The Warrior from the Tin Islands

By Paul Andrews

The Greek speaking cities on the Eastern coast of the Aegean had revolted against the Empire. The Empire's provincial capital had been plundered and burnt. The revolt had been put down and the Emperor had sworn to take his revenge. The Empire is poised to achieve world conquest. The only challenge which stands between the Empire and World Domination is a proud, independent and free people led by a bullying Spartan king and a bent small-town boss.":"

Bran, the son of a Celtic warrior chief, is cursed to be a slave for life.";"

Corina is the daughter of a rich and powerful city official.":"

Can their love survive the onslaught of the Empire's troops and overcome the rigid social divisions between Citizen and Slave and Greek and Barbarian?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Nov 6, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244644727

Paul Andrews

Paul Andrews has been creating novels, novellas and short stories for over twenty years. Though his heart lies with historical fiction, he also dabbles in science fiction, horror, and even a little romance. The "The Man Who Would Not Die," based on the life of Count Saint-Germain, was first novel. He also writes a popular Blog on his website, on Lost and Forgotten History still relevant today. Paul has a graduate degree from Rutgers University and spent many successful years in his 'day job' as a biotech R&D project manager. After working for a time in the ivory towers of Manhattan and Washington D.C, he slowly migrated south to warmer climes and a slower pace of life. He now works, lives and writes in North Carolina with his wife and two cats.

Book preview

The Warrior from the Tin Islands

THE WARRIOR FROM THE TIN ISLANDS

The Story

The Greek speaking cities on the Eastern coast of the Aegaean Sea had revolted against the Persian Empire. Athens had burnt and plundered the provincial capital. The revolt had been put down, and the Emperor had sworn to take his revenge against the Athenians. The Empire is poised to achieve world conquest. The only challenge which stands between the Emperor and world domination are  a stubborn, free people led by a bullying Spartan king and a bent small town city boss.

Bran, the son of a Celtic warrior chief, is cursed to be a slave for life.

Corina is the daughter of a rich and powerful city official.

Can their love survive the onslaught of the Empire’s troops and overcome the rigid social divide between citizen and slave and Greek and barbarian?

In 1893 some old documents were discovered in sealed jars in the ruins of the ancient city of Nippur in modern day Iraq. These were the financial records of Murashu and sons, a firm of merchant bankers who operated within the Persian Empire in the fifth century BCE. Then a few years ago, a second set of  documents was discovered. They too were from the archives of Murashu and sons. They give a fresh insight into the invasion and the years leading to it. They reveal the accounts of one of the firm’s principal executives, Yitsok Bin Levi, and his dealings with the emperor himself.  Yitsok had lost a lot of money in a shipwreck, and the documents record his outrage against a barbarian for kidnapping one of his most valuable slaves. The name of the slave was Bran, a celt, who came from  mysterious, far away lands known as the Tin Islands. This is his story.

Paul Andrews

Paul Andrews is a Classics graduate, a retired solicitor who has served many years both as an officer and a Councillor in local government. He is an enthusiastic yachtsman, and his many interests include Greek literature, history and civilisation. His experience and studies have inspired an entirely fresh insight into the events leading up to the great battles of Thermopylae and Salamis, and how they were fought.

He knows the archaeological sites of Ancient Greece, and has carried out extensive research. He has walked the battlefield of Thermopylae and sailed the course the Greek fleet took when they met the Persian fleet off Salamis island. He has been on board the replica ancient Greek warship, the Olympias.

Copy right  © 2017 Paul Andrews

The moral right of the Author has been asserted

Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of research or private study or criticism or review as permitted under the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means with the prior permission in writing of the Publisher, or in the case of reprograhic reproduction, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction should be sent to the publisher.

ISBN  978-0-244-02300-3

This novel is a historical novel. The historical characters are the author’s interpretation of the historical sources. The fictional characters are entirely imaginary and any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental

Chapter 1 – TINTAGEL in the Tin Islands 485 BCE

The cage was made of wicker wood.  Bran reckoned that if a cubit was the length of the arm of his father, the chief, it stood thirty cubits high. It was built in the shape of a giant with the bearded face of Lug, the god of light. There were two wooden doors, one each on either thigh, and ladders going up to them.  Around the legs there was  a pile of dried wood, greased with animal fat. This effigy was ready for Lug’s festival. The victims had been well prepared and knew their fate. They had been encouraged to look forward to joining Lug while their bodies would be ritually purified by fire at the great festival of light which was due to take place that same night. Like all the other young men of the tribe, Bran was looking forward to the festival – he knew it would be a great occasion for celebraton and merry-making.

Bran turned away from the cage to enjoythe warmth of the Sun and the blue sky and its reflection in the open sea. He felt relaxed, confident and proud as he looked out to see a wooden trading ship with a single square sail making its way to the anchorage under the rock fortress, the little speed it made being surprising, bearing in mind the apparent  absence of even a breath of wind.

Bran admired the scene. It was his home, a well-protected, closely knit community, led by the wise and firm government of his father, the tribal chief.

The fortress itself was almost entirely cut off from the sea. It’s precipitous cliffs needed  no defence except on the landward side, where rows of strong  pointed stakes guarded the narrow approach. Smoke rose from the round huts of the settlement behind the fortification.

The forest on the cliffs opposite the rock had been cut back. Men were working in small plots, tending animals and getting what they could from the land, while repairing an extensive drainage system to save the crops from the next rains. 

Overlooking the cleared land and near the path which led down the cliff to the rock fortress there was another settlement.  This was surrounded by a deep ditch below a grassed earthen embankment, a wall of stakes and a hedge of thorns. There were two entrances guarded by strong wooden gates, now both open.

On the high ground outside the settlement, there was a flat rounded area, also surrounded by a ditch and, at regular intervals, by tall granite stones, each bedded firmly in the ground. In the centre there was a single sacred stone pillar, and in front of it the men had built the wooden cage, the image of the god of light.

Between the stone circle and the fortified settlement there was the area of open ground where Bran stood. A friend approached and challenged him to a fight. The two young men  wrestled hard. One held the other’s hand behind his back and for a moment it looked as though he was the winner. Then the other broke free, and as he fell to the hard floor, he picked his assailant up with his feet and hoisted him head over heels, so that he fell breathless on his back a few feet away. As he tried to get up, the other was on to him, and he knew there was nothing he could do about it.

You never give up, do you, Bran? he said as the other gripped him tight round the neck. All right, I give in.

And I can’t thank you enough for saving my life in the last battle, Ossy, Bran declared. It’s good to practise.

You’re too hard, Bran. You fight as the best warrior, but for a warrior you work too hard. You’re the chief’s favoured son. So why work the land when others will work it for you?

I have to, replied Bran. I have to lead the tribe. How can I lead the tribe in battle if the men don’t respect me? I need to show them I can fight as hard as any man – and work as hard as well.

Yes, but do you need to take so many risks? You were way out in front when I rescued you.

Yes, Ossy, you saved my life, and I’m grateful, but you only did what you had to do. I like to lead from the front. If I go forward, the men have to follow me – whatever the danger – and that’s how to win a battle.

And now the battle is over, do you think we can live in peace for a while?

I’d love to live in peace if the world would allow it, mused Bran, but life is a constant struggle. Life is brutal and short, and the best we can hope for is to be remembered for all time for the glory of our prowess in combat. Bran paused and noted a worried look on his friend’s face. But why this talk of peace? Is something wrong? I enjoyed our fight just now, but you didn’t seem to be quite yourself. You’re good at wrestling, and you win as often as I do. I thought you made it too easy for me.

Ossy paused and smiled proudly, but somehow failed to hide his disappointment.

It’s the slave girl, isn’t it? said Bran.

Ossy nodded reluctantly.

It’s never a good idea to get to know a slave girl too well, Ossy: just love them and leave them, and let nature take care of the rest.

That’s too easy, Bran. She’s a slave, that’s true, but she’s done nothing wrong. She’s only a slave because she belonged to the tribe which used to rule this land.

So, isn’t that what happens to the women of every conquered tribe? Besides, she  speaks another language doesn’t  she? She’s not one of us, Ossy.

No, she’s not, Ossy admitted at last. Look Bran, I know I shouldn’t have got involved with her – but I have.

Bran shook his head. Then you must not see her again, he declared.

That’s just it, replied the other. I never will.

Bran could not understand. He waited for Ossy to explain.

She’s going to be sacrificed to the God – to be burnt alive - tomorrow. He turned to face the wicker cage, with its image of the god. He grimaced as if in pain. He struggled to suppress a tear.

But why?

She belongs to my family. My father could see I was in love. He thinks she’s a witch and has overpowered me with her charms. So he’s offered her to the priest for sacrifice – and the priest has accepted.

Bran frowned. But I thought the only human victims who were to be sacrificed are prisoners taken in the last battle.

Clearly not.

Bran paused for a moment, and stroked his beard thoughtfully. There must be some mistake, he said. I’ll go and ask my father about her. He’s the chief. He can sort this out.

Ossy shook his head. It’s too late, he said. She’s with the prisoners. She belongs to Lug.

Then I’ll have to fetch her out of there at once. This is all very wrong. You’re a good friend, Ossy. It was only the last moon when you saved my life. I owe you.

Ossy frowned. You can’t do this, he said. Bran, if you take her now, you’ll have stolen her from Lug’s priests, and you know what that means. They’ll wave an oak branch with mistletoe on it and you’ll be cast out, and nobody will be allowed to speak to you ever again. Lug will see to that.

Lord Lug is merciful. He would never allow it. I’m the chief’s son. I led our people to victory at the last battle. You were one of our best warriors. Without us Lug would have no victims for the sacrifice. Lord Lug will be with me. He will protect us. He is a just god.

Ossy was still concerned. You’re only one of the Chief’s sons, and you’re not the oldest, he observed.

Then what are we to do? Bran asked. Ossy, I’m serious. It’s up to you. This is all wrong. There has to be a mistake. If you want the girl, I’ll get her for you. If you want to leave her with Lug, I’ll do nothing.

Ossy recognised the enthusiasm, the brash confidence of youth which they both shared. I do want her, he said. But what happens if Lug insists on keeping her?

Then Lug can have her later. Come with me.

They entered  the gates of the compound, and made their way to one of the round thatched huts where the victims were kept under close guard. Most of the captives had already either been sold as slaves or ransomed by rich and powerful relatives of the beaten tribe. The rest awaited their fate – an offering to Lug who would in due course restore them to life in another existence, perhaps in more prosperous circumstances. Three young warriors waited at the entrance of the hut. They were at ease and relaxed. The thought that the more numerous prisoners might try and escape did not seem to concern them. They rose respectfully as Bran and Ossy approached.

Bran enquired about the victims.

They’re ready to see Lug, replied one of the guards. The priests have been and made their incantations over the holy broth. The prisoners have eaten it and they are at peace.

How many are there?"

Just thirty altogether – ten in this hut.

Is there a girl in there? Bran asked.

Yes, the guard replied with a laugh. She’s the only female victim. She’s a slave, but too pretty and good for Lug! Couldn’t Lug spare her for this lifetime?"

Bran asked to see her. One of the guards entered the hut and brought her out. She came out walking slowly, almost staggering, looking dazed, her eyes glazed over. So dazed, she might have been sleepwalking.  Even so, her dazed expression could not conceal her beauty – a slim figure, a pretty face with long dark hair tied up with a ribbon. She could not have been more than nineteen years old.

She put her hands in front of her eyes as she came out of the hut, as though dazzled by the light. Then she looked for the sun and raised both arms to the sky: Am I to see Lug today? she asked. Lord Lug, great God of light, take me in your arms – consume me with your love. I come to you. I am ready to meet my lord.

Bran tuned to the warriors guarding the hut. There’s been a mistake, he said. This girl should not be here. We’re taking her away.

The lead guard put himself between Bran and the girl. We have our orders, he said. We can’t let her go – not even for you, Bran.

Bran drew his sword. Is that so? he asked threateningly. Let me take her – or it will be the worse for you.

The guard hesitated and then drew to one side. What are we to tell your father? he asked.

There’s no need to tell him anything, replied the other. I’ll report to my father, and we’ll sort this all out after the festival tomorrow."

Ossy took hold of her and led her, stumbling and uncertain towards the gate on the way out of the settlement. They hardly spoke, except to acknowledge people as they passed, who looked on with puzzled expressions.

Once outside the settlement, Bran gave his instructions to his friend. Take her away and hide her, and then come back and join me, he said. I’ll speak to my father after the festival, and then we can sort this out.

Ossy disappeared with the drugged girl, supporting her on his shoulder as best he could as she stumbled along with uncertain footsteps.

******

Lug’s festival  started under a cloudy and overcast sky the following day. The whole tribe was assembled outside the stone circle. The victims were led out to the wicker cage which represented Lug. There was a cauldron with a boiling liquid standing on a big granite stone some twenty cubits or so in front of it.

Six priests were there, dressed in their finest white robes , their faces and exposed arms covered with spiral designs of blue woad. They held oak staffs and had garlands of mistletoe around their necks and their heads were crowned with ivy wreaths. They supervised the procession, raising their hands heavenwards, and crying out to the god of light for long sunny periods to make the crops flourish, and thanking him for the tribe’s success in repelling the attack from the neighbouring tribe and their unsuccessful attempt to steal their animals.

The leading priest addressed the thirty victims formally and loud enough for the assembled tribe to hear:Lord Lug welcomes you to be with him, he cried. His cleansing fire will take you to be with him and serve him. It is a great honour to be chosen for this divine sacrifice and you should be grateful. When the time comes for you to be born again, Lord Lug promises you a better life than the one you have now. So, raise your arms and praise the Lord of Light.

The victims regarded him through glazed eyes. They raised their arms heavenwards, following the priest’s lead.

Great Lug, we salute you, cried the priest.

Great Lug, we salute you,  the victims chanted in reply.

Great Lug, we salute you, echoed the assembled tribe.

The priest walked slowly to the boiling cauldron and thrust a goblet into it, raised it and poured the  liquid onto the faggots under the cage. Then he called to the victims: Then feast yourselves on the food of Lug: unless you have eaten of this food you will not be accepted into the Lord’s presence.

More goblets were thrust into the boiling broth and passed to the victims, who drank it greedily. Then they were led to the cage. As they did so, they began to stumble and trip as the drug took hold. There was a door in each leg with short ladders up to them. One by one the victims stumbled listlessly to the wicker idol. Some were so overwhelmed by the liquid that they had to be helped up the ladders. Then the six priests began to dance around the cauldron, raising their arms and chanting incessantly to the accompaniment of  drums.

The chief, Bran’s father, now came to join the tribe, accompanied by a guard of honoured warriors, which included Ossy.  Bran, who had been busy organising the assembled tribe,  noticed that his father had a guest who wore strange purple coloured clothes. Unlike the warriors, this man was well tanned. He was respectful, but there was a hint of a sneer in his eyes. Bran didn’t like the look of him.

Father, he asked, who is this man? Is he an honoured guest?

Indeed he is, replied the other. He comes to our land with great gifts. He has cloth dyed with rich purple, gold, silver, spices, and precious stones, and all he wants from us in exchange is tin and slaves.

He’s the captain of the ship anchored off the shore then?

Yes, I’ve invited him to share our festival.

Bran’s father introduced his son to the captain, who it seemed could understand the local dialect quite well. Then Bran led Ossy and the other warriors who had accompanied his father inside the stone circle. They had about them their best weapons – made for display rather than fighting – iron swords with bronze scabbards inlaid with gold, spears tipped with silvery points and gleaming polished bronze shields with curved and spiral designs. They began to dance around the stone circle, shouting war cries and singing songs in praise of Lord Lug, thrusting with their spears and brandishing their shields, leaping, running and circling and moving with set  and well-practised steps, while the thud of the drums rose to an ever louder crescendo. It was a well-rehearsed routine.

All of a sudden the clouds broke and a shaft of sunlight lit the land. The ornamental scabbards, spears and shields and the torcs and bracelets of the warriors gleamed and flashed. The dancing stopped. The lead priest raised his arms again and called out:It is the will of Lug. Lord Lug has blessed us with his love. His light lightens the world. He has come to accept the sacrifice due to him.

The priests made their way to one of the tall stones in the outer circle. This was taller than the rest and Bran knew it as the marker stone. The light of the setting sun cast a shadow which moved slowly towards the stone in the centre of the circle which stood behind the wicker cage.

The victims in the cage looked too drugged to care. Then suddenly one of them panicked and cried out. Perhaps the effects of Lug’s broth had worn off. Let me out of here, he cried. I’m too young. I’m not ready to meet Lug yet.

The priests did not hesitate. The lead priest ordered the man to be released from the wicker cage. The cage door was opened and the man was allowed to climb down the ladder.

So you do not want to meet Lord Lug? the priest hissed threateningly.

The unfortunate replied that no – he he was not ready to meet Lug yet.

But you belong to Lord Lug now, the priest continued.

The young man nodded, trembling. He had indeed been given to the priests to be held for Lug.

Well then, said the priest, if you belong to Lug, Lug will speak to us through you.

No! No! screamed the captive, realising all too soon what was coming next.

Take him away, the priest ordered. Bind him and take him to the divining stone.

Warriors seized the youth. They knew what to do. The prisoner’s hands were bound tight, and he was taken to one of the oblong stones lying flat within the stone circle, and thrown onto it face down. Each limb was tied to a stake which was driven  deep into the ground, but there was enough slack to allow the man to move freely.

The priest intoned a prayer and invoked Lug, humbly inviting the god to give the tribe an insight into the future. He danced around the stone singing frantically, while the drums kept a steady beat. Then he took a dagger with a gold hasp studded with precious stones, and plunged it into the victim’s stomach. He raised his arms heavenward towards the sun and watched the victim carefully as his body writhed in its final death throws.

After the man had died, the priest did another dance around the divining stone, his eyes glazed, as if in a trance. He took the knife back and then sliced open the victim’s chest so that his entrails spilled out of the open wound. The priest picked at the entrails and examined them carefully. He called out to Lug. Lord Lug, you have been merciful, he called. You tell us great things about the future. Let us give thanks to Lug.

We give thanks to Lug, echoed the warriors.

I see; I see what is to be, the priest continued mystically, as he continued his examination. I see great things. I see a great war in a distant land. I see treachery. I see a great battle. I see more. Lord Lug let me see through the mists of time. Why is this battle so important? What is the meaning of this prophesy? Why should it concern us? Come to me, Lord. Take possession of my body. Don’t leave me now.

He paused as if waiting for renewed inspiration from on high. Then, hysterical in the same  trance, he cried: Great Lug, you have laid open your great secrets to me. I see lust. I see great wealth – power beyond imagination. I see water. I see ships. I see hundreds of ships under your bright sky. I see a sea red with blood. It is a great battle – the greatest yet and a more important battle the world will never see  – a war which will determine the future of this land – the future of the world.

He turned, sudden and unexpected, towards Bran, and threw both arms forward pointing at him. And now I see the warrior. Yes, I see him clearly before my eyes. He is going far away. He will visit distant lands – far, far away from his tribe, his kin and his family – never to return. Yes I see him in the midst of the battle. Come to me, Lord. It is only right that this fine warrior should know his fate. 

Bran froze and waited, but the glazed eyes had returned to normality. The trance was at an end. Lug was not going to give away any more secrets. He turned to Ossy. Now I’m worried, he said.

Surely not, Ossy replied. If it’s true and you die, you will go down in glory and be born again in an even more glorious incarnation.

No, I’m not concerned about death, Bran whispered. I’m worried about you and the girl. This priest knows something, I swear it, and we’re both going to pay for it.  The girl belonged to Lug. Now I wonder if Lug’s going to get his own back.

Meanwhile the shadow of the marker stone had started to touch the central stone behind the wicker cage. The beat of the drums rose to a frenzied climax. The priests and the warriors began to dance and sing, circling the cage, the priests describing an inner circle, whilst the warriors danced behind them.

Now is the time, called the priest.

Now is the time, repeated the warriors and assembled tribe.

The lead priest then walked solemnly over to the caudron, and thrust into the fire beneath it an oak stave smeared at one end with animal fat. It caught fire immediately. He walked back to the wicker cage.

How great is the god, Lug? he intoned at the top of his voice.

Lug is the God of Light. He is great, replied the warriors and assembled tribe with a loud shout.

The brushwood under the cage had been greased with melted animal fact. The priest raised both arms, and then lowered the torch until it touched the faggots. The wood caught fire at once and the flames rose towards the helpless victims in the cage above. As the heat rose, the victims began to cry out and scream. The flames rose and engulfed them. The air was full of the stench of roasting flesh and burning bones. The cage began to fall into the flames. As it did so, the monstrous wicker head of Lug fell forward.

See, cried the priest: Great Lug nods. He accepts the sacrifice. How great is Lug?

Lug is the god of Light. He is great, was the reply, shouted with gusto from the assembled worshippers.

After a while the cage collapsed completely, bringing most of the victims down into the flames. Some fell out of the burning statue and landed away from the bonfire. They were soon despatched, and their lifeless bodies, tossed back into the blazing embers. The ceremony had ended. The festivities were about to begin.

As the warriors processed back over the ditch to the crowd outside the stone circle, Ossy turned to Bran and observed: I’ve been part of a few of these occasions, but this time it bothers me.

Why? Bran asked. It is what Lug wants.

Ossy admitted he was thinking of the girl who might have perished in the pyre. I can’t believe Lug would want her to die, just because I fancied her, he said.

By now the festivities had begun. Wild boar, sheep and cows were being roasted over open fires. Beer was being poured. It looked as though the celebrations were going to go on all night. Then the chief, Bran’s father, approached. There was a concerned expression in his eyes. Something had made him angry.

Bran, my son, he said, I want to see you, Ossy and the girl – you know which girl I mean – in my house at sunrise tomorrow. He turned away before Bran had time to reply. He did not stay for the merrymaking.

******

Sunrise the next day Bran, Ossy and the girl waited outside the chief’s hut.  This was on the island part of the settlement, looking out to sea into the bay where the Phoenician ship lay at anchor.

The hut was round, had walls of wattle and daub and a thatched roof. Ten skulls hung above the entrance – the ten skulls of the warriors with whom the chief had had his toughest fights. Bran knew their names: his father had told him about each combat, and was very proud of his victories.

They were summoned inside, and passed through the entrance curtain.

The hut was divided into compartments by wooden partitions made out of logs and tree branches, some of them hidden behind curtains. These all opened to a central area. There was a log fire in the centre with smoke rising to a hole in the centre of the roof. There was a not unpleasant smell of charred fire wood in the air.

Four men sat on the other side of the fire. Bran recognised his father, Ossy’s father, and in the background and perhaps trying not to look bored, the Phoenician captain. The fourth man was unexpected. It was the priest who had led the ceremony the day before, covered in woad and holding his oak staff. Bran felt confident about facing the other three, but he knew he had to hide his fear when addressing the priest.

The chief welcomed them and invited them to sit down. They did so on tree stocks in front of the fire.

Is this the girl? he asked Ossy’s father.

The other nodded.

And is this the girl you dedicated to Lug? he asked.

Ossy’s father nodded again.

The chief then turned to the priest. Did Lug accept the girl? he asked.

Great Lug, lord of light, graciously accepted her as a gift to serve him in his heavenly abode.

The chief turned to Bran and Ossy. Did you take her from Lug? he asked.

Ossy was the first to speak. This is not right, he said. Father, tell them the truth. The only reason you gave her to Lug was because I fancied her. You did not want me to get personally involved with a slave. Lug only accepts gifts made with sound intentions. He was deceived.

The priest leapt up  and glared at Ossy. What blasphemy! he cried. Lug is never deceived. Lug is the lord of light – he sees all and knows all.

The chief regarded Ossy. The penalty for stealing from Lug is death, he said.

I did what I thought was right. I could not believe Lug would want this innocent slave, Ossy replied. I’m sorry, but I never intended to offend Lug.

Bran decided to intervene. If Lug, the lord of light, knows everything, he observed, he will know we did not steal the girl. We thought it was a mistake, and so we decided to come to you, father, bring her to you after the festival, so that there would be time to sort the matter out then. If you had not summoned us, we would have come to you with the girl, today.

The priest still standing went into a trance and danced around the fire. Lord Lug, he cried, stretching his arms above his head, these men have sinned and should be punished.  No-one may steal from you. Death is the penalty. Any chief who disobeys your commands is a disgrace. Such a man is cursed. He should be removed from office and be shunned by all people for the despicable blasphemer that he is. Come to me, Lord, and tell me what I must do.

Bran was dismayed. Father, please listen to me, he said. None of this is Ossy’s fault. I take full responsibility.  Ossy saved my life in the last battle. So I wanted to help him. It was my idea to take the girl – not Ossy’s. Ossy should have nothing to do with this.

If that is so, the priest said menacingly, then Bran must be punished.

I will not punish my son. I will not have him put to death for helping the warrior who saved his life. Both men are two of our finest. Without them we would not have won the battle.

Then you shall be accursed for the rest of your life. No-one may speak to you or feed you or do business with you and you must live the few remaining years of your miserable life apart from your tribe or any tribe, and accursed be any friend or family member or other person who breaks this command. Think again, chief. Do not make me do this terrible thing to you.

Bran was shocked. Father, you must not let Lug do this to you, he urged. Just let me die – it would be best for everybody.

There was a long silence. Then the ship’s captain asked to speak. Nobody could see why he should not.

It would seem to me to be such a waste if this young man dies, he said. He is fit and strong and works hard. I would be willing to take him away from here. He will not die, but he will be punished. He will be my slave and I will sell him at the market in Carthage.

No, father – the disgrace – anything but that. Rather kill me; torture me, burn me, do whatever you wish to me, but don’t enslave me.

If Bran thinks this is a fate worse than death, it would seem to be a suitable punishment, the captain observed. What does Lord Lug say then, priest?

Then what happens to the girl? asked the priest.

There was more silence. The chief spoke. If it wasn’t for the girl, I would not be losing my son, but if it wasn’t for Ossy my son would be dead already. So if Ossy asks, I owe him a favour.

If Bran cannot be saved, then at least spare the girl, Ossy replied.

Very well, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take the girl into my own household as my slave. I’ll pay a good price for her, but you Ossy must promise never to speak to her again.

She is not yours to give, said the priest, his eyes on Bran’s father. How much will you pay?

I will pay Lug twice her value. Surely Lug will accept this sum, if I am to lose my son. Is not Lug a merciful god?

The priest went back into his trance and danced six more times round the fire, brandishing his oak wand in a frenzy and chanting strange words. At length the priest delivered Lug’s decision: Lug will accept Bran as his slave and will sell him to the captain at twice his value. Lug will sell the girl for twice her value.

The captain was not pleased. Now you listen to me, priest: I’ll not pay more than the going rate once over, he said angrily.

Then Bran serves Lug and will be Lug’s to dispose of.

Let’s not argue, the chief interjected. Bran is my son. I will pay the balance of the price. I have this to ask you in return, captain: please treat my son well and find him a good master.

The captain and the priest both nodded their acceptance. Lug welcomes this bargain, the priest replied. However, Lug insists on one condition?

Well what is it then? asked the captain impatiently. Lug should make his conditions clear at the outset – not after the price has been agreed.

It is a small matter, the priest continued. There will be no extra cost. Bran must swear on his honour and by Lug and all the gods to embrace slavery for the rest of his life and never to seek tfreedom – not even if he is offered it.

Bran regarded his father. Do I have to swear this oath?, he asked.

The chief nodded. There is no choice, he said. Bran, I love you with all my heart. You are my favourite son. I don’t know how I shall be without you. I’d rather have you alive than dead – even if this means you must be a slave.

So Bran made this solemn oath: On my honour I swear by Lug the merciful and by all the other gods that I forego my rank and my inheritance, and will embrace slavery for the rest of my life. I will never seek freedom – not even if freedom is offered.

The priest looked at him disdainfully. Good, he said. He danced several more times around the fire, raising arms and eyes, franctic and impassioned, as if possessed by a demon whose presence was far beyond his gaze – far above the roof of the hut. The dance stopped. The priest stood back from the fire, his arms still raised, as if invoking the mysterious demon of his dance, staring at Bran and the Chief. Now listen to me, all of you, he continued in a frenzied voice. Now I shall tell you the curse of Lug. Should you break your oath, Bran, there will be catastrophic plague amongst your tribe. The heavens will open and strike their land with wild thunder and the fiery curls of lightning will destroy their homes. The crops will fail and their animals will be barren for evermore. Tribesmen who have not perished in plague and war will be overwhelmed by famine. Your family, chief, will be overthrown and dispossessed of power and banished from their land. This is Lug’s curse. So take care, Bran. Be sure you remain a slave for the rest of your miserable existence – or it will be the worst for the people you love most.  

The rest of the meeting was taken up with a three-way discussion between the captain, the chief and the priest on how Bran and the girl should be valued and how many sheep, cows and other goods would represent a fair value. When the bartering had finished, Bran embraced his father and  left with the captain and Ossy following, while the girl stayed behind in her new home.

The captain led Bran out of the gate in the turf wall and down the path and the steps which led to the sea and the mainland.  There was a tender waiting on the beach at the bottom of the steps. Two sailors pushed it out into the water. The captain waded out and bade Bran follow. Bran paused to say goodbye to Ossy. They both embraced, tears in their eyes.

Come on, you savage, the captain called. Get a move on. The tide won’t wait.  We haven’t got all day.

Bran was not used to being treated like this, but he did as he was told and climbed into the boat after the captain. The sailors rowed the boat over to the ship. A net was thrown overboard, and after they had all climbed aboard, the tender was hoisted onto the deck and secured upside down.

The captain turned to Bran. Well then, savage, you’ll go below now, and be fettered with the rest of the savages down there, he instructed.

He called out a sharp order, and Bran was all but thrown into the hold. It was dark down there, and the only light came through the open hatch. By this dim light Bran could see the faces of other men, their legs bound by chains and iron fetters. One of the sailors came and fastened a fetter round both his ankles.

A short while later the captain appeared and addressed the slaves.

Now then, you savages, he said. We’re bound for Carthage where you’ll all be sold. You’re my valuable cargo. I want you all to be safe and well when we arrive so that I can get the best price for you. So you’ll be well fed and may be allowed on deck for exercise from time to time. And don’t forget I own you now. So don’t try and make trouble. Trouble makers don’t last long in my ship. I can have you whipped or thrown overboard – and make no mistake, I won’t hesitate to punish any offender.

The captain climbed back out of the hatch. The prisoners began to look at each other. Slowly in the dim light one of them was able to recognise Bran.

Do I see right or do I see our enemy Bran? he asked.

Bran looked at him. He at once recognised the speaker as one of the captives he had taken at the last battle.

Yes it is, continued the speaker. It’s the same Bran who killed my brother – Bran the bold, Bran the bravest of our enemies – Bran who sold us all into slavery. Well now, how fortune changes!

Your tribe were trying to steal our animals and burn our crops, Bran observed.

Only because your tribe stole our cattle last year! retorted the other sharply. Then he continued menacingly: Well now, Bran, there’s ten of us and only one of you. Now if I was to make a wager, I’d be surprised if you ever get to Carthage.

Chapter 2 – The Ship

As time passed Bran could make out more of the hold.

It was a single compartment stretching from one end of the ship to the other. He estimated the overall length of the vessel at about sixty cubits. There were three hatches. One was open for use by the crew: the others were fastened securely, and Bran guessed they would only be opened for loading and unloading merchandise. The bottom of the middle and rear of the hold had been loaded with tinstone. Forward of this there were racks containing a large quantity of sealed jars: he guessed some of these contained water and others, wine. Then there were crates of other merchandise.  The tin stone was secured by wooden boards and ropes. The floor of the area where the slaves were chained was made out of planks nailed above the tinstone cargo. There was not enough height for standing up. There was a short ladder up to the open hatch. The slaves had mattresses stuffed with straw.

Bran heard shouts above as the sailors made ready to take up anchor and set sail. There was the music of a flute and the voices of sailors singing in time as they hoisted the heavy anchor. Then there was a change in the motion of the ship, and Bran realised they had put to sea.

A sailor with a whip climbed down the hatch ladder. He smiled pleasantly. The prisoners watched the whip warily.

The sailor spoke Bran’s language well, but in a heavy accent. Now listen to me, you savages, he said cheerfully. Somebody has to watch you to make sure you are secure, and it’s my turn.  Don’t worry about the whip. You’re all our valuable cargo. We don’t want to harm you. No butcher will accept meat which is bruised, and the lash leaves a scar. If you’re whipped, you lose your value. So, when you come to be auctioned off, there’ll be less money for us, and a worse future for you. We don’t want to harm you. So please don’t give us reason to. We’re a good crew. This is a happy ship. It’s a long sail. If we get on, we’ll all be the better for it.

He asked them their names and they introduced themselves.

The sailor turned to Bran. Why are you here? he asked. I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? Weren’t you the man who sold the other savages? 

I was, Bran replied. These are the cowards who surrendered to me. They wanted to save their miserable lives rather than die gloriously like true warriors.

Then why are you here?

Bran lowered his head. Don’t ask! was his answer. Then he added ruefully: It was all because of a girl – and she wasn’t even my girl!

The sailor laughed. Women! he exclaimed. What will a man do for a pretty young lady! Ah, when I think of the months we spend at sea – and never a girl in sight.

Bran explained what had happened, and how he had sworn to live the rest of his life as a slave. The sailor was impressed. What a story! he said. And would you keep your oath – even if you were offered your freedom?

I have no choice. If I break my oath, I shall be cursed by the gods, and my family with me – however far I may be from them. Besides I gave the oath on my honour as a warrior, and am honour bound to observe it.

How so? rejoined the other. Now you are a slave, how can you be bound by your honour as a free warrior? You’re a good man, Bran. You don’t deserve to be in chains. Wait until you see the civilised world: when you see what you’ve been missing as a savage, you’ll soon want to be free.

Bran decided to change the subject. I have a question for you, my civilised friend, he said with a grin.

The sailor nodded.

You compared us to meat a while ago. You said that a butcher will not accept bruised meat. I may not have been whipped yet, but I have several scars from wounds I have taken in combat. Doesn’t this mean I’m damaged goods already?

There’s a difference between that and the mark of a whip, the sailor replied. The mark of a whip suggests insubordination, disobedience, laziness, dishonesty……… . His words tailed off and he paused. But most prisoners of war have battle scars, and yours might even raise the price.

So that’s how I shall be sold – a prisoner of war!

Perhaps. It depends on the market.

So what happens to your least saleable products?

They go cheap to the highest bidder, and can end up anywhere. Many are sent down the mines. Mining is hard and dangerous work, and a miner’s life is cheap. Slaves who work down the mines don’t live long. Mining is a death sentence. So be warned, and don’t give us any trouble.

Bran glanced sideways to the other slaves, who were deliberately ignoring him and the conversation with the guard. Well, these cowards are prisoners of war, he said. They were my prisoners. They belong to a tribe which have always been the enemies of mine. If you want to keep your cargo safe, sir, you should separate us. If you don’t, you’ll doze off on your guard one day, and when you wake up you’ll either find me dead, or ten men with their heads cut off!

The sailor took the hint, and before he left to take over other duties, Bran’s chain was tethered on the opposite side of the hold, well away from the other prisoners.

******

The ship sailed on. Sometimes the sea was calm and the boat sped through the water aided by a powerful wind and a strong current. On other days the waves piled up as the wind blew against the tide, and the boat lurched, heaved, rolled  and heeled whilst its timbers creaked alarmingly, and the prisoners in the hold were horribly sick. Occasionally there was hardly a breath of air, and they dropped anchor to stop drifting off course. Sometimes there was mist or fog and a plumb line was dropped to check the depth, while the sailors kept silence, listening for the sound of the crashing of the sea on any nearby rocks or shore.

From occasional glimpses through the open hatch, Bran noticed how the ship seemed to sail fastest with the wind abeam and the yardarm angled at an oblique angle. She could sail well with the wind behind her, but could not sail easily close to the wind. So when the wind was against them, they would either anchor and wait for the wind to change direction, or the captain would call all hands on deck and the crew would man the oars. There were fourteen of these, seven on each side of the ship, all of them fastened to rowlocks on the deck. Sometimes when tacking, the ship would use the sail on a favourable tack and use the oars to correct the course.

The hold was lit by light coming through the hatch in the daytime. At night and when the hatches had to be secured in heavy weather, candles and oil lamps were lit. These were securely fastened to the hull, but the crew member responsible for guarding the prisoners always had buckets of sand and water ready to extinguish any accidental fire.

Bran counted fifteen sailors – captain and crew. He worked this out by watching them as they came into the hold to rest. Every night there were four watches, and the sailors not on watch slept down in the hold on mattresses not far from the slaves. Bran was soon able to recognise each individual. So there were fifteen of them and, including himself, eleven prisoners.

Bran could see the captain was determined not to let his cargo lose their fitness. During the day the slaves were brought up on deck in twos or threes at a time and made to work – simple jobs at first, but as time passed, they were trusted to help more with the running of the ship. At first Bran thought this was a kindness – or even a sign of weakness - but he soon understood the captain was motivated purely by self-interest. A slave who was unfit would not fetch much on the market.

So Bran learnt to swab the deck and clean the metal fixings; he became adept at climbing the rigging and furling the sail. He learnt to row. The more he worked, the more he got to understand the Punic language. But there was one job he was never allowed to do. He was not allowed to steer. Four of the sailors and the captain had this skill. There were two big steering oars, one on each side of the ship, joined by a cross bar.  Bran could see the helmsman’s  task required great strength and skill to keep the heavy ship on a straight course, particularly in turbulent conditions, when the steering oars were under huge pressure.

Behind the helmsman’s place by the steering oars, there was a tent made of sailcloth draped over a wooden frame at the stern. There was a charcoal stove inside this on a tripod which was secured to a brick base.  Meals were served hot in the evening, the sailors not on watch eating first; the sailors on watch were served when they came off duty. The captain ate with the crew, and the prisoners were served last. Bran guessed the reason for the tent was to keep the wind from the stove, and the sailcloth cover could easily be jettisoned if it caught fire. The prisoners were never asked to help with the cooking. 

Every now and again the ship would put into land at friendly ports – if that is what the sheltered anchorages they stopped at could be called. The captain’s knowledge surprised Bran. He watched the sun by day and the stars at night, and seemed to know the coastline like the back of his hand. He knew exactly where the friendly tribes were. Once anchored, he would be rowed ashore and greet the chief there like a long lost friend. Then they would do business, exchanging goods for merchandise and provisions, and the ship would sail on.

Conditions and the varied moods of the sea never seemed to change much, but there was one sensation which Bran sensed more and more as the ship cruised southwards: the heat. The daytime temperature kept rising. Bran had never known weather so warm – not in the hottest summer at his native Tintagel.

Then one day there was a dead calm. This in itself was not something which would cause alarm, but Bran could see that on this occasion the captain made no attempt to hide his anxiety. The order was given: All hands on deck. The crew unshipped their oars, and rowed for a long time. Then they leant back exhausted. They could row no longer. The captain paced the deck – back and forth – impatient and worried, urging the sailors to greater efforts – but to no avail.

At last he climbed down the ladder into the hold. He spoke to the guard. Release them, he instructed.

The guard looked surprised. Release them at once, I tell you, the captain repeated. Unlock their fetters.

The guard protested loudly. Bran could see he was alarmed at the idea of ten prisoners being free to walk the ship, when there were only fifteen sailors.

The captain bawled at the sailor, seized his whip and raised it in a menacing threat. The guard did as he was ordered. The fetters were unfastened. The prisoners were free.

The captain addressed the prisoners. Now listen to me, he said. You all know the ship and you’ve all had a go at the oars. The ship is now in great danger. We are sailing along the shores of tribes who will rob ships like this if they can. They are pirates. It does not take long to sail past them, and they can’t catch a ship if there is wind. But when they see we’re becalmed, we’ll be an easy prey. So we have to use the oars – but we have only so many crew. We need a relief team when the crew are tired. You will join the crew and there will be two teams.

The captain was in front of them now. He had handed the whip back to the guard. He was unprotected, without a weapon. The guard stepped back cowering behind him. The prisoners gazed at him menacingly. The captain was in their power.

And what if we don’t want to? asked one. Why don’t we just take you prisoner and hand you and the crew over to the pirates? Why don’t we just join the pirates?

The captain was strangely calm and unperturbed. He did not turn back, but took a step forwards towards the released prisoners.

If that’s what you want to do, go ahead, he said. Let me tell you what will then happen to all of us. He emphasised the words all of us and continued. The pirates will take the vessel to an anchorage. They’ll unload the cargo. Some of us will be sold into slavery. The rest of us they’ll leave in the ship and burn it. Anybody left in the ship will be bound and burnt alive as a sacrifice to the gods of the sea. So either way, the end will be the same.  The only way you can avoid this fate is to do as I say.

The captain turned on his heal and climbed the hatch ladder. The prisoners followed grudging and resigned. Once on deck the crew and the prisoners were divided into two separate but mixed teams. The captain took the helm, and a sailor played a tune on a flute. The sailors sang to the tune, and as they did so one team hauled on the oars, keeping time with the music, while the other team rested. As there were twelve in a team, they had to row with twelve instead of fourteen oars.

There was  an hour glass with sand. Everyb time the sand ran out of one end, the captain would  order the teams to change places.

They continued in this way for the rest of the day. Progress was slower than under sail, the tidal current had turned against them, but the captain outwardly seemed  cheerful and optimistic. They continued to row overnight. The sea remained flat. The wind – the little that there was – blew against them and did not help, but the tide turned in their favour and then turned back. The crew made no attempt to hide their fear.

The next morning, about an hour after sunrise, their fears were realised. Boats were observed coming from land. The captain sent a sailor up the mast to get a better view. The man came back down. The captain asked him what he had seen.

Six small boats – each with about seven to ten crew on board, he reported - simple words which were understood by all – including the prisoners.

The captain turned the ship away from shore so as to be directly in front of the approaching boats, and watched their faint silhouettes.

After about another half an hour he shouted another order: They’re gaining on us, he said. All hands to the oars. Double up, now.

The relief team were summoned from their rest, and with two men on each oar, the ship began to draw ahead of the small boats which were now quite clearly following them. They carried on like this for over an hour, and then their pace gradually eased, as they fell back on the oars - exhausted.

Their pursuers were clearly encouraged. They could be seen clearly now, all pulling strongly on their oars to catch the merchant vessel. They were small boats which would not have dared come out so far from land if the sea had not been so calm. They were now in bowshot range, and quite suddenly a shower of arrows hit the deck, fortunately hitting nobody.

The captain called three of his crew to him and they conversed in low voices. The three men disappeared down the hatch and came back armed with swords and bows. The captain called the prisoners, while the three men drew their bows and pointed arrows at them.

I’m sorry about the armed men, the captain said, speaking politely in the prisoners’ own language, in  a way which excused the obvious menace of the weapons. It’s just a precaution. I want you all back below deck before the fight begins.

The eleven prisoners obediently climbed back down the hatch, and their fetters were fixed and locked. Weapons were taken out of storage, and the crew came and took helmets, hardened leather breastplates, shields, spears and bows and quivers of arrows up on deck. The hatch was closed. One of the crew stood guard. The prisoners waited and listened.

Soon Bran could hear the splash of oars, the bump of the pirate boats against the ship’s hull, the  thud of steel against wood as the grappling irons took hold, the shouts and the cries as the pirates climbed the grappling ropes and sprang on board, the pirates’  blood curdling war cries, the hurried footsteps across the deck, the clash of weapons, orders shouted from both sides, the screams of the wounded, the heavy fall of the dead……..More cries, and there was no doubt about it – the fight was going against the crew.

The guard looked worried. Bran called to him.

It’s not going well, is it? he observed calmly.

The guard shook his head. If any of us are alive tomorrow, we shall be slaves, he said.

Is life so uncertain on a merchant ship? Bran asked, as the sailor leaned towards him.

Oh yes, reflected the other. The world is in a state of flux: like water flowing under a bridge – the same river and the same bridge, but the water is never the same!

By this time the sailor was so thoroughly demoralised that he was well off guard. Bran had been waiting for this moment and now he sprang. He knocked