The Celtic Resistance

The Return

The imperials left, chased by the hound of winter.

We watched their shimmering silhouettes in the mist.

Marching back we sang and drank with our comrades. Warbands split back to their original tribes, a wave of farewell as they swiftly moved through the forest out of the remaining men's sight.

Pushing the gate open we slowly moved back to our huts. We were back, our village was at peace. The women and children came arms spread, embracing their husbands and fathers. In this joy, there is a call for sacrifice. We took one of the prisoners.

Tied to a tree, a druid circling him. We stare in silence. After circling the tree three times a comes to face the prisoner with his steel dagger. When the blood spills onto the floor we sit down in recognition, for our fallen.

The night takes an expected turn towards joy and relief. Beer is passed around and the veal is shared. We raised our horns to the Gods who saved us from the invaders.

The next year came, the snow slowly drifted and was speckled over the frostbitten grass. Then the light broke through, the ice melted and behold! Summer! The Romans came again...

Oars deep into the surface of the sea, slaves working under the heat. Lashed and spat at, they worked their hardest. The ships landed in the same place again. 5 legions came out, so many ships, so many soldiers, so many horses, so much trouble.

The Celtic scouts stay hidden. They have sent a runner to their village. They tried to count the soldiers, but there were too many. They called for one of their comrades to take a horse and ride to the eastern village. Nodding in agreement he hurled himself on his mount and kicked the hooves into a rush of speed. Pushing himself into the horse's back he gripped on his mane.

The helpless Celts watched the arrogant insects buzz onto the beach, building their hive...

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Stakes shoved into the group in my Mediterranean hands. Frames hammered into place. Tents pulled from the group by their 8 residents. The red cloak walked through the hive, patting the workers and cheering on the ones who went further, cutting the wood.

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A warm and calm night rested on the heads of our village. The smoke holes failed to yield smoke, it was a hot night. We fidgeted, we hardly slept, our only comfort in the heat being our thoughts as we threw blankets off the straw bed and lay half-naked in the morning with gluey eyes and slow minds.

We stumbled out of our huts in the glaring sun yawning in exhaustion.

The guards at the gates heard the stamping of hooves on the soft trail to our town. A hurried man sat upon his horse. He had a ripped cloak with a long sword at his side, it looked as if it had been used, dirty and bloody. He practically kicked down the gates, they were opening too slow for him. He jumped off his horse and ran to the chief. "Oh help us!", he cried almost crashing into our leader, "may the Gods have mercy!". It was clear what was happening, we thought they would come back.

Shoving open the doors to our huts we grabbed our weapons and shields. Hastily we put on our helmets and chest pieces. The druids dotted the village supplying the fighters their blue dye tattoos.

We amassed at the gate with our chief and his nobles and chariots and we moved into the forest to confront the Romans.

In a rush, we joined everyone else on the trail and marched at full speed to a river just ahead of the Roman lines. We ran to the newly built bridge right in front of enemy lines.

Just looking, only looking, come on their just observance.

We stood together. Our soldiers were jostling and shoving through, but we stood together. Overlooking the bridge we closed in on it. Holding the choke point, they had to get past us.

Just staring.

We spat at them. They have come back, they won't raid our villages again, they will not take our women, they will not impale our warriors.

Just staring.

Our faces and chest were painted with incantations of the Gods, they slowly ran down your face, twisting and twirling into flowers; binding with nature. Tasting the smell of our lands, drinking the beauty of the landscape. Digesting the feel of the wet grass that curves outwards, their green arms praising the Gods for their creation as droplets from the morning frost started to crawl down their spines, sometimes they shivered, giving in to their instincts, but they normally just stood erect, independent of the ground pulling them down, digesting the dead.

Just staring.

I stamped on the ground absentmindedly, feeling the upright grassy roots try to weakly pushback, but they were trampled all the same. I looked down, practically putting my face to the ground. That's.... Them, imperial spines snapped by the Celtic juggernaut.

Just staring.

Playing with the grass, kicking it, circles with my feet.

Just staring.

Facing the Roman gaze i feel repulsed

My eyes stung. I looked back to the grass. I sat down and twirled it in my hands. When I got bored with the strand I pulled it out, dead, next strand please!

Just staring.

I can't not look anymore, I looked back at them. The Romans just held their gaze as if they were statues. Upright, arms at their pilum and their left on their red solid shield. Curved and rectangular scutum, they stood behind it as if it was their lifeline, their scutum protects them from the wrath of arrows and steel but their nose was up high, their tool, the buckle in the centre of the shield, a brutal club disguised as a defensive item.

They stood upright, looking just above the horizon to the Gods, praising them for their existence, for they will dominate the common grass they stand on as well as the barbarians in front of them, beyond the bridge. They just had to cross it...

They kept their silence, not moving, just staring.

We looked at one another, we felt a rush of heat. These imperials! How do they not heed to their anger, their rage?