Across the Waters: A Story of the Migration

[Theodotos I]

Prologue: The Watchers
Once we had been a nation, a people great and mighty, beloved of the gods, a federation of the Keltoi stretching from sea to sea. All that was gone now, as though washed away by the surging tides of the sea behind me. The past.
Our brothers, the Arverni, led by their heathenous god-king, had turned against us, driving their sword deep into our ribs while grasping our hand in fellowship. Over the last few years, they had succeeded in driving us from our lands. They had robbed of us our birthright, backed our people to the wall. Over a year ago now, our Vergobret, a wise man named Cocolitanos, had made the decision. My people would flee.
We had abandoned our towns and settlements before the Arverni onslaught, fled northward to the sea, to the place we had prepared a small fleet for our departure. Many of the Aedui left immediately, over a thousand fighting men with their wives and children.
I, Cadwalador, son of the Wolf, had not left. I was one of the horsemen detailed to stay behind with Tancogeistla, one of our generals. Another detachment was working its way up from the south, from the settlement at Mediolanium. We must wait for them.
I and my fellows formed the Leuce Epos, the Light Horse. Taught from childhood to throw our javelins from the backs of our rapidly-moving steeds, to close with spear for the final charge. None of us had passed our thirtieth year. Many of us might never live to see it.


Tancogeistla was a volatile man, fond of his drink and of fighting afterwards. He grew weary of our enforced stay on this barren headland, as did indeed all of us. But he most of all. The ships were back from the land to the north, from Erain as it was apparently called by the natives. He was impatient to be gone.
Rumors ran through the cavalry, stories told by those that said Tancogeistla was preparing to leave immediately, in defiance of the orders given us by the Vergobret. In the end, who would know the difference? We were leaving our homeland for the last time.
I was never to find out if there was any truth in those rumors. Ogrosan closed upon us before he made up his mind and stranded us upon the cliffs, foraging through the snow every day for food for both us and our horses.
One day, as I was out on a scout, I glimpsed men through the trees. I took my javelins in one hand, watching as the column marched forward, all of them on foot. Many of them were bandaged and limping, leaving stains of blood in the snow as they advanced.
It was the column from Mediolanium. But something was wrong. I kicked my horse in the flanks, urging him forward as I rode toward the body.
The men halted as I moved into the clearing. I could see the suspicion in their eyes. There couldn’t have been more than one hundred and fifty. Less than a third of their reported strength.
“Who is your leader?” I demanded, riding to the head of the column. A tall, red-bearded man stepped from the column, an unsheathed sword in his right hand.
“Who asks?”
“Cadwalador, son of the Wolf, a member of the army of Tancogeistla. I was sent to look for you.”
A look of relief spread over his swarthy countenance. “Lead me to him. I am Cavarillos, captain of this detachment.”
“Then the rest of the army follows behind you?” I asked, praying to the gods that he would answer in the affirmative.
He suddenly looked tired, sheathing his sword with the motions of an exhausted man. “We are the army. All that remains of it.”
“The Arverni?”
He merely nodded. I wheeled my horse to the north and commanded him to follow. The rest of the men fell into step behind him, moving sluggishly, wearily. Bloody footprints in the snow. . .

[Theodotos I]

Well, guys, see what you think. I'll try to update as frequently as I can. I don't know how far I'd take this young horseman--don't know how long he'll survive. But enjoy!

[Ludens]

It's a promising start. Please continue.

[Shylence]

I love celts.

[Chirurgeon]

Looks good. I will follow your progress.

[keravnos]

Excellent start. Thank you for this.

[Theodotos I]

Chapter II: Across the waters

I never heard all that passed between Tancogeistla and Cavarillos, but we would soon learn most of the story. That Catamantaloedis, the young chieftain from Mediolanium, had been killed in a surprise attack by Arverni warbands just north of the great mountains. He had died fighting, along with most of his men. All those that survived were here with us now. An incredible blow to our dreams.
We stayed where we were for the rest of Ogrosan, waiting for the warm months to come, when we too could sail north.
Over the following months, I grew to know Cavarillos well. This was the first time he had been this far north. He was one of the Botroas, or Sword Soldiers, a mercenary employed by Catamantaloedis.

A man who had seen much fighting. He was unmarried, without children, as myself.
We had much in common, though he was ten years my elder. As the warm months approached, he borrowed a sword from one of the soldiers and taught me its use. I had never felt a blade in my hand in all nineteen years of my life, but it was a simple weapon and I learned quickly. Still, I felt more comfortable astride my horse.
In the month of Giamon, we at last set sail for the unknown land to the north. None of us knew what lay ahead. The army sent ahead might already lie dead, slain by the natives. We might be sailing into a trap.
Our boats posed a threat as great as the unknown that lay ahead. They were light craft, hide stretched over wood frames.

We bound the feet of our mounts so that one of their hooves could not pierce the hull, and were very careful in stowing our weapons. At finally, we were off, sailing north. I could scarce help trembling as we hove out of sight of land. It was the first time in my life that I had ever been surrounded by water.
For three weeks we continued, fixing the sail to the mast whenever there appeared to be a breath of wind, rowing till our backs felt fit to break.
I was seated by Cavarillos on the bow oar of the ponto on the first day of the fourth week when suddenly he grasped my arm. We hadn’t spoken for several hours, just bending steadily to our task, and his action surprised me.
“What is it?” I demanded, nearly losing my grasp on the oar. A strange pallor had come over his dark countenance, contrasting oddly with the fire of his beard.
He gestured wordlessly to the sky, off to the south. A dark cloud about the size of a clenched fist was rising, moving toward us. It did nothing to answer my question.
“What’s wrong?”
Clearly some of the others were considerably more knowledgeable in the ways of the sea than I, for already some of the sailors were engaged in stripping the sail from our mast. Cries to the gods rose from among us.
“It is the squall, the storm,” he responded fearfully. “I have seen it destroy the ships of my homeland.”
A chill gripped my heart. He had told me of the seafarers of the south, and their ships. Any one of which would dwarf the small vessel that was now carrying us to our destination. We didn’t stand a chance. . .
The squall was upon us almost before we could react, darkening the sky, rain lashing the boat. We lost sight of the rest of the flotilla.
We took our helmets and began bailing water from the boat. They were the only containers we had. My clothing was plastered to my skin, water dripping into my eyes. Cavarillos cursed and prayed alternately, clearly wishing himself elsewhere. As did I.
The storm had not yet abated when night fell, nor when morning broke the next day. The wind ripped at our tiny craft, water poured over the gunwales in a flood. My arms and hands felt like they were on fire, yet to cease bailing was death.
Day and night blurred into one, a dark void into which our vessel was cast. Several of our men had been swept overboard, dragged screaming to their deaths by the merciless waves. There was nothing we could do. We were all alone. Us, the sea, and the gods. Alone on the water.
An eternity later, one of the sailors cried out. For a moment, I paused, the helmet full of salt water still clutched in my raw and bleeding hands.
He was pointing, and in the darkness my eyes followed his outstretched finger. With an angry curse, I flung the helmet into the bottom of the boat. It no longer mattered. Nothing did. All our efforts had been in vain. The caprices of the gods had decided our fate long before we set sail.
Cliffs towered over us, mighty and high. The sailor had glimpsed the white foam of the waves breaking against the rocks. Our destruction was certain.
A breaker lifted our ponto on its crest, tossing us into the air. I glimpsed the look of terror in Cavarillos’ eyes, fear on the countenance of a man who had witnessed countless death in his short life. The next moment we came down, slamming into the rocks. I felt myself falling, hurtling through space. Darkness. . .