and ramparts of the gate area. Roman troopers were too occupied with putting out the spreading fires as he kicked the mare's belly with his boots. He stooped low, nestling upon the horse's mane as it thundered to smoking gap, where the timber gates had once stood.

The hooded traitor rushed from the smoking gap and rammed a wooden stave into Calach's abdomen. The blow catapulted Calach out of the saddle, and he struck the ground like a lump of heavy lead. Step by slow step, the traitor, whose face was hidden within the mask of a sack, strutted to the body on the ground. The black hooded foe stopped and peered at Calach's motionless body. Rising flames tailed to the starlit sky as the fiend pressed the butt of the stave on Calach's cheek and flipped the limp head around with a flick of the weapon.

Calach grabbed the stave with both hands and kicked the legs from under the enemy. He launched himself on top of the assassin and crushed the traitor's throat with the stave's shank. An instantaneous pain, like a red hot metal spike, tore through Calach's thigh. He yelped in agony, dropping the stave while the hooded menace, wielding the bloody dagger, broke free. Calach staggered to his feet and glimpsed the traitor, who raced up the timber stairwell that led to the gate ramparts. Lifting the stave from the ground, he limped to the foot of the stairwell and rested a hand on the rail. Glancing up the timber stairwell, he was the wounded antelope who knew the game well; the hunter would bide his time and wait for the prey to shed more blood. When the prey had weakened, then Calach guessed the end would be near. He clambered up the stairwell.

Pausing on the timber rampart, he cursed in a low breath. The hatred dissolved the pain in his leg, and his teeth grinded so hard they almost cracked. To his right, fires devoured the timbers of the watchtowers. To his left, the tops of three large, wooden barrels, strapped with ropes to the outer wall, were half-cloaked by plumes of smoke. The snap and crackle of burning timber filled his ears. White-knuckled hands clutched the stave's shank as he eased his way to the barrels, but there was no sign of the hooded spook. The shrill flutter of bird's wings startled him. Calach's head followed a heron that flew over him and vanished into the black beyond the fort. Fast running boots thumped behind. That red-hot pain again. It seared through his shoulder blade. Calach's released the stave from his grip, and his shriek of stabbing pain echoed across the ramparts.

The traitor ripped the dagger from Calach's shoulder blade and raised it for a second strike.

Calach flipped around, snarling, gripping the wrist that held the blade with a hand, and wrapped the other around the traitor's throat. Both antagonists grappled for the blade in the traitor's hand, using all their might to dictate which way the blade would go. Calach crushed the life out of the black snake; twisting the snake's wrist, he turned the blade towards the mask of the traitor. The dagger's tip pierced the sack and cut a small zigzag line below the traitor's eye.

The traitor yelped in agony, struck Calach's jaw with an open palm, then clasped his hand around Calach's mouth.

Calach ripped off the masked sack and saw the naked flesh of the face. Slowly, very, very slowly, the reality of who the traitor was sank in. He did not want it to be the truth, but it was the truth. Calach kept looking at the face as if he had seen his own ghost...it was the face of his own brother, Iolair Mor. The warrior-prince tried to mutter the word, why? The burst of a stinging shriek recoiled from the rampart while he head butted one of the timber barrels. Blood trickled down the lines of his forehead and he fixed his eyes on Iolair Mor. 'We looked to the stars.'

Iolair Mor dropped the dagger to the timber boards then slunk backwards. All the while he did not take his eyes off his blood brother, but moved to the inferno of the watchtower. Stopping by the edge of the flaming abyss, he looked at Calach for the last time.

Calach's eyes begged his brother to stop. Stretching out an arm, he held out a hand.

Iolair Mor, shrouded by clouds of smoke, looked down, a moment of shame, then slipped backwards and was consumed by the hungry flames.

Limping to the edge of the rampart, Calach stopped in a daze. The ferocious flames mocked him. The flames so hot, his skin peeled. A voice in his head laughed like a demented hyena. _Jump. Jump and it will all be over._ The voice laughed loudly. _People betray. People kill. All those years you fought were a waste of your life, you know this. All those years for what? Jump and the pain will stop._ Through the scathing laughter, _a_ nother voice begged him to live. _Calach listen to me, listen to me, son, listen._ _If you die, your people die. You need them. They need you, Live, son. Live!_ It was the voice of Calach's father, King Brude.

Calach limped down the stairwell, clinging to the rail, until he reached the bottom. His head swirled with the loss of blood and the cruel betrayal played on his mind. The dull cries and calls of legionaries flooded his ears. Blood seeped from his open wounds and sapped his strength. Moving like a drunkard, he staggered a few paces then collapsed. Licking his dry lips, lying flat on his stomach, he glanced at the smoky gap of the gate. He had no more to give. Turning his body around, he lay beaten; back sinking into the earth. He rested a hand over Feather of Hawk that lay on the chest of his chequered tunic. It took all the willpower he had to lift the feather with slow, curling fingers. Looking upon the quill in his palm, he thought only of her. He fixed upon the precious feather, oblivious to the chaos and danger around. Stomping hooves of oncoming Roman cavalry charged down the Principal Road but he was in another land, the land with no tears.

A Centurion halted a brown stallion before groups of Roman legionaries, who stormed to the gate. The Roman shouted above the noise, 'Kill him!'

And for Calach, the world was a silent, serene place. Above him, billions of stars flickered in the black universe; the sparkling dots began to form the shape of a face. The stars fused to form the face of his wife, Sky. Staring at the shimmering, smiling face of his wife, he was at peace. He had longed to tell her so many things since the day she had left him. Head snuggling back into the dirt, arms flopping to his side, the words slipped quietly from his lips as he looked at her beautiful face in the stars. 'I love you.'
Dear reader, welcome!

It was my fascination with the Celts drove the desire to write a story about the Celtic prince they called Calach the Swordsman. The idea for the historical fiction, 'Feather of Hawk–Rebellion,' began with a road trip through the Scottish landscape along the Antonine and Hadrian's Wall. I discovered an old Roman Fort in Peel Park, north of Glasgow. A cold winter day. A bleak scene of snowy mountain tops. The winds froze my hands and limbs to the bone as I looked out to northern Scotland. What where the Romans doing here? Why would these soldiers from Italy, used to hot climates, want to be here at all? I will remember that road trip for the rest of my days; a stay over in an old fiesta car van at the old Roman fort of Vindolanda. A strange mist enveloped the site. I tried to get to sleep. Suddenly, even though I was on a dirt track in the middle of nowhere, the road was full of ancient traffic of marching Legionaries and their neighing horses. The distinct clatter of their armour, as they paced to a steady beat, filled my ears. The whole road was vibrantly alive. I had to drive off and park somewhere quieter.

It was the written record of Tacitus, the Roman historian, who described Calach's struggle in brief detail, that I gained my first insight into this epic episode of history. Before the final, decisive battle between Celt and Roman, Tacitus notes that there was, 'a man of outstanding valour and nobility named Calgacus; (Calach's Roman name) who addressed the close packed multitude of men clamouring for battle.' According to Tacitus, Calach achieved the following;

  * He united the Caledonian tribes of ancient Scotland against the Roman invaders. 
  * He almost destroyed the Roman Ninth Legion in their fort of Eborecum. ( York - England ) 
  * A great battle took place between Calach's United Celtic Army and the Legions of Rome.

Calach is a true historical character yet most of the novel's story is drawn from imagination.Why did Calach rebel? It must have been something terrible, something evil, perpetrated against him, which drove on his desire to destroy the hated invaders. I wanted to portray Calach as the Spartacus of ancient Britain. I penned him as a fearless and highly skilled sword warrior, who inspired a nation not yet born to rise. I wanted to make the chapters as vivid and gripping as possible and, where I could, lace the story with earthy humor. The novel has a strong love interest, a whole host of colourful characters, a few bloody battle scenes as well as a shadowy traitor who stalks Calach until the end. The theme of the story is revenge and how revenge and hatred poisons our humanity. Slowly, Calach begins to realize that he has become the monster that he is fighting, but is it too late for him to reverse his burning hatred and find some sort of salvation? I hope you enjoyed reading this novel as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please leave an honest review as I do value your input.

Dave Michael - Author of 'Feather of Hawk Rebellion.' February 2018

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# ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To Rae, who always believed in this story. A big thanks to the story editor, Rebecca Blevins. Also, the readers who were vital to this novel; Evelyn Passino, Ashleigh Dexter, Meagan Nicole and Linda Cobourn. Design by Rachael Vance. A very special thanks to Daniel Wilson for all his hard work on the manuscript. 

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dave Michael is a graduate of the Welsh College of Music and Drama. Before becoming a full time author he worked as a handyman, seaman, drama teacher and Community film trainer. He has written and produced touring theatre and several short film projects. Since 1996, Dave has lived and worked in Eire, where he has been inspired by the landscapes of the West Coast. _'Feather of Hawk'_ is his most extensive piece of work and has taken twelve years to develop. When he is not writing, he likes to walk landscape, where he is calmed by nature; watching swallows and hawks fly is one of his favourite pastimes. Presently, Dave is waiting to see his first swallow fly in from Africa after a long and freezing winter in Ireland.

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I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY. PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF THERE ARE ANY TYPOS, ETC, AS I WANT THIS NOVEL TO BE ONE OF EXCELLENCE.

PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW AS THIS WILL HELP THE STORY ONWARDS AND I DO VALUE YOUR INPUT.

Contact Dave Michael

davemichaelauthor@gmail.com

twitter @dmfoh
