Chapter 4 #2
Hoping to provide some comfort to her youngest brothers, Sorcha hurried to them and pulled each of them into a tight hug, even fifteen-year-old Maonos, who held himself stiffly in her embrace. She led them inside to their mother.
Alina had recovered enough to sit before the central hearth. She opened her arms wide to the boys. Munganos, the youngest, launched himself into her embrace.
Sorcha hurried toward the druids’ enclosure within the hillfort, where their wattle and daub roundhouses stood amongst garden beds of herbs and vegetables. Livestock were corralled behind their houses.
For now, her mother and siblings did not need her, and she had duties to perform. Tomorrow at dawn, her father would be safely and secretly buried before the Roman troops arrived, so they could not desecrate his resting place.
* * *
The next afternoon, Sorcha stood in the warm sunshine watching the men of the settlement build timber framework and hauling soil and stones to raise the ramparts beside the massive entrance gates even higher.
Surely, they would be able to withstand attack by the Romans?
Below the hillfort, their crops were almost ready for harvesting.
Through the open fort gates strode Garamaros, the gifted goldsmith and beadmaker of Dun Limen, who regularly travelled through the Durotriges’ lands selling his wares and seeking commissions.
Sorcha’s hands tightened into fists at her sides. Why was Garamaros here again—for a second time this summer? He led the pony that pulled his wagon, which today overflowed with goods, as though it carried everything he owned. His ever-present wolfhound, Lurcher, trotted beside him.
Did he have news from her mother’s clan? Sorcha started forward, but stopped herself from approaching him for information. It was more fitting for him to come to the king’s roundhouse. And she knew he would, because that was where he always sold most of his wares.
She re-entered the roundhouse and took her place at her loom, fiddling with the bobbins and weaving the occasional weft of wool while she waited. And waited. What was taking him so long?
Finally, he sought admittance at the roundhouse door. Alina hurried forward from her own loom to greet him with a welcoming smile. Usually, she waited for him to approach her, as she was the king’s wife and the person of greater importance.
Not today.
Why was she so eager to see him?
He dipped his chin in greeting. “Esteemed Alina, how fare you?”
“As well as can be expected, Craftsman Garamaros. You heard the sad news that King Arthmael was killed by the Romans in the east?”
His mouth flattened and his brow furrowed as any loyal subject’s ought, but his eyes seemed to glow with another emotion. “I heard. Please accept my condolences. The Durotriges have lost a great leader. But your sons returned in good health?”
“Thank you. My sons were spared, and for that I am truly grateful. They now prepare for the defense of Mai Dun.”
“So I see.” He nodded in the direction of the work outside.
Sorcha stepped towards them. “Why are you here again, Craftsman Garamaros?” she interrupted. There was no reason for him to visit her mother again so soon.
Garamaros turned his head, and his dark-eyed gaze met hers. Kindness showed in his eyes, as usual. Over her lifetime, he had aged well. Still he stood tall and strong, his shoulders wide under his tunic, his brown hair only lightly threaded with grey.
“Esteemed Sorcha, I flee before the approaching Roman army, like many others.”
“But you are Belgae. Why do you come to the Durotriges for shelter?”
Her mother gasped and looked ready to censure Sorcha for her bluntness.
Garamaros’s forehead wrinkled again as though he didn’t quite understand her question.
“I have lived amongst the Durotriges for most of my life. I had thought…hoped…to be accepted here because of that.” His low, calm voice showed he took no offence at her words.
Or did he possess superior skills at holding his true feelings from others of higher rank?
Why was she taking umbrage at his appearance here? It was bad manners and unbecoming of her as the former king’s daughter, but his presence still annoyed her.
“Craftsman Garamaros is from my clan’s settlement and is an old acquaintance. He is always welcome here,” Alina said to Sorcha, the sternness in her voice reminding Sorcha of her rudeness.
Sorcha’s face heated. She was being impolite, but his familiarity with her mother was an impertinence. “As you say, Garamaros, you have every right to seek shelter here,” she backtracked, but her voice still betrayed her disapproval.
“I am glad to hear it,” he answered
Alina turned back to Garamaros, a soft smile lighting her face. “Where is your camp?”
“In the usual place at the western end of Mai Dun. I’ll set up my workshop and assist with the preparations for defense.”
Sorcha could not resist another dig at the interloper, to show her mother he wasn’t worthy of her warm welcome. “Do you think we will be defeated by the Romans, Garamaros?” Sorcha asked.
He directed sad eyes at her. “Alas, I do. We Belgae know only too well how the Roman army crushes opposition. I think it would be better if the Durotriges negotiated to become a client nation rather than resist the Roman war machine.”
Anger surged with in Sorcha. She set her hands on her hips. “That sounds to me like craven talk. Perhaps you do belong with the Belgae.” Her face heated.
Garamaros sighed. “I know the Belgae. They won’t submit easily. They will continue to fight.”
“But you come here hoping to convince us to give in to Rome?”
“Sorcha!” Her mother’s eyes glinted with anger.
Garamaros shook his head. “I do no such thing. I am but a humble craftsman. I have no power within this fort, and I seek none.”
And I’m glad of that! Just as well he understood his place in the tribe’s hierarchy.
He was a craftsman…of worker rank, far below the king’s family.
Yet he was welcomed warmly every year by her mother, who wore broaches and an abundance of beads created by him.
She showed far too much partiality for him, in honor of his ties to her clan and community.
“Come, Garamaros, let us walk and talk together of my people at Dun Limen.” Alina sent a glare over her shoulder at Sorcha as she led Garamaros from the roundhouse.
“I’m glad my parents have long since gone to the Otherworld, so they don’t have to face this calamity.
” Alina’s words faded as she led Garamaros away.
Sorcha huffed out a breath once the craftsman with annoying views exited. Her face was still heated from the altercation. Sorcha smoothed her tunic and returned to her loom to think through all that Garamaros had said.
She soon dismissed his viewpoint, glad he had no say in matters here.
* * *
As the days marched towards the mid-summer solstice, everywhere across the hillfort preparations for the defense of Mai Dun were underway.
Caileanos had commanded that as much food, water, and weaponry as possible be stored before the coming attack.
More cattle and sheep than usual were being slaughtered for salt meat to sustain the clan during a siege.
Women and children filled a pit with thousands of sling stones. Men lopped branches for spears.
Work parties felled massive oak trees for new gateposts and gates and transported them up the winding roadway to the fort’s entrance using teams of ponies.
Sorcha watched her mother spend time talking with the craftsman every day. Alina encouraged her younger sons to visit him at his workshop to learn how to forge weapons, the work he had taken on instead of goldsmithing and bead-making. Even Caileanos valued his assistance.
Apparently, Garamaros possessed weapon-making skills learnt long ago from his Belgae father. His ancestors had escaped the invading Romans by sailing across to the sea to Albion, where they had carved out a new homeland to the northeast of the lands of the Durotriges.
The growing connection between Garamaros and her family fanned the embers of animosity burning in Sorcha’s stomach.
She wished she had the power to evict his unsettling presence from the settlement.
But she knew better than to challenge her brother’s support of Garamaros, especially when his skills so ably aided their preparations against the enemy.
Still, she felt that her family’s ready acceptance of this man was in some way disrespectful of her father’s memory.
Sorcha prayed the Romans never marched this way. For the Durotriges to lose their way of life, their culture, everything passed down through myriad generations, would destroy her people forever. Somehow, they must find the strength to fight and survive.
* * *
The frightening news of the Roman army’s rapid advance towards Mai Dun arrived a few days later. It was time to act and fast. Caileanos announced his decisions to the clan, which had gathered before the chieftain’s roundhouse.