Chapter 12 #2
A grey-haired man dressed in the plaid of Oglach’s clan pushed through the opening. His clothes were damp and smeared with grime. A dagger was strapped to his side.
“Greetings, Arawynos,” Sorcha said. She introduced Garamaros and her brothers. “We mean you no harm. Are you alone?”
He nodded.
Garamaros extended his arm, and they gripped each other’s forearms in peace. “Come. We have food.” He put his arm on the man’s shoulder to direct him to the cliff path.
Arawynos took half a dozen steps beside Garamaros, then rushed back to the fissure.
Sorcha gasped and thrust an arm towards him. “No!”
Lucius lunged at the man.
Instead of disappearing inside again, Arawynos leaned through the opening. “Come. It’s safe,” he called.
There were more survivors. Sorcha relaxed.
A trickle of older men and youths stepped forth, followed by women and children. About forty in all. Some carried periwinkles and oysters gathered from the foreshore.
“Welcome, welcome.” Garamaros and Sorcha’s brothers greeted them, grasping their forearms in friendship. As they filed past, they looked askance at Lucius, who despite his Celtic clothes still looked Roman.
“Come, we have food,” Sorcha said. She led the way to the path.
At the settlement, the survivors looked around in anguish at their destroyed homes.
“We eat in here tonight,” Sorcha said, directing the people to the roundhouse they had occupied. “We did not find the occupants of this house. Do any of you live here?”
They shook their heads. “We eat with you, but we will sleep below the cliffs. Many of the women still fear sudden attack.”
“Of course,” Sorcha answered. She introduced Alina as the widow of Arthmael.
After they had eaten their fill, Garamaros sought the assistance of the men and women in the task of restoring the fort’s defenses and creating more, after they had buried the dead.
In outlining the proposed defenses, Garamaros consulted Lucius and translated his answers to his audience.
Sorcha saw curiosity, skepticism, and contempt on the people’s faces.
“Why would you trust this Roman?” one elderly man asked with open hostility.
“I trust him with my life,” Garamaros replied. “He has done us no harm, only good in the time he’s been our hostage. I suggest we trust him in matters of warfare too.”
“What if the next time someone attacks us it is not the Dumnone, but the Roman army? What will he do then? Fight his own people? Unlikely!”
Sorcha glanced over at Lucius expecting to see a smirk on his face, but instead a frown worried his brow.
“For now, we are defending ourselves again the Dumnone who killed so many of your people,” Garamaros answered in his measured way.
“Let us face the issue of a Roman attack when, or if, it arises. We hope to trade our hostage for a peaceful settlement. There has been enough blood shed against the Romans. Negotiation with them will allow us to continue living in our Celtic way.”
Was Garamaros correct? Should she set aside her thirst for revenge? Was that the best answer? Grief and anger at the Romans still warred inside of her, setting her alight for revenge. But revenge at the cost of the lives of her people, her family? She wasn’t so sure.
The Dun Creg spokesman from the beach, obviously a druid healer by his dress, despite his grimy condition, discussed the matter with his people before returning to Sorcha and Garamaros.
“We are in agreement. We will rebuild Dun Creg with you. As our chieftain and his family are no more, we hope you will take leadership of the settlement, Garamaros.”
That would be wholly inappropriate. Garamaros was not of the ruling class. Esteemed craftsman though he was, he was just a worker.
Sorcha opened her mouth to slingshot that idea down, but caught sight of her mother’s face.
It radiated love and respect for Garamaros and pride in this honor.
Sorcha knew that her mother had respected Arthmael, and shown him support at all times, but she had never seen that look of unbounded love and pride on her mother’s face when she had looked at him.
Garamaros opened and closed his mouth. He glanced at Alina and saw her approval. Then his gaze fell on Sorcha.
She clamped her mouth closed.
Garamaros scanned the gathering. “I am honored by your trust in me, but I believe that Sorcha, as Arthmael’s daughter and eldest child, as well as the intended wife of your late chieftain Oglach, should be named the chieftain of Dun Creg.
She has shown great courage through our travels here.
She has wisdom beyond her years and cares deeply for her people.
She learned from her father how to be a great leader—and would be the best choice for chieftain of Dun Creg.
I, of course, will offer her all my assistance with repairs and defensive preparations.
After all, I am but a humble craftsman.”
A few raised eyebrows showed the listeners’ astonishment at these words, but most faces were accepting.
Sorcha was shocked by his words.
Is this really how he sees me?
Garamaros with his tall, straight bearing and air of command certainly looked like a man worthy of the rank of chieftain.
This positive and unbiased thought surprised Sorcha.
Perhaps she was coming to terms with the reality that he was her father.
And why wouldn’t her father be someone people would turn to for leadership?
After all, they were of the same blood, and she was always ready to lead.
The people of Dun Creg deferred to Garamaros’s wishes, and Sorcha was loudly acclaimed their new chieftain. With the shouts of the people roaring in her ears, Sorcha cast a look over her family. Alina and Garamaros beamed at her. Pride shone in their eyes.
Maonos looked a little crestfallen, as though he’d hoped to have been made leader. That wasn’t possible—as he was only sixteen summers old—not an adult. Once he reached that milestone, perhaps he would command one of the Cantuc hillforts that Sorcha hoped to reoccupy in the future.
Sorcha’s eyes strayed to the Roman.
His mouth quirked up at each corner, as though highly amused by the proclamation that Garamaros, standing beside him, had no doubt explained. With laughter in his eyes, Lucius rapped his closed fist against his chest, as though in salute to her.
Sorcha knew he mocked her, but she was in charge and he was no better than a slave. Damn you, Roman. I will wipe that smirk off your face.