closed his eyes.
Brennos could conjure up an image of his impending fate and no amount of knocking his head on the smooth walls of his underground prison could erase the horrifying vision; only days before he had taken his place in the circle of massive rectangular stones to ritually do the same to another. Taller than ten men, when the sun rose on a clear day those huge granite blocks cast shadows that ran black to the edge of the world. Robed in white, Brennos had helped form the circle of priests surrounding the flat altar on which lay a recumbent male, eyes glassy from drinking an infusion of sense-dulling herbs. The priests had assembled in the grey pre-dawn light and waited in silence till the first sign of that blood-red ball of fire rose in the east, the moment when the giver of life dragged itself away from the souls of the dead to be greeted by bright blood. But on this day, at this sunrise, it would be his blood and his agony. There would be no drug to dull his feelings and his face would carry no ecstatic smile. The knife would cut out his heart while he was fully conscious, his body so arranged that he could watch it happen; that was the fate of a condemned Druid.
He had worked hard for what he was about to lose. To be a priest of the cult was to walk the earth like a god. As shamans to the greater part of the Celtic world, Druids held much power: they could impose peace or start a war, bless a union or damn the new-born child of a tribal chieftain. The common herd went in awe of their powers and gifted to their island temple treasures that were the envy of their world. Yet like all bodies created by men, the priesthood was awash with personal rivalry. Brennos was nephew to Orcan, who had sought to advance him quickly, while his rivals wanted the young heart to kill off an enemy before he became too potent in his own right. He would die for his own and his uncle’s ambition.
In frustration he raised his arms and, with the very ends of his fingertips, pushed against the heavy rock that acted as the roof of his cell, one that had taken six men to put in place. His breathing stopped as it moved aside, easily and silently, so that above his head the stars shone in the sky, silhouetting a hooded figure. A hand reached through, jerking nervously that he should take hold, which he did and as he leapt, he was hauled clear. The hooded figure helped him to his feet, pressing something into his hand.
‘Orcan bids you depart, Brennos, since he fears words won’t save you, that those who oppose him will prevail. In your hand is a gift from him, taken from the Sacred Grove. It will protect you, aid you and give you purpose.’
Brennos held it up by the chain. Even in the glim of the starlight it shone, a gold charm, shaped like an eagle, wings spread as if in flight. As a priest entitled to enter the Sacred Grove he had seen it before, knew that once it had been lodged below Mount Olympus in the Temple of Apollo at Delphi until that shrine was sacked by a great Celtic multitude. It had belonged to the man after whom he had been named, the leader of an army that had ravaged the land of the Greeks, and even held Rome itself to ransom, a talisman that carried with it a prophecy, though one couched as a riddle. It was said that one day a chieftain would arise who had the right to wear it, for he would be even greater than the man who stole it from the Greeks. The prediction was that he would do what the Great Brennos had failed to do, and take his sword to the very inner temple of the Roman Gods.
There was another prophecy, another enigmatic story, one that had a less pleasant interpretation, talked of in hushed whispers in the Sacred Grove. It said that one day Rome would expand to hold sway over all the lands of the Celts, to subdue not only the tribes but their priests as well, burning bodies and temples and driving them to the very edge of the western sea. Surely both could not prevail? Which was a true reading of the future?
‘Your uncle entrusts it to you, with a message. Leave now, go to the very edge of our world where you will be beyond the reach of your enemies. He has seen you in his dark-hour visions, wearing this, standing in the Roman Temple of Jupiter. He has seen that you have the faith to confront Rome and thus the power to fulfil the prophecy.’
‘When did he dream this?’
‘Brennos, I was entrusted with the message that I have given you and no more.’
That said, he departed, leaving the freed prisoner to wonder at what fate awaited him: to wonder also where the men who had been set to guard him had gone, at the power of thought that had made the moving of that massive stone covering something he had achieved with his fingertips. He lifted the eagle once more, glinting in the moonlight, looking at the shape; the proud head, the extended wings, before slipping the chain over his head.
Brennos did not run away; having invoked the blessing of the Great God Dagda and his companion, the Earth Mother, Morrigan, he walked. If there was to be a pursuit, he would have to hope that the gods would confound it. Before the moon was renewed three times he had left the northern island and crossed the narrow strip of water to the huge expanse of Celtic lands that ran forever towards the rising sun, most ending at the point where it met the arrogance of Rome or the barbarity of the godless eastern tribes. South and south again he journeyed, with many a remark on his passing, the red-gold hair on his head, in a country of dark and swarthy folk, being as unusual as his height. As a young traveller in a Celtic world he wanted for nothing, with each hearth obliged to treat him hospitably, until finally he reached the point where his world ran up against another.
Brennos stood on a long escarpment, looking down on to a settled agricultural plain, criss-crossed with neatly ordered fields. In the distance lay a white-walled town, red-tiled roofs catching the rays of a sinking sun. Behind him lay thousands of Celtic tribesmen, warriors who could obliterate these Roman settlements, all they needed was a leader. He raised the eagle to his lips as he had done every day since his escape and made a vow; that one day he would return to the lands of the north, not as a fugitive but as an all-conquering head of an army; that one day he would stand in that circle of stones and, keen knife in hand, cut out the hearts of those who had sought to slay him.
CHAPTER ONE
The tiny chapel off the atrium was packed, though the number of people in the confined space was small. There was no need in normal times for this private family room to hold a multitude; it was the dimensions of the chamber rather than the number of guests that created the impression of overcrowding. Some were family, others important friends, fellow senators or clients, while one distinct group stood close to the altar, dressed partly in goatskins. On the day of the Festival of Lupercalia, these men had stopped on their way to the sacred cave on the Palatine Hill, wearing the skin of the animals they would sacrifice in the rituals of their cult. Lupercalia being the God of Fertility, no child could ask for a more propitious day to be born.
Those dressed, like their host, in purple-bordered togas and red sandals made up the bulk of the assembly: Roman senators, they had come to witness the birth of a child to Lucius Falerius Nerva, one of the leading men of the city-state, and by their presence to affirm their allegiance to both the man and his cause. Lesser mortals filled the atrium, intent on laying claim to a share of his gratitude that the gods should bless him so, a share in the power the Falerii could command in these troubled times. In the streets of Rome, just a few feet away, few men dared to walk alone; the city was split into warring factions, as the ill-bred supporters of Livonius fought the Senate for control of the most potent state the world had ever known.
Tiberius Livonius, plebeian tribune, was bent on forcing his reforms through the assembly, the Comita Tribalis; acts that appealed to the basest sectors of Roman society, an alteration to the voting qualifications that would spread authority through the ranks of the thirty-five tribes, so even the meanest, ill-bred member would stand on a level with the richest and most aristocratic. Patrician nobles, members of the oldest and most illustrious families, like Lucius Falerius and those assembled to witness this birth, opposed such moves with all the considerable energy at their command. For such people power could only be entrusted to men of quality and wealth — anything else was a surrender to the mob.
They had stood quietly, faces set, just like the death masks of the Falerii ancestors that lined the walls, sweating in their uncomfortable garments while out of sight the midwives worked diligently in the bedchamber, muttering incantations for the intercession of Lucina, the Goddess of Childbirth. Each invited guest had stoically ignored the cries of Lucius’s wife, Ameliana, as she struggled, strapped in to her special delivery chair, to bring forth the child; that was in the nature of things and not a cause for comment. No flicker of emotion crossed a brow as the cries of the child took over from the painful screams of the mother. The master’s body slave Ragas, tall, muscular, his shoulders glistening with oils, crossed the atrium, imperiously elbowing his way through the throng, to whisper in his owner’s ear.
