To Love Again - Bertrice Small [40]
“If I train your young men and lead them, Berikos, what will you give me in return for my services?” Wulf Ironfist asked. “After ten years with the legions, I can teach your Celts to fight like Romans. The Romans have the best army in the world. My knowledge is valuable. I must have equal value in return.”
“What do you want?” growled the old man.
“Land,” was the simple reply. “I have had my fill of war, but I will do this for you if you give me land for my own.”
“No,” said Berikos. “No land! I would drive all Romans and other foreigners from Britain, and have it belong to our people again as it once did. Why else would I begin such an endeavor in my old age?”
“The only foreigners here in Britain now are we Saxons,” came Wulf Ironfist’s amused reply. “The true Romans departed years ago, and those you call Romans are in reality Britons, Berikos. Their blood has been intermingled with that of you Celts for so many generations that they are no longer alien. If you would make yourself king of this region, I will help you in exchange for land, and I will pledge you my fealty; but the idea that you can drive everyone from Britain but those of pure Celtic blood is a foolish and impossible task.”
“But if I am successful,” Berikos insisted, “more tribes—the Catuvellauni, the Iceni, the Silures, and others—will join me.” In his enthusiasm he knocked his goblet over, but Brigit quickly righted it and refilled it. Berikos drank it down.
“No, they will not. They, too, are used to peace now,” the Saxon said. “They want nothing more than to pursue their daily lives. You are living in another century, Berikos. Times have changed; are changing even as we sit talking this night. Now we Saxons are coming into Britain. In another fifty years our descendants will be native-born as well. One day there will come another people after us, and they will also overwhelm and intermingle with Britain’s inhabitants until they, too, become native-born. This is the way of the world: one tribe overcoming another, mingling with its blood, to become a different people. You must accept it, for you cannot change it, Berikos, any more than you can change the phases of the moon, or the seasons. I will train your Celts in the military arts so that you may become the strongest warlord in this area, if you will, in exchange, give me my own lands to farm. Perhaps I will even find a wife or two among your women. It is a fair offer, Berikos.”
Berikos said nothing at first in reply to the young Saxon. He sat silently pondering, not really willing to give up his dream. Until now no one but Ceara had dared to tell him that his proposed plans for the region were impossible. Once he would not have needed to send for a Saxon warrior to teach his men to fight, for the Celts had been famed for their battle prowess. But in his time he had seen the men of his tribe grown soft with good living. They were content to farm the land and keep their cattle and sheep. This was what Rome had done to them. It had taken the heart from them.
In Eire, he heard, the Celts were still real men. They lived to do battle with an enemy. Perhaps he should have sent to the Irish for a battle-hardened warrior to reeducate the Dobunni in the ways of war. He reached for his goblet again and swallowed down the honeyed mead Brigit had poured for him. It was potent, burning as it reached his belly. He was feeling tired, and confused by the younger man’s words. His Catuvellauni in-laws were nearer to the Saxon shore of southeast Britain. He had arranged for them to find him a respected military man from among the Saxons, and Wulf Ironfist had come highly recommended. Still, Berikos could not be content with what the Saxon had told him.
Brigit leaned over and whispered softly in her husband’s ear, “We can win the Saxon over to our side if we are patient, my lord,” she murmured. “Let us offer him Celtic hospitality as of old. We will