CHAPTER 2
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF CONALL
What is the disappearance of Conall? It is exciting to tell.
When Conall no longer stood where I left him, I trotted up the hill to ascertain his whereabouts. Perhaps he had attempted to climb down. Had he fallen? At that thought, I quickened my pace to the edge.
I dropped to my knees and peered over. There, a fifty of feet below, heaped Conall – his outstretched hand within inches of the missing black stone. And, at the wrist, a foot pinned the outstretched arm of Conall – a foot in a Roman sandal!
This foot connected to the largest Roman I ever spied. In full battle gear was he. I had observed some Romans at our trading centers, though never one as big as this fellow. A mountain of a man was he, even for a man of Eriu.
Where were the rest of them? They must have followed the raiders of Niall, to do battle, hoping to regain whatever Gwent lost in the foray. I looked up and out on the sea. No Roman vessels there. Beached already. Why no alarm?
The Roman hauled Conall to his feet. I leaped up and ran down the hill yelling, “Aoife, Conall is attacked! Raise the alarm! Romans on the beach!”
I raced round the hill, down the Beach Road. I spied the two men scuffling on the beach. Sand flew everywhere. Grunts hung everywhere on the evening air.
I hurled myself at the Roman who now sat astride the chest of Conall. As my head bored into the side of his heavy metal breastplate, I thought I heard the sound of laughter coming from the two men locked in this death struggle.
The next I knew I spat out a mouthful of sand. I was lifted to my feet. By both men.
Then from deep inside that breastplate a voice boomed, “And, can I assume this ferocious creature is The Bear?”
“Yes… yes, you can,” said Conall.
“And, how are you, Cub?” bellowed the voice.
‘Cub?’ From this Roman? I failed to comprehend this.
Then the large man said to me as I brushed the sand from my clothes, “Is Conall teaching you druidy things or is he teaching you how to be a real man – a warrior?”
“Fergus,” said Conall in voice lacking all reproof for the insult given.
“Fergus?” I said. “Is that you?”
“That is correct, Cub. Your fosteruncle has returned home. Home for good.”
“I am so sorry, Fergus. I did not recognize you after all these years. That Roman gear... the years... I was so young when you...”
Fergus gave me the three kisses of respect and affection and I returned them, feeling a little awkward. Then he grabbed me in a big hug, saying when he released me, “All will be forgiven if you can dissuade the mob that approaches us. No doubt they are bent on lifting my head, as a result of your alarm.”
Conall and I convinced our rescuers to put up their swords. Much backslapping and gaiety ensued for they all knew, or at least had heard of, Fergus. They made room in three ox wagons for all the gear of Fergus and then drove his trappings and us to the lodge of Conall. But dismayed were they at his demurral of their offer to visit the brewy. They departed saying they, too, were tired and would catch up with him when the dust of the raid settled.
After the raiders left, Conall tossed me a cuach of yew and Fergus a medar of four handles made of the same wood. I filled both of these vessels with hazel mead for us. Then Conall announced he was off to search out Emer to cook Fergus a freshly-killed bull calf in honor of his return.
“Bull calf?” roared Fergus. “Bull calf? I feel as if I have trod on the hungry stones and I will die soon if I do not eat. However death is more appealing than a bull calf. If that is the best provender you can provide, I will catch up with the raiders and give up my ghost in the company of men who know how to live and eat. I want a pig, Conall – a roast pig – and I will fight you for the Portion of the Hero.”
Conall said, “You are right, Fergus. A bull calf is no fit meal to honor your homecoming. I do not know what I was thinking. A confusing day, this. Let me get Emer to locate a proper pig. But no Portion of the Hero fight, at least not today. Perhaps another time.”
“Agreed,” said Fergus, “You look tired and would not be much of a match for me after that flight you took off the face of the cliff. I thought you druids flew inside your heads – not down on top of them.”
Fergus roared with laughter. I looked to Conall. Never had I heard such abuse leveled at him – a man of his importance and position. I felt relieved to see him break out into a grin and hoist his medar towards Fergus.
Fergus continued, “But, then again, you would not be a match for me on any day. And you never were. I do not know how you came by the name Conall of the Swift Sword.”
“You gave it to me, Fergus of the Big Mouth.”
Fergus laughed so hard at that, he spilled his mead all down his front. Unperturbed, he waved his medar at me for more.
Conall of the Swift Sword? I never heard that before. Conall never spoke much of his days as a warrior.
As I poured his mead, I said to Fergus with half a glance at Conall, “Tell me of this Conall of the Swift Sword.”
Before Fergus began, Conall said, “That is an old skin. To hear how you came to row your curragh on this side of the pond once more is the tale worth listening to, but hold your tale until I return from speaking with Emer.”
Conall was returned in the time of an eyeblink and Fergus launched into the tales in his service for the Romans. An enlistment in Britannia led to service there, then in Gaul along the Rhine, then along the Middle Sea. He saw Rome, Athens, Alexandria, Jerusalem, Damascus and many more exotic places. For the last three moons he and his troops came to be in Britannia in anticipation of the raiding season.
“Stilicho, the Roman commander, was not about permitting you Scoti to come over and take what you want. He was fully cognizant of the stability of the government of Eriu, the impressive military organization Niall possessed – the troops at his command, his alliances, the subject tribes he might summon. Stilicho had heard of what the Romans refer to as the Barbarian Conspiracy. We, you and I, were just beyond the time of our cradles. It was in the second or third year of the reign of Crimthann, son of Fidaig, during the reign of their Constantius. It appears an alliance of the Scoti and the Cruithni of Alba that year devastated Britannia. Some of those raiders are said to have not only penetrated as far as Londinium but occupied it as well. A bold move for raiders. The intelligence possessed by Stilicho said Niall could duplicate that exploit and perhaps surpass it. This was driven home last year. While Stilicho chased some predator near the Rhine, Niall mounted a formidable raid, one that approached the dimensions of that hosting thirty summers before. Stilicho demanded from his staff that we ready Britannia, Gwynnedd, Powys, Dyfed, and Gwent to repulse any raid.
“At his general staff meeting two moons ago, Stilicho placed me in charge of the string of fortifications on the coast of the Oceanus Hibernicus from the Wall of Hadrian down to the mouth of the Severn River. It was my task to bolster the forts, increase the number of watch towers, and examine the possibility of creating contingents of swift-moving naval forces that might intercept or pursue raiders. The engineers of Julius Caesar copied the boats of the people of Gaul so Stilicho thought we might do the same. I was to ready a welcome for you Scoti. You were the enemy. I was not a Scoti. I was a Roman. My battle prowess won me promotions, positions of leadership, even Roman citizenship. Even though I came from this side of the pond, I was a Roman. A Roman to my men. A leader they trusted. They knew how hard I fought the enemies of Rome.”
He paused, made a bellows of his cheeks and then swallowed off the dregs in his medar. He shook it at me again and I obliged him. Conall waved me off.
“That was until the last eight-night. I was at one of the coastal forts in Gwynnedd, not too far from Mona. On a tour of inspection. Atop the observation area of a signal tower was I, looking out over the sea for signs of approaching raiders when I heard a soft murmur... like a breeze, but also like a voice that uttered something. Now do not raise your eyebrow at this, Conall, son of Guaire. There was nothing druidy about it. However, it did remind me of the time you and I came from the territory of the Ulaid with The Cub here. I hope you do not mind me calling you Cub, but it is what I have always called you, though now it is a little strange with you at the threshold of manhood…”
I said I did not mind, adding he might call me any name he wished. He roared at that and spilled a little more mead which I replaced for him.
“…Where was I? Oh, yes... I am sure you remember how you listened for that something. I think we were there three days. Listening. Or rather you listened; I did not hear anything out of the ordinary. You would not let us depart the place not even to look for food – I was reduced to eating limpets. Me, a famous warrior eating limpets, because we dared not move from our spot lest we miss whatever Conall here was listening for.” This last sentence – an aside to me.
Conall smiled and Fergus continued.
“Ach, it was like that, I suppose. The voice of the wind made me think of you on that trip, listening. Then I thought of our adventures... The Cub here... home. Not that I did not recall these memories before. Many times, at a lonely outpost, thoughts of home flew to my mind. And I thought this no different. But, truly it was different – for they kept returning to me. They did not allow me any peace. Kept at me. Distracted me. Badgered me. At meals. At staff meetings. It must have been obvious because my assistant asked if I was homesick. He and I campaigned together for many years. He was a fellow for whom an untruth would not work, so I said I thought I was. He said – this fellow, Claudian – why did I not just go? Go for a visit, or forever. He said he would fix it as a leave or as a retirement if I did not return in a moon. I knew they would give my position to him if I did not return and my troops would be in good hands. I said I would think on it. And I did. My hitch was expired. My affairs were in order. My exile was fulfilled – I was free to return.”
Exile? I never understood that.
“This Claudian is something of a poet, good with words, persuasive. So one day in the last eight-night, he came to me and asked if I wished to see what he thought might be one of the latest style of curragh – a curragh of the battle or a craft of pleasure – he was at a loss as to which it was. We had amassed a number of sea-going craft of various sizes to test which might be the most useful boat on which to model our fleet. Romans are good sailors but their ships are not as fast or as mobile as the curragh. It proved to be a curragh of nine men. It washed up the eight-night before, and he stashed it away for me, thinking I might wish a look. It was seaworthy, had a stout mast. You know what it was a reminder of – and so here I am.”
‘Reminder?’ Another question to be answered.
At this point, in came Emer with a banquet of fresh pork, new milk and ale. As she set it on the table, Fergus sidled up beside her and announced, “I do not need a leg of pork to sustain me when I can have a leg of Emer.” And he swept her off her feet, twirling her around, smothering her with kisses, paying no attention to her protests.
“Emer,” he continued, “Come away with me. Leave these druidy men to their stones and bones; leave your husband and come away with me. I need a good woman now that I am home.”
“Am I not almost twice your age to be running off with you,” replied Emer, delighted with the attention. “Shame on you Fergus, with your silly talk. Go on now, the three of you; eat your food before it gets cold.”
Delicious, was it – the roast pig, fat-laced vegetables and carragheen chowder, wheaten cakes with butter laced with the hint of the bog, dulsk of the sea rocks for a condiment. No one said a word until we finished.
Fergus arose and retrieved a leathern bottle of wine from his baggage piled atop the immdai furthest from us. There was so much to his belongings, the heads of the immdai were not visible. The next one, where I slept suffered the same fate. So too, was it with the immdai of Conall. And the benches in front of them.
Conall scanned all this. He said, “You could take up the stall of a trader at a fair.”
“I have done well and I have been fortunate,” said Fergus as he refilled our vessels. “Try this wine. Not as good as red ale, but good.”
Conall sipped and nodded. I placed my mouth at the corner of the cuach and let the wine trickle into my mouth. Not bad.
Fergus said, “Since you suggest I possess too much gear, I will give some of it away.” He rummaged through his bags and withdrew three drinking oxhorns – three most beautiful bejeweled oxhorns. Dazzling. He laid them by the fire. As the light danced from their surfaces, Fergus said, “Take your pick. Both of you. Now what else have I here?”
He plunged into the remainder of his chattels. After a time there were culinary items for Emer – a bronze boiler to station at the fire to keep cooked meats in readiness at all times. And cooking irons. And spits. Skewers and flesh forks.
There was a huge bronze cauldron for Guaire. It possessed a diameter of two feet and a depth of two fists. A single piece, it boasted a thickness of eight sheets and had the solid handles.
For Conall and also me it was a leine of satin. Others of silk. Embroidered. Trews of various colors. Cloaks. Two sets of silver horse furniture. And a sack of herbs for Conall. The woolen curtain between the immdai separating the sleeping areas was fully covered by the pile Fergus created.
“Now enough of me. What have you two been about?”
It was a long moment before Conall spoke so overwhelmed was he, and me, by the generosity of Fergus. After a breath of the bellows of four bags, Conall said, “All in good time, Fergus, but if you do not mind you might be able to help me with a problem that arose today.”
“Today? How? Have a cast.”
“When you neared the shore did you see anything unusual?”
“No. Nothing I can think of. Except maybe me.”
“You?”
“Ach, Donal, son of Dathal, spotted my curragh as he returned from the raid. He came over to investigate. When he saw who I was, he offered me a tow which I was delighted to accept. Despite a purple wind at my back and my seamanship, it was a slow crossing. Truly I overloaded the curragh.”
“Anything else out of the ordinary?”
Fergus traced his finger around the foot of the medar as it sat on the table. Then he said, “Ach, that old buzzard, Conaire...”
“Fergusss...”
“Excuse me, your boss – he was up on the cliff.”
“And?”
“He played at something druidy.”
“Please, Fergus...”
“Yes..Yes... He looked to be tossing stones. Then he pointed... grabbed his head... rose up... went through it again – pointed and grabbed his poll. Then he went down like he was hit with a brainball.”
“Do you know at what he pointed?”
“A curragh.”
“Did he point at something in the curragh?”
“I do not think so.”
“Why not?”
“Not at a thing. It was a large curragh, a curragh that carried only raiders and slaves.”
“Whose curragh was it?”
“A curragh of Donal.”
“The one that towed you? Did he point at you?”
“Ach, I wish I might claim responsibility for the collapse of the old bird, ahem... love to take credit for it... but no. If a person set him off, and not one of his cantankerous fits, it was not me, for Donal floated several boats and all of them carried slaves except for the one towing me. He was not pointing at me.”
“So it was a person... but not you.”
A knock at the doorpost interrupted his musing. It was Aoife. She reported the Arddruid was awake. He felt better and wanted to see Conall to talk about the Serpents.
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