Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part Four: The Romans Invade)

by Hall, Ian

  “Turn it!” Finlass shouted, and the command was passed by more of the same along the line, turning it roughly into a column again. Although the tight line formation had been lost slightly, it was now a column, aimed directly for the Roman cavalry.

  Calach, at the head of the line, shouted at his bowmen to fire their arrows. He watched as the Roman cavalry, now sensing the Norland tactics, were also being ordered to charge. Calach knew that success in the maneuver would be due to bravery and timing, and he let loose his arrows quickly. As he charged, he watched as the arrows hit their targets. He could see both Romans and horses fall. There was definitely a weakness in the cavalry wall. Slinging his bow over his back, he drew his sword and charged with his bowmen into the melee.

  There was a resounding crash as the forces met and the charge faltered, the forward momentum gone as the cavalry began the slow process of hand to hand fighting.

  Calach found himself in front of a Roman horseman. He parried the Roman’s first blow, then thrust his sword into the horses eye. The horse reared up, spilling the Roman to the ground, where he lay dazed. Calach kicked his horse on into the space ahead and swung his sword blindly two-handed down at the floundering Roman. The sword met metal and bone, and the cry from below was enough for Calach to force his mount onwards.

  He watched as a Roman’s head was hewn from his shoulders, falling into the gaps between horses. Horses and men fell on both sides. With his long two-handed weapon, he swung at the next rider he faced, the mismatched weapons trading blows awkwardly until the Roman’s horse was buffeted from the side, sending him careering into Calach’s mount. Taking his chance, he sliced his blade across the Roman’s face, breaking his nose and his cheek, sending his head spinning limply backwards. He kicked his horse onward.

  Little by little, he worked his way through the fray, sometimes fighting, sometimes avoiding contact. He swung huge crushing vertical chops, and wild arcs, wincing as the weapon met sword, shield or armor. He was alarmed at the chaos all around him, the noises of metal on metal and horses braying mixed with men and women’s screams.

  Calach shouted a hoarse “Shiels” as he glanced to either side, and was surprised to see Conrack grinning at him, shouting as he used two shorter swords against a Roman.

  “Keep going!” Conrack shouted as he parried the Roman’s lunge with one sword, then slid the other into the Roman’s neck. When he pulled his sword free, blood spurted in a high arc, turning the grin into a bloody grimace.

  As he leant to his right to finish off a Roman with a slice across the shoulder, shearing through his upper arm, Calach felt a sharp pain in his left side. He winced and countered the threat with a swipe from his sword, but no one was there. He took a quick look around and surmised that he had probably been kicked by a rearing or falling horse. He winced at the pain, then he spurred his horse onwards again through the Roman line, hacking on both sides slashing at men and horses. He then felt his own horse being buffeted from behind and in a moment he was through the fighting and had no one in front of him at all.

  Calach wheeled his mount to face the continuing conflict, and was encouraged to see that their tactics were paying off. There were casualties, he had expected that, but faced with the alternative of capture, a steady stream of Norland warriors were breaking through the ragged Roman line.

  “Caer Coom!” Calach roared as the riders broke through. “Ride!”

  Already he could see Kat’lana, who gave him a smile as she slashed at the front of a horse’s belly, pitching the Roman rider forwards, toward her ready sword. Conrack and Finlass, although they had also been in the vanguard, were through and now fighting a rearguard action to allow others to do the same. As one of his bowmen joined him, Calach and the lone bowman again took up their bows and began to fire single, accurate shots back into the fighting. More than one Norland warrior suddenly found his foe slipping off his horse with an arrow protruding from him.

  Little by little more northern warriors came through the breach in the Roman cavalry, and, encouraged by Calach and the others, rode past him to safety.

  “To Caer Coom” He shouted at the retreating riders, suddenly remembering that he didn’t know exactly where it was.

  After his arrows were spent, Calach waited, his sword ready, waving the warriors through and wincing at the pain in his side. Then, as the casualties began to outweigh the survivors, he called the remaining warriors away,

  “That’s it!” He cried, encouraging those still fighting to ride to Caer Coom, their rallying point. “That’s enough! Get out of here!”

  With Finlass and Conrack vying with each other to be the last to leave, the depleted Norland warrior band made their way quickly from the scene. The last image in Calach’s mind was the faces of the remaining few Norland warriors still in the midst of the fighting. As he rode away, he hung his head in shame, knowing that although there had been nothing he could have done, they had still given their lives to let him and the survivors through. He wondered if it would have been any different if he had led instead of Finlass, the dhruids dream flooding his mind in his fatigue.

  These had not been the first Norland warriors to die for their land, but he immediately felt that before long there would be many more.

  ~ ~ ~

  With no immediate chase being offered, their flight towards the marshaling point of the standing stones of Caer Coom became more sedate, allowing more of the stragglers to catch up. By nightfall, Finlass counted a hundred and sixty men and women; around half of their force, making their way towards the stone circle. Most were unhurt, but it was apparent that a few of the worse casualties would not make it through their long journey home.

  “Where did the Romans come from Finlass?” Calach asked.

  Finlass noticed Calach holding his side constantly now. He himself had cuts to his face and both legs, but they were superficial.

  “I don’t know Calach.” Finlass watched the Caledon carefully. “Are you hurt?”

  “No I’m fine. It’s just a pain in my side.”

  “I don’t see blood.”

  “The Romans at Shiels went north.” Calach was seemingly determined to get to the root of their problem. “It couldn’t have been from the same column.”

  “It’s too far west to be from the same column Calach” Finlass kept his eye on him. He had noticed the Caledon hand move to his side more often over the last few moments. “There’s only one explanation. There’s two armies.” He looked at Calach’s riding posture and his periodical wincing in pain.

  Conrack rode on Calach’s other side. “And that means, that in only three or four days, this other Roman column has defeated the Selgove to the west an’ marched north.” Finlass saw the direction of his brother’s reasoning.

  “Why did the dhruids not see both columns?” Conrack ranted. “Why didn’t they tell us that there was more than one army invading? We could have been more prepared!”

  “You’re right Conrack.” Calach rocked suddenly as his horse stumbled over rough ground and gave a short gasp of pain. “Because that means there’s at least two Roman armies in the Norlands acting independently o’ each other, each wi’ the capability o’ defeating one o’ our larger clans.”

  “Aye that means real trouble right enough!” Conrack agreed.

  “An’ it also means that the dhruid information isn’t infallible!” Finlass snapped, bitterly.

  “What about the Selgovae in the west?” Conrack asked, “Do you think they’ve been crushed like their brothers in the east?”

  “Aye.” Finlass drew his horse nearer to Calach’s side, looking carefully at Calach’s face turning to an ashen grey, visible even in the dwindling light. “Any Selgove that are left alive are either in the hills, hiding, or have travelled out o’ harm’s way to a neighboring clan.”

  Finlass’s horse reached the side of Calach’s just as the Caledon toppled from the saddle. Lifelessly Calach fell into Finlass’s arms.

  “Grab hold of the horse Conrack!” He s
napped. “Kat’lana! Anybody! I need help here!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Calach regained consciousness long enough to give Finlass instructions regarding the warning of the other clans, then eventually succumbed to the sleeping draught Kat’lana gave him. After a quick examination of the wound, which appeared nothing more than a huge blue bruise, she judged that he had cracked or broken ribs. She stripped his tunic, and probed his side with her fingers. He winced, even deep in sleep.

  She took a dirk, and made a small cut between the offending bones. Aysar, Finlass and Conrack gathered round. They all knew that Calach’s death would be a huge blow to their efforts.

  Blood immediately poured from the cut, deep and dark red. With confidence, Kat’lana pushed her finger deep into the cut, feeling for bone. With a jerk, she pulled the lower one out. Calach roared in pain, temporarily awake.

  She twisted her hand, pulling the higher bone outwards. Everyone heard it crack into place.

  “He needs sewing and binding.” She said; her first words since taking charge.

  The bleeding lessened, then stopped. Within a few moments, Kat’lana’s deft fingers had the cut sewn closed.

  “Rest, and time.” She applied a quickly-made poultice of woad, yarrow and fennel, and bound the wound tightly.

  After Kat’lana was finished administering more of her sleeping draught, they trussed Calach securely to a makeshift rack which dragged roughly behind his horse. With Kat’lana and Aysar riding alongside in constant attendance, they made their way carefully north.

  As they pushed forward, the Venicones and Votadini left the main party. Aysar stayed with Calach, but the rest of the Caledonii also headed for home.

  It took them twice as long to return to Bar’ton as it had to move south, but thankfully they encountered no other Roman forces on the way. As a fighting force they were in no condition to put up any reasonable opposition. By the time they arrived at the borders to Meatae lands, their three hundred had diminished to sixty.

  Ma’damar’s ship was a welcome sight as they reached the great river Clyta, but the short journey down the river did little to lift anyone’s spirits. Calach remained asleep, but whatever Kat’lana said about the possibilities of recovery were dampened by her bleak looks and halting conversation.

  As they crossed the river, and made for Bar’ton, Finlass heard Aysar remark to Kat’lana that he was grateful to Lugh that Calach was asleep for the short river crossing.

  She was too worried to reply.

  Chapter 15.

  Summer 80AD.

  A New Kind of War.

  The messengers to the clans rode like the wind.

  The pairs of riders made the best time possible, quickly recounting their stories to whoever they met on the way. The account of the great Roman invasion began to spread across the Norlands like a plague, but although the tale was gory, life for the ordinary clansmen and clanswomen in the towns and villages changed little. They listened to the news, then waited for their orders from their chiefs. They made sure their weapons and armor were available and ready for use, but even in such unusual circumstances, the chief’s word was law, and everyone knew it and respected it.

  Before Calach was carried aboard Ma’damar’s ship, the two messengers stood before Neall, the Damon clan chief. Care had been taken to pick two Caledonii for the mission as Neall was not to be trusted with members of his Meatae neighbor. The two men were stripped of their weapons and dragged into Neall’s main hut. With disdain the chief heard the story memorized by the two men then, with a wave of his hand, sent them to be fed.

  When the messengers told the clan chief their news, they used the exact wording which Calach had made them memorize before he had lost consciousness. The warriors had been through a torrid raid with the young Caledonii, and he had earned their respect.

  To their dismay, Neall had seemed to listen to their story with complete disinterest and when they had finished, sent them on to Bar’ton under armed escort. No gratitude for the message was sent with the men. They arrived at Bar’ton two days after Finlass. With the exception of the food given at Ayra, they had been forced to fend for themselves.

  Neall’s apparent distrust of Calach’s warning, however, did not stop him strengthening the defenses of his clan lands. He ordered more men brought from the outlying lands to his home town of Ayra. He ordered sheep and cattle slaughtered and dried; his town would not fall to a siege because of starvation. Generally Neall’s sense of self-preservation overcame any other feelings he held regarding the substance of Calach’s message.

  Three days later, as Calach was carried from the ship to a bed in Bar’ton, Daglass, chief of the Novants, was the next of the clan chiefs to be informed. He received the news with great reservation. The two messengers of the Meatae clan had arrived in Witton in some disarray, their mounts exhausted, their wounds needing attention, their plaintive pleas for some kind of action lost in the activity to force them to rest and recover. They had been asked to travel the worst route of all; through the Roman lines of communication and down into the south-west corner of the Norlands.

  Daglass decided that until lucidity had been restored to the two foreign warriors, he would wait. Days later, after they had recovered to his satisfaction and told their harrowing story, Daglass concluded that he would again wait. This time he waited on some form of verification from other sources. When the dhruids concurred with the warrior’s statement of events, he reluctantly set about drawing his outlying villagers closer to the main settlement.

  Again, the Meatae warriors had recounted the story by rote. Already the legend of Calach of the Caledonii was beginning.

  ~ ~ ~

  With the first signs of Calach recovering, Aysar, with Ma’damar’s amulet around his neck, made for Lochery. He rode as never before. Oric; the man at his side, mostly rode silently, his only words those of encouragement for his horse.

  The actual message that Aysar was practicing in his mind had changed many times since he had ridden out of the gates at Bar’ton. But one thing was uppermost in his mind. He had to get to Mawrin and Ranald and tell them that Calach was alive. If any other version of the news spread north to Lochery before Aysar’s arrival, there might be a clan war between Caledon and Meatae.

  And I’m not going to be held to blame for that!

  And he kicked his mount on faster.

  “We’ll kill them at this rate man!” Oric shouted from behind.

  “Better we kill the horses than thousands o’ men on the battlefield!” He roared over his shoulder.

  “Aye, but if we kill the horses here, we’ll have to walk to the next village to get new ones!”

  Good point.

  With a quick showing of Ma’damar’s amulet at the next large village, they changed horses hastily, the change of saddle allowing them time to be handed food and a goatskin of ale for the journey.

  In the allotted two days Aysar and Oric arrived in Lochery to a crowd of people at the main gate. Aysar croaked Ranald’s name, but his request was swallowed by the clamor of the clanspeople’s questions.

  Suddenly the crowd parted and Ranald pushed his way through.

  “What news lad?” He bellowed over the sudden hush. “Where are the rest o’ the men?”

  “They’re behind me Lud Ranald.” Aysar’s voice was dry and painful. “But they’re a long ways behind me; it’ll be days before they get here.”

  Ranald had approached Aysar and now held the reins, looking up at the young man. “An’ your Lud Calach? My son? Where is he?”

  Aysar swallowed hard. “The last time I seen him, he was alive.”

  Ranald read volumes from Aysar’s face. “But he is not well.”

  “No my Lud, he has two broken ribs.”

  Ranald emitted a huge sigh, then began to lead the horse to the inner ring. Questions again began to be asked from the crowd.

  “Oric?” He roared to the other rider.

  “Aye, Lud Ranald?”

  “Get some ale down y
ou, then get telling these people what happened. At least that way they’ll leave us alone.”

  “Aye, Lud Ranald.”

  Aysar’s last look at Oric told him that he was glad to be the one telling the people. Aysar had the worse task, and the worst part was coming sooner rather than later.

  Mawrin.

  ~ ~ ~

  Although Ranald was concerned about his son’s health, he held his tongue until Aysar preceded him through the door of the broch. It would do the clanspeople no good at all to see their chief’s mood. As he indicated that Aysar should enter the inner room, both he and Mawrin asked the same question at the same time.

  “Well? How is he?” They chorused. Mawrin was wiping some residue of cooking from her hands. Ranald knew from the tone of her voice that she was frantic with worry. “Is he going to be a’ right?”

  Aysar took a deep breath. “We think so. We were caught by a Roman unit on the way back to Bar’ton, an’ he took a blow in his side. He’s got a couple of broken ribs. Kat’lana pulled them out, an’ set them.”

  Mawrin moaned involuntarily.

  “She knows what she’s doing.” Aysar added quickly. “Made a poultice; he’s looking much better.”

  “Sit down son.” Ranald said. He moved to Mawrin and forced her to sit on his chair. “Now that you’ve told us the main news, tell us the whole story.”

  As Aysar spoke, Ranald demanded meticulous details of their journey, then he questioned the young man in ever greater detail regarding the military parts of the story. As the different aspects emerged, Ranald was alarmed to hear of the speed of the Romans’ advance and began to prepare in his mind the plan for the mobilization of his southern clan villages.

  They would have to be told.

  As Aysar recounted the fight through the Roman line, Ranald outwardly questioned the tactic of the charge, but inside he dwelt on the fact of Finlass’s leading the warrior party. Finlass was older than Calach, he would undoubtedly have a pull on his son.

  I’ll keep a closer watch on their relationship in future.