The Oak and the Eagles by Patrick Tooban - REVIEW
The night sky trembles with prophecy. A druid wakes from a dream of storm and shipwreck, his vision thick with omens of war. On the same night, a child is born — Calgach — destined to grow into a figure who will carry both the weight of his people’s hopes and the shadow of forces darker than he can yet understand. From this haunting opening, Patrick Tooban’s The Oak and the Eagles wastes no time drawing the reader into its world of iron-age Ireland, where history and myth mingle so closely that even the ordinary act of drawing breath feels touched by the gods.
This is the first instalment in The Calgach Scéla, and Tooban sets out his stall boldly: the sweep of Roman expansion, the resilience of Celtic clans, and the intimate struggles of families and individuals whose lives are shaped by both love and prophecy. The book is not content with simply telling a tale of battles and kings. Instead, it offers something more unusual: a carefully layered narrative that shifts between memory, oral storytelling, and lived experience, creating the sensation of hearing history sung across the firelight by a master bard.
One of the most striking strengths of Tooban’s writing is his ability to balance breadth with intimacy. The cast is large, spanning kings, druids, warriors, artisans, Roman officers, and kinfolk. Yet Tooban avoids the trap of turning them into archetypes. Calgach himself is presented as more than just a future warrior — he is boy, son, nephew, student, and dreamer, shaped as much by the daily rhythms of family life as by the expectations of leadership. Sabia, his mother, radiates strength and devotion, her presence woven into the fabric of the tale with both tenderness and authority. Characters such as Trad, the gifted druid, and Mamek, the Egyptian fugitive turned mentor, add richness and cultural contrast, showing how Celtic society, far from isolated, was entangled with the wider world of empire and trade.
The novel’s grounding in place is another of its treasures. Readers are immersed in the landscapes of RathConall, ArdRinn, DunDonnach, and the Roman fort of Deva — each evoked with sensory detail that makes them feel lived-in rather than merely described. Whether it is the gleam of dew at dawn, the heavy smoke of oak logs, or the churn of mud under wagon wheels, Tooban’s prose delights in texture. The result is that the book feels not like distant history but like a world one could almost step into. His attention to ritual — greetings, songs, small acts of daily devotion — further anchors the reader in the rhythms of ancient life.
History and invention are braided together seamlessly. Tooban acknowledges in his introduction that we know very little about the real Calgach beyond a fleeting mention by Tacitus. Yet this scant fact becomes fertile ground for imagination. The novel respects the known sweep of Roman conquest while filling the gaps with plausible invention, guided by scholarship but never overwhelmed by it. The Celtic calendar, tribal names, and laws are handled with care, and even when Tooban invents, his inventions feel rooted in authentic cultural soil. Readers with an interest in ancient history will find plenty to savour, yet the novel wears its research lightly; it is story, not scholarship, that leads.
At its heart, The Oak and the Eagles is a coming-of-age tale. Calgach’s journey from boyhood to manhood is presented not only through deeds but through the shaping of memory, vision, and identity. His brushes with danger — a near drowning, ominous seizures that echo the curses of ancestors, encounters with Romans who embody both threat and allure — test not only his body but his spirit. The presence of prophecy and dream threads through the narrative, suggesting that destiny is both a guiding star and a burden. Yet Tooban never reduces Calgach to a pawn of fate; he remains vividly human, curious, sometimes playful, sometimes afraid, always reaching towards something larger than himself.
Tooban’s prose style is well-suited to his material. It is stately without being ponderous, lyrical without slipping into excess. He writes with an ear for cadence, as if conscious that his tale is not only to be read but to be heard, remembered, and retold. Dialogue is often tinged with ritual formality, reminding the reader of a world in which words carried weight, and a blessing or curse could shift the course of events. At the same time, moments of humour — a child’s blunt request for a gift, a cook scolding warriors for being too thin — provide welcome warmth, reminding us that even in epic settings, people remain delightfully human.
Thematically, the novel explores resilience, kinship, and the tension between freedom and empire. The Celts’ defiance of Rome is not just a matter of military might but of cultural survival, of holding fast to traditions of law, memory, and worship. Yet the Romans are not painted as faceless villains. Tooban gives space to Roman characters such as Sabinus, a young patrician from Spain, and Licinius, a priest of Mithras, whose perspectives add depth and complexity. This willingness to grant voice to all sides enriches the narrative, reminding us that history is never told from a single vantage point.
Another of Tooban’s strengths lies in his handling of myth and spirituality. Druids, visions, and gods are ever-present, but they are not presented as exotic curiosities. Instead, they form part of daily reality. Dreams guide choices, rituals guard households, and omens shape the way events are understood. Readers are invited to inhabit a worldview in which the divine and the mundane are inseparable. This, perhaps more than anything else, is what makes the novel so immersive: it allows us to glimpse a world in which the rustle of an oak leaf might carry the voice of a god.
While The Oak and the Eagles is steeped in history and myth, it is also unmistakably a human story. The bonds between mother and son, uncle and nephew, mentor and student, friend and companion carry emotional weight. The moments of quiet — a child playing with sunlight, a woman braiding her hair, companions sharing food — are as memorable as the storms and visions. Tooban understands that epics endure not because of battles alone but because of the people whose lives are touched by them.
As the first volume of a larger saga, this book leaves the reader with both satisfaction and anticipation. It lays the foundation for Calgach’s path while hinting at greater trials ahead. One senses that the storm glimpsed in the opening vision has only just begun to gather.
Patrick Tooban has achieved something rare: a historical novel that feels at once grand in scope and intimate in detail, scholarly in grounding yet poetic in telling. The Oak and the Eagles is not just a story about a forgotten figure of Celtic history — it is an invitation to step into a world where oak and eagle, prophecy and memory, flesh and spirit, are woven into the fabric of life. Readers who accept that invitation may well find themselves lingering by the fire, listening for the echoes of Calgach’s tale long after the book is closed.
