Peter - Chapter 13

Peter - Chapter 13
Tiberius felt the cold wind that swept across Salisbury plane and was glad he wore the shorts his mother had given him beneath his metallic skirt. This country was a muddy cold island. Civilised mainland Europe had cut it adrift, a sensible choice. Stationed here last summer had appeared, initially, not too bad, considering the reports he'd heard from soldiers who had been stationed here before. It was a hand no one relished. As the emperor allocated who was leading which campaign of occupation he'd heard the sniggering. Branicus was clearly in favour of Rome. Again he was sent to the lands from where the emperors new religion had emerged. The change over, to which Tiberius was duty bound, was no difficulty. He'd not seen much evidence of the old gods anyway so expected very little now there was just one. Anyway, as a soldier such thoughts were out of his realm. To serve Rome. To return with tales of barbarian subjugation. To lead his men to victory over the armies of new domains. To conquer. To civilise. To die in battle leaving the stories of his achievements. That was a soldiers life. But this, here, in a boggy sludge of a country, with no decent warriors to fight, all his hopes, his noble dreams had been rendered absurd. There were odd lunatics who could kill a dozen of his men before being felled. Sometimes groups of twenty or thirty would cause massive damage. But they had no discipline. However strong and fearless they were, any Roman legion could send in wave after wave, incurring losses, but always the end was certain.
This climate would make any man depressed. Dissolution spread through his men. To live in this world of cold of rain of mud and fog, wine, and plenty of it, was essential. His mission directive had been to exterminate all pagan remnants, to brand Christianity on the land. An indelible marking. The empire wasn't what it had been. Word was his may be the final decade of occupation. The gains returned being of such rubbish it had become barely worth the expense invested in its occupation. But nights like this broke up the boredom. It helped to keep the men's spirits up.
Virtually all the natives now pledged Roman allegiance. Living standards had risen dramatically under Roman occupation. Young lads now saw Roman ways as the future. Their dads ways embarrassed them. The young slappers too spent more time trying to capture a Roman soldiers heart than breeding with their own. Others just liked the money and took as many on as they could. There were resistant enclaves. An underground movement that continued the Druidic ways. But most Druids had now been killed or had fled to the dirty, cold extreme outer places. Those who didn't actively court Roman approval by grassing up any remnants of the old beliefs could usually be tortured in to compliance. They'd been after the last two Druids of respect for quite a while now. Jack Black was known to be a nasty fucker. Few natives gave descriptions that matched. His appearance seemed to differ in every tale he heard of his activities. Four of his boys had spent a night drinking with a clown with painted face and bald head. Plying them with drink he'd performed comical enactments all evening. The mead had some sleeping herb in its fermentation. Woken that morning he'd followed his men to find all four. Their heads were the centre of a daisy pattern, pinned to the earth with sharpened oak stakes, driven through their mouths deep in to the ground. All limbs Black had skewered in similar fashion. Their eyes removed. A horror to witness and an insult too far. Telling his men to clear this up, bury the dead, he stomped back to his tent. It was his duty to record any such crimes so sitting at his desk he opened the small parchment chest. As he unrolled the sheet preparing to write, eight eyes, fixed with hawthorn pins looked back at him.
There were more stories. This time with long white beard, Black had seated three of his men around a canvas tent, all backed to the fabric wall. All looked forward to the native dancer, a slender girl of great beauty would perform. Indeed, the men were entranced. Outside their skulls must have presented three raised domes. Black drove an iron spike through each mans skull, one swift hammer blow driving them home in such quiet, the third was dead before any was aware.
Some forty of his men had been lost but Jack Black had not been caught. Good news came in the form of a messenger this morning. Titus Brock, a Druid whom Black was known to be aligned with, had been captured just today. A search party sent to gather suitable troublesome types that were stirring up anti Roman rebels north of Tiberius encampment. Avebury, much like this heap of rubble, attracted such types. The natives had largely come over to the new ways though these last few men of the old beliefs, still held a superstitious hold on some. By and large, this was yesterday's problem. Recent executions had proved to the natives that Druids had no powers. They were merely men who by trickery and deception, conjuring tricks and the like, had found an easy life. Supported by gifts their villages had sustained this hold on native minds by secrecy. He'd enjoy showing Druid bodies were the same meat as others.
What an awful night for it all. As the evening came, rain had begun. Light at first but now a steady downpour. Ordering his men to restock the braziers with more wood. Their heat soon increased, they warmed the centre area of the stone circle, lit up the area which was kept clear by his soldiers, pushing back the overly keen, a stage to perform the trial. If it was only a trial of run of the mill criminals he'd have postponed, but so many were now gathered around Stonehenge, he feared without sport the locals may riot. Though his men numbered fifty once the Avebury gang arrived, they were outnumbered ten to one, maybe more, he had no concern over their personal safety. Half were women and children. The local men weren't trained soldiers. But putting down a riot would mean killing many. Bad for publicity. Their occupation was dependent on support. Their purpose was to civilise. Bring these heathens under the wing of the empire.
Not so much as a roof! Tiberius cursed this basic architecture. If only he could show what could be achieved by man through division of skill. A soldier became perfected by applying himself solely to military training. Farmers could fine tune their talents. Architects focus on imagining structure, drawing out plans. Slave workers, separated in to specialities could find foremen, stone workers and labourers, working through command chains, achieve the wonders built back in Rome. Looking at his scarred hands he saw natures law. Gods way. Fingers of differing strengths, one thumb to command. These people were all the same finger. Like a singular mind. Roman society allowed the individual to find pride in their unique role.

Jack had felt Brock in his mind for some time now. A tickle of thought at first, but growing over this last hour till something of a telepathic dialogue had played between the two. As the crowd had parted for the new arrivals. Sorry looking creatures, screaming and crying. Offering up names of Druids. Acting out shameful performances to focus the mob fury onto Titus. Brock himself looked unperturbed. His journey into the future, enabled by the Peruvian shamans, had shown that this was not his day to return to the earth. Black and Brock continued their conversation careful not to catch eyes. Both knew where each other was and they had a few ideas to test the Romans religious faith. Both had been in worse positions. Jack was now fully in line with the psylocibin forces that channelled through him.
Tiberius had planned to try the criminals first, saving the Druid for the final act. Such theatre techniques had become a fine art at the arenas back home. Something had enlivened tonight's crowd, though. Bright summer trials drew similar crowds, but such a large and passionate mob was rare this time of year. He took a drink from his cup. Thank god they'd brought wine, the local hop and barley brews didn't agree with him. Silencing the crowd as he stood, it was time he took charge of proceedings. His right hand man stepped through the crowd that had opened a path for the returning posse. The warmth of welcome filled him as they clasped wrists, a bump of chests and brief embrace clarified the two soldiers bond. Salutes from the soldiers were acknowledged by a nod of his head. All looked proud in being the men to capture Titus Brock. Lesser outlaws delivered slender rewards but the bonus for a Druid, a higher Drulord like Brock, ensured they'd receive ample coin.
Grantus, his lieutenant had been with Tiberius on all of his major campaigns. His loyalty and bravery, beyond military duty had found them brothers. In company, both studiously maintained appropriate interaction relative to rank, but in private, Tiberius treated Grantus as his equal. Through Gaul they'd stood together developing warrior skill. Military generalship, battle craft could be explained but only by confronting the enemy could a soldier know himself. Many were the valiant hero in their tavern stories, warriors in wine, secure in safe company. Grantus was quiet in drink, leaving others to tell of his war stories. On Bavarian soil their unity was forged. Sent to quash a Gallic uprising, with poor intelligence and inadequate numbers, Tiberius found Gaul and Pict alliance had formed a formidable foe. Together, dressed in local rags they'd led a scouting expedition. In tree cover from a high ridge they'd studied the encampment. Below their vantage point the land dropped to a flat plane, the ridge a horseshoe of cliff faces topped with thick woodland. Two days and nights learning the routine and habits. The routes and exits, the daily reconnaissance troups schedule, supply delivery patterns.
Tiberius and Grantus agreed, with such disparity of numbers only one plan made sense. The Romans would divide into three groups. Under cover of night, one group would spread their men in line along the ridge. Descending to form a semi circle positioned at the cliffs base. The second would form three shielded rectangular blocks, closing the horseshoes opening, the access route of the encampment. Third would move in at dawn as the camp still slept. Clearly most of these would find glory in martyrdom. Their job to move in stealth with a singular purpose of getting to the bigger tented central zone where the leaders slept. Kill as many as they could until the camp realised there was something wrong. Once the barbarians knew they were under attack, the Romans would do their best to escape. Many would die fighting to get out, their objective to appear uncoordinated and chaotic in withdrawal. Running to draw the Gallic Picts in reflective disorganised rage, dismissive of the small bunch as an attack unknowing of the encampments size. A retreat in shock at the magnitude of the Roman misreading of the situation. As the enemy's response assembled into an arrowhead toward the retreat, the soldiers at the cliff bottom would move in from the rear. Following paths like wheel spokes toward the hub where they would regroup to finish off the damaged leaders zone. Once the central body were dead, the unit would move as one to the rear of the enemy's counterattack. Thus sandwiching them. With gods will, they would now work from both sides destroying the foe. From here, the leaderless stragglers could be left. The Roman systematic rolling retreat ensured no more would die. These uprisings invariably had a leadership council, a core group of professional soldiers forming no more than a quarter of the army, the others were farmers, masons, carpenters, leaving their trades to help the cause. Tiberius and Grantus plan aimed to destroy the leadership leaving the rest to return home.
Both men knew one must lead the sacrificial stab. Grantus dare not trust anyone but himself. Both knew better plans had failed. Both cursed the emperor for risking their lives in committing so few men to such a crucial campaign. Explaining to the men under his command, the gods that had protected all Roman soldiers were no more, that this new God was to be asked for support. This had undermined his authority. Weakened the army. Now this. Roman soldiers could only return in victory. All would die if a moments hesitance in fear or confusion crossed the mind of the man leading the dart of incision. Tiberius had all watch points mapped in his memory, Grantus had memorised the encampments central zone. There would be no time to think, only by moving to the pattern of tent arrangement, stored in his mind, without question, could the chieftains tents be located, their occupants dispatched. Both friends embraced, knowing they may not see each other again. Grantus selected only men of proven fighting skills and fearless heart. A dozen, any more could become clumsy. All may be lost in the plans execution, and they were short handed already.
As dawn approached the Romans were in position. Tiberius organised the surgical removal of the night watch. Once confirmation was reported, Grantus, without prayer nor hesitation, led his elite squad in swift, silent accuracy. Three isolated men, early risers or woken with full bladders, had no time to act as their throats were opened, bodies stuffed quickly in shadow.
Reaching their leadership central tent area, Grantus, pointed in silence, pairing the men, allocating each their target. Six tents were hit in a synchronous moment. Most found two or three sleeping figures, despatching them efficiently. A second wave should cause sufficient damage and alarm, each pair took another tent. Grantus slit three throats, two more died by the Roman at his side. But the cries from others tents as this second wave unfolded less smoothly. Shouting and screams. Sounds of sword on sword. Fighting was breaking out in tents all around. Leaving the dead behind, Grantus ran out into the open, shouting his order for all to retreat. They'd known from the start this was the point from which it was each for himself. Confused faces poked from tents as the alarm was raised. He could not tell whether twelve were following or less, but he led their screaming exit, hacking and slaying, lost in a murderous frenzy, his group now a singular animal of hell, killing a path of escape. How many men he slaughtered in this suicidal sprint, he had not a clue. In the red haze of battle frenzy they cut a passage through waking warriors, still sleep befuddles, few in comparable fury. He saw some of his chosen fall but there could be no loss of focus to try help the already lost. Running from the heathen temporary town, he saw they were now just six. Fifty feet behind the enemy were a seething animal mob hungry to kill this impudence. Turning once to scream back at his pursuers, "Come on then, you dirty fucking scum! Come on!"
And this they did. Plucking off two more of his men. Falling to the mass of boot, club and steel. Torn to shreds in seconds. Two made it at Grantus side to the Roman tight formation, grabbed into the shielded block as the battle exploded. The fighting was fierce and their formation began to rupture at the sheer anarchic velocity of Gallic mob blood frenzy. Tiberius caught Grantus, raising him from the deck. A wall of dead and wounded were crushed underfoot. The shouted order saw the Roman line step back in unison. But odd cracks began as the least disciplined forgot training. Maintenance of self control was key to Roman war craft. Any soldier abandoning their composure to fury fell first, worse, they brought danger to the rest as the chink left was the opening for the enemies crazed assault. Where the fuck were the rear guard? Tiberius knew a minute longer and their formation would dissolve, becoming a mass of individuals just like the opposition. Once they broke rank, numerical odds left a singular conclusion.
His heart felt a moment of calm silence. The face of his father, his mother, his dear wife, dead now ten years. Theology was not his specialism. Maybe all gods were one. His life had been dutiful. This was the end. Then a cry of the home tongue returned him to the moment. In unison, many men had yelled together. They'd fucking done it! Back in to motion he shouted honour into his men. For Rome. For one. Pacing along the front line, pulling out the broken, shoving replacements sealing the line. Infusing the flagging with spirit and pride.
The massed ranks of barbarians now losing direction looked behind to see what was happening. Each turned head became an opening for Roman swords. Without leadership or focus every man had only his own direction. The chaos of individual madmen were simple to overcome as the three Roman battalions worked in unison with the tight formation now assembled at the other side of the battlefield. Fear for personal safety spread through the enemy with the leadership nowhere to be seen. Those of mercenary motives saw the paymasters gone and looked for escape. Tiberius took no emotional thrill in this slaughter. Professional pride in neat conclusion was enough. Shouting a declaration of amnesty for any now opting to leave the battle, saw the remnants flee. Systematically killing any wounded enemy, recovering their own casualties. The battle was over. The uprising snuffed out. The centurions gathered their soldiers into linear formation. Losses tallied to expectations. Job done.
Once back in Rome the campaigns success validated the emperors delegation of manpower. In military circles, Tiberius and Grantus became men of legend. But this saw little reflection in their treatment. Tiberius had angry words with the emperor. His reward, this muddy island.

These memories, standing together again with Grantus brought Tiberius into a better mood. After these official duties they would retire together, drink into the night. Brothers.
The soldiers looked drunk. Slapping the captives, mocking them, one using a club caught his eye. Calmly ordering the lad to desist. It always angered Tiberius. These were common criminals not terrorists, resistance fighters. There must be a sliding scale of punishments. If you tortured a thief what was left to use as a deterrent for higher crimes? These boys barely deserves to be called soldiers. Few had been on campaigns like him and Grantus. In front of a native mob there was no way he would discipline them as he must. But in private, he would have to clarify a few issues. How the hell had he become a provincial governor? A career like his warranted military placement. Sadly there seemed few places able to summon up any real challenge. Still, duty and all that.
Each of those on trial were brought before him by the men Grantus had arrived with. His position warranted he sit in judgement. Grantus stood to one side, reading out the charge sheet. Four brutish soldiers dispensing punishment. A cattle thief first. Pleading to the crowd he looked pitiful. Tiberius job fulfilled several purposes. The locals must feel the occupation was of collusion. Roman modernity, here to help the betterment of civilisation. Thus his sentencing must please the people. Certainly on these minor crimes. But the Druid. That was more political. He must be humiliated. Revealed as a charlatan. The superstitious influence his kind still held over the people must be ruthlessly driven out. Druidic trickery must be revealed as trickery, their powers shown fake. The Christian God shown to be the truth. There was theatrical artistry to a trial. Tiberius would play the crowd. Rising its crescendo, gathering the mob together in solidarity. Sick puppets, they were.
The cattle thieves hands brought collective shrieks from the mob as each sword blow cut through his wrist. As the man fainted, the soldier through his hand to the cheering mass as they fought, like starving dogs hungry for meat, to win this gruesome trophy.
The bonded over the gang raping of a whore who, reputedly was a persistent clipper. Taking coin before disappearing. Once underway, this spectacle continued, occupying much of the male spectators whilst the trials continued concurrently. Two murderers, one domestic the other some random act of violent robbery, saw much interplay with the crowd. He enjoyed to ask their opinion, there involvement a validation of the collaboration. Justice dispensed in accord to the offence. Both would obviously be executed, it was method and prior indignities that were the discussion. Most were in accord but he enjoyed bringing in the extreme poles of opinion. Letting a competitive division develop as passions erupted in to minor crowd skirmishes. But all of this was the support act. A building up of the cruelty of the natives. Readying for them to compete for Roman approval in vocal displays of Christian allegiance. How brave they were in a mob, with Romans to do the dirty work. Whatever his personal beliefs, the Druid Brock stood out to him as by some measure the the man of dignity. Tiberius had been quietly studying the strange chap between the goings on. He barely looked worried. Focused, yes, but in self possession. All around, his people abandoned any self respect, eager to be on the winning side. Grantus presence, maybe that, but he recalled that moment when they fought the Gallic Pict uprising. The moment when he saw his time had come. That calm he had experienced. Knowing his life was in the hands of, what? The gods? Fate? Titus Brock reminded him of himself. Such was life's poverty of meaning. His duty now, to rulers he no longer respected, in what he must now do to a man that if life had been different, may have been a brother. Brock too, must be watching his countrymen in such degradation. There was no god. Not if this could be.

Tiberius called Titus Brock before him. The soldiers that tried steer him were flicked off in a dismissive shrug. Chest proud, head held high, Brock folded his arms and locked eyes with the Roman leader.
Moving to the front, Jack Black was now deep in Liberty caps transcendence. The dimension they were in was blending into another as fractal light patterns shifted and coalesced in mandalas that illuminated the points where the membrane between the two dimensions was thin. He felt a warmth stretch out to his freind.
Grantus: "This man is Titus Brock. A well known and high ranked priest of the Druid religion. A close associate of the serial murderer Jack Black. The charges against him are so numerous it would waste everyone's time where I to list them all. So I offer a few examples to clarify the individuals nature. He is known to openly insult the one true Christian God, the new religion of the Roman Empire. He is known to conspire with dark forces, to commune with spirits. All such practice is now regarded as alliance to Satan. His life has been spent in support of the devil. If the court requires, I can go further."
Tiberius: "That sounds crime enough for any man. Clearly, he has trusted in the Devils greater powers. No doubt, his spirits, demons, who knows? Satan himself will surely come to save him. Let us hear his defence. Before his powers save him from gods agents."
Brock: "You seem a knowledgeable man. Somewhat confused regarding my nature. But this God of yours certainly sounds great. Before you put me to death, I'm sure everybody here would enjoy seeing his majesty. When faced with such wonder, i feel certain that I will convert, before you kill me."
Tiberius: "Our God is no trifle. It is you and yours on trial. Show yours and, if they appear, I will gladly reveal ours."
A man now leaned from the crowd, very keen to see the Druid put to test.
Black: "I have met this fellow. The accusations are true. Not two nights back, he came past my house. He said Tiberius was a soft cock weazle. Further, he said Romans can't hold their drink. He named Grantus and Tiberius as poor drinkers. Indeed, I was ashamed to hear his words. All gathered here know, the Romans can drink Druids under the table. Their wine makes our ale look like weak piss. But he insisted. He called both Romans, respected by all, a pair of knob jockies. His pride has brought shame on us all."
Tiberius: "Is this so? Bit of a drinker, are you then? We could have some fun before he shows us his scary ghosts."
Brock: "The man lies! I never claimed such a trifle. I said Tiberius and Grantus were far worse than that. Not only could I drink double of both men. Furthermore, they feared any competition of drink, knowing I would shame them. So confident, in fact, that I would gamble anything on it. I must correct the terminology this man uses. I called them arsepipe tunnellers. Two Italian wankboxes."
By now the crowd were caught up in hysterical laughter. Tiberius couldn't help but smile at this comedic insult. Clearly he hoped to anger his captors into escaping torture and a swift execution. But, he remembered Grantus had a flask of distilled wine, plundered from French villages. Opting to call his bluff, he raised his hands. Bringing the blood thirsty mob to quiet composure.
Tiberius: "Big drinker, eh? How humble to be in the presence of a booze master."
Grantus was now laughing. This would be an enjoyable diversion. Once returned to his place in drink, he'd be exposed as a spiritual fraud, then killed. Tiberius winked to his freind who slipped away then returned with the potent spirit.
The excited man shouted again. "In his bag, he has the ale he claims trumps the finest of Italian wines!"
This was just absurd. Even the nationalists recognised they had nothing to compare. Waving him forth, Tiberius opened Brocks bag and lifted out the flask within. The crowd were in hysterics as Tiberius, opened the cap, took a sniff, then gave a theatrical choke. He could smell this brew was foul, but his nose was confident the alcoholic content was minimal.
Tiberius: "Okay. Let it not be said Romans shy from a competition. Me, Grantus and all our soldiers here, we will all down a pint of this foul beverage. But, Mr Druid must drink a pint of ours. In respect of our grace in accepting the Druids challenge, we ask he humbly accepts our test of his magic."
The Romans knew they had the Druid. The French spirit was so potent, a pint could lay down three men. A display was made in lining out the beakers. Tiberius poured out the Druids crap as Grantus poured the pint for Brock.
The crowd were hypnotised in excitement. The Romans chuckled to each other in quiet confidence. Titus Brock, though, to all people watching, with the exception of Jack Black, took on the appearance of a trickster out tricked. He became shifty, twitching nervously, looking all around in animal fear. He had been caught out. Tiberius caught his eyes and knew Brock had been bluffing.
Tiberius: "Ready men, Druid big drinking hero? Down in one!"
Titus instantly knew this was strong spirits. He would be intoxicated. The Romans downed the Peruvian brew in one, all pulling faces of disgust. After a minute, they relaxed. A tiny sensation but nothing to scare them. Brock, however, was stumbling about. Reaching out for support from any point of fixture. The world span, but it was superficial.
Jack smiled as his freind submitted to the Romans mockery. Stood around him in a circle, pushing his drunk body from one to another. After falling, they'd kick him. Stand, mighty drinker.
Ten minutes passed before Tiberius decided to bring this to a close. Brock looked a mess. A flickering sound seemed to be growing in volume. Looking around he saw nothing.
Tiberius: "So! Maybe Mr Brock over estimated himself. Still, drink is nothing. Surely his spirits will beat our God."
Grantus: "Bring him. His. His......"
The Roman looked perplexed. Tiberius could see something in him he'd not noticed before. An oddness he'd never been aware of. His men also seemed strange. His eyes moved onto the Druid. Titus Brock was now steady. More than that, he was utterly self composed. His feet set apart. Arms crossed, shoulders back, eyes fixed on his. He tried to hold his stare, but like dark pits he felt the Druids vision, so strong, unblinking, entering his mind.
Around him the soldiers reached out, touching things only visible to them. Brock now had grown, twice their size. Tiberius looked up to him but couldn't hold his stare. Arms crossed, he looked upon them with such disdain, such disgust, like they were some cock roaches he'd just discovered in his pantry.
Stumbling to the ground, trying to hide behind his seat, whilst the Druids eyes scoured their souls, burning their minds. Grantus was scurrying his way, pleading to this god like power. The crowd had begun to back away, unsure of what was taking place. First one decided to flee. Then others. Soon all the natives were running for their lives, tripping over each other, desperate to escape.
Stonehenge now a circle surrounding the Giants feet. The outline of Brocks figure contained darkness, like the clearest moonless night, stars and comets of all colours, flared from pinpoints, glowing till exploding in cascades of shooting lights. Around him the space he occupied began shifting, surging, tendrils of rootlike growth, span out in vast speed, intertwining in cords that entered the earth.
This creature unfolded his arms, holding out his palms, each had a central glow that burned in astral anger. Twisting cables, churning bolts of lightening slithered out like electricity snakes, seeking out all the Romans. These skewered into all orifices as Titus Brock now spoke.
Brock: "Show me your God!"
Tiberius was no longer able to keep his bodily functions in check. Vomit spewed from his mouth, urine ran down his leg and shit spat gushes of liquid from his arse. Clawing the soil in desperation to try burrow any escape. Grantus bit his ear, tearing it free, then tried to eat himself into Tiberius stomach.
But there was no where to run. His soldiers entered an orgy of self mutilation, anything to destroy their being, killing themselves in vicious self hatred. Again, that voice, echoing across space, down through history, an earthquake shattering reality.
Brock: "Show me you God!"
The figure now towered skywards, the roots and tendrils rupturing the land, a jungle of Brock from where there was no exit. The dark black gaze of unforgiveness saw the two brothers, huddled in each other's arms, like children.
Two hands reached from the heavens holding one Roman in each Palm. Lifting them close to study. A curious pity examined them for a few moments till, bored and unimpressed, Brock crushed both the Romans skulls effortlessly with his thumbs. Then cast them aside, like broken dolls. Brock bothered not look back at the Roman corpse heap.
Instead he embraced Jack Black. Salisbury plain was very quiet. The rain had blown over and just at the horizon the glow of the rising moon. A pleasant night, all told. They set off walking, west. North west. Neither spoke for a mile or so, then Titus remembered. Felt his bag.
Brock: "All ok Jack?"
Black: "Yeah mate. Not much to tell. Looks like we'll be travelling together after all."
Brock: "Suits me. I've got to tell you about these two guys from Peru I met. Sounds blokes. Still got some of their special brew left."
Black: "Another night maybe."
Brock: "Yep, sound."
And the two Druids began their journey towards the Welsh borders. Clun sounded a nice place. Give that a try.






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