Bendeigid rose, looking at Caillean beneath bent brows. “I am in need now of your skills, priestess; Cynric must be recalled. Can you summon him for me? And will you do so?”
“With Lhiannon’s help, I can,” Caillean replied. “In any case she would need to know —”
“I also need your skills to seek out these men,” Bendeigid interrupted.
“That is easily done; I saw them when they burst in here, and if they were not among those who burned your home yet they must be under the same command. Some of them were Caledonians, and the others Scotti from Eriu.”
“If they came here last night, the Scotti would have been on their way back to the coast and the Caledonians on their way north again.” Bendeigid had risen to pace restlessly; now he resumed his seat by the fire. Caillean brought him a mug of ale and he sank his beard in it for a long draught, then repeated, “We need Cynric home, faster than even a mounted man can ride. Send the message, Caillean, with your magic —”
“I will,” said the priestess. “I will stay here with your daughters while you ride to tell Lhiannon. Then go to Deva, for the Arch-Druid must know as well.”
“You are right; my wife Rheis was his daughter,” Bendeigid said, rubbing his brow distractedly. “Perhaps he will have some counsel for us as well.”
News of the raid spread quickly through the countryside. On the lips of wandering peddlers it travelled, and with couriers of the Legions; it seemed that the birds of the air themselves bore the news on their wings.
Three days after the raid, Ardanos, the Arch-Druid, coming out of his house in Deva in the morning, heard a raven croak on his left and recognized an omen of disaster. But he had earned his rank by the kind of worldly wisdom that enabled him to out-think the Romans and undermine opposition among his own people. Not for the first time he regretted the worldly limit of his powers. Then he saw the mud-spattered man coming up the street and knew that he would not have to wait for the raven to tell him, for grief was written plainly in his son-in-law’s burning eyes.
When Ardanos had recovered a little from the shock of Bendeigid’s news, he went to Macellius Severus, who demanded a hearing from the Commander of the Adiutrix Legion.
“These raiders from over the sea grow too bold,” Macellius said angrily. “These Britons too are our people, wards of Rome. No one shall oppress them while I live. The family of one of the Druids who lives near by, Bendeigid —”
“A proscribed man,” interrupted the Commander of the Legion, frowning. “He should not be here at all!”
“That makes no difference! Do you not understand that Rome is here to protect all the men of this country — our citizens and the natives as well,” Macellius insisted, still haunted by the memory of Ardanos’s grief. Over the years he had come to respect the old man, and he had never known the Arch-Druid to be other than perfectly collected before. “How can we persuade them to lay down their arms if we cannot then protect them? With two Legions we could conquer Hibernia —”
“You may well be right, but it will have to wait until Agricola is finished with the Novantae. It has always been that way – with each province we settle we must pacify a new frontier. In the days of the Governor Paulinus, the Druids of Mona were broken so that they could not set the West Country afire. Now it is the Caledonians who must be taught they cannot raid the Brigantae. I suppose that when the Empire stretches to Ultima Thule we will have a peaceful border, but I doubt it will happen before.
“In the meantime all we can do is to hurry the construction of the new coastal fortresses,” said the Legion’s commander cynically, “and ready a troop or two of cavalry to go out if they should be sighted again. Your son is out there now with some troops, isn’t he? Detail him to this duty when he reports in.” The Commander grunted. “The people of Britannia are ours to oppress, and no one else shall do it.”