“Then,” replied Edas, “we shall at least preserve our honour; we shall at least remain free as our fathers were; we shall have the chance to emulate the deeds, and die deaths as glorious as those of the heroes of whom the bards sing, and we shall not live to see our wives and daughters dishonoured by the ruthless soldiers of Rome.”
He looked the Roman full in the face, and the emissary of Agricola flushed with anger at the implication contained in the chief’s concluding words.
“Is that all?” he asked. “Is that thy message to Agricola? Not peace but war?”
“War,” answered the chief fiercely. “War to the death against the Romans.”
“So be it. The legions will surely come. Farewell.”
A short time only elapsed after the dispatch of this defiant declaration ere the British outposts brought news of the Roman advance. Perfect master of the art of war, Agricola left nothing to the last moment, and the same day which brought the message from the Britons, saw the Roman army in motion. The troops marched along the course of the Mersey, and halted for a space at Stockport, where they afterwards built a strong station. Then they moved on, still following the stream, and passed up the banks of the river Etherow, until the great basin of the Coombs Valley lay before them.
Meanwhile the Britons had vigorously prepared themselves for the great struggle. Over the heathery wastes of the hills—into what are now the counties of Lancashire, Yorkshire, and Derbyshire—through the thick forests where the wolves, bears, and other wild beasts of prey lurked—went the war message of Edas the chief, rallying the warriors to battle. For once the tribal jealousies were forgotten, feuds vanished in face of the common danger, and Brigantines joined with Cornavii to offer a united front to the common enemy. For days succeeding the arrival of the Roman herald there was a great massing of warriors, fleet-footed graceful men from the Cheshire plains, big wild men from the mountains which lie to the north and east of Longdendale. Day and night the forest altars and the stone circles of the Druids, which stood amid the heather on the summit of the Coombs, were constantly the scenes of sacrifices and other savage rites of Druid worship. Young men and maidens were slain by the golden knife of the Arch Druid, and their spirits passed, with the strains of weird singing, to intercede with God for the cause of Britain. All day the bards sang the songs of old, and at night the ghosts of buried heroes sailed past on the wings of the wind. Thus were the hearts of the British warriors strengthened for the battle which was to come.
Night fell, and the forests of Longdendale were full of the white, fierce warriors, who moved silently yet swiftly in the direction of the Coombs. It was the last night of peace; on the morrow the songs of war would arise, and brave men would die. Also, it was the night of sacrifices, and the Druid altar—that strange group of stones now known as the Robin Hood’s Picking Rods—would witness the supreme sacrifice—the offering to the Gods of that which was most dear to the hearts of the Britons. That day, just before the setting of the sun, Arwary, the fleet-footed, had bounded into the camp with the lightness of the deer, bringing tidings of the Roman advance. The legions would attack on the morrow, and so that night must be a night of sacrifice—the greatest sacrifice of all. Caledon, the ancient Druid, had summoned the Druid priests to the sacred groves of oak, and the warriors were bidden to gather about the altar shortly before the rising of the moon.
In the wood, near the dwelling of Edas, stood the chief. By his side was a maid—Nesta the fair—the beloved of Edas, son of Atli. Soon, if the gods willed, she would become his bride. Meanwhile she was the fairest maid in all Britain, and even the voluptuous Romans sang her praises about the camp fires at night.
Edas, son of Atli, spoke of love, and Nesta the fair drew close to his breast. Her arms were about his neck, and the lovers kissed. Edas, son of Atli, and Nesta the Fair, were happy.