The shopping spree in the Celtic marketplace had lasted about an hour. Each of the three Displaced men had sold and bought personal items in a flurry of coin exchanges and haggling that resulted in new period appropriate attire for all of them. They also acquired a few corked hollow horns from some species of bovine, as that was what they saw everyone else using to transport liquids. Carrying around a large Amphoray(large vase like pottery) or ceramic jug of ale or water wasn’t feasible, and the metallurgy of the time meant that almost all the metal containers could have harmful impurities like lead, arsenic and chloride compounds that would leach out and slowly poison them. It was slowly dawning on them that they’d have to find a way to earn some currency beyond selling their clothes.
Betilus had offered them a round of drinks in a mead hall as they had finished a full circuit of the shops. Knowing how suspect any fresh water source could be during this time in history, Viran fully supported Bruce’s eager acceptance of the offer.
“So tell me noble Chief, why did you and your comrades travel in advance of the rest of your tribe’s warriors, Upper Britannia is a long journey for the four of you to have made. The war only started in the spring a few fortnights after the solstice. It must have taken you months to get here.”
“Uh, well, three, it took us three months. And a trader offered us a ride on his ship, I mean boat, and uh, he only had room for four of us.” Baxx saw Bruce signalling with 3 fingers under the table and tried to remember the cover story that Bruce had concocted and briefed them on back in the hut.
The first round of drinks was delivered by one of slaves who were ubiquitous and paid for by Betilus, they got into a conversation about each other’s homelands and other minuteia for several minutes.
Concerns about altering timelines were secondary to their survival, though Viran would continue to prioritize not contaminating the timeline, he knew his new friends were not bound by Starfleet regulations. Potable water, food, and enough tools and supplies to survive was what they needed. After buying the clothing, and the next round of drinks to reciprocate Betilus’ generosity, they wouldn’t have much coin left. They knew they wouldn’t be able to count on the charity of others, and after hearing that the main body of reinforcements from Britannia would be arriving in about a fortnight.
Just to be safe, that meant that they had to be gone in 10 days. Their story would not hold up to serious scrutiny, and when the tribe they claimed to be from or any of its neighbors they would be identified as impostors and likely killed.
“Are there any local flora that I should be aware of for medicinal reasons?” Viran said as he tried to assume the role of scholar and healer that Bruce had ascribed to him earlier.
Betilus chuckled, “You Northerners ARE strange. I have no notion of what you speak. That conversation belongs under another roof, healer Viranus. I’m surprised you’re not hanging out with the other Druids.”
Bruce laughed, “Oh he’s not a full Druid, just a thinker and a healer.”
“I was wondering why he didn’t have any tattoos.” Betilus took a large gulp of his flagon.
“Inbedding ink within the dermal layers of ones own body is both dangerous and illogical. But I am curious, what method do these Druids use to perform this process?” Viran was genuinely curious, as he knew that hypodermic needles would not be invented on Earth for another few thousand years.
“Enh, it matters not. My friends, you have joined us at a momentous moment. ”
“The battle with the Romans, at first light, tomorrow?” Viran tried to speak plainly whilst still following the edicts of mid First Century BCE etiquette so far as he could conceive it. He still came off as stiff and awkward, though in this case stiff and awkward fit.
“Yes, it’s the start of the invasion brother! 11 generations ago our forefathers beat the Romans somewhere near this very plain and went on to sack and pillage Rome, by the gods we will do the same. And we shall free as many of our people that they have enslaved, and take as many Roman slaves as fortune will allow.” Betilus replied, receiving several toasts and cheers from adjacent tables.
“Yeah! A curse on those Roman slugworms.” Baxx said, forgetting that there were no species of sniffles native to Earth. Luckily no one asked for a clarification.
“When you said that our army had made contact with the enemies, and that the army would be staying in the field, does that not leave this encampment vulnerable?” Viran asked.
“Worried ole Pompey Magnus is going send 20000 Cavalry to trample us all in our sleep Viranus? We have occupied this camp for weeks, the walls are tall and strong, and we have 6000 Gaelici and Veneti berserkers manning it.”
“Our army is about to face Pompey Magnus.” Bruce said, excited at the thought of maybe catching a glimpse of Pompey the Great, in the flesh.
Mudicca, being a stalwart defender of her tribe’s honor and reputation, had sent a mob of the Remi children to find her husband and the newcomers. Knowing that men will be men, and men who see themselves as soldiers in a righteous cause tend to forgive themselves for all manners of trespasses, she wanted to make sure they at least ate something before the big War Council later that evening.
“Hurry back now, Suns down soon.” Mudicca hollered as the kids set off
“I’ll race you to the hall.” Anviorix said to the group of kids over his shoulder.
“We can race if you want. I’ll still win.” His older sister replied as she walked up next to him before bolting down the road, quickly followed by the rest.
“I will have a fresh ale this round Master Metallurgist.” Baxx, the Bolian exclaimed, having figured out that the establishment served three distinct varieties alcohol; a low ABV barley -Ale- around 2.9%, a thicker sweeter -Mead- that was roughly 8% ABV, and a strong, almost mint flavoured -Bouzhe- that was approximately 41% ABV.
Being dehydrated and scientifically literate he knew it was the safest source of hydration aside from rainfall that he could ingest. The mead was tastey and did likely have some electrolytic enzymes and fibre, but the roughly 8% ABV content, would nearly negate any hydrating effects.
Considering he was apparently some sort of warrior chieftain from the northernmost areas of Britannica, he knew it was incumbent on him to provide a reply. The place was disgusting and nigh unlivable, but he knew that suspected spies could be tortured and heretics were killed outright, so it was better to go with the flow, just make due.
As Betilus got up to go and fetch more drinks, he was descended upon by a bevy of adolescents including some of his own children, a nephew and several cousins, once removed.
“Mum says it’s time for supper Da’.” Said the leader of the pack of young Celtic wolverines, who also happened to be Betilus’ middle son.
“Last round then, Anviorix, come my boy, it’s time to have a drink with your father.” Betilus seized his son around the shoulder and strode towards the bar.
“Mum says now Anvi.” The boy’s older sister admonished.
“Just one, tell her I’m walking them back for supper and we’re right behind you.” the firecracker ginger haired middle son said over his shoulder to his elder sister with a wave of his hand. He wasn’t going to let the opportunity to perform that particular right of passage.
“Anvi!” The sister pestered.
The boy stopped for a second then tugged on his father’s leggings, he knew his mother would smell the ale on his breath, probably tan his hide and mercilessly berate his father for it. “Ma’ did sound real serious,mAinewe’s right, maybe we should go.”
Bruce had fit into the time period far better than he was comfortable with. He was also coming to realize that in many ways the Celts of this time and his circle of friends back in the Jazz and Rock resident performer on Risa weren’t all that different.
After the first drink of mead, he had begun to wonder if the A- on his final history report might not have been a bit low, after the second mead, he was certain he had been cheated out of an A+, midway through the third he had spotted a lire hanging from a tent roof spar near the central hearth of the stone and thatch structure. If they were going to be stuck in the past, he’d have to figure out some way to jam.
Just as he was able to get up and go inspect the musical instrument their host hollered, “Alright gentleman, you heard the lad, it’s supper time.”
As the trio gathered their belongings and got up Betilus added, “Fear not Baxxorix we’ve got plenty of ale at home.” The blacksmith patted Baxx on the shoulder and the four men followed the gaggle of kids down the muddy boulevard.
“So, whats for supper Betilus?” Bruce asked.
“Well we’re in camp, so its either beef stew and bread, or lamb stew and bread, or…?” Betilus waited for one of them to finish the old field camp mantra.
Bruce took a shot in the dark and just picked an animal he hoped was resident where they were claiming to be from, “Deer meat stew and bread?”
Betilus let out a guttural laugh, “Fucking Northerners, you don’t even have pigs up there? You’ll live kings down here by comparison to be sure.”
The Master Smith kept chuckling as he exchanged barbs with, and answered questions from, the children until they were nearly home.
“My nose says its lamb stew tonight comrades. But we will have to eat quickly and head the Oppidium right away. Anvi, take our friends inside, I’ll fetch us another jug of ale for supper” Betilus rubbed his hands together in delight.
“Ma’s gonna nag ya for it.” Anvi retorted as his father walked over to the small communal barn to retrieve the beer from the cold storage pit.
“She’ll nag me for something else if I dinna either my son. Atleast my tongue won’t be dry.” The smith hollered.
“I take it your father drinks quite a bit?” Baxx asked the young man.
“More than most, but less then some. Mum always says he drinks so much she’s suprised he hasn’t grown gills.”
Bruce couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Hard times makes for hard people’, he thought. “I see. And how old are you Anviorix.”
“Twelve.” Came the reply
