A Roman and a Celt-Memoirs of a Past-Life

About the Author

Born to English parents in Melbourne, Australia, April has always maintained a strong passion for history and the written word. She possesses a deep interest in the spiritual and psychic sciences, and combines these interests to convey her Past-Life Memories.

April has travelled widely around the world, having resided in both Australia and Britain, and likes to think of herself as a space traveller of the Earth. Currently, she lives with her family in an 18th century cottage in a quiet little village in Lincolnshire.

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Dedication

This book is dedicated to my late, good friend, Rowena Brown, for her encouragement and support—and to my Muse, my dearly departed little Manx cat, Morgana. May they both be reborn.

AND TO GAIUS JULIUS CAECINIANUS,

WHOEVER AND WHEREVER HE MAY BE

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A Roman and a Celt

Published by Austin Macauley at Smashwords

Copyright 2018, April E. Claridge

The right of April E. Claridge Irving to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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A CIP catalogue record for this title is

Available from the British Library.

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www.austinmacauley.com

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A Roman and a Celt, 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

ISBN 978-1-78710-356-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-78710-357-3 (Hardback)

ISBN 978-1-78710-358-0 (Kindle E-Book)

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First Published in 2018

Austin Macauley Publishers.LTD/

CGC-33-01, 25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf, London E14 5LQ

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Acknowledgements

With grateful thanks to the North Somerset Museum Service for their help in compiling historical and archaeological data; and to the Gorhambury Estate for allowing access to the actual site of the Roman villa.

"Man will come into being many times, yet he knows nothing of his past lives, except some dream or thought may carry him back to some circumstances of a previous incarnation. In the end, however, all his various pasts will reveal themselves.

Read, ye who shall find in the days unborn, if your gods have given you the skill. Read, O children of the future, and learn the secrets of the past."

Pharaoh Seti I (c1320 BC)

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Britannia

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Prequel

Autumn, AD 47

Worlebury Hill-Fort,

North Somerset

Intense cold. Swirls of sea mist upon this chilly autumn eve. The sound of the waves breaking steadily against the shore far below our proud fortress-home. I recall how impregnable our hill-fort always seemed. Bordered by sea and continually flooded grasslands, there being but one safe pathway leading up to the mighty ramparts, it stood defiantly above the surrounding landscape. Many a time the war-like Silures of Southern Cambria would attack from across the channel in an effort to steal food, attempting to scale the mighty stone walls that towered above the sands, and every time they would fail in their attempt. Our magnificent hill-fort remained; impervious to attack… or so we of the Dobunni tribe believed.

While not a powerful tribe by any means and posing no great threat to the Roman invaders, we had nevertheless become a rather painful thorn that had caused enough of an irritation to warrant our complete extermination. While our northern brothers and sisters acquiesced to Roman rule, we Dobunni of the south fought fiercely for the lands we farmed and the seas we fished, for our freedom and independence. Our failure to understand the Roman war machine would not only result in the destruction of our hill-fort but was to bring about the annihilation of most of my people.

Silence now, and as the moon crept steadily above the horizon, the evening shadows stepped graciously aside before her.

The dank October air felt clammy against one’s skin as we settled in for the night, and then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there came screams of pain, fire and rocks falling from the sky… sheer pandemonium.

Scrambling from my bed, half-dazed, I made it out into the open air just in time before my home was hit. I fell to my knees, trying to comprehend what was happening as the house collapsed behind me.

I have but little memory of the events that took place this night, other than they were swift, brutal and merciless. What I do recall, and quite vividly at that, were the feelings of terror, anguish, and the sheer helplessness as I watched my friends and family perish.

The first volley of artillery fire—the flaming fireballs which had torn our homes apart—had caused widespread death and devastation. In an instant, the main gateway had been set aflame. The second and third volleys saw our previously impregnable ramparts begin to crumble as huge chunks of stone were blasted away.

The ensuing panic that followed only added to the confusion that had erupted from the surprise attack. I escaped within an inch of my life, but my family… my father, the chief of our tribe, was most cruelly slain.

The Romans were to massacre everyone in sight: men, women, and even children. No one was spared. This was retribution in its purest form. There would be no pity.

And so, I ran, amidst my rage and tears of anguish in the scramble to escape, until suddenly I collided with something solid. I can still feel the cold condensation on the Roman shield. It pushed me backwards and I stumbled onto the ground. In an instant, the Roman soldier was upon me, pushing me onto my back and pinning me down against the damp earth. I struggled in vain, but his strength was too much for me, and then, just as swiftly, he himself was slain. The Roman legionary rolling awkwardly onto his side, a Dobunnic spear protruding from his back.

All, save seven of us, perished that night. Having fled through the western gateway and down to the beach, we had edged our way carefully northward along the shoreline, dodging in and out of the shadows like hunted animals, not daring to stop until finally we came to rest at a nearby rock shelter.

There, we had remained, cold and afraid, for what seemed an eternity yet in reality was perhaps but half the night. We could see the fire and smoke from across the bay and waited for the silence to return.

Slowly and cautiously, we then made our way back in the vain hope of locating more survivors. None were found. The retreating Roman Army was now nowhere to be seen. In one night, they had taken everything from us: our homes, our families, and our honour. They had left behind a desolate wasteland in the form of our once proud and mighty hill-fort, now reduced to so much rubble amidst the smoking remains of our homes. We would not forget.

Hurriedly now, we buried what dead we could as a final mark of respect before the wolves came scavenging, the bodies being interred into previously dug storage pits, and in many cases, some three or four to a pit. We then salvaged what little food remained and headed mournfully across the plains towards our only surviving settlement upon the Mendip Hills. Our little group walked in silence together beneath the clear, starlit sky. A full moon shone brightly overhead—the Hunter’s Moon—and we, the hunted. A time when the moon was known to stay longer above the horizon, turning night into day. An obvious reason why the Romans had chosen to attack this very night, instead of, as was their usual practice, by day.

The Hunter’s Moon had fallen late in the October this year. No one would have ever expected an attack after nightfall, especially given the swamp-lands that surrounded our fortress, but the Romans had been clever. They had sailed up the coastline from the south, with rafts bearing their mighty war-machines upon them. Our people atop the Mendip had not noticed their arrival until the fireballs had been unleashed, so no warning could be given.

A fair-haired young warrior, and my childhood friend, Anturiaethus, was leading the way. It was he who had got us all to safety and who had struck down the soldier who had pinioned me. I followed closely behind, a rebellious young girl of some sixteen years.

Next to me walked a woman. We were both rugged up against the bitter night air, the chill foretelling a frost this night. Shivering from both the cold and shock, I tugged my shawl closer around my face. We both wore our heavy woollen shawls pulled up and over our heads, and carried an earthenware jar each containing the last remnants of our food. All our possessions were what we now carried or wore on our backs.

Behind us walked two more warriors. The first bore a small boy of four upon his shoulders, the warrior’s reddish-brown hair shining like burnished copper as it caught the light of the moon. The remaining warrior was carrying a girl of not more than six. They were this warrior’s children and that of the woman. The little family of four all shared the same shiny, black hair, a trait of our tribe, the father sporting a long moustache.

Together, we headed off sadly into the night, frightened and alone.

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Romano/Celtic era

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Chapter One

Spring, AD 48

Mendip Hills,

North Somerset

Springtime and the Mendip came alive with wildflowers that spread from the grassy tops to the flood plains below. The sun was shining brightly overhead, although there remained a slight chill to the air. The winter snows had departed late this year, leaving the rivers in full flood.

I was running merrily across the top of a low hill, laughing and happy with the sheer pleasure of springtime and the simple joy of being young and alive. I felt free and unrestrained, my long, dark hair left loose and flowing, like the mane of a wild horse. Behind me ran a man, a little older than myself. We tripped in the long grass, rolling over and over together in a tangle of arms and legs, relaxed and happy in one another’s company.

Our large, white pony was tethered a little way up the hill. He tossed his long mane about in the afternoon sun, watching our exuberance as if he wished to join in.

Finally, we came to a halt, breathless and dishevelled. ‘Come on,’ my companion said once we’d managed to catch our breath, his short, dark hair still quite neat despite the tumble down the hill. He stood up and dusted himself off, his white, woollen robe now besmirched with grass stains. ‘We’ve gathered enough herbs and wildflowers for one day. It’s time we were getting back. It’ll be dark soon enough.’

‘Oh, not yet, Dafydd,’ I complained with a sigh. ‘It’s still quite early.’

Not now! Not while I was enjoying my freedom so very much. The mere thought of returning to the restrictions of hill-fort life was almost more than I could bear on such a sunny, carefree day as this. The winter snows had penned us in for so long that I had almost forgotten how it felt to have fresh grass beneath my feet.

I flung my long hair off my face. It was tangled up with bits of grass, so I sat there for a moment, deliberately taking my time as I carefully picked them out.

Dafydd gave me an exasperated look. ‘I’ll get the horse,’ he stated flatly, and he began to walk back up the hill.

‘Spoilsport!’ I berated him teasingly as he strolled off.

Rolling over and onto my stomach, I gazed out across the flood plains below, taking in every detail as I scanned the horizon. The land seemed to stretch to infinity, the long grass waving gently in the breeze. The swollen riverbanks were abundant with wild birds and I watched them for a moment as a large flock took off towards the coast, and then I turned my gaze downwards, following the steep contour of the hill upon which I lay, to the flat land below. A small lake had formed off one of the flooded streams. It sparkled and glinted in the late afternoon sun. There were always floods at this time of year.

My eyes swept closer to the edge of the hill and suddenly I caught sight of someone below.

I drew in a sharp breath as I recognised a Roman soldier camped immediately beneath us. My heart was pounding wildly in my chest as I peered cautiously over the edge. Fear welled up in the pit of my stomach. For a moment, I was unable to move, afraid that he might see me.

‘Dafydd!’ I cried out urgently, as loudly as I dare. ‘Get back here, quickly!’

Dafydd looked back over his shoulder, immediately turning about as he registered the look upon my face.

Desperately, I scanned the Roman’s campsite, yet strangely the soldier seemed to be alone, having pitched a tent far below the fall of the hill. Why he should choose to venture into enemy territory alone, I had no idea, neither at this point did I care, but he was very foolish in doing so. The soldier had set up a small campfire by the side of the lake, where he was now busily involved in cooking some freshly caught fish.

Dafydd came running back down the hill and I signalled for him to stay low and keep silent.

‘What is it, Dana?’ he whispered.

‘Look!’ I said, pointing downwards to where the Roman was barely visible.

Dafydd frowned. ‘We’d best get back and warn the others,’ he remarked, sensible as always. If there was only the one Roman, our warriors would soon send him to his gods—but then, I thought again.

‘Why?’ I replied, as a wild plan was beginning to form in my mind. ‘There is only one of them.’ Now was an ideal time to strike, and I would have my revenge against their kind!

‘You can’t be serious!’ Dafydd exclaimed, seemingly reading my thoughts. He was good at that was Dafydd.

‘Why not? I can kill him easily,’ I boasted in a huff. ‘I have my sword.’

For a moment I thought Dafydd was going to laugh. ‘You have your father’s sword,’ he corrected me patiently, his lips curling into a half-smile.

‘Mine now!’ My temper was beginning to rise.

‘And do you know how to fight with it?’ he taunted.

‘I’ve had a few practice lessons,’ I bluffed, grabbing hold of the hilt firmly for emphasis.

‘Oh yes? Slashing at trees and playing at mock-battles with children?’ he snapped sarcastically. ‘No-one will teach you. You’re just a girl!’

‘Keep your voice down or he’ll hear!’

Dafydd pursed his lips, his patience now beginning to wear thin. ‘Our tribe doesn’t permit its women to fight, let alone learn the sword. You know that, Dana,’ he continued, lowering his voice somewhat. ‘You shouldn’t even be carrying that… that thing!’

That was it! My temper had now flown completely out of my control. Dafydd’s continued sarcasm combined with my own burning desire for revenge having only added to my fury. He could be so irritating sometimes. ‘Are you with me or not?’ I snapped hotly.

‘What do you think?’ Dafydd retorted. ‘Besides, you know I never carry weapons. I want no part of this. On your own head be it!’ And with that, he turned his back on me and stormed off up the hill, obviously expecting me to follow.

‘Coward!’ I cursed under my breath, together with a few other choice words.

I scrambled to my feet. Nervously, I drew my sword, salvaged from the aftermath of Worlebury. Struggling to hold it proudly aloft, and with nothing but revenge in my heart, I began to run at full pelt down the hill, recklessly waving the heavy sword above my head in a fit of rage.

Although the Roman had his back to me he heard my approach from above him well in advance, for I was anything but stealthy. In an instant, he whirled about, instinctively reaching for his own sword and withdrawing it from its scabbard in one fluid movement.

The Roman gladius was a short, stabbing sword, extremely effective and lethal, deceptive for its size. I skidded to a halt a short distance before him, bracing myself for the first blow that must surely come.

Yet, to my utter surprise, and annoyance, the Roman actually lowered his sword. Perhaps it was the sight of a young woman that had stopped him? I was certainly not what he had expected. Whatever the reason, his refusal to fight me only served to raise my temper further. My anger and hatred remained intense as I raised my sword high once more. ‘Fight me!’ I yelled.

‘I don’t want to hurt you,’ he said in very good Celtic, which I did not expect to hear… the words, nor the language.

Nevertheless, I began to run straight at him, bringing the sword down upon the soldier in one, angry blow as soon as I was within striking range, but the Roman merely stepped aside. The weight of the weapon combined with the gentle slope of the hill propelled me forward, and the heavy sword, which was somewhat longer than the Roman gladius, thudded into the ground before me as I over-balanced. The vibration of the impact ran up along the length of the blade and into my arm, stunning me for a moment.

‘Leave it be, Dana.’

I turned my head slightly to see Dafydd, casually sauntering down the hillside, leading the pony. He stopped when he reached the bottom and sat down on the grass, looking on dispassionately. Ignoring Dafydd’s remark, I returned my attention to the Roman.

‘Come on and fight me!’ I screamed angrily and struck out at him again, the rage inside me spurring me on.

Our swords made contact this time, metal upon metal, as he blocked my attack with ease while at the same time pushing me backwards. My clumsy attack had once more left me out of balance, and I stumbled to regain my feet.

‘I’m not going to fight you,’ the Roman officer stated calmly, and as if to emphasise his words, he casually turned his back on me.

Crouching down beside his campfire, he then stabbed his sword into the soft earth, and to my continued annoyance, and amazement, he not only totally ignored my presence, but returned to preparing his meal.

The impudence of the man! How dare he treat my attack so lightly, as if I posed no threat to him at all! Enraged, and seeing the perfect opportunity to strike him down at last, I ran at him. It was a coward’s attack, I knew, but he was foolish to turn his back on me, was he not?

Obviously, although feigning disinterest, he was acutely aware of my every movement, and the Roman instantly spun about, retrieving his sword with great swiftness. Our swords came together once more with a deafening clang. It was quite apparent from the look upon his face that he was now becoming ever so slightly annoyed by this headstrong young Briton who would not take no for an answer.

He fought back hard this time, striking at my sword again and again, forcing me backwards one step at a time. Again he struck, and again, until a sharp pain suddenly seared my left shoulder. At this point, the Roman immediately ceased his attack.

Despite his claim for not wishing to hurt me, the move had been a deliberate one, fully intending to draw blood. Shocked and surprised, I stood transfixed for a moment glimpsing the wet blood upon my shoulder and feeling its warmth trickle slowly down my arm, then, taking a step or two backwards, I stumbled over a branch that was jutting out from beneath a fallen tree.

The soldier advanced towards me, a determined look in his eyes. My death was close at hand, of this, I was certain.

Dafydd instantly shot to his feet, the first sign of concern he’d shown. For all his aloofness and occasional sarcasm, I knew that deep down inside somewhere, he did actually care. In fact, he was one of the few close friends I had made since our relocation to Dolebury.

As the Roman moved in closer, fear and panic overcame me. There was no escape. Instinctively, I covered my head with my arms and closed my eyes tightly, waiting for the final moment. I felt the Roman grasp me firmly about the arms and waist, his hold upon me strong as he lifted me bodily off the ground.

All of a sudden, I was flying high into the air, and moments later I was completely enveloped in the icy waters of the lake. Coughing and spluttering, I struggled to sit up once I realised that where I had landed was really quite shallow. The sudden shock of the freezing water however had completely dampened my fighting spirit, leaving me dithering and feeling quite sorry for myself. Slowly, it began to dawn on me just how close to dying I’d actually been. The Roman soldier could just have easily decided to kill me.

I recalled my life as a child, how often as I strolled through the woods near my birthplace home at Tickenham I would play a little game to help pass the time. I would pretend there was some enemy or wolf perhaps close by and pre-determine my escape route should they give chase and attack. It was just five years ago, that I had encountered my first Roman.

On this day, my little game was to save my life, or at the very least, my freedom. Having only just decided in which direction I would flee should an enemy approach, there had been the sudden snap of a twig behind me and I’d taken off, heading down the hill to my right, at the bottom of which lay a river.

My heart was pounding wildly as I’d leapt into action, running down the slope as fast as I could, dodging trees and bushes as I went. In-between my footsteps I could hear those of another, also running, but becoming more distant.

I leapt over a fallen tree and ducked down behind it in order to catch a glimpse of my pursuer, my feet skidding upon the dampened earth. Peering out from behind the log, I saw a flash of red between the trees. I was not to know it at the time, but this was to be my first glimpse of the Roman invader. The man was strong and broad-shouldered, wearing metal body armour and with a large red plume upon his helmet. He caught sight of me peering out at him in astonishment and had allowed himself a wry smile before resuming his pursuit.

Instantly, I was on my feet. My only escape then, ironically, I thought as I stood there now dripping wet, was to be the river. Frantically, I had thrown myself across the remaining bushes and into its murky depths.

The water then had been cool but not unbearably so, though it was thick with silt from the riverbed and laden with twigs and fallen leaves. Distasteful though this was, the river had saved my life. My pursuer had given up the chase. He had watched me swim across safely to the opposite bank where I dragged myself ashore. Standing silently, he gazed upon me as I sat to catch my breath.

For some time, we continued