whose owner had discovered him beached and freezing whilst collecting stones from the river. Volisios rode ahead to prepare the way, but before he left he provided Gwlym with a pony and an escort of six men. The roundhouse was within the stretch of disputed border land between the Iceni and the Catuvellauni, and though an encounter with a Roman patrol was unlikely it could not be ruled out. Only when they crossed a narrow, muddy stream and he saw the guards relax did Gwlym do the same. But the instinct for self-preservation honed during all the months in hiding had returned, and his eyes constantly roamed the country around him. He found it a depressing, alien place. Low, threatening skies bore down on a flat landscape that seemed more liquid than good solid earth. The ponies squelched their way along soggy paths and through reed beds from one piece of dry ground to the next with a reassuring confidence, but Gwlym sensed the guards were nervous of him. During the few halts he was left alone with a little food and his own thoughts.
The lands of the Iceni had always been his ultimate destination, if he lived long enough, but his relief at reaching his goal was tempered by new concerns. Firstly, Volisios’s apparent foreknowledge of his approach hinted, at best, of over-enthusiasm amongst those he had left tending the smouldering fires of freedom. In one of the villages behind him some Catuvellauni lord had asked the question Who will lead the rising in the east? and come up with the name Volisios. From there, it wasn’t difficult to imagine a messenger being sent to advise the Iceni to prepare a proper welcome for the wandering druid. A breach of security and a concern, but not the disaster it might have been.
No, what truly worried him was the assumption of ownership immediately apparent in Volisios’s every word and gesture. It seemed he was to be the Iceni’s druid and no one else’s and these guards were as much to ensure that as for his own security. He had encountered this situation before, of course; many a lord had looked upon him and seen his own advantage. Even after the years of the Great Silence a druid still had the power to awe. Some coveted him as an ornament to enhance their own standing, others as a weapon to strike fear. He had dealt with them all — but here and now the presumption had the potential to destroy everything he had worked for. As he rocked in the saddle he pondered the dilemma of how to trap the hare without losing the rabbit already in the net.
Dusk fell, and with it came a damp, lung-clogging sea fog. At the same time, the land narrowed to a promontory little wider than the path they travelled. Gwlym peered ahead towards a ghostly wasteland of dangerous, shale-dark waters, evil-smelling bogs and stunted, mossgrown trees. Just as the ground was about to vanish beneath his pony’s hooves, a silent figure rose from nowhere to take the reins. Heart thundering, he turned to his escort, but the men were already riding back the way they’d come, apart from one, who gestured for him to dismount and, once he’d done so, led the pony off into the murk.
A druid knows no fear, he had been taught; where a druid walks, the gods walk at his shoulder. Well, if this wasn’t fear it was something perilously close. The man who was now his only human contact in this dank wilderness was one of the ugliest he had ever set eyes on. Short, but very broad, he wore some kind of primitive garment made of half-cured animal skins. His flat, round face had a large upturned nose, with the nostrils facing forward in a way that reminded him of a pig’s, and slanted eyes with irises of an unnatural translucent blue. When he spoke, his words were mere grunts, but Gwlym realized the man wanted him to follow.
The bulky figure moved off quickly and silently, making no provision for any weakness or hesitation. When he reached the darker area that must be the beginning of the true wetlands, Gwlym expected him to halt, but he plunged on without stopping and, surprisingly, without making any kind of splash. Beneath his feet, hidden by the swamp grass but above the water level, Gwlym found himself traversing a narrow walkway made up of short sections of branch as thick as his upper arm. The branches were linked by lengths of plaited reeds which must have been stronger than they looked, because the path wore the marks of frequent use and had obviously been here for some time.
As far as he could tell, it led east towards the sea, but it turned sharply here and there to avoid deeper pools and the odd stand of skeletal trees, and occasionally a fork would veer off to right or left. They walked in silence, the short man through choice, Gwlym concentrating all his being on the next few paces of precariously narrow pathway to avoid falling into the ooze below. He was sweating heavily now, despite the chill of the night. The air was unnaturally still and the stink of the mud foul. A man careless enough to lose his footing here would drown in minutes. His body would never be found and his soul would wander this dank and desperate place for the rest of time.
They had been travelling for an hour, as near as Gwlym could guess, when the guide halted. He listened carefully, then cupped his hands to his mouth and gave what sounded like the call of a marsh harrier. After the count of five he repeated the call, a harsh screech, followed by a less shrill ‘yick, yick, yick’, which this time brought an immediate echo from the darkness.
As they continued, Gwlym noticed a mysterious muted glow in the mist ahead and the unmistakable sharp clang of metal upon metal. The glow appeared to hang in the air and he assumed it must be on some elevated platform. But, as he approached, he saw they were nearing a low island in the the centre of a sea of fog and that the light was emerging from behind a plaited reed screen erected around the perimeter. Volisios waited where the walkway met the island, a torch in his left hand and a broad smile on his face.
‘Welcome,’ he said. ‘And my apologies for your inconvenience. As you see, we have prepared for your arrival.’
‘Most ingenious,’ Gwlym acknowledged.
Volisios dismissed the guide and led Gwlym through a gap in the screens to where a dozen forges blazed, each with a smith hammering enthusiastically at a glowing piece of weaponry, either a long, crude sword or a socketed iron spear point. In another area a group of men gathered the completed blades and dipped them into cisterns, where they hissed and spluttered until they cooled; still more fixed the spearheads to shafts or bound leather strips round sword hilts to create crude handgrips.
‘We are safe here, but the Romans patrol the coast and we must be careful not to provoke their interest. In this,’ Volisios fluttered a hand at the fog, ‘you can see nothing beyond a hundred paces. But if we want to work in daylight we have to light the forges before dawn. When the fires reach their heat there’s no smoke, but until then it would betray our position from ten miles away. See here.’ He ushered Gwlym towards one of the huts. Hundreds of swords lay stacked against the walls in bundles of twenty or thirty. ‘I can arm five thousand men with swords and another ten thousand with spears. With you by my side and the validation of the gods I will lead the Iceni against Colonia, tear down the Temple of Claudius stone by stone and slaughter every Roman there.’
The florid red of Volisios’s face grew deeper with each word he spoke and in the orange light of the forges his skin looked almost black. Gwlym could see beads of sweat on his forehead. He understood that Volisios had been manoeuvring for months to replace Prasutagus and had seen a way to strengthen his cause by allying himself with the forces of rebellion. But was that enough?
‘You have done well, Volisios. Better than I could ever have hoped,’ he said artlessly. ‘And when you have burned Colonia, what then? Londinium?’
The Iceni hesitated. It was clear he had not planned beyond the destruction of the Roman colony. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Londinium.’
‘And you will take the city with fifteen thousand men? Londinium is no Colonia. The walls are high and unbroken. The main Roman strength is in the west, but the city’s garrison is still large. And what of the legion at Lindum? Will your men face a full legion?’
‘The tribes of the south will rally to my banner.’
Gwlym blinked. Could the man truly believe that the proud war chieftains of Britain would follow some lord of a trackless swamp? Still, for the moment Volisios was all he had. He allowed himself a show of enthusiasm. ‘You can lead them? The Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni, the Parisi and the Cornovii? I must be sure.’ He stretched out his hands and laid the palms against the sides of the Iceni’s head, at the same time closing his eyes and allowing a deep, bass murmur to resonate from his chest. ‘Yes, I see it. You have the ambition, Lord Volisios, but do you have the fire? Only one with the fire can unleash the wrath of Andraste.’
He removed his hands and stared into the nobleman’s eyes, which were wide with fright. But Volisios had not held the northern Marches of the Iceni for twenty years without a wellspring of courage and resolve.
‘Yes, I have the fire,’ he declared, recovering some of his earlier bluster. ‘I have the fire to ignite the wrath of Andraste.’
Gwlym nodded sternly as if he had no doubt Volisios spoke the truth. ‘When the time comes,’ he said, ‘you and only you will know. Until then, Gwlym druid of Mona will be at your side to advise you.’
