The Celtic Resistance

The Rally of the Tribes

Our people are prospering. We are comfortable in conflict and calm in danger. We sit by the Tamēssa, our proud stream. Amid the Celtic power struggle, we have profited well off the backs of others. At the southern edge of Catuvellauni territory; we have always been at the forefront of changing times.

Our round thatch huts breathe dirty fumes as the sun slowly starts to drift into the horizon. Meals are prepared. For the next night was going to be very different indeed, even if we did not know it.

Our chief was more worried than anyone else, there had been whispers.... Whispers of the imperials, their great leader setting his red sandals on our shore. Arrogant and wishing to expand his already limitless wealth and land for his Republic.

But this does not concern us, the simple Britons, at the moment, to the imperials we are traders; we even learned their dull tongue.

The moon invaded the sky and the darkness killed any doubts the chief had. He laid his head and went to the spirit world briefly.

The next morning the whispers became louder, an invasion of our native land was taking place. Summoning his troops, the chief came to the centre of the village, his druids in a semi-circle behind him. In unison, the white-cloaked soothsayers raised their hands to the heavens and the chief called to the tribe. He screamed in fury and his passion infected everyone that heard his cries. A young man here and there picked up his shield and had his hand by his scabbard. These young men slowly approached and stood in front of him, shorter than him of course; the chief stood on the stone of ruling!

After 2 hours of his exhortations, all the able-bodied men were gathered. The chief's wife counted each one of these loyal followers and looked to the chief, "75".

We walked out of the gates, our bread, and equipment in sacks, slung on our backs. We walked along our proud river to the trail and we moved to see the others. We had our finest crafts of war; made by the very best in our tribe. Gleaming bronze and iron chest plates and helmets with shining blades and axe heads.

We joined these "others" to produce an army to meet the 70 ships of imperial might. Clad in symbols of protection and carrying weapons with a shield to couple up. The warriors walked down the trails. We stepped over the overgrown roots and axed the bigger obstacles.

One by one a new warrior would slip in from the forest, sometimes a chief. Cries of joy to see old faces, hands on each others' backs as they pulled each other into brotherly embraces. Our somber tone started to become boisterous, we started to mingle and running jokes started to form. Giggles and laughs, friendships made, and strengthened.

Sometimes though, there was another side to it...

As we walked in a group our brothers tussled with the other tribes' people. Squabbling and shoving. Dirt and sometimes even stones hurled at each other.

Once two swords were drawn and a body fell to the cracked mud, mangled and bloody. One tainted sword went back to its place at the warrior's waist and the warband should have marched on, yet they stared.

The survivor clutched his shoulder, looking at his dead rival and began to move on. The friends of the dead man came over to his wretched self and beat him with sticks. Roars of fury and pain rang throughout the lynch mob. No sword went back to anyone's belt, but a stick was thrown on the ground, splintered and corrupted. The death was avenged.

Somehow over time, this started to change, a hand on another shoulder instead of a bloody hand gripping an iron blade in someone's chest. A wall of shields would turn to the enemy instead of each other. So our magnificent band of Celts marched to the coast.

Swear words turned into song and swords were raised while they cheered to the rallies of the chiefs.

These threats are to be exterminated.

After 6 days of reconciliation in the forest, we saw the trees part and give way to the godly mist around our Island. We rested at the edge of the world that night.