Hero of Rome

XIII

Gwlym could see only a few faces in the glow of the fire, but he knew that beyond them a hundred others sat on the damp leaf mould listening to his words. They were the elders of the northern Catuvellauni, at least those he thought he could trust, and he had gathered them in this forest clearing so that they should understand that they were not alone. This was the most dangerous time, the time when he had to persuade the doubters and the timid. Now they could see that they were many, that they were strong, that they were part of a great movement.

But attending a meeting in a forest glade by night did not mean a man would pick up his spear and march against his oppressors. They had courage, of course, and they hated, but sometimes it required more than that and he needed to know that when he moved on they would return to their homes and set up the secret furnaces and workshops that would help them rearm their tribes.

‘This was once a sacred grove,’ he said, his voice soft but strong enough to be heard clearly by every man among them. ‘The Romans hacked down the oak trees which grew here for a hundred years and slaughtered the guardians so their blood soaked the ground we sit upon. But that blood was not wasted,’ he pointed to a ring of small saplings, barely a year old, ‘for the grove has been replanted and one day the rites will be renewed here. One day the gods will return to their rightful home.’

He paused to allow them to consider his words. He knew that certain of the rites he spoke of were not universally loved. Sometimes it was necessary to dispatch a messenger to the gods to ensure an appeal was heard and understood. Normally the message carrier was a prisoner or a slave, but in times of true emergency the gods would only accept a more treasured candidate: a chief’s first-born, or the well favoured daughter of a lord.

‘But the gods will only return when they are certain that you have not forsaken them. What did you do when the Romans came with their axes and their swords?’ He let his hawk’s eyes rove over the men in the inner circle and then the darkness beyond them, so that each became the focus of his words and felt the shame they evoked. ‘Did you fight or send your sons to fight? Did you stand and say: this is the sacred ground of Taranis and Teutates, of Esus and Epona? No, you did not, for you are still alive. Yet, though you failed them, the gods have not forsaken you. The message I bring is this. Prepare: for the time of release is upon us. Arm: for strength is the only message the Romans understand. Wait: for only when the gods send their sign will the time be right.’

And they asked: what will be the sign?

And he answered: the wrath of Andraste.