Timewatch (29 page)

The Keltoi must be the Celts. A book he'd read in grade six showed pictures of fierce long-haired men holding shields in front of their naked bodies, swinging away with long swords at the shorter, darker Romans dressed in body armor and helmets.

The Romans had taken more than 100 years to conquer Britain, he remembered, and, at that, Scotland had never been subdued. The Romans had finally built a wall to keep out the marauding Picts and Scots. Ireland had managed to stay free, too.

He must be somewhere in the time period around
A.D.
61 in what would later be called England. Even if this body died, the real him would probably survive—at least according to Bryanna. Nobody had really spelled everything out; both she and Jeremy had been short on details.

He looked down at his body: his limbs were long and muscular. He'd try to look after this body better than Tom's. He shivered as he remembered running through the field of peas, trying to get to the canoe that would take him to the boat. Would Church have died if he, Jason, hadn't taken a bullet for him?

But it
did
happen, or would happen. Keeping track of time while you hopped back and forth through history got a little confusing. Restless, he stepped to the door, fastened by wooden pegs to the door frame, opened it, and went outside.

He stood on the slope of a hill on which clustered a dozen or more round, thatched buildings measuring about 50 feet across, similar to the one out of which he had just come. Dwarfing the houses was a thick grove of trees at the top of the hill. A herd of cows lowed in the distance, while a flock of geese hissed at him. Horses roamed around in an enclosure.

A thundering in his ears made him turn. A man with long fair hair stiffened into a flying mane was pounding toward him on his horse from which swung a head, the eyes still glaring and the mouth twisted into a hideous grimace. Scowling fiercely at him, at the last minute the man swerved, letting out a loud guffaw.

“Kunagnos rides like Epona herself,” said a feminine voice admiringly behind him.

He knew that voice! Or Bran did, and very well, too. Emotions pouring into him along with the memories were making him blush. Swinging around, he almost knocked into a young woman. Devonna was only a few inches shorter than he was, a real Amazon with dark red hair tumbling down between two enameled combs to her slim waist. Her lightly freckled skin was tanned, her cheeks and mouth red. Two amber-colored eyes peered anxiously at him.

“You look pale, Bran. Have you been fasting over much? I know Beltane will be soon upon us, but you still have some time to prepare.”

J.J. was spared from replying by the appearance of a middle-aged man whose hair had been shaved from his hairline at his forehead to the middle of the top of his head. The rest of his hair, blond mixed with gray, hung down past his shoulders. Over breeches and a linen tunic, he had flung a cloak; the blue-and-green design on it reminded J.J. of a Scottish tartan.

Coming closer the man said, “My son.”

Mabon wasn't Bran's real father, who had died shortly after coming to Britain from Ireland, but his foster father.

“Mabon. Greetings. May the gods look with favor on you.”

Mabon nodded and said, “Let us go find out what Kunagnos has to report.”

J.J. followed Mabon and the girl into a house already crowded by dozens of other people. The lucky ones who'd arrived there first were already seated on animal skins. The rest were standing around chattering to each other. The noise level was fierce, just like between classes at his high school.

Bryanna was there, too. He waved to her. She seemed startled to see him and frowned slightly, then waved back.

Was she mad at him because he went out? Was he under house arrest or something? But if he was to do anything useful in this era, he had to know what was going on.

The noise suddenly stopped. The big guy, Kunagnos, was starting to speak. You could see he was enjoying being the center of attention.

The way he started out with flowery, complimentary phrases made him sound like one of the politicians back home. Finally, he got down to the important part. “Combroges, my people, I have ridden hard from the court of the Iceni, that kingdom, bordering on the east of the North Sea. You remember how after the death of King Prasutagus the Roman procurator, Catus Decianus, confiscated the entire wealth of the king for his emperor, even though Prasutagus had willed half his estate to the emperor Claudius.

“Not content with robbing the king's wife, Queen Boudica, and her two daughters of their inheritance, Decianus had the queen flogged and her daughters raped.”

Kunagnos paused as a roar went up. Several men, their long mustaches bristling, brandished their swords.

After a few moments when the crowd fell silent, Kunagnos went on. “It is not the royal women only who suffer. Many chieftains, given gifts of money by the emperor, have now been told that these were loans to be paid back with interest. As well, their lands are forfeit to the new emperor, Nero.

“You know, too, that other tribes suffer. The Trinovantes, neighbors of the Iceni, were forced to flee their homes and lands, which were given to retired Roman army veterans who now idle away their time in theatres and baths. Not content to worship in sacred groves as we do, the former emperor Claudius had the arrogance to rear a temple to himself, built by the sweat and money of our countrymen!”

Men muttered and beat their swords against their shields. Kunagnos held up both hands. The people fell silent. “Boudica and her people arise even now to avenge their wrongs. They offer a glorious cause to fight for: the freedom of all the Keltoi. Who will join them?”

This time men and women jumped up, shouting and stomping their feet.

A man with a livid scar running down the left side of his face, stood up. After the noise had died down, he said, “I am Gruff-udd, of the tribe of the Silures in Cymru, which borders the Irish Sea. I was but a boy when I began fighting the Romans, hitting their outposts and convoys with great success. Under our leader, Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni, who dominate the lands in the southeast, we fought well, but we were defeated more than once by the Romans under Aulus Plautius. By the time Plautius left for Rome, most of the southeast of this great island had submitted to Roman rule.

“Then Caratacus and I took refuge in Cymru in the Cambrian mountains, where he inspired the Silures and Ordovices to do battle against the Romans. We fought bravely,” he said proudly, “but evil finally overtook us. Caratacus fled north and appealed to the Brigantian queen, Cartimandua, to shelter him. She played him false and handed him over in chains to the Romans for judgment.”

“But the Silures and Ordovices fight on in the mountains of Cymru, do they not?” asked Kunagnos.

“Yes, for they are men of valor, but how long can they last? I have come to this sanctuary to offer up a sacrifice to Teutalis, in the hopes that this god may grant my prayers for success in battle against the Romans. And yet …”

He shrugged uneasily and stared off into space for a long moment before continuing, “The Roman Paulinus Seutonius is a cunning and determined leader. It is known that he was appointed specifically to wipe out resistance among my people.

“It is also rumored that the new emperor, Nero, looks for new ways to fill his treasury. He casts greedy eyes on the rich mineral deposits in our mountains, caring not if they rip out the bowels of Mother Earth to satisfy his avarice.

“As for me, I will join with you in any enterprise to break the Roman yoke and will fight until the sky falls and the sea breaks its bounds.”

J.J. shivered. Gruff-udd sounded so bleak.

A hawk-faced woman with bold eyes asked, “What other tribes will help the Iceni, whose queen, Boudica, and her daughters were humiliated by the Romans?”

“The Trinovantes, Coritani, and Cornovii have pledged their aid.”

“It does not seem enough,” the woman muttered.

“What choice do we have? This may be the last opportunity for the tribes to unite and drive the Romans into the sea. Besides, there are favorable auguries,” went on Kunagnos. “In Camulodunum, where the stench of Roman perfume must inflame the gods, there are rumors of the sea turning the color of blood. The ebb tide throws up corpses with shapes akin to those of humans. Some swear to having heard shrieks in the senate house and the theatre and have witnessed the statue of Victory topple from its lofty perch. Shall we fear when the gods favor us?”

A mighty howl split the air. The sheer animal fury of that sound made the hairs on the back of J.J.'s neck stand on end.

Then Bryanna stood up. Instantly, the assemblage stilled. “If you go to war against the Romans,” she said bluntly, “those shrieks will be yours, not those of the legionaries, as you fall in battle; the corpses will be yours also that litter the seashore.

“Have you not heard from the mouth of Gruff-udd himself the result of warring with the Romans? They took Caratacus to Rome in chains. His men, who still battle on in the mountains of Cymru, are being steadily exterminated by Seutonius. Do you wish to share their end? Dire consequences await those who meddle with fate.”

Her words were greeted with an uneasy muttering. Mabon turned and stared hard at J.J. Even at a distance of five or six yards, he could feel the malice in that look.

What had Bran done to deserve Mabon's dislike? Carefully, J.J. searched Bran's memory. All that came were flashes of the endless conversations the two of them had carried on.

Unlike Kunagnos and most of the others here, Mabon was a Druid, a big man in the priestly hierarchy and well respected. He had spent many years teaching initiates in the special school for aspiring Druids. Bran, who had been one of Mabon's students, would be a Druid himself one day.

More flashes of memory came, of carefully repeating the chants with their mnemonic devices that helped him remember the occult wisdom. The initiates were not allowed to write down anything; writing was only for the recording of accounts and other mundane things. They had to practice hour after hour, for years, until they had perfected their memories. They were human vessels entrusted with the sacred wisdom and must be prepared to sacrifice …

J.J.'s head was spinning. He got that Cymru was Wales (he had learned that back home in Winnipeg in history class), but it was a little hard to follow all the other stuff. The Welsh guy, Gruffudd, had worked up the crowd by reminding them how nasty the Romans had been to Queen Boudica and her daughters and asked for their help in defeating the Romans. Good luck with that! The Roman army was unstoppable. Bryanna was right when she said there would be “dire consequences” if they tried to oppose the Romans.

Devonna was pulling on his arm. “Come with me,” she whispered.

Wrapping his long cloak tightly around himself, he followed her outside. They walked rapidly toward the grove of trees spearing the sun, which was beginning its descent in the west.

Devonna stopped under the branches of a massive oak. “You are not yourself,” she said, looking hard at him. “Have you changed your mind?”

“About what?” J.J. blurted out before he could root around in Bran's memory.

She opened her mouth in surprise, then closed it and looked thoughtfully at him. “I know there are those who can change their shapes into those of the beasts or birds. The dead, too, can come back and possess the living. Has this happened to you, Bran?”

She asked it so simply that he was taken off guard. Not knowing what to say, he said nothing.

“I have loved Bran since first we met,” she went on in a low voice. “It is this love I bear him that gives me the right to speak to you in this fashion. I must know if you are Bran or …” Her voice caught for a moment, then steadied as she went on. “Not Bran.”

He could feel her pain as she gave him the kind of look he had hoped that one day a woman might give him. He couldn't lie to her. “Devonna, you're right. I'm not Bran.”

She gasped a little at that, her body tensing up.

“You've got to understand, I didn't have anything to do with this.” Did that sound too whiny? But it was true, except that he
had
volunteered for this time travel thing. Of course, at the time, he didn't have a clue what it would mean.

“Look, I'm only here for a little while. Then Bran will come back.”

She seemed to cheer up at that. Her body, standing so stiffly, loosened up a bit.

Encouraged, he went on. “Bryanna pulled me here, but it's only temporary, and then Bran will come back and I can go home.”

“I don't understand. If you go through with the ceremony, Bran can't come back. He will journey to the Other World.”

“What do you mean?”

“Has Bryanna not told you? You are to be sacrificed at Beltane.”

Memories surged in him: the Wicker Man, where people and animals were thrust into a giant figure made of straw and wood, which was then set on fire as a sacrifice to Bel. Burned alive! Were they going to do this to him?

The world reeled around him. Blindly, he backed up until the rough bark of an oak gouged his shoulders. “I don't … sacrificed? Why?”

“You heard Kunagnos. The Keltoi of this island suffer much under Roman rule. In the olden days before the Romans came, human sacrifices were offered to placate the gods. Now there are only animal offerings. I have heard some say that in this time of great trouble, we need to go back to the old ways.”

“Whose idea was this?”

“I think Mabon's,” said Devonna slowly, “but many agree with him in this matter.”

“What about you? Do you think I should go along with this?”

The girl shuddered involuntarily, then said faintly, “If it helps the Keltoi.”

“It's a waste and it won't do any good! The Romans are going to keep coming and coming. It won't make a bit of difference—except to me, and I'll be dead!”

“You are not prepared to die, then?”