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

by Hall, Ian

  A short time later, Finlass began issuing orders around the camp. Firstly a rider was sent to race to Conrack’s camp, telling him not to send out his usual raiding party to the Roman lines that day, and that Finlass would explain later. Then Finlass began his own re-organization. The whole camp, around a hundred warriors, were to ride west and join with Conrack at the next group, this would strengthen their numbers and give them an immediate clear area of safe ground on their east flank. Finlass knew that there had been no Roman forays into the hills yet, but with no friendly forces on his eastern side, he was taking no chances.

  With a determination with which he attempted to hide his anger, Finlass drove the group quickly to Conrack’s position. They rode behind the southern hills, in a long curving arc, but even with the slight detour, still arrived well before midday. As they rode into camp, they were met by a group of warriors, headed by Conrack, curious about the change in orders. When Finlass explained about the Caledonii withdrawal, there was a general discussion. As the news spread, some shouted questions, abuse at the Caledon retreat, and general derogatory comments about their eastern neighbors. Finlass could feel the discipline breaking down around him.

  “What’s this about those cowardly Caledon bastards?” Conrack’s voice boomed over the turmoil.

  “I’ll tell you after!” Finlass roared over the noise, his horse disturbed. “Right! What’s this here? Are you warriors, or field-mice?”

  The men and women quickly settled into silence to hear what their leader had to say. They looked up at the angry, mounted figure.

  “That’s better!” Finlass continued. “We’ve got hostile romans to the south, an’ now, thanks to the Caledonii leaving, we’ve got nothing to our east, an’ you lot are behaving like children at play!”

  He watched as shame swept in a wave across their faces.

  “Right, I want a full circle o’ defense, an’ I want it now!” He pulled hard on the reigns of his mount, forcing its head round. “Conrack, I need to talk to you. The rest of you, get busy, an’ keep vigilant. We don’t know who’s out there!” He handed the reins to a fellow rider, and dismounted quickly. He motioned to Conrack and stalked off over the moor. When he reached the outskirts of the camp, away from the upheaval, he turned to his advancing brother.

  “What do we do Conrack?” He stood with hands on hips, feet apart, staring towards the east. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know brother.” Conrack replied, his face serious, “The first thing I want to do is wring Calach’s neck!”

  Finlass drew him a sharp look. “It wasn’t Calach’s doing, it was Ranald!”

  “Aye, so he says!” Conrack clenched his fist and shook it in the air in front of his face. “I’ve never trusted him, or his faither!”

  “Listen Conrack, we’ve got to stay wi’ Calach on this, not against him.” Finlass tried to calm his brother down. “What would you do if Da’ told us to come home?”

  He looked at Conrack’s face, and watched the import of his remark.

  With a look of resignation all over his face, Conrack shook his head. “Alright, I would’ve done the same. But that doesn’t excuse what they’ve done as a clan! They’ve left us a’ out here to die!”

  “Not quite, Conrack.” Finlass said gently. “At least Calach sent us word.”

  Conrack nodded. “Aye I suppose so.”

  “An’ he’ll probably be in trouble wi’ Ranald if he ever got tell o’ it!”

  “Aye, true.”

  Conrack was calmer now.

  “So back to my first question. What about us? What do we do?” Finlass looked carefully at his brother’s face. “We’ve got men here, wi’ no support. We could be attacked in the side, rear. Without the Caledonii on our flank, we’ve not got a good position up here; we’re too exposed.”

  “Aye, so we can fall back to the next camp.” Conrack raged. “We could defend that; there’d be a lot more o’ us!”

  “Aye, but that just leaves us one before Ma’damar! We’d be as well just to make straight for Bar’ton.” Finlass waved his hands in frustration. “If Ma’damar wanted to keep the attacks going, we could easily come back again.”

  “But we’d lose the position!”

  “Aye Conrack, but the Romans are so wrapped up in their wall, that maybe they won’t notice us going anywhere.”

  “Maybe Ma’damar’s right!” snapped the younger brother, “Maybe the Romans’ll stay behind the wall forever.”

  Finlass shook his head. “Don’t you start!” He smiled, “You’re starting to sound like Da’ already!”

  They both laughed together.

  “So what is it to be?” Conrack steadied himself. “Stay here or go to Ma’damar?”

  “Let’s go an’ see Da’?” Finlass laid the question. “He’ll know what to do!”

  “Aye!” Conrack replied immediately. “Let’s go an’ see Da’!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Gnaeus Julius Agricola stood on the earth ramparts, alone for the first time in many days. As Roman Governor of the island of Britain, and thus the Emperors chosen representative, his responsibilities were many. He gave permission for the building of towns and roads, he alone was the supreme law court of the land, he was the military commander for some 40,000 troops stationed in every corner of the island, and he was a family man; married with children, with a married man’s responsibilities.

  Today, however, he had reverted to his military background, and was a soldier.

  With a soldier’s eye, he surveyed the dark hills in front of him, rising from the plain like a frozen wave. Somewhere out there was the enemy, regrouping, maneuvering, waiting for him. Somewhere behind those rolling grey-green hills was the fighting force the Romans had only glimpsed. So far the campaign had gone well; surprise had ensured the success and swiftness had ensured the depth of penetration. But now the native peoples in the north were prepared, they had been given time to re-group. The tattooed warriors had harried their building for the last two months, these encounters being anything from their continued sniping of sentries, to all out cavalry attacks on poorly manned outposts. Recently, however, during the past few days, these attacks had dwindled to nothing, and Agricola knew that his enemy was up to something. He continued to stare at the bleak, uncompromising hills and wondered what he would be doing in their place.

  Regrouping, preparing an all-out confrontation, finding out his weakest points; that’s what he would do.

  Agricola was a man used to command; it came naturally to him, and because of this, he was a man who exuded confidence. His men were inspired by his leadership, and he led from the front. When his cavalry swam with their horses over the narrow straights to capture the dhruids of Anglesey, he swam with them. He had fought in the deserts of Judea at Masada and in the frozen winters around the Danube. He had learnt his trade from experts, and thus had become one himself.

  He was thin and muscular, and carried himself with a certain amount of feline grace. He was fair with his troops, and looked after them well, never asking them to do anything he did not consider himself able to do. But he was a strict disciplinarian; any offences in the ranks were met with cruel and public punishments. Gnaeus Julius Agricola had the classic Roman profile; the long angular nose and chin, brown eyes, set heavily, and a mop of tightly curled black hair. There was a tint of grey at the temples, but all in all he had not changed much since he had joined the army at twenty-five. His family was proud of him; his mother and father, both long dead, had taken great pride in their son’s military achievements.

  This would be his last foreign posting, when Agricola had finished this campaign, he would return to Rome. He had worked hard, and after this last triumphant and successful posting as Governor of Britain, planned to take his place firmly as the Emperor’s man in the inner house of the Roman Senate. As he gazed at the dark distant hills, he could think of no worse place to finish his military career.

  Agricola turned to his subordinates, who waited silently a discreet dis
tance away.

  “Get word to each Tribune,” he said. “I want the guard doubled at every point on the wall.”

  “Yes Governor!” Came the chorused reply from the ranks of purple and red.

  “That is all, go!” Four red-robed officers came to attention. They each crisply saluted, slapping their right fist, palm first to their breastplate over their hearts, turned on their heels and retraced their steps down the back of the rampart to their waiting horses.

  Agricola had returned his gaze to the front again. “They are out there Marcellus!” He spoke into the slight breeze, and a plain robed figure detached himself from the waiting officers and approached. “They are out there, waiting.”

  “They have certainly been quiet over the last few days, Consul.” Marcellus sidled closer, drawing level with Agricola.

  With the new sentries, one out of every four legionaries was now on guard duty, whilst the remaining three worked on the timber faced earth wall. Agricola knew that the building work would slow down under these new orders, but he considered the cautiousness essential. This was his most vulnerable stage, in another two weeks, the wall would be complete and he could consider consolidating the land behind the wall. Until that day vigilance was their watchword. This fact alone made the tribes inactivity so much more puzzling.

  ~ ~ ~

  Hagan rushed up to Sewell, the young dhruid’s face full of worry. “Kheltine comes. I feel him.” Hagan hurried towards the dhruid’s broch, ducking quickly inside.

  Sewell followed at a more sedate pace, looking around him for other dhruids.

  There were none.

  As he swept the curtain aside and entered the broch, he stopped abruptly. Hagan was shaking in the middle of the large round room. “Welcome Master!” he stammered, pain across his features, the whites of his eyes bulging. Suddenly his body became limp, his arms slumped by his sides. As he swayed from side to side, Sewell wondered how he could stand upright at all. Then Hagan raised his head.

  “Ah Sewell, kind of you to join me.” The host’s voice was gone, replaced by the croaking, rasping tones of the dead arch dhruid. “Take a seat, we await young Uwan, he will be along presently.”

  Sewell did as he was told, his body and mind accustomed to years of contrite obedience. Although the dhruid’s body was long burnt to ashes, Kheltine was still a powerful force in the order. Sewell and few high ranking dhruids, chosen for their loyalty both to the order and to Kheltine himself were the only ones to know of his existence; an inner sanctum to the high ranks of the order. The exception was the host, Hagan, the only youngster in the order to know.

  “I have devised the quest which will take Uwan out of our immediate sphere, and hopefully detain him permanently.” Kheltine’s voice through the young man’s vocal chords was strange, but still recognizable. “When Uwan joins us, I will stand to one side, you will give him his quest. Here is what you will say.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Ranald had been warned of Calach’s impending arrival, and was in his main hall flanked on both sides by the head men of the main villages. They sat on benches at a large trestle table, jugs of ale and the remains of a meal lay in front of them, and the drunken chatter had deteriorated into boasting and arm-wrestling bouts. They were in the middle of one of these when Calach entered the hall, alone and very still angry.

  He took in the situation at a glance, and it made him even more irate. He strode around the table, under the reproachful glances of most of the men, until he stood behind his father. Slowly he knelt on the hard packed earth flood and he waited until Ranald acknowledged him. Immediately, Ranald slapped the man to his left, making him move over.

  “Gurdun! Move over ya slob, an’ let ma eldest son sit at the table!” Ranald roared. With the same hand that he had slapped Gurdun, he grabbed Calach by the hair and dragged him to a seat on the bench. With a howl to the open door at the rear of the room, Ranald called for more ale, and with his arm now around Calach’s shoulders he offered his son what remained of the meat and bread.

  “Eat son!” he bellowed into Calach’s ear, “You’re bound to be starvin’!”

  Meekly, Calach began to eat the scraps presented, changing his strategy about confronting Ranald as the situation altered. He took the jug of ale which was placed in front of him, and gave comment when spoken to, and little else.

  The showdown he had expected was not going to happen here. As he looked around, and took stock of the personalities around the table, he was glad he had held his tongue. Every one of the men was loyal to Ranald, and mostly consisted of the older generation, and therefore probably saw Calach and his band as young foolhardy pups; to be tolerated, but not encouraged.

  “You’re not saying much lad!” One of the men teased.

  Gurdun elbowed him fiercely in the ribs and smiled widely. “Probably hankering after a bit o’ woman after being away!”

  “Aye!” Ranald grinned, “Kat’lana’s been like a dog wi’ no tail wi’ you being away!”

  “Kat’lana’s here?” Calach’s mouthful of meat sprayed all over the table, exacting more mirth from Ranald’s cronies.

  “Aye son, she’s here.”

  “Where is she?” he demanded. He tried to rise from the table, but Ranald kept him on his seat with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  There was an uproar at the table, where various comments were quickly passed as to whether Kat’lana had waited for him or not.

  Calach felt a mixture of rage and jubilation; Kat’lana had arrived!

  Yes!

  He looked around the room. Kat’lana was here, but these slovenly arrogant old men were openly taunting him about her! He felt the fury grow in him, and had the overwhelming urge to pig-stick the lot of them, then a strange thought entered his head. He looked around the table, at the faces; all turned towards his.

  Suddenly, it all became clear; they were trying to goad him into a reaction. They wanted him to strike out! He quickly re-appraised his situation; he was between his father and Gurdun, both bigger and heavier than himself, and faced with ten or twelve armed men, all allies of Ranald’s. This was going exactly as Ranald had planned.

  Steadying himself, he ate some more of the meat before him, determined not to react, and just smiled, a deep, knowing smile, letting his gaze travel to every face in the room in turn. Finally he cocked his head to one side, returning his glare to Ranald.

  “Aye, but I’m back now Da’.” He waited to let Ranald understand the significance of his lapse from the proper term of address; chief. “An’ since I’m back now, I’ll go an’ see Kat’lana for myself an’ ask her how she’s been treated since I’ve been away!” He looked at the assembly again, tearing a sliver of cold meat from the piece in his hand, the smile on his face turning to a sneer. “An’ since she’s my guest here, we’ll see if anybody’s been acting out o’ turn.”

  He took a last, long swig at his tankard and slammed it down on the table. “Oh well, I’ve got to see to my men an’ their horses.” Slipping out of Ranald’s grip, he climbed over the bench and retraced his steps round the table towards the door. “We’ve been busy killing Romans when you’ve been drinking.”

  His unspoken suggestion that few, if any, of them had been at the down at the Roman wall to see the structure for themselves was obvious to all present. He stood at the doorway and watched as the significance of his words swept the hall, then turned quickly and walked outside. It was Calach’s turn to smirk.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ranald watched the retreating figure of his eldest son and reflected on the meeting. He had correctly guessed Calach’s mood, and ensured that there had been no outburst when his son was still weary from his journey. There was now time to let his temper die down and meet him on better and friendlier terms. Unfortunately, there had been the darker episode at the end of the confrontation regarding Kat’lana; Ranald hadn’t planned that at all, and felt sympathy for his son when his friend’s name had been mentioned, he quite liked the tall Votadini girl. Mawrin and he ha
d discussed the match and they had both agreed that it would be a good one. After Calach’s amorous adventures of the last years, and the link of his to Ma’damar’s daughter, he was keen to encourage his eldest to marry away from Meatae influence.

  Ranald had also noticed the growing trend of the younger chiefs’ sons to marry out of the clan, and was watching the movement carefully. He was not sure that the idea was a healthy one, although his daughter Bretha had been receiving gifts from one of the Vacomag chief’s sons. That he didn’t mind though. The Vacomags and Caledons shared territories and were almost cousins. But where the Meatae clan was concerned, his thoughts were different, he would try to ensure that his son did not ally himself with Ma’damar. Their old scores run too deep for that.

  ~ ~ ~

  “There’s a wall now, between the forts.” Calach sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the fire. “Well, a wall o’ sorts. They’ve dug in tall trees wi’ sharp points an’ they’re piling the earth behind it.” He stretched his arms and yawned, then rubbed his face roughly, trying to keep the sleep at bay. Even with the forced pace he had set, it still had taken them two days to ride from the Roman wall to Lochery, and he was beginning to feel tiredness overcome him. “Their soldiers do a’ the work themselves, an’ although it irks me to say it, it’s really quite incredible what they’ve built in so little time.”

  Calach yawned again, shaking his head.

  It had been a very frustrating day; first Ranald’s meeting, then he couldn’t find Kat’lana anywhere, then his father sleeping, almost from the moment he had come into the family broch.

  Why didn’t his mother go to bed? It was now well into the night, and Mawrin had sat, listening intently to Calach’s stories while Ranald had snored in his chair. He had told her all about the raiding, and had even given her a broch he had taken from one of the Romans. It had been just a cape clasp, but it looked so nice on her, he was glad he had taken it. He looked at the father’s figure, slumped fast asleep, and wondered if he had planned this.