((Gallo-Celtic War Camp))

“This is an army camp?” Baxx asked after the group was allowed entry through a side gate in the wooden palisade wall of the sprawling ‘base’ by a pair of scantily clad middle aged men.

Though they had witnessed the vast majority of the army itself currently sallying forth southward to meet the next consular army of Rome that had been sent to face them, the camp was still very much occupied and swirling with the hustle and bustle of daily life. The perimeter walls enclosed several square miles and were manned by young boys, older men, and women. The thatch huts and fur lined makeshift tents were scattered about in dense clusters.

“Yes, in this era large armies on campaign were often accompanied by families, merchants, traders, and sometimes even their entire tribes.” Bruce replied as they walked down the wide, muddy, austere boulevard.

“That tactic carries a vast array of risks does it not?” Viran mused.

“Simply existing at all in this period of history was replete with all different manner of risks pal. I guess the warriors felt it was safer to have their family with them on campaign then leave them unprotected in their native lands… so, I guess we should get ourselves some weapons in case we end up being stuck here for a qhile.” The young Risian rock musician glanced about for a moment and saw a bundle of structures that were emitting thick bellows of smoke. He was proven correct in his wager that they were the blacksmith forges upon their arrival at the location. They started to approach one of the larger and more visibly stocked huts.

“Oi, Betilus, get a load of these 3.” One of the Gallic smiths remarked to his boss as they stoked the large fire that heated their furnace.

“Hmmm, maybe they’re a part of that new contingent of Italic Gauls that defected to our side last week. The round one with the war paint must be a High Chief by the looks of him.” Betilus replied as he dropped his long stoking rod and moved over to greet the trio. Anyone who was carrying that much extra weight had to have been a very important person in his view.

“That, or the High Chef, or maybe the chief bread baker.” The smith chuckled as he resumed drawing out the red hot sword he had been working into shape with his hammer.

“I’d mind your words my young apprentice. That big scar down the middle of face likely wasn’t recieved in a dining hall or a backing accident.” Betilus said, referring to the Bolians cranial ridge as he made his over to greet the trio.

“Salutations tribesman, I am Betilus, head metal worker of the Remi Confederacy. What brings you to my humble forge?”

Bruce stepped forward and tapped his forearms together in the fashion that he recalled from his studies, “Well met, I am Brussilanus of the Boernici tribe. This is Viranis and Baxxarix. I and my comrades recently escaped from a Roman stockade, and we require new arms so that we may rejoin the army in the field. Before we were ambushed and captured, we had travelled here well in advance of the rest of our tribe, and they have not yet arrived…”

“Well, I suppose we could supply you with a sword and spear each. Unless your Chief there prefers another type of weapon. I think we have a few spare axes around somewhere too.” The blacksmith motioned his chin towards Baxx as he made the inquiry.

Bruce turned towards Baxx, and signalled with a few lifts of his eyebrows that the anxious Bolian should respond.

“Uh, we are grateful for your assistance, but standard weapons would be sufficient, we would not want to impose any additional time or efforts upon you.” Baxx stammered as he tried in vain to sound confident and composed.

“Perhaps one working axe as well then, if you have one. We will have to prepare some lodgings as the Romans seized all of our other possessions when we were ambushed.” Bruce added.

“Very well, I think we can accommodate that. As you are survivors of captivity at the hands of the Roman butchers, and are waiting for the rest of your tribe to arrive, I would be honoured to invite you to quarter with my kin and I. We have a spare hut that we had planned to use as a larder before the Triumvirate of Vengeance established the central storehouses and granary last week.” Betilus said as he walked over to a rack of spears and swords and started gathering some weapons for the strangely dressed newcomers.

Bruce turned to Baxx again and shrugged as if to say ‘why not’.

Baxx stepped forward and nodded, “You are very kind, we would be grateful to accept your generous offer… As we were captured before we were able to join the army, I am curious. What is the Triumvirate of Vengeance you just mentioned?”

Bruce gave Baxx a stern look of disapproval and quietly whispered to his -Chief-, “Who, not what.”

“I mean who are they? Forgive my lack of knowledge and clumsy words. Our native tongue is a bit different in our region of Britannia.” Baxx tried to cover for his error.

“No forgiveness. I am not quick to judge like some others in this grand alliance. I was referring to the trio that leads us. Vercingetorix, Cassivallenus, and your Britannic compatriot Togidubnus of the Trinovantes.”

“Ah yes, Togidubnus.” Baxx replied, trying to sound casual.

“He is certainly a fan of the strong ales,” Betilus chuckled as he returned with the arms and placed them on the bench, “Our tribe is cloistered over there, see the copse of bare trees yonder. Find a woman named Mudicca, my wife, tell her that I have offered you the use of the larder. She’ll fix you up.”

“Excellent, thank you again Betilus, you honour us.” Bruce said before the 3 departed.