“Toutatis Favours The Brave” (A Nervii CiG AAR.)
Chapter 3: From Tiny Acorns....
A full moon has passed since the final night of Gwydion's death's watch. And whilst his words of prophecy on that night have preoccupied my thoughts, as I stand in the Longhouse I cannot help but think of other times and other conversations.
He and I spoke much in his time with the tribe, and especially so in the weeks leading up to his passing. Only now do I begin to realise that he may have known his time was coming, and wanted to prepare me for when he no longer stood at my side. I shall miss his sound advice...
“Never make a promise you don't intend to keep. Never let an enemy get behind you. And never, ever, bed a blacksmith's daughter unless you intend to wed her. Because if you don't, may the gods have mercy, because her father has a hammer and he knows how to use it!” I can hear his booming laugh as he said that even now.
But his aid was not just words of wisdom. (Or of age as he would say.) He also left me several of his possessions, one of which is spread before me now upon the meeting table.
He called it his 'Great Map.' A lifetime's experience of travelling these lands, laid down upon a single Auroch's hide. Upon it he marked the lands and the seas, and the many peoples he met in his travels. From the 'Britons' and our cousins in the lands across the Narrow Sea to the North, to the toga wearing Gauls of the South. And from the shores of the Great Sea to the West, to the edge of the Dark Forests to the East. After he returned from one of his long journeys, I would often find him in his hut, working away upon the hide to add new details, or changing something as the different tribal lands would shift. It is truly a sight to behold, and in the challenges to come I expect I shall often find myself referring to it.
(A modern representation of “The Great Map.”)
But as I look upon it now, I know that these are challenges I will not have to face alone.
As Warlord I hold great authority amongst the tribes. But my power is not absolute, nor should it be. Many smaller tribes swear allegiance to the Nervii, and it is only right that they too have their say, as part of the Tribal Council. To either side of me stands two of these Elder Chiefs, men I have known for many winters, though not as long as Gwydion, and whose council I trust almost as much.
To my left stands Caxtos, a warrior of some 36 winters. Though he fights like a demon on the battlefield, he is a quiet man in all things. I have seen him take a spear point through the thigh with barely a sound, and in the same motion kill the man wielding it. And I have also seen him achieve more with a few words that others have with a great many of them. He is someone I have come to rely on for his ability to see many sides of an argument, before finding a path through them. When he speaks, it is wise to listen.
To my right, is Sacrapo. He is a younger man, of only 31 winters. His father was known for a quite prestigious beard, and while Sacrapo has never been able to match him in that respect, he more than makes up for it with his extremely long moustache. Gwydion once told me he thought it looked like a caterpillar and a snake had mated and their offspring had attached itself to Sacrapo's top lip... Though wisely not within his earshot, as the man has a temper. His moustache also tends to droop when wet, much to Sacrapo's annoyance, which only seems to increases his impetuous nature.
Despite all that, Sacrapo has always been the peacemaker amongst us. But a desire for peace should not be mistaken for a reluctance to fight when necessary. Many a foe has not lived long enough to learn that lesson. On the battlefield he is a charge first, ask questions later kind of fighter.
Along with Gwydion, we four have faced many a battle together and come out the other side, if not unscathed then at least with a few new scars and some interesting stories to tell. His loss is a great one to us all. But whilst we have all mourned his passing in our own ways, we have not been idle.
I have not told them all of Gwydion's prophecy, for to be honest at times I do not know that I truly believe it all myself. Prophecy is a tricky thing, and the God's wisdom is sometimes open to interpretation. But I have told them enough. That before he passed Gwydion warned me of dark times ahead. That we will face enemies too great for even the Nervii to defeat alone. And that our people will look to us to lead them through the fires of war to come.
It was upon their council that I sent emissaries to all of our neighbouring tribes, friend and foe alike. It is a risk, I will grant you. But a necessary one. For what is to come, we will need all the help we can get.
“I still think our best chance of allies lies with the tribes to the west.” Sacrapo's words pull me back to the present. “Our history of trade with the Atrebates, along with our new found agreements with the Mornini should make both of them open to further advances. We should push them both for a formal alliance at once.”
“If we push them, they may startle and flee. Or worse, go elsewhere,” Caxtos says, as calm as ever. “I believe we should consider making further efforts to persuade the Eburones, once we know what they have to say to our envoy.”
“What help would they bring? The Eburones are glassmakers, not warriors.” Sacrapo says in annoyance. For a peacemaker, he has a sharp tongue about him.
“You know that isn't true.” I say with a flash of anger, slamming my fist down onto the table, making Sacrapo jump a little.
“We have not forgotten your history with them,” Caxtos replies, putting a calming hand upon my shoulder. “But that was many winters past, and their craftsmanship could aid us in the days to come. Trade alone would help our cause.”
History would be putting it mildly. I have good reason to hate them, and yet... Caxtos has a point. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself, then nod.
“And what of the south?” I say, indicating the three tribes whose lands are adjacent to our southern borders. “The Suessiones. The Remi. And the Trevarii.”
“I fear that there we may face a challenge too great for even my skills” says Sacrapo, leaning heavily against the table, the frustration clear in his voice.
“I have to agree,” Caxtos adds, stroking his beard in thought. “The Suessiones are too proud to accept any alliance not lead by them. The Trevarii have too much to lose should they side with us, and too much to gain should we fail. And the Remi? You know their reputation as well as I do. I'm not sure any of us would trust them to stand beside us in a shield wall.”
“Any threat from the south will have to come through their lands.” I say, glancing across the map to those lands further afield. “When that time comes, I would rather all three tribes be fighting alongside us, no matter their reputations. But we cannot afford for them to be fighting against us that day. If we cannot unite them through talking, we will have to find another way.”
I look at the grim faces of my comrades. We all know the truth of the matter. Nervii do not shy away from a fight, and we have been known to travel great distances just to take part in one. But neither do we shed blood without reason. There is no honour in it.
Before more can be said, we are interrupted. A young man of the tribe, barely old enough to have grown his first beard enters.
“A message from the gate.” The young lad says, clearly a little out of breath. “There is a rider. Came from the east. He claims to come from the Eburones with a message, that he will only deliver to you Warlord.”
Caxtos, Sacrapo and I exchange looks. “Well, better not keep him waiting.”
*
We find the rider upon his horse, riding back and forth a short distance from the East gate. It seems he is impatient to deliver his message and be gone from here. To be honest, I don't blame him. Were I in his place, I would feel the same, knowing it would take but one gesture to the warriors who stand at the gates to bring him down by sling stone, javelin or spear.
I take a moment to study horse and rider. The horse is small, but healthy looking. Perhaps built for speed and agility, though I am no horse man to say for sure. As well as the rider, I notice the horse carries a cloth sack and a spear strapped to the side of the beast. I turn my gaze upon the rider. He does not look like what I have come to expect from an Eburone. His hair is unnaturally spiked. His clothes, what there are of them, are dyed strange colours. A mercenary if I were to guess, maybe from one of the tribes of the Dark Forests of the East.
The rider notices my attention and in the same moment his horse stops as if the two are one beast.
“My message is for the so called Warlord of the Nervii.” The man speaks in a thick accent. “Send him forth or stop wasting my time.”
I can feel the anger flow through my companions and warriors at the rider's slight, but I gesture for them to take no action. I will not rise to such weak bait.
“That would be me.” I say, stepping forward from amongst my warriors. “Deliver your message rider. What does your master have to say for himself?”
The rider looks down at me as if looking upon a bug to be crushed beneath his foot. He is clearly not impressed. “His excellency, Ambriorix the Mighty,” he begins, and I can hear his arrogance in every word. “Warlord of the Eburones, slayer of beast and man, bedder of the finest women, wiser than the wisest of the druids, High King of all the Belgae and the Gauls and the Germanics thanks you for your request and wishes me to deliver his reply to you personally.”
“And what is Ambriorix's reply?” I say, deliberately omitting the titles, both real and imagined. I will not be talked down to in my own lands.
“This!” The rider says. He moves with uncanny swiftness, his right arm reaching into the sack and swinging around to hurl something towards me even as he wheels about his horse. He rides away too fast for anyone to react. All eyes are drawn to the the object. Too large to be a sling stone, not long enough to be a javelin, it arcs through the air before coming down a short distance from me and rolling across the ground to come to a stop at my feet. I look down, and have to hold back my revulsion at the sight I see.
For looking up at me are the cold lifeless eyes of the man I sent to speak peace with the Eburones.
The message is clear. There can be no peace.
***
Author's Notes:
All the Best,
Welsh Dragon.