To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Thirteen: Dannoius the Druid

       Dusk arrived as Carl and his companions rode to the jail. It was a low, rectangular block building set against the large stone face of a limestone outcropping. When a guard unlocked the wooden door and Carl stooped low to enter, a foul smell assaulted his senses. It was dank as a Paris sewer. There was no light.

       The guard brought a torch. The flickering light almost suffocated in the foul, moist air of the cell, but, slowly reviving, it cast its glow wide enough to reveal five emaciated prisoners. Each was dressed in rags, each was bound to an iron chain running through wrist pieces, which were made of leather covered with copper plating. The chain was fastened to a bronze loop which ran through one of the stones in the wall. Moisture on the stone glistened in the flickering light. The thick bronze loop was partially opened, showing the prisoners had been at work on it. The copperwork caught Carl's eye for the wrist bands were intricate and showed sophisticated workmanship. He was impressed. Let's hope the man who did this is still around. I can use his skills.

       Painfully, with help from Morius and Catavolcus, Carl pieced together their stories. They had been part of Augustus' legions in Gaul, when he pacified it. In a lengthy series of battles against the Belgae they had been captured. The five were Marcus, Sertorius, Catulus, Gaius of Milpas, and Antonius. Marcus was the leader. A little older than the others he also used a higher level of Latin and better Gaelic. He was son of a farmer, which meant he was a landowner, a high calling in Rome. Having been an engineer in Augustus' legions, he had served directly under Petronius, who was young when Caesar's engineers had first bridged the Rhine. Petronius had retired to a villa near Rome about two years after Marcus had arrived in Gaul as a young man.

       "Do not fear for your lives," Carl said in a rough Latin. "There will be no more Romans, nor anyone else, sacrificed to unheeding gods."

       He turned to Catavolcus."Free from their bonds tonight. Tomorrow we will talk about where they might stay and what they will do."

       He fingered the carefully wrought straps. "Tomorrow, I want to see the man who did this work. He's a craftsman."

       Turning again to the prisoners and warned them: "You are free to leave this village any time, beginning as soon as these bonds are loosed. But it would not be wise to do so. I do not believe you would live to leave Britannia."

       He glanced meaningfully at Catavolcus. "I believe I can control this village so that you will be free to roam in the days ahead. But if you seek to escape into the woods or travel south toward Camulodunum you will meet brigands who will either take your life or sell you again into slavery."

       He stood close to the torch Morius was holding so they could see his features. "If tomorrow you swear fealty to me, and will work for me, in five years I will send you back to Rome where you may live out your remaining years in peace and sunshine. You will teach me and my people many things, and you will practice your skills in Britannia. Good night."

       A gabble of Latin penetrated the night as Carl left the cell, leaving behind a light to ease the darkness.

       Rebecca was bathing when he finished his meal, and while she carefully dried and then combed her hair, Carl slipped into the still hot water.

       "And how did you find Nottingham?" he asked.

       She turned her face toward him from her hand mirror, rescued from her overnight bag and clasped her nose between two fingers. "It stinks. We'd do best if we leveled the place with an earth mover, but it hasn't been invented yet. Two wells may be contaminated, and the people don't use human and animal wastes properly. But since we're stuck here, we can improve it. I found three women who practice herbal medicine and there is an alchemist, an old man with three sons. Dannoius the priest also practices medicine." She shuddered. "I think he's a Druid priest, but I'm not sure."

       She walked to the bed and lay back on the wolf skins that served as blankets, her head on the goose down pillows, her deep bronze tresses framing her face. Carl watched her. Am I one lucky Dude!

       "Dannoius is going to be a problem," she continued, speaking to the ceiling. "I didn't see him—he has something against women, but many people talked about him and the soldiers seem in awe of him. He has quite a hold among the Coritani."

       She turned to Carl. "Now, I see by your eyes that you had an exciting day."

       "That's what they reveal? But it's true."

       He filled her in on the Camelot site and told of his talk with the Roman soldiers and of freeing them. Rebecca shivered at the idea of human sacrifice in her beloved England, but she knew it had been practiced for centuries. Before it had all been so remote. Now it was reality—humans were sacrificed to no longer ancient gods.

       "Why don't you send them home now? Haven't they suffered enough?"

       "I probably should," he replied, rinsing the British army soap from his skin, "but we need them too badly. Where can I find an engineer with the skills of Marcus? It's their misfortune that we need them, but we'll treat them well and have them teach these people their knowledge. And we'll pay them more than they'll make with the legions."

       All discussion stopped as they sought the warmth of the bed and each other.

       Raphael reported on his findings the next morning. "The king's larders are full, but they're poorly located and spoilage is a problem, which I can solve. There are large resources coming into the king's coffers from the villagers and farmers." He shook his head in wonderment. "Dumnocoveros required them to deliver twenty-five percent of all they produce into his hands. This varied, depending upon whether they produced goods, such as the blacksmiths, or food, but it was a strapping income to provide for his small guard of horsemen and himself. In addition, the control of the road through Sherwood brought coins and merchandise into his hands. Many of these had been converted into precious stones and metals, and some had disappeared when his family went into exile."

       He cast an accusing glance at Carl, who raised and quickly dropped his shoulder in a shrug. "It had to be, Raphael. I couldn't allow his family to leave without taking some possessions with them. Perhaps Pember should have checked more closely, but we didn't know how people might react." Hindsight was nearly always perfect.

       "Your compassion will get us into trouble one of these days." Raphael outlined his plans for keeping check of the king's possessions. He was convinced there was large thievery because so little accounting had been done. "I'll get that under control, if and when I find a couple of honest young men."

       "Raphael," Rebecca broke in, "we trust you. We'll account to you for what we do. You account to us for what you do. There can only be one king, but all three of us are needed if we're to succeed."

       "An American management guru," Carl interjected, "said the CEO—and I'm substituting king—can't delegate responsibility, it all has to come back to him, including all information about problems and difficulties. If the king doesn't want to deal with it, then he's the wrong man for the job. I want to deal with it. Little problems need to be faced before they become big problems."

       It was decided to allow the Romans, under Pember's leadership, to clean up and improve their one-room stone building. They then could build a larger structure closer to the mansion, one that would be more comfortable during the winter. They were to be given an increased share of grain from the king's larder. Tears welled in their eyes. They truly were free of the threat of sacrifice. They swore fealty with enthusiasm. Marcus told the others: "In five years we can return to Rome! That's less time than serving in the legions!"

       Gaio, who was in attendance, scowled, showing his displeasure. Carl noticed and called him aside. "What's the problem, Gaio?"

       "Master, some of us who serve you well are slaves without hope of freedom. How can you free those who conqueror the world and sell entire tribes and peoples into slavery when you keep the rest of us slaves?"

       "Gaio, you should feel happy for those who have such good fortune, especially as they've faced sacrifice and have lived in terrible conditions. But you're right, in part. I could offer you the same thing—freedom in five years, but I won't. You're free right now. I should never have accepted Aaron's gift."

       Gaio gagged. It was not what he had expected, nor indeed what he wanted. He still needed to learn much from Rebecca's skills, and he had not learned a thing about how to make her medicines.

       "But, where will I go? What will I do?"

       "You may stay here, but you are a free man. You can return to Aaron when a caravan comes through or go wherever you wish. I don't have men to spare now to send with you. You may continue as you are doing, but now you are free to leave whenever you wish."

       Gaio should have been pleased, but his backdealing had caught up with him. He wasn't free, because Aaron still owned him. If Gaio tried to escape from Britannia and was caught, he would be a slave in worse condition than before. He had the presence of mind to thank Carl for his freedom and to accept the invitation to remain in Nottingham, but his "freedom" tasted like a bitter draught of medicine. He became irrationally bitter instead of joyful—freedom that wasn't freedom was caustic.

       It took a few days for Carl to realize he had better start making gunpowder. It was a fairly simple process, if one knew what to do. Fortunately, he did. He set aside an area away from Nottingham to create saltpeter. There was none in the land, or in most of Europe that could be bought. It usually was made or scraped from damp walls.

       Five wooden troughs were built above ground, with peasants putting animal wastes and decaying vegetable matter in the trough instead of throwing it away or using it on their fields. Then, after the first trough was about three quarters full, they would start filling a second. Meanwhile, animal and human urine was collected on a regular basis and put into the first trough until it was full. All of the them were protected from the rain and kept "warm" by piling dirt against the sides.

       Carl would build a plant later to make gunpowder.

       Raphael queried him about the troughs.

       "They're needed for two reasons, to make saltpeter after it has marinated for about a year, and to make fertilizer by mixing the remainder with burned limestone, which is abundant. We'll have to learn from experience what the proper proportions should be to create the best fertilizer, but that shouldn't be hard to do."

       "What's the saltpeter for?'

       "To mix with sulfur and charcoal to make blackpowder, which can be used for gunpowder or bombs. It's the most important ingredient."

       Raphael shook his head. "What poor bloke are you going to make responsible for preparing and gathering the waste?"

       Carl grinned. "Interested?"

       "No way. Is that Americanism clear enough?"

       "Yeah." He stretched it out. "I'll get a couple of young men to work on it part time. It doesn't require a lot of time, until we have to remove the saltpeter. But that's a year away."

       Carl and Rebecca toured the village together. They were so caught up in their own thoughts that it took several moments before a bustle and noise from behind two wooden, mud-spattered huts caught their attention.

       Soon a wizened, pock-marked old man came through a narrow passageway, scattering chickens and indignant pigs, followed by two attendants and a mastiff. A straggly grey beard struggled to conceal his chin and long strands of hair sprouted from clumps of grey on his head, peeking from beneath a leather skull cap. He wore a faded, multi-colored cloak that enveloped his frail figure though his attendants wore grey robes. His robe had seen better days, as had the man inside it, but both exuded a palpable aura. The strange designs on the cloak were made up of whirls, eyes, birds, and other figures, all symbolic.

       But it was his eyes that gave pause. They had not faded as had his hair, but were an intense dark brown, peering from under bushy grey brows that dominated his face. The eyes squinted slightly as he fixed them on Carl and Rebecca. He carried a shepherd's crook; at his heels the large nondescript brown mastiff growled its personal welcome.

       Rebecca gasped. "This must be Dannoius."

       Dannoius it was, and he was unafraid of the new ri. He approached them, having hesitated momentarily when he first glimpsed Carl, for he was taken aback at his height. Dannoius's emissaries had warned him of the king's size, but to see Carl towering over him by more than a foot was nevertheless intimidating. He quickly recovered.

       Speaking Gaelic, he further narrowed his eyes and hurdled malevolent bolts of word-lightening upon Carl for having freed his precious sacrifices and opening Nottingham to the wrath of the earth gods. He strode closer to Carl, with mastiff close behind, and cursed him for what he had done. He was the power in the village, not the king!

       Rebecca was able to piece together the imprecations. Morius, who had lagged behind, rushed up to give assistance, but even he wilted under the priest's gaze.

       Speaking through Rebecca, who translated into Welsh, Carl said: "Dannoius, there will be no more human sacrifices in Nottingham. Any injury to humans, Roman soldiers or others, will be dealt with harshly. You can practice your religion, but your curses are impotent, whether directed against me or others in the village."

       Then, speaking directly to Dannoius in a rough Gaelic, he said, "You had better seek another village where your hateful religion can be practiced, perhaps up among the Picts. If it comes to a contest of gods, my god is greater than yours. In any case, you will no longer find a compliant ri to support your fole beliefs and practices." Carl was seldom diplomatic.

       The charge of fool stunned Dannoius. His face twisted into a small tornado, and he cursed Carl with an endless variety of imprecations, far beyond anything they could understand. Morius moved forward as though to stop the old man, but Carl motioned him back. Villagers had gathered at a safe distance and peered from open windows. It was a meeting of the two most powerful men in Nottingham, and the future of the village depended upon Carl's reaction.

       Smiling at Dannoius, whose face reminded him of a storm at sea, Carl grabbed a stunned Rebecca by the arm. "Let's go and let him stew in his considerable anger. 'God treat you as you deserve,'" he pleasantly told Dannoius in English, then turned up the roadway with Rebecca as they continued on their tour of the village. "We'll have to deal with him later, but this is neither the place nor the time. Something will happen soon enough to give one or the other of us leverage in the village." 

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       They could hear him muttering to his young attendants as they strode off.

       For three weeks the new rulers of Nottingham and their minions plotted the reorganization of the village, the mansion and nearly every business in the village, including farming. Carl even showed their boots to Calvoli the cobbler, who was able to reproduce them closely.

       The craftsman who had fashioned the brass covering for the leather handcuffs was found among the court's artisans. He was Tartos the metal worker, and he also had fashioned helmets for the cavalry. Carl showed him the helmet he wore, and added more prominent ridges and flanges to protect neck and face from sword slashes.

       The village cloth worker was incapable of making an equivalent jacket of body armor, so Carl persuaded him to bring in the best cloth workers from other Coritani villages. Carl and Tartos would need to develop light metal inserts that were strong enough to deflect arrow and offer some protection against a sword.

       Carl spent three days with Marcus, the Roman engineer. They rode out to the likely site of Long Reach and explored closely the terrain and underlying stone. He watched Marcus measure the height of the hill, the distance to the water and generally survey the area. He was a competent engineer who knew that the foundation had to be well planned and established before any superstructure could be added, though his use of a knotted string needed to be updated.

       One night, Carl, Rebecca, and Raphael developed a measuring stick to impose the metric system.

       "There's no sense in using the English foot, mile, and so on when the metric system is far better. This way we won't have to overcome centuries of familiarity with a cumbersome system."

       "No," Raphael retorted, "but you two will have to learn the new system. We've used it in Syria for years."

       "We'll have Tartos use this as a model," Carl said, ignoring the outburst. "He can make a metal rod that will be the standard against which all future measuring instruments can be checked. We'll create our own standard using the decimal system."

       The days were enjoyable, and acting as Renaissance leaders was intoxicating. Rains fell often enough to forecast a good harvest, and they were well prepared for the coming winter, but only a few improvements were made in the village proper. The winter would be a time spent in the workshops. They would get through this first year without difficulty, but a day of reckoning with Dannoius could not be delayed forever.