The Great Excavation:

Much of the team in the excavation could barely contain their excitement. Like toddlers with a sweet dangling in front of their mouths. They talk with formal voices and calm manners, but their eyes tell a story of wonder; glistening in the harsh lights of the excavation site, they radiate a vigour none of the engineering team seems to possess. Crossrail, to these archaeologists, has gained a more mythical status than the items they have dug up. In Liverpool Street Station they found many items of the long-dead, they looked for answers to questions, they never expected to find any more than that.

It’s funny, isn't it?

A person can dig all they like, they can dig here, there and everywhere, revealing only more soil to uncover. Once you dig in the wrong place, however, a whole society can reveal itself. That is what happened to James.

He was part of the team working for Crossrail, before the engineers could start chipping away with their high-tech hydraulic drills, there had to be a lot of different kinds of digging. Instead of great colossal machines, for quite some time the work was done with small trowels and a brush. For days the team had been toiling under the station, working on the plague victims of the long-gone ages of castles and princesses; nearby there were some Roman remains too, a time of imperial splendour. Twelve Roman skeletons in what must have been a graveyard. James and another small team were looking for any other Roman skeletons, with trowels  and careful hands they excavated with the care a painter has pressing his brush on the canvas. James was new on the team, fresh from his history degree and inexperienced in the art of careful digging, he plunged his trowel with force, only to hit the base of a skull. His team did not miss this careless act, their minds, however, were more interested in what James had almost pulverised. They spent several days with no luck, only stones and ash; lots of ash. It was the ash that kept them going, so much of it; there are no fires underground, this soil was once exposed to the golden glow of the sun. 

Then they found it, one by one, the blackened ground gave way to bodies, all had met brutal ends and all had a generous layer of charring on their bones. Then swords of bronze and brooches of gold were found; they were digging for Romans and now they had found something much older.

They found an un-charred body, it had only one wound and had a brooch that was of a distinctly different size and shape to the others, his male body unformed, his bones un-fused, the youth had had a different fate.

These historical goodies were transported to the British Museum, to be analyzed within an inch of their once existent life. It was Muhammad who led the team, with latexed hands and steady fingers, they extracted DNA, took teeth and marrow.

The boy was different, his teeth showed different eating habits, that of meat and berries instead of bread like the other charred bodies. His brooch was in fact merely a decorated pin made of bone. The arrows next to him consisted of stone intertwined with fibres and the fletching had long rotted away, if there had been  any on the arrow in the first place.

The archaeologists kept digging and soon the historians felt confident to provide a narrative of this long-forgotten tribe, half-hidden in the mist of the once vibrant lands where humanity's achievements are unknown but substantial to our way of life.

The First Narrative:

A forest, frost-covered and windless. The trees were sleeping and the leaves lay on the floor; slain by their once loving mother. There was a thick layer of snow suffocating the undergrowth in an attempt to end life in this sacred land. Nothing grows under the oppression of frost. The rattling winds howl and shriek, it nips and bites, trying to freeze our souls. Yet we are born to keep living, our souls crave to eat. To eat is to nourish the body.

In that forest with us was an unsuspecting male red deer. Snorting heavily, its breath steamed and fluttered. It was silently stepping through the woods, unknowingly under watch by several hunters. With a thick brown coat to keep out the frost, a set of antlers and an aggressive stance; it had meat bulging from its fur. As the prey moved through dead trees, leaving only the lightest footprints; it stopped. 

Head high.

Ears pricked. 

At the same moment, bowstrings were loosened. The arrows hit the deer’s flanks, causing it to explode into motion. It suddenly slipped and hit the ground with a dramatic crash on its descent. An antler lies broken off by a nearby tree. The forest was once again still.

Where the arrows slew the deer, there was a splash of gore on the snowy surface deforming the forest with its invasive bold colours. A mark of death and the removal of purity for the survival of a desperate tribe.

The hunters looked upon the kill greedily and moved with flints to dismantle the carcass. They cut with skill, veterans at the art of butchering. The skinning and removing sinew and muscle from bone and organ was done so quickly the winter sun had no time to move across the sky.

The parts were put into several sacks with haste. As much blood was drained as possible to stop predators. The foul substance was splashed and the wind dragged it to other places in the forest. It is like honey to predators; they will do anything no matter how much they must do to drink it.

While it was a time to rejoice, it was not a safe place to celebrate, the families at home needed their food after all. Brutes trudged through the woods and packs of scavengers stalked the forest. They thrive on what we leave behind. As a tribute, we left the unwanted parts and went back to the tribe.

Carrying deer sacks between us was a challenge. Two people would share the burden of the sack while other hunters kept watch. The southern tribe had yet to show their face; it is part of their annual ceremony to threaten us with a bow and arrow, they like to think themselves bigger than us. We trudged through the snow, it muffled our hide-covered feet, yet the ground crinkled and crunched under the weight of the hunters carrying a deer carcass.

The wind picked up; we found ourselves deeper into the woods. It was not dark, the bare trees did not stop the sun god’s frail winter light. A gale started to form, howling and writhing, it rattled through the branches and whispered threats of destruction in our raw pink ears. We ploughed on. A small red speckled trail was following us, any monster could follow the path of gore. They are not always satisfied with our offerings; they do not share the same respect that we present to them after all.

We hiked on, one hide shoe in front of the other in a monotonous march home through knee-deep snow. We were most of the way there, in a short time, the woods slowly yielded, the trees opened their branches and backed away from us as we reached the barricade that represents the edge of our settlement. Our Tamēssa tribal home is near, a pleasant village with huts and stone foundations that bear the weight of our structures and lives as we sleep under their roofs.

So, close we were; yet we stopped. A group of shadows emerged from the depths of the forest. Once we saw each other, the mood changed. Another tribe, a competitor. Their faces hollow and sunken, their bodies bony. Their eyes glittered at the sight of our bloody sacks. Our hunters, superior in numbers and skill, drew bows and loosened arrows, felling some of the enemy. A few brave souls charged us, they fell too. The rest ran like rats away from our path.

Sorrowful that our fellow men had lost their lives, even if they were of a different tribe, we decided it must not go to waste, scooping up the dead and putting them into now heavily burdened sacks and shoulders. We trudged on.

Burdened with the survival of our tribe, we struggled under the weight of the dead.

With a gasp, a euphoria so strong we blinded ourselves in bliss, excitement erupted through the group. The hardy ploughing of soft leather shoes turned into a stumble, like running through a river. All remaining energy consumed, we struggled in the snowed-over paths. Here and there one of the hunters overbalanced and  fell into the icy depths. They heaved themselves up and moved onwards towards their great goal. Our frost-damaged faces, raw and red enough to look bloody, bore no resemblance to the relief we felt. We ran through the barricade, the entrance to our sanctuary.

In the centre of the village, highlighted by a campfire we dumped our kills, a deer and some of our human brethren.

Everyone’s eyes widened, their souls revealing themselves in the colourful dots at the centre, as they reached out and caressed the food by sight, their inner selves could not comprehend it. For the first time in weeks, we had some hope; we huddled closer to the fire, it covered us like warm mud, the warmth oozing over chilled flesh.

It had grown dark, gates closed, barricades defended, but the remaining members of our tribe gathered round. Saliva practically dripped from their thirsting lips. Grunts and jeers followed as the mixture of human and deer meat was put onto the flaming guardian in the centre of our settlement.

As soon as some of the meat was cooked it was cut and distributed. The mix of hard muscle and fat filled the craving for flesh perfectly, the charcoal smell added to the taste, like spice.

We had been living off the smallest of berries and only a few times of late have we had full bellies at night. The lust we had for meat and the need to survive meant that when this happened a sense of certainty flooded into our minds. We love certainty, humanity has always and always will. Who would not love to have their world make sense even for a few short hours?

***************************************************************************

After a sleepy morning, we went back to work. The charred remains of burnt trees and bones were left. The remaining meat and skulls were put in sacks and stored in a hut. Our hunters clothed themselves, bringing only their spears and flint daggers. They then dragged a nervous man with a piece of leather and a flint, forced out of the village with his fellow tribesmen. The group went into the deep forest.

The wind had calmed and the trees became clear landmarks in the snow, towering over it. Taking our flints out we started carving symbols. We went around our part of the forest covering it with symbols. Our numbers man counted the trees and plotted the area with them. 

We did this so we could find our way back, our markings invoked the spirits to guide us to our sanctuary.

“Spirits, they just believed in spirits? Sounds a bit vague.”.

The historians shrug, one butts in and exclaims, “like we have any clues, they could have been Pastafarians for all we know.”

We decided to visit our old friends; a tribe to the west. Treading down on the path, reinforcing the trail to make it clear and visible, we looked for rock formations and tree cuts that their tribe had made a few summers before. We brought axes as well, trees covered our path and so we dismantled them and took the wood to the side of the path to be taken back to the tribe later.

We heard snorts and squeals, to our left we were a group of angry boars. Picking up stones we tossed them at the feral monsters. The soft patter on the snow startled the grizzled brutes and they fled.

Soon we got to a clearing, the gate of a village in front of us flung open and we stepped inside, we were greeted and cheered at. Our allies…

The chief came to meet us and dropped his spear and bow as a sign of respect. We did the same and we embraced our brothers.  We entered the Chief's hut, with a fire sizzling with a hypnotising monotony, smoke whiling from the flames with a majestic curl of charcoal black. In the middle of the dwelling, several wives huddled around the flaming-majesty. It was noticed by our tribe very quickly how these wives had curved full bellies and filled out cheeks, red with health. They scuttled and brought us berries.

After the excitement was over, we came to ask about something new, something that could kill off our way of living for the better. We asked the chief if he knew anything about this new threat. A human threat…

This threat came in sacks. This threat could come from anywhere. This threat could save our children from dying in winter. It could make life a dream on earth. Rows, rows and rows of food could line the great plains around the village. It required tools of great craftsmanship and a sort of patience that will try even the elder’s calm. Its rewards are bountiful, however…

After more discussions, we came to a mixed conclusion. It became clear that none of us knew what it really means to cultivate the land. The chief believed it had something to do with trapping animals in buildings, while we thought of it as more to manipulate the very course of nature. Just before leaving the chief asked how many trees we had marked today “6 deers and 4 bears worth”, after some translation between counting systems they finally understood.

“Look”, Marcus said to his fellow colleagues, “surely if they counted in such a way would they not use the stars, the moon and sun? Or trees, surely not animals they hunt and surely not ones they feared”.

Another historian butted in “these people celebrated the hunts, but they also celebrated the animals alive, so many cultures have respected animals such as leopards, lions and bears. They are seen as manifestations of human characteristics. Why would they not base the system on animals?”

“Surely, maths is a system of otherworld precision, that which would follow the routine movements of the supernatural, the moons and stars, they have always been associated with maths since its inception”.

The group was deadlocked on this arbitrary point.

The dark was seeping into the bleeding sky, the orange flames of the sun exhausted by the fog of night. We hastened on the return journey with no incident on the way. 

It was night, black as charcoal with white spots of milk. The fire crackled over the hushed sound of our tribe’s people. A drum beat and then again and again. All heads turned to our soothsayers, the music of the extraction ceremony. We still had the skulls from our kills. Our finest hunters sat down and took a skull each, skilfully removed skin with minimal scrappage onto the bone.  The music climaxed, eyes started to water and everyone felt feverish waiting for the moment. The heat increased and the methodical cleaning of the heads finally ended. Each warrior raised the flint and cracked open the skull. Sheer wonder followed, the organs were taken out and roasted, however only the wise elders ate these delicacies. The empty skulls were then handed over to the craftsmans’ hands.

Except for one, the warrior examined it closely with the cheerful smile that shattered as he ran his fingers around the skull, his eyes widened and he realised he was holding the head of a youth. People crowded around tears started to fall for the poor boy, he was ceremonially taken out by the chief and buried, for to exploit the children is forbidden. The spirits will exert their wrath on those that eat the flesh of the weak.

Life continued until a few weeks later in early spring. A small unknown tribe was wandering on our trail, our hunters spotted and greeted them. They were migrating to anywhere that would be safe for them. Their previous village had been raided and the night after, a bear stormed in killing many of the survivors leaving the rest no choice. They handed something in their sacks, they called it grain. A shocked silence had followed, the storm was coming. Do you work with the flood, or defend against it? In return for giving us grain and teaching us how to get more, they would join our tribe. With confusion and surprise, they were escorted back to our chief.

The travellers talked to the chief. Confused about how to “grow” more of this “grain”. Our chief had a tough decision to make; yet they convinced him. Small plots behind huts, the little space remaining behind the village defences.

There was also an issue of time. One that no one cared about, but was briefly brought up. Lack of time, so much time needed to farm; less time to relax. For thousands of years, people failed to give that thought, but this chief welcomed it, less time being bored, fewer lazy people.

So, farming became part of our lives, slowly. We had small plots of land for each family. We still hunted but we started to have a small group of livestock. 

Our bloated warrior class crumbled, there was less need to hunt, less need to fight the other tribes over the deer in the surrounding forest. Five summers later, it really hit the village hard. A small band of warriors had had enough, under-appreciated and second to the farmers. These workers of the land! They are people who wave water around and pretend they can break nature to such a point they can make food out of thin air.

These rebels torched the plots and murdered the animals. They banged on the chief's hut, they broke in after no reply, the man himself was surrounded by his most loyal men. A tribe divided but under the same roof. 

They stared at each other, the loyal men raised their bows, the traitors threw their torches onto the group and ran off. Every man in that hut had their bones blackened in the ruins; the chief lies as one of the many. Their charred bones lay scattered on the stone foundation as they clutched each other in a desperate attempt to survive.

In a rage, farmers took out flints and spears and clashed with the traitors. Both sides lost men and no one could claim the battle as a success, the enemy ran off into the trees, the farmers back to their plots.

The next day the farmers picked up their tools with zeal and forced the plants to bend to their will, the damned wheat will accept their dominance! The cows will bow to their demands and the grass will be short for their pleasure. They reasoned that these backward tribes people that hunt dirty pigs in the forest can’t really live, to live is to work the land, to live is to bend nature for your survival, why beg for food when you can grow it?

Forever after they dropped the bow and picked up the fork.

“No no no no…”, one of the historians shook her head, with a swipe that conveyed her objection, she took the brooch and presented it to the table of her peers, “it is made of bronze, it is Celtic, this is thousands of years after the introduction of farming, they were a people of bronze, farming would have been their thing, it was the norm, not terrifying symbol of all that is new and uncertain. Perhaps the boy has no marks on his bones, not because they saw him as a youth, but because he was an enemy tribesman stealing food. Surely if we keep digging, we will find more skeletons, he may be the casualty of battle, not a skirmish after a hunting trip.”.

There was some agreement, some shaking of heads. Then a rather frail woman, Jennifer, spoke, “we need to know more”.

So, it was agreed, several more months, the archaeologists cursed their curiosity, now it was a laborious task, day after night and night after day, scraping away at the soil to reveal nothing but more labour. “Surely the earth cannot have so much bloody soil”, one of the archaeologists complained, his peers shot him a sharp look, but they felt the same.

“It was worth it, though!”, they will cry if you ask, “we found a whole battlefield unknown to us!”. 

The Second Narrative:

A Clearing. A beautiful clearing. A gasp of fresh air that escaped the forest’s clutches.

The air had not always been so fresh. Once it smelled of sweat and anxiety. The musk of man and blood.

“Settle around!”. The youths and younglings sit still. The raging fire behind the elder illuminates his creased and sharp face in the twilight. The elder is perched on a cushion of linen. He is the last one to remember the black day…

We met at the fated clearing.

Two lines of men faced each other. On one side, their side, were men with stone clubs and spears. They carried a round wicker shield each and wore battle dresses made of hide intertwined with string and linen-

“But!”, interjected a wide-eyed youngling, “you said square shields and fur, not hide, last time!”.

The elder corrected the child’s “insult” with his furious gaze, making this mannerless youngling cower behind his older sister.

“Can I go back now?”, asked the elder, with only one answer in mind.

“Yes…”, chanted back at the youngsters. Arguing with an elder is forbidden; even if he's told this damn story tens of times this spring.

 We counted around sixty or more of these bandits. Primitive idiots I say! On my side it was different; oh, so different. 

Bronze, copper, tin.

Our bronze encrusted wooden shields had a metallic glow; they blinded the human monstrosities, as if in awe of what sort of Divine being could craft such a pure item from the earth’s dirty resources. Fire is the answer, the cleanser of all, it engulfs the slow and purges the corrupt.

In saying this, the elder looked at the most troublesome younglings at the back, “corrupt”, he repeated, “corrupt”, louder this time bringing the troublemakers to face the elder’s fiery eyes.

We estimated we had around a couple of dozen men when we headed out of our village. 

Our caps were made of hide and a small stud of copper at the top. A spear or short sword at each soldier’s side. 

An awkward silence had been running through the clearing. Emotions were high… We, the Bronze Men, had our grain and bread stolen, we thought we were doing so well… To survive the winter, we needed our food. But the backwards hunter-gatherers needed it too, they may not have been as advanced as us but their camp crawls with their kin, like rodents they scurry with ribs and hip bones showing through their wretched bodies.

Their people were riddled with diseases and their huts were in bad condition with only the falling leaves giving warmth as their homes collapsed on their owners. The men were unable to protect their families against the spirits’ wrath. If their tribe was going to survive the winter, they needed this food.

Our eye contact with the enemy was firm. A fearful, an inner dread; while acting fearless. The sun rose over the golden, dying, yet majestic trees. Rays gilded the forest floor with a warm rush of light. These lights went through the leaves in the trees creating Godly rays. Our breath vapourised from our mouths and the larks sang with a tune that strung the cords of our hearts. Other birds began to join the song, creating a vibrant contrast to our dire situation.

Yet we waited.

This cold, dry morning was slowly brightening. The sun’s spirits gave the colourful leaves a destiny. They were plucked out of their branches by a soft voice, talking sweetly to the rustling leaf’s ear, encouraging it to glide to the solid ground, “a heaven that only you can understand once you go there”. Slowly one by one the leaves yielded and glided through the No Man’s Land; until they all settled. Resting in eternal peace under the watchful eye of the wind, softly singing a lullaby that every man in both lines heard snatches of.

The moisture of the early morning slowly subsided and the temperature rose. A couple of tired souls sat down, many followed until everyone sat down and many moans of relief were heard. Standing in battledress for a few hours carrying a weapon and shield tires the mind as well as the body. Trust me I’ve done it.

It was clear the Gods did not want us to fight, we must answer to nature and nature said no. Maybe an agreement could have been reached instead. One friend suggested to me maybe even a fusion of the tribes (though it was obvious these men were the bluntest swords one could find). The intelligence and technology of one and the idiotic manpower of the other. No side wants to lose men over any war, especially before winter when many bodies are needed to maintain the village in such terrible times when we had to work for winter too!

We also would have needed to make or buy more armour which could require many bags of salt to do. At times it was cheaper to buy a slave captured by bandits than good equipment and weapons for a warrior.

The Gods seemed to have agreed with the cooling down of the situation, foxes and rabbits came to investigate the men, many even playing with them. The birds sang a happy tune and the wind disappeared completely. The sun started to glow even brighter…. and brighter… and brighter.

“T-that does not seem right!” shouted a youth. Nods of agreement followed.

The annoyed elder rebutted “the Gods wanted us to stop”.

No one could truly believe the Gods would act so strangely like that, but they pretended to realise the error of their judgment much to the satisfaction of the elder.

Within minutes  there was a noticeable increase in temperature that reflected our situation perfectly. Our hunting party was coming…

Grizzled veterans with spears and bows. We had asked them to come and only once it seemed peaceful, did they drag their behinds out of the village walls. 

The hunting party was in the forest hidden behind the tree spirits, sneaking around under the blanket of nature. Most of our warband stood up in frustration. The tension at this point was like a rope that went from lax to almost being torn apart within moments. Everyone got up moments later and the tension became unbearable. The animals ran off and the birds stopped mid-song.

What had been vapour covering our faces was now sweat and anxiety. Shivering and sweating in the heat. 

We were treading through the half frost. The sun melted the crunch of the ice underfoot; all that remained was the pooling slush.

For the first time since the two parties confronted each other, several spears were put down in a bracing position. 

Everyone followed - like deer in a chase -. 

Shields were lowered and swords were raised like mine. We knew we were going to take casualties. 

The shield wall reordered itself. The battleline spirit had been summoned, it lay on our backs and pushed us gently towards them, slowly but it was hard not to notice. It was getting nasty again and this time turning back to the village with any amount of food would mean we had to leave some of our brave men behind.

Our hunting party had managed to sneak behind the enemy outside the clearing. They then stepped in unnoticed, double the distance that we were from the enemy, which was around two hundred yards.

One child is close to raising her hand, but she realises her mistake just in time; he had said three hundred yards, only yesterday.

Both sides were ready for what was coming, but the idiotic Stone Men did not know where the first blow would come from. A dozen arrows struck them from behind, felling the lightly-armoured warriors. Confusion and panic struck the opposition and the people on the edge of the shield wall faced the back with their shields to protect them from more arrows, the hunters’ job was done; for now.

We took out javelins and hurled them at the enemy, who raised their shields in response catching some but not all of them. The spiked monstrosities whistling like insects by the heads of the brave and above the heads of the cowardly who sheltered behind wicker and wood.

We threw all the javelins we had, but the Stone Men crouched and hid behind their big wicker shields. Only a couple of times did the javelins go through and hurt the man behind it, oh but when it did, we cheered in relief. It had been ages since the first arrow was loosed and the enemy had lost only under a half-a-dozen men. 

Now it was their turn, their size made it clear. They spread out and went to our flanks, hemming us in like shoals of fish. Taking out their slings they hurled stones at us. Those stones, crude but oh they hurt a lot, the bruises I had after they hit me... 

When the hunters came to avenge us, they were driven back before a single arrow was fired. 

Many of us fell; too many.

But the hunters climbed trees and asked the spirits of the forest to guide the arrows through the primitive human flanks.

Our line became a box, with the edges varying in the degree of pointedness from one moment to the next as we were continuously pummelled and pounded by nature's rounds. I received a blow to the shield, it thrusted my arm back, just at that moment another stone smashed into my leg; I fell onto slushy ground. I crawled as a deadly hail of stone banged on my shield with arm-wrenching force.

A sigh was heard around the youngsters. “Here he goes”.Heroics, heroics, heroics…

The horror of so many stones coming down on us was tangible. But the sky can only rain for so long…

The enemy, out of stones, regrouped into a shield wall. They swiftly encircled our crowded battle line. Without much armour weighing them down the primitive fighters had the advantage of speed.  The hunters were out of the battle for at least a few minutes, their heads mashed from stones I bet; not as if it made much of a difference.

We managed to form up just in time and brace as a charge of desperate men hurt our backs and arms in the impact. Not only that, it hurt the ears of the Gods. A clash of metal upon wicker and stone. For five minutes no one fell; everyone's guard was up. We held the line, but we were tired. Pummelling and beating the oppressing wicker shields, our fine bronze did little damage. 

A comrade next to me fell with an axe to the stomach, which pierced the small square chest plate. Every few seconds I could hear the thunk of another brother falling. Even though all the noise and the roar of the spirits that rose from our weapons.

The elder stops the story, looks behind him towards the fire, and bends down to the ashes at the bottom. All eyes are on him, this is new.  Drawing a glowing dagger he lays the heated blade on the floor, his gloves stopping his flesh from burning. “This is one of the blessed weapons we possess, I have just renewed the spirit’s power”. We waited, then waited some more. The glowing red-hot blade blackened the grass it touched. 

After the glow of life died in the blade his frail handpicked the dagger back up.

“Its life was brief and now the spirit is dead”. Eyes widened at the now normal looking dagger, still steaming slightly and reflecting the light of the fire into the black abyss dotted with milky spots. “When the spirit dies it serves what it was tied to in life, in this case, the dagger. In life, the spirit is fierce and has the fury of fire. After it dies it becomes wiser and guides the warrior’s hand to justice and all things pure, while a part of the fury is kept deep inside. When in dire need the soldier can rely on the spirit as it will erupt in anger at all who oppose it”.

A captivated audience hangs on every word and the dagger is passed around carefully.

“Only the summer before this battle were the spirits trapped in our weapons, oh how glad I am that we had them at our side”.

The spirits erupted in anger against our enemies; the Gods had not completely forgotten us. We shivered with pleasure at the new courage we had received and continued the fight. Our shield wall was just holding onto life when a string of arrows flew and hit the backs of the enemy. Within seconds the tide had turned, our remaining men rushed on the offensive and the Stone Men’s line broke. But desperate as they were many of them fought to the death swearing their Gods told them it was time to do so. Their stone axes whirled in vain, for stone cannot block a hunter’s arrow. A small group of the enemy threw their arms to the ground, raw eyes and bloody faces. Their hope and honour were lost when the first arrows hit the backs of their comrades.

These wrecks put their hands to the sky, asking for forgiveness from the heavens; before they were bound with the finest of prisoner ropes. 

Looking at the slightly unnerved audience he decides to step back a bit. He knows how it will end, keep going and one of the young brats would tell their mother about it. Then he gets the blame for the youngling’s soft heart, they know so little of their world.

Stopping for a couple of moments he tries a different tack.

“This was the greatest battle of the tribe’s generation, so much food was lost and so many men were given to the Gods to get it back. “, the elder says.

I remember skulking through the battlefield. An axe buried in the ground, I moved the dirt and saw a flicker of a bronze chest plate with an unnatural gap in the middle; my friend. A sword was sleeping in his leg. A man who had crawled out of the fight with an arrow in the chest was resting on a tree, looking to the heavens, slumped and lifeless; the Gods denied his pleas. A mist had fallen on the battleground as the sun started to fall. The rabbits and foxes came back and were startled, the brambles wrapped themselves around the men who ran away and had fallen in the forest, imprisoning the cowardly.

 Their souls are trapped for eternity.

We had defeated the Stone Men, but our allies to the west were friendly with them. A messenger was sent on his way to break the news first to the western tribe; for it is easier to get a man on your side if you speak first. 

While we may have destroyed that backward tribe, we lost many a warrior, in the trade deal with the Gods; the Gods take death lightly. Some of our fighters mounted horses and had previously beaten the prisoners to show them the location of the enemy village. They held torches and carried a spear each.

Ten mighty soldiers, ready to take back what was ours.

The anxious audience felt certain again they had heard this before.

Once the village was found, a burst of flames came just before the sun completely was taken down. The glorious raiding party had torched the village; how I wish I had been there. 

The villagers who were about to contact the spirit world in their slumber were woken by a second sun. 

The warriors ran down those who left the impaled logs that pass as a palisade in that retarded village! The rest burned trapped in their own homes and defences.

Leaving the blazing village in ruins, the mighty defenders of justice left, they would get the riches and goods of the village tomorrow. For the sun had gone and the moon stalked the woods and grassy plains.

But the horsemen were not out of the woods yet, in fact, they went deeper, deeper into the spiritual wall that divided the 2 tribes. Night had settled and the ten mighty horsemen came together to form a spear formation, but the woods stopped this. Trees appeared out of the dark and the horses almost hit them. The horses, while trained, were still feral at heart. Training can only do so much to an animal, it can only make the skin look clean and refined, but never has the human touch penetrated to the heart powerfully enough to cause an animal to be “tamed” as claimed to have been done in the east. Only the dog has ever got close to this much sought-after state of “tamed”. All animals are the messengers of the Gods. They cannot betray the Gods for fallible mortals, it is against their very divine duty as guards against the corrupt.

One of the horses failed to yield to its rider after colliding with a tree. It did not obey its rider; in fact, it did worse; it started to rear up and neigh. Standing on its hind legs trying to make the rider fall, it succeeded. Trampling the rider before bolting off, the now wild horse was nowhere to be seen. After rescuing the dead man' belongings the rest set off. They did not bother to form up, it was useless, there was no way anyone could charge them in this dense part of the woods, the trees would protect them, emerge in the way of the aggressor, obscure their path.

Perhaps, the trees were not with us as they let the surviving Stone Men of the village ride on the branches of the tree. They aimed their slings right at our cavalry. A dozen stones swirled through the trees and some horses fell over, their limbs and chests pummeled, the riders were crushed or the rider was shot clean off and the beast ran away. The broken bones cracked in the silent woods.

Later, when the moon was at its zenith like a wolf on the hunt, the surviving four riders returned. One died the next day, a stone hit the tree next to him and the splinters pierced his face and arms, his wounds were infected and numerous. Unlike his other dead comrades, he had the reassurance of resting in the village, holding the hand of his woman.

The horses were put down, painful as it was; they had seen too much to be safe to ride again. 

A captivated audience once again looked at the elder in surprise; they never realised the struggles of the riders.

In the morning we all set out. We were in a tight group. One wrong step and any of us could have ended up with a broken skull. Thankfully our hunters picked off the survivors that hid in the trees.

When we got to the smouldering village we scavenged through the rubble, taking brooches and salt. A lot of the sacks had burnt but luckily we were able to sweep it all up into our own bags. We almost forgot the reason for our battle; grain. 

We were told by one of the prisoners that the granary had one of the finest oak doors any man has set eyes on. It was a circular structure made entirely out of stone except for the door and half the roof. It was the pride of the tribe, at the centre, it stood over the huts and shacks. I remember being lucky to break down this glorious door. Taking out a hammer I brought from the village I smashed it on the door. Majestic splinters sprayed out of the oak wood. The decorations warped under the power of the hammer. I finally broke through and my eyes burst with visions of sacks on sacks of grain piled high to the roof. Shaking my head, I realised; it’s real. Like pigs we scampered and took all the sacks and piled them on our shoulders. Finally, as the sun started to rise over the cold misty ground we headed back. 

The grain stores were full for the first time anyone could remember; in fact, the tribe must have stolen food from other people, for it could not all be ours. Some of the food was unable to be stored because we did not have a big enough hut; some of it had to be “changed”.

We dragged our prize to the gates of the village; to the screams of the women and children around us, for we protected our village from the jaws of winter. Although we waited two months before we dared to celebrate. We moaned and wailed to the heavens; we screamed and cried. We wailed and wept.

We tied our prisoners to trees and murdered them in vain to “bring back our boys”, the gods denied this request.

One by one, we slowly in a painful march dumped our sacks of grain and other war prizes in the granary which became full quickly. The remaining grain was given to a group of five people who claimed they knew how to make the grain into “magical water”.

We decorated our houses with the wicker shields and stone axes of the enemy and our youngsters wore the armour of our fallen.

After two months deep in winter’s clutches, we decided to be daring and grand. We had far too much grain to store so we planned to use it for celebrations! We turned the grain into bread. We ran into the forest for extra wood. We rolled barrels of the special new drink.

Soft-spoken voices of mourning became shouts of joy as the piles of wood were set up outside the village.

Our massive piles of wood were set alight; blinding us in the dark winter night. The barrels of “grain water” were put upright and the top was axed. Bronze and copper cups were passed to the man who stood at the barrel. The queues at the start of the night were short and sparse, but when a sip of beer became a whole mouthful we were hooked in like fish. All the barrels were axed and we ran to it like starving prisoners. It warmed our souls and hearts, it stopped us shivering. We overate in the wake of the bonfire; the bread of all kinds was gobbled up and we still had too much of it.

 It turned out the drink is too precious for any child to drink. They hate the harsh taste and spit it out moments later after drinking it. Only noble children that have that luxury! 

At the centre of the celebration around our bonfire. The proud men who had fought that day pranced around the fire. Showing our weapons and armour in time with the clapping and cheering of the others. 

Screams echoed around the nearby woods.The tribe's position as the top leader of the Tamēssa was finally secured for the first time in years.

The dancing and clapping of the drunken crowd lasted until the moon finally fell into its slumber and a few rays of the sun poked above the trees, only then did everyone sleep, and sleep they did!

After the hush of a very painful late afternoon, the village lazed under the golden-red light of autumn. There were a few moments of confusion in the village in the first few days. Is life finished? We had everything we needed. Food, water, shelter, warriors, goods, happy Gods, materials, each other. What do we do now? The strangest thing happened: everyone fell in love with stories. People were making up stories and acting them out and even using words to make it exciting. They made up new words to describe things in different ways, these storytellers created poetic descriptions of our native lands and the struggles we faced to keep them. Other people drew pictures, they used objects to put paint on wood and stone, these paintings resembled many moments our people have had together.

From then on whenever something happened, we always knew how to learn from the event and remember the mistakes of the past through stories and pictures. We fantasized about new worlds and people in our little minds and hearts. 

We bonded over stories by the fire and paintings on the walls.

Soon people started to walk around with new clothes with new colours all competing for dominance, people expressed themselves and made merry. People focused on specialising in what food they made and very soon we had food we were famous in the village, then special clothes in the village, people were told what clothes to wear and work in and ones to sleep in. Suddenly we had different types of clothes for different things. Many nights we made merry too. Sometimes it ended in a death, but that was rare.

Life suddenly became an easy dream and after the best harvest in living memory, we had such big stocks that we had even more beer before and even more time. For many years and still to this day life is an easy and fun long dream. Conflict does not end in a spear in someone's chest as it used to, now it’s just a bit of bickering.

“Although”, the elder said quickly “we are fighting the men who sell pots. They are the allies of the Stone Men, they grabbed their spears and shields when they heard the news. Luckily they only found out in spring”.

 If someone is hungry, they just get more food, if someone needs new clothes, they get some more.

We came up with a word for this type of activity….

“Culture.”

Arising from his seat the younglings watched him with a new kind of interest.

“This is the last time I will tell this story”, he says in a quiet hush, “it was painful to tell you these events, but it had to be done, take it as a lesson. You are lucky to be so prosperous in our tribe’s history. Remember all the things you do now are because not long ago we were starving in winter.”

He turned away and looked as if he was about to walk off, but he whipped around and remarked “I know I bent the truth, multiple times like string around my finger, the details truly do not matter, it is the spirit and the emotion of the times. I truly fear the day man becomes so fixed on numbers and they forget to see what they are truly looking at, the numbers of men and the number they kill, what precise battle dress they wear, it is all irrelevant, it is about what each side represents, not what they are.

And with that he walked off, the fire illuminating his dark green, well-worn, cape, never did he tell his tale again, never did he bore the children again either. His mission was completed.

The carbon dating came back, the new remains of the battlefield, 5,000 years old.  The wounds show signs of a brutal struggle, no ceremonial markings, only knocks on heads and the splitting of spines. Their mouths open for the rest of eternity, their skulls staring back in the archaeologists’ eyes. The team is always unnerved when they find the remains of a battle site, despite what people say. The dead do not always rest peacefully, and this is one of those times. How can one be in symbiosis with nature when his skull resembles a broken vase, and there are fingers cut off halfway. It makes them shiver at the very thought.

The strange thing with the carbon dating is that the charred bodies are from two time periods, some from the late Neolithic, yet others much more recent, or so much more.

Then another discovery came, a stone tablet, carved with Latin. It told a new story.

The Third Narrative:

Our people are prospering. We are comfortable in conflict and calm in danger.  We sit by the Tamēssa, our proud stream. Amid the Celtic power struggle, we have profited well off the backs of others. At the southern edge of Catuvellauni territory; we have always been at the forefront of changing times. 

Our round thatch huts breathe ashen fumes as the sun slowly starts to drift into the horizon. Meals are prepared; for the next night is going to be very different indeed, even if we do not know it yet.

Our chief is more worried than anyone else, there had been whispers…. Whispers of the Imperials, their great leader setting his red sandals on our shores. Arrogant and wishing to expand his already limitless wealth and land for his Republic.

But this does not concern us, the brave Tamēssa, to the Imperials we are traders; we even learned their dull tongue.

The historians agreed on this. The celts wrote in no language of their own, only in Latin, and usually only for trading. One of the more “interesting” historians seriously suggested the Celts spoke Latin as a first language, his argument held up as much as lead floats in the sea.

The moon invaded the sky and the darkness killed any doubts the chief had. He laid his head and went to the spirit world briefly.

The next morning the whispers became louder, an invasion of our native land was taking place. Summoning his troops, the chief came to the centre of the village, his druids in a semi-circle behind him. In unison, the white-cloaked soothsayers raised their hands to the heavens and the chief called to the tribe. He screamed in fury and his passion infected everyone that heard his cries. A young man here and there picked up his shield and had his hand by his scabbard. These young men slowly approached and stood in front of him, shorter than him of course; the chief stood on the stone of ruling.

After two hours of his exhortations, all the able-bodied men were gathered. The chief's wife counted each one of these loyal followers and looked to her husband, “75”.

We walked out of the gates, our bread and equipment in sacks, slung on our backs and on horses’ flanks. We walked along our proud river to the trail and we moved to see the others. We had our finest crafts of war; made by the very best in our tribe. Gleaming bronze and iron chest plates and helmets with shining blades and axe heads.

We joined these “others” to produce an army to meet the seventy ships of imperial might. Clad in symbols of protection and carrying weapons with a shield to couple up. The warriors walked down the trails. We stepped over the overgrown roots and axed the bigger obstacles.

One by one a new warrior would slip in from the forest, sometimes a chief and their offspring each on their chariots. There were cries of joy, people seeing old faces, hands on each other’s backs as they pulled each other into brotherly embraces. Our sombre tone started to become a boisterous one, we started to mingle and running jokes formed. Giggles and laughs, friendships made and strengthened.

Sometimes though, there was another side to it.

As we walked in a group, our brothers tussled with the other tribes' people. Squabbling and shoving. Dirt and sometimes even stones hurled at each other. 

Once two swords were drawn and a body fell to the cracked mud, mangled and bloody. Only one bloody sword went back to its place at the warrior's waist.

The survivor clutched his shoulder, looking at his dead rival and began to move on. The friends of the dead man came over to his wretched self and beat him with sticks. Roars of fury and pain rang throughout the lynch mob. No sword went back to anyone's belt, but a stick was thrown on the ground, splintered and corrupted with the soup of life. The death was avenged.

Somehow over time, this started to change, a hand on another shoulder instead of a bloody hand gripping an iron blade in someone's chest.  A wall of shields would turn to the enemy instead of each other. So our magnificent band of Celts marched to the coast.

Swear words turned into song and swords were raised while they cheered to the rallies of the chiefs.

These foreign threats are to be exterminated, this band of merry celts will be sure of it.

After 6 days of reconciliation in the forest, we saw the trees part and give way to the godly mist around our Island. We rested at the edge of the world that night.

************************************************************************************************

The sun sets and the mist enshrouds us, protected by the Gods from mal-intention. The bravest and best warriors of each tribe come to the middle of the camp. A band of druids come and join these warriors. The rite of the naked warrior shall begin. Each druid, armed with a bowl comes to a warrior who strips off all armour except his cloak and helmet. Each man has to pass an inspection, their bodies examined, to be deemed worthy to fight naked, the warrior must be emblematic of the man at the apex of his fighting career, we must bear a build that shows raw muscular power and skill, each man must be of a pale complexion so that the injuries they sustain in battle are easy for all to see, to show the true ferocity of a Celtic warrior.

Most of these warriors pass the test, after all, they are the pick of the bunch already. Now the druids dip their fingers into the bowls and draw on the naked warriors green swirling patterns of mist and fog. Some warriors had triangles or circles drawn instead. The tattoos flow around the body as easily as ivy winds around huts. When the painting is over, the whole camp comes to the middle, the chosen naked warriors make speeches, they are now the paragons of our people. They are the best of us. They dance and drink, they play, they wrestle and they take women to their tents. The half-moon hangs at the top of the sky, the night is no longer young, the morrow is coming. The camp retires to their temporary dwellings, the horses fell asleep long ago.

“We know little of these naked warriors, I would argue it would be more akin to a caste system than meritocratic”. There is a sigh of agreement, not in the historian’s suggestion, more an agreement in the lack of evidence they have. Considering how this group has spent their whole careers making things up from fragments, it is strange their collective imagination is nowhere to be seen. If there is no evidence, it never happened.

“We don’t even know the colour of their face paint, for crying out loud”, one remarked, “how do we debate things when we have no evidence?”.

When the morning comes, the naked warriors are the first ones up. They each take the chief’s trumpet and summon the rest of the camp. Everyone stirs, we all don our armour while breakfast is served by the wives. We eat bread and drink milk. After which we make our way to the edge of our world.

We have reached the white walls, the cliff edge. Magnificently elegant and clean; polished by the Gods.

We stare out to the sea and see seventy ships approaching at a steady speed. Two legions are spread on them with their red sandalled king amid their greed.

We wait for them, coldly staring at their fleet. The archers sit, legs hanging off the edge of the cliff. The wind picks up. The chill makes the archers wrap themselves in their cloaks so to be shielded from the cold breath of the heavens. 

These distant Imperials are coming. These Hellenic people…. They pride themselves as being “better than all” but they are just ignorant Greeks for all I care. Forced to learn their tongue and now forced to face their might! They know nothing of our history, they mix the varied people of lands and call us “savages”.

Rage circles round our Celtic brothers.

We march away from the cliff edge and form a war footing at the beach. We stand, quietly, staring at the approaching evils. Each ship carries two hundred of the most well equipped fighters we have ever seen. Black spots on the deck, covered in chainmail. Plumed helmets and ironically skimpy sandals. There are crimson standards on each ship, the golden letters flutter in the sea’s harsh breeze.

The ships finally reach the beach, but they can only go to shallow water. In unison the Roman army jumps into the shallow sea, clad in heavy armour, yet they treat them as if they are light woollen clothes; so heavy how could it not weigh them down? These midgets with their armour and well-crafted swords, yet so disciplined, or we think that until….

They land in the sea. Their once weightless armour must have been an illusion and their discipline a joke!

Our bows loosen. A soft patter of evil heads splashing into Lir’s ocean.

There was no formation in the water, the Imperials are scattered and divided, like when a shoal of fish is chased by a shark. They try to wade through, but they are thrust backwards and forwards by the pounding of the waves. Refusing to go shallower than knee level the soldiers look at their caped lord and then to the imposing cliffs to their right and their left, then they look at the Celts.

That is until… Their “bearer” comes. Leaping from his ship he gracefully lands into the sea’s grip and he cuts through the waves in his path while splashing everyone around him; he cheers.

When I set eyes on him, I swear, he glows. Absorbing the rays of the dying sun behind his back, shining through the calm mist.

He has the skin of a wolf; he must be half-man half-beast! “Leap Fellow soldiers!”, he screams. You do not want to betray your eagle!”. He holds a staff, golden in the Gods’ light, balanced by a bulky imperial eagle. He draws his gladius and keeps running through the water headlong at our advancing army. The Imperials seem afraid, they relently push to retrieve the eagle. There is no glory in their fighting, there is only disparate, a furious desire to retrieve the soul that the golden standard represents for these men. Staggered Roman units fight our warriors one by one. Felled by our axes, spinning blades, a searing heat drives all who battle these Imperials into a blood rage. These invaders will be vanquished. The naked Celtic warriors break ranks, they care not for death. They throw their shields at the Imperials before leaping into the water and facing the approaching Romans.  

Our almighty God of the sea - Lir - pushes these bumbling broken spirits to our bloody blades. The waves hurl themselves against the soldiers; they fall in heaps over each other. We scream in ear-splitting frequencies as we impale the clumsy soldiers of the Republic. Bloody puddles were revealed from where they once stood, handles and shafts stuck out of the water.

We laugh in ecstasy slaughtering the struggling chain-laden invaders. So tunnel-visioned, our blades even slay some of our men. We fight with every man we have. At times we hear our weapons snap from clashing swords and we push them over, their armour pulling them down under the waves. Struggling up the imperial is destined to be slammed by his enemy and military cunning and skill are lost as we brawl under Lir’s ocean with our foes. The water rushing through our ears, muffled screams heard above. The current of the water rushing through our naked bodies, making us shiver as we beat our enemy into submission under the gaze of the heavens.

We start to swing low and softly, our voices start to croak and we start to find ourselves pulled off our feet by the currents. Staggering and moaning we crawl our way to the sandy part of the beach.

The Romans just kept coming. No arrows came from the cliffs anymore and no javelins came from the beach, our wounds were many and our weapons blunted.

We ran back, away from the beach, back to the forest.

The gasping Celts crawl out of the sea, pulling on the sand that just gave way, so their hands dig deeper and deeper into the ground struggling for grip.

***********************************************************************************************

The eagle standard lies impaled into the ground. This is the reason for this push, the reason so many Imperials lie slain. The bulky golden standard is covered in sand and seaweed. There are conspicuous spots of blood and some parts of the handle are chipped, the grey metallic colour shows through. The flag has been ripped and the medals clipped to the shaft are scratched. The owner lies next to the eagle, lying on a spear soaked with his own life.

The ocean is a sight of unspeakable brutality:

A sea of blood and shields floating with the dead, the bodies bumping into each other. Slowly the dead are given a natural farewell into the mist, their cold corpses going beyond the edge. The normally upright Romans were bent over in rage and despair. Jupiter had given these Britons the strength of a thousand bulls. They shall perish under the Roman foot!

In the following days, the imperial soldiers marched forwards. Their fort has been built towering over the beach. The red sandalled king had his first piece of land. Oh, the Senate will love him! Julius Caesar, the vanquisher of the Gauls, perhaps the killer of Britons too?

The weather began to chill and mist lay only metres above the ground. If you look closely, you could see them crawl into the villages like cockroaches. Under the cover of the mist, moving in unison, silently moving to the entrance of the villages in full armour. With the wave of a sword, these brutes fire their arrows, these arrows… 

They flare and scorch at the buildings they hit. Brigit decided to bring them to life. They spit and hiss as they devour the forest of communities and buildings, it gnaws on flesh and wood, trees and bones.

***********************************************************************************************

A few nights later after these killings of our people and our homes in the Southern Britannic lands, the chiefs finally met.

Fists on tables, beer slopped over floors, the rambling leaders of the Celtic world discussed their next move. I was not there for only the well-known and respected were allowed, much to the dismay of the more obscure tribes from the mountains and hills.

Though I can tell one thing. As these men and women left, they nodded in satisfaction to each other. Hands-on scabbards and faces screwed with blunt aggression. Rallying their men, they moved onwards to these people who scorch the earth and murder us in our sleep.

For days we waited, yet our revenge became less and less likely.

Fellow Celts were rounded up and taken to the Romans, a peace deal they said. We all knew it was never going to last!

***********************************************************************************************

In the Roman camp, a winter wind came. Snow drifted and lay on the armoured strong soldiers’ shoulders. Crushing the shivering life out of them, forcing them into their tents. Shaking against the Gods’ wrath, their time here was ending. The soft chill of autumn was replaced by a deathly breath; the harsh air biting on their soft olive oil-drenched skin sent the coward’s home.

In desperation, the Imperials clamber onto the boats; throwing themselves upwards,  they are wrapped in their blood cloaks around them, looking like Caesar himself! The shaking mob curled up and thought of better times.

The remaining men in the sea pushed the boats out under the cover of fellow shields. Finally, the boats were out and the last drenched men of a once-great force were onboard drifting out to sea, back home to the land of honey and olive oil, escaping that of milk and beer.

The red-cloaked leader gathers his men, he huddles with them and utters words of sorrow and anger, tears fall, his strong features sagand he mourns with his men. 

When the broken spirits finally arrived in Roman Gaul, they felt something primal, feral, destructive. Hands quick to sword and heads always hot, these men cannot cope with their dead.

At once, they set to work, saw on wood, hammer on nail, sword in scabbard; for now. Their arms strained under their inner rage, the soldiers cannot let their ships fail them, they will make sure the bellies of their boats will not beach themselves on the shallow water again. Old ships torn down, new ships built; a quick consultation with the locals, they are experienced in the art of boats after all.

Before that, there was one thing Julius had to do. Hurriedly packing his belongings, he took a fast chariot to Rome, appearing before the senate a week later in his fine red clothing. He hid his inner rage. Holding himself high he booms his wise words. A foreign land rich in tin and slaves, if only they could go again and take it! 

With awe the senators listened, they could hardly believe that this virgin land, so close to Roman borders, yet so lawless and full of primitive peoples could somehow be of use to them. The brave and exaggerated words of Caesar make them shiver in wonder, Caesar had once again discovered something impressive; he came and he saw, now he must conquer.  Tramping down the Roman roads to the edge of Gaul; they prepared for the journey

Their glorious fleet was built, Neptune was pleased, anyone who set eyes on it said the ships shone under the sun's glare. Five legions and two thousand horsemen boarded, along with the red cloak himself. 

***********************************************************************************************

The Imperials left, chased by the hound of winter.

We watched their shimmering silhouettes in the mist. 

Marching back, we sang and drank with our comrades. Warbands split back to their original tribes, a wave of farewell as they swiftly moved through the forest out of the remaining men’s sight.

Pushing the gate open we slowly moved back to our huts. We were back, our village was at peace. The women and children came, arms spread, embracing their husbands, fathers, sisters and daughters. In this joy, there is a call for a sacrifice. We took one of the prisoners. He looks young, little more than a child, he looks at us with wide eyes when he comes outside of the village. The boy is tied to a tree, a druid circled him; we stared in silence. After circling the tree three times he came to face the prisoner with his steel dagger. When the blood spilled onto the floor we sat down in recognition of our fallen.

The night takes the expected turn towards joy and relief. Beer is passed around and the veal is shared. We raised our horns to the Gods who saved us from the invaders. We had lost many men, but there were enough to keep the village afloat, these are merely trying times, in a few short years there will once more be a great quantity of young fighting fit men.

The next year came, the snow slowly drifted and was speckled over the frostbitten grass. Then the light broke through, the ice melted and behold! Summer!

Yet.

***********************************************************************************************

Oars scooped the sea, slaves worked under the heat. Lashed and spat at, they worked their hardest. The ships landed in the same place again. Five legions came out, so many ships, so many soldiers, so many horses, so much trouble.

The Celtic scouts stayed hidden. They have sent a runner to their village. They tried to count the soldiers, but there were too many. They call for one of their comrades to take a horse and ride to the eastern village. Nodding in agreement he hurls himself on his mount, he leaves behind a trail of upturned dirt. Pushing himself into the horse’s back he grips on his mane.

The helpless Celts watch the arrogant insects buzz onto the beach, building their hive…

***********************************************************************************************

Stakes hurled to which I grip with my Mediterranean hands. Frames hammered into place. Tents were pulled from the group by their eight residents. The red cloak walks through the hive, patting the workers and cheering on the ones who go one step further, cutting the wood.

***********************************************************************************************

A warm and calm night rested on the heads of our village. The smoke holes failed to yield smoke, it was a hot night. We fidgeted, we hardly slept, our only comfort in the heat being our thoughts as we threw blankets off the straw bed and lay half-naked in the morning with gluey eyes and slow minds.

We stumbled out of our huts in the glaring sun, yawning.

The guards at the gates heard the stamping of hooves on the soft trail to our town. A hurried man sat upon his horse. He has a ripped cloak with a sword at his side, it looks as if it had been used. He practically kicked down the gates, they were opening too slow for him. He jumped off his horse and ran to the chief. We all knew they have come back.

Shoving open the doors to our huts we grabbed our weapons and shields. Hastily we put on our helmets and chest pieces. The druids gathered our best ten warriors and don each verdigris, with curricular patterns that are strewn around their naked bodies. The paint lasts for days on end, it does not rub, it merely sparkles with aggression and faith in the Gods.

We amass at the gate with our chief and his nobles riding chariots and we move into the forest to confront the Imperials forces once again/

In a rush, we joined everyone else on the trail and marched at full speed to a river just ahead of the Roman lines. We ran to the newly built bridge right in front of enemy lines.

Just looking, only looking.

We stood together. Our soldiers jostled and shoved through, but we stood together. Overlooking the bridge. Holding the choke point, they had to get past us.

Just staring.

They had come back, they won't raid our villages again, they will not take our women, they will not impale our warriors.

Just staring.

Tasting the smell of our lands, drinking the beauty of the landscape. Digesting the feel of the wet grass that curves outwards, their green arms praised the Gods for their creation as droplets from the morning frost crawled down their spines, sometimes they shivered, giving in to their instincts, but they normally just stood erect, independent of the ground pulling them down.

Just staring.

Facing the Roman gaze, I feel repulsed

Just staring.

I couldn’t look anymore. The Romans just held their gaze as if they were statues. Upright, arms at their throwing javelin, pilum, and they rested their left hand on their red solid shield. The curved, rectangular scutum.They stood behind it as if it was their lifeline, their scutum protects them from the wrath of arrows and steel but, it is their tool, the buckle in the centre of the shield, a brutal club disguised as a defensive. They bore their mail that covered their chest and flowed down to their knees. At their hips lay a belt, which dangle the various medals of their previous heroics and victories. These ones’ hips clanked with heroism. Their bronze helmets supported a flume, red, black or yellow. The tuft of feathers made them taller than reality might have it.

Our side stand upright, looking just above the horizon to the Gods, praising them for our existence, for if they win, they will dominate the common grass they stand on as well as the ‘barbarians’ in front of them, beyond the bridge. They just have to cross it…

They keep their silence, not moving, just staring.

We look at one another, we feel a rush of heat. These Imperials! How do they not heed to their anger, their rage?

We shout, they stare harder. A centurion walks through the Roman ranks. He roared, he turned, he walked. Standing completely still the Imperials looked straight ahead, not even the slightest movement. One of the soldiers tripped over nothing. The centurion calmly walks to him, standing high and mighty he lashes the offending soldier, 1 2 3, he walks on.

After minutes of the staring contest; we broke. We banged our shields and spat. Scrambling towards the silent rows of Roman steel: we threw javelins. They put up their scutums and threw their pilum back. We failed to see this; our brave Celtic brothers fell. Just as we are about to collect the wounded we are struck again, a hail of javelins. More of our fellows fall.  The rest of us shouted at the imperial hoard and they just stared, ready to be activated by their Gods. Like divine statues.

Then a shout, a loud one, one full of rage. The red cloak himself pointed his sword forward. The Romans pushed through the bridge, stamping but not running. They put their shields in front of them and they clumped together in an orderly line, shoulder to shoulder, not shoving each other as we did but with linked shields. They advanced as one, their swords pushed through the slots between the scuta. Even though they marched slowly, they were devastating.

Shoving through the crowd, their swords slaughtered the ones who were too slow; they created a bulge, the Romans behind pushed; until we all fell over. The gladuii started to flash with crimson life. We struggled up; the grass behind us completely trampled. Crawling out of their path. Scrambling and kicking, forcing ourselves back. We ran for the woods, some of our men tripped on each other, and a whole line of men fell into a heap. We ran and we ran and we ran some more. Until we are protected by the forest.

Hidden away from them. We regrouped and circled round their ranks.. They keep moving, scuta raised and gladii drawn. Out of the other side of the forest comes a roar. Every Roman head turned to the sound in unison, an authoritarian shout and they faced the threat, shields dug into the ground; holding the line.

We charged from all sides. Swarming, like bees. 

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A light intangible mist covered the air, like a fine powder of chalk over the eyes. We hurled out sodden belongings onto the boat and got on ourselves. Pushing ourselves together, no room to sit properly, no room to breathe. With a push and a sickening lurch, our boat moved deeper into the sea.

A chief sees this, running to the cliffs he waves his fist into the air “goodbye bastards don’t come near our lands again”, he castes a stone at one of the ships. The Gods must have pitied me or hated me - I cannot decide which- for that cast stone zoomed and connected with my unarmoured head. Falling into the ocean, I was the last casualty of this invasion.

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We return to the village. We cry and we scream in delight. The Imperials are gone! We drink hard and make merry. The stars smile at us and the immortal fog cleared just for this night. The Gods were pleased with our victory over the Romans. They always will be, we can always beat back the invaders.

Until we can’t. Last year when we went to battle, we came back with most of our boys, but this year it was different. Our nobles were all dead except for the chief. Most of our boys lay on the bridge. Our harvest was great but we did not have enough hands to reap it all.

By the next spring, we had even fewer men, most of them died in agony, their infected wounds untreatable. So, the mostly female group sheltered up in the village, but they were too late.

A tribe came knocking on the gate, not just a few men, all the men. We hated them, they always wanted our lands and they knew about our losses. When their knocks weren’t answered they rammed open the gate. They ran amok and took all the riches and belongings before kidnapping the women. By the end of the day, our tribe was destroyed.

That was the last day of our tribe; women hiding in the huts scared for their lives while their fathers, husbands, brothers and sons fell on the battlefield.

They all sat there, deep in thought, eyes misting over. One eventually broke the silence, “perhaps they all happened”. The others nodded their heads in agreement, yet they were not really there, not anymore. They journeyed back through the mist of time, their heads flashing with different stories, different events, perhaps they will never know the fate of this tribe, this boy, how old it is, if it even existed. But they all agree, even to this day, to do what they can to find out what happened on the Thames Bank, to try to know what happened in the surrounding forests. For they must find the partial truth, the story is long dead, but with pieces of this and that, the historians know that they will be able to have a glimpse into the mist. One day, perhaps, one day they will be able to say an ancient people lived here, lived on the land these Londerners now stand, sit and sleep on; one day they can talk with confidence about the forgotten past of this eternal city, if only the mist were to thin.