by Hall, Ian
“Lachlan, get the horses tied up, over there.” Calach indicated some nearby silver birch trees, “See to the horses, then you can go off on your own.”
“Right, Calach.”
The two older boys watched as he tied the horses securely, and removed the saddles. He brought them over and put them neatly near Aysar as he prepared the fire.
“Right Lachy’,” Calach said, “Remember the rules.”
“Aye. One; stay within earshot. Two; if I get into any trouble, I shout at the top o’ your voice, you’ll soon come running. Three; I remember, this is not a game anymore, I don’t play any jokes.”
“Good lad. There’s a time an’ a place for that, an’ it’s no’ here. Aysar an’ I think that we’re either in or near Meatae country, an’ we have to keep alert an’ careful. Just because I’ve got a talisman to say we’ve permission from Ma’damar to be here, there’s some would maybe have us dead first before they ask to see it.”
“I’ll be careful, Calach.” Lachlin said. With that he started to run off into the bracken.
“You’ll need to collect wood for that fire Calach! Ha, ha,” Lachlin called over his shoulder, obviously overjoyed at missing out on the chore.
With a wry smile, Calach squatted on the grass and began to skin the hares, with the two in a pouch round Aysar’s waist, and the one still warm on the grass, they were in for a nice feed tonight.
~ ~ ~
Calach had not hesitated when Lachlan had asked if he could accompany him on his journey to the Meatae capital. They had been close since Ranald had asked Calach to take his younger brother under his wing following his second finger tattooing. He was close to his warrior trials now and needed supervision; it was not unknown for a young boy to attempt the trials himself, without the sufficient preparation.
The bond between the two, strong before, had grown stronger in the last year as Lachlan had matured. Calach knew what it was like to have to perform the hunting tasks, and if Lachlan was fortunate enough to complete them whilst on the journey, then it was good fortune indeed.
With the fire burning at his back, Calach looked out into the woodland for his young companion
He called the boy’s name twice, watching Aysar as he carefully wrapped the hares in large dock leaves and set them deep in the burning wood of the fire.
“What do you think, Aysar? Is he pretending not to hear me?”
“I don’t think so, Calach, he seemed to take your warning serious enough.” They both called Lachlan’s name again.
Hearing no answer to their calling, Calach got to his feet, grabbed his bow. “I won’t be long.”
With a suspicion that Lachlan was up to one of his tricks, he started off in the direction his young companion had taken.
He headed off up the slope, quietly tracking the rough trail through the waist-high foliage. He had easily trailed him for a while, always leading away from the fire, when he caught sight of a disturbing pattern in the bracken. Another set of tracks had joined Lachlan's and was now following, just as Calach was doing. The second set was heavier, and at one point where the footprint was visible on some open earth, was obviously making an attempt to hurry along. He glanced back in the direction of the fire; it was not visible from here, hidden behind a rise of ground. Even in a clearing, the cooking smoke should have been dispersing completely before it cleared the trees. He reasoned that the person he was now following probably did not know of his presence.
He loosened the sword in its scabbard, knocked an arrow on the bowstring, and resumed his pursuit. Years of training came intuitively to the fore as he examined the land for any signs of activity. He moved quickly and quietly from one location to the other, then watched and listened for movement as he crouched in cover, always keeping the trail in sight. The ground was starting to slope gently downward and the trees becoming more dense, the trunks closer together. As he stopped to watch and listen, he heard a commotion up ahead. Keeping his senses alert for any kind of ambush, he quickly ran through the woods in the direction of the noise. He soon saw in front of him a figure in gold and red, wrestling with what at first looked like a wild animal. Calach quickly determined that he had found Lachlan. To be more precise, some-one else had found Lachlan, and was trying to tie the boy up. He decreased his pace to a slow walk, and crept closer.
Rounding an old pine tree, Calach at last got a good look at Lachlan’s captor, trying to subdue the writhing figure, with his back to Calach. He was a tall man, with a long red robe. He was not from the Norlands. Under the robe, as he coped with the struggling boy, he could see body armor of leather and brass of a kind Calach had never seen before. On his head was a gleaming conical helmet which extended at the back, down his neck almost to his shoulders. He wore a short broad sword, still in the scabbard, and his legs were bare. Calach had never seen clothing and armor like this before, although there were similarities to the kind of clothing worn by the Brigantes he had encountered late last year. He faced an unknown warrior in unfriendly territory and did not even want to entertain the idea that was presenting itself. Finlass’s stories of Roman scouts came flooding to his mind.
By this time the warrior had Lachlan’s arms bound tightly and gagged, though to his credit, he was still wriggling in the man’s grasp. So much so that the Warrior threw off his helmet and cloak to give him better maneuverability to complete the task. Calach scanned the surrounding area for any sign of the warrior’s companions, and only when he was sure that they were the only ones in the vicinity, slowly walked out into the open, ready to tackle Lachlan’s assailant from the rear.
He had covered half the distance to the warrior, when his quarry suddenly dropped Lachlan unceremoniously to the forest floor and whirled round, sword quickly drawn to face Calach. On seeing the strung bow, and an arrow aimed at his now unprotected head, to his credit the warrior acted with amazing speed. He quickly grabbed the boy again and held him tightly with one arm in front of him and attempted to use the boy as a shield. Calach was annoyed with himself for not using the opening to fire, but he had never fired in anger and the split second hesitation had been enough for the man to regain some form of advantage. Calach knew that he could not get a good shot now without the possibility of hitting the now frantically struggling, wide-eyed Lachlan.
The warrior was shouting something at Calach, waving his shining sword to his front, but he could not understand the words. The last piece of the picture had fallen into place; here in the east of Meatae lands, Calach had met his first Roman.
“Lachlan, let yourself go limp! I can’t get a shot because o’ your struggling!” Calach shouted. The boy suddenly dropped as if he were dead, sagged in the warrior’s arms, and gave Calach a clear shot at his head and shoulders.
“Put your sword down!” Calach shouted, motioning with the bow and arrow towards the ground. The man obviously did not understand. “Put your sword down on the ground!” This time he indicated with his head and kicked at the leaves at his feet. He was now very close to the warrior, but maintaining a safe distance between them. Sensing that he had lost the initiative, the warrior again dropped Lachlan at his feet, where he lay wide-eyed and still. The Roman warrior very slowly crouched down and placed his short sword next to the boy and began to pace backwards, continuously rambling incoherently in his own language to Calach.
Satisfied that the Roman had retreated sufficiently, Calach roared at him to stop. He got the message, and stood legs apart, arms outstretched, watching the Caledon. Calach let the tension ease on the bowstring and walked forward to his struggling brother. Keeping one eye on the Roman, who was watching Calach intently, he unsheathed his dirk, and bent down to cut Lachlan’s bonds. With his hands loose, the boy undid his gag and started to yell at Calach.
“Ah couldn’t help it, he...”
“Enough! Shut up!” Calach hissed abruptly. He passed the dirk to Lachlan. Slowly he got to his feet again and resumed his hold on the arrow shaft, although did not fully re-tension the bow. He watched the Roman standing
before him, watched his body position; there was something very wrong, but Calach could not work out what it was. Then he had it. The Roman was not acting frightened in any way. He was not behaving like a conquered man should. He stood alert, feet apart and ready to move. He exuded a confident aura of a man who knew something that Calach did not. He immediately came to the conclusion that the Roman was not alone; he expected help imminently. They had to act quickly.
“Pick up his sword Lachy!”
“Aye, I’ve got it.”
The Roman still stood smiling and this affirmed Calach suspicion that something was wrong. As he watched his prisoner, he examined the Roman’s armor, the brass decoration on the individual leather pieces. The captive wore a brass chest plate over a short-sleeved white tunic, edged with gold which reached almost to his knees. His armor from the waist down, and at his shoulders were in short frills, brass on leather, with many ornaments and buckles of gold. On his feet he wore sandals, laced up to his knees.
“Turn around!” Calach shouted at the Roman. He motioned with his hand, and the Roman dutifully turned fully around, smirking as he did so.
“Right Lachy. He’s no more weapons. Let’s get out o’ here.”
Lachlan began to retreat towards Calach.
“Wait! The cloak!” Calach shouted at the boy. “Get the cloak!”
As Lachlan gathered the red cloak from the forest floor, the Roman soldier smiled, perhaps amused that he was to be robbed rather than harmed by the two young Caledons.
As Lachlan retreated further, Calach found himself admiring the workmanship and design of the chest plate, and toyed with the idea of taking it from him, it would be the talking point of Lochery for summers to come. As he was taking an inventory of the Romans clothing and accoutrements, Calach was also quickly debating what to do with him. If he sent him away from their camp, they could quickly be on their way. The Roman would have come by galley, probably up one of the sea-lochs; they would have no horses with them and could not follow them on foot.
Killing him was obviously the best option, but now it would be in cold blood, and Calach could not bring himself to do it.
The idea of robbing the Roman of all he had was becoming an attractive option.
Just then the Roman moved; he raised both hands and started talking again.
“Shut up!” Calach shouted at the soldier, but he continued to babble.
Then Calach’s decision regarding what to do with the Roman was suddenly made for him. From behind the foreign figure, he heard the distant shouts of many more soldiers breaking the woodland’s silence.
The Roman began to shout in reply, and turning he waved to the men coming through the forest.
“With me, Lachy. Run!” Calach dragged his brother by the sleeve. As fast as they could, they began to retrace their route through the woods away from the Roman and the other soldiers. If they could reach the horses, Calach knew that they could outrun the Romans, who would be on foot.
He had run for a moment, when he took a brief glance over his shoulder. He instantly realized that the Roman was trying to keep up with them, and in essence guiding the soldiers to the fleeing pair. Calach gave Lachlan’s arm a final tug, then let it go, and stopped suddenly.
“Keep on running Lachy; get the horses ready!”
He turned quickly to face the advancing Roman.
“Move Lachlan!” He shouted over his shoulder. “Run!”
Seeing Calach had stopped, the Roman came to an abrupt halt, standing swaying, nearly falling over, and for the first time showed signs of fear. Calach knew that he no longer had an option.
He pulled the bowstring fully to his lips aimed instinctively at the Roman’s head, and fired. Just like his training. Just like killing hares.
Unlike his hunting trips, however, everything seemed to go slowly, as if life itself had been slowed down so he could take in every detail of what happened. He let the pressure go from his fingers and the bowstring started to propel the arrow to its intended mark. He felt as if it took ages for the arrow to begin to move, the released bowstring seeming to crawl imperceptivity over his fingers. As his arrow cleared the bow and started off towards the Roman’s head, he saw his target’s eyes glance slowly to one side as if considering evasive action.
He watched in fascination as his arrow flew gently towards the forehead of the Roman. He saw the man’s eyes close just before the moment of impact. As his arrow hit its objective, Calach was shocked back to reality.
He looked on as the Roman’s head was driven back by the force of the deadly pointed arrow, fired from very close range. He listened as two loud cracks rang out in the forest, one as the arrow pierced the Roman’s skull, and one when the man’s neck snapped from the thrust of the iron tipped projectile.
He was dead before his body fell to the cushioned forest floor.
Calach looked at the man fall with disinterest.
“Lugh; for you!” He said with some bitterness and spat on the ground.
Seeing that the advancing soldiers were getting closer, Calach knelt on the ground and quickly fired three other arrows in their direction. One hit a soldier in the shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground; his painful cry ringing through the forest. The other two flew harmlessly past. But they had their effect; the advancing soldiers stopped chasing, hiding behind whatever they could find.
Calach turned, ready to retreat.
“Lachlan! I thought I’d told you to run!” He shouted, suddenly confronted with his watching brother. “Come on. Move! We’ve got a start on them now, let’s go!”
~ ~ ~
The two brothers came bursting out of the wood, shouting at Aysar to get onto his horse.
“What happened?” burst Aysar.
“I’ll tell you later! We’ve got to get out o’ here!” Calach snapped.
Calach kicked the fire, knocking the roasting hares from the glowing embers.
“At least they’ll not eat our dinner!” he said as he turned towards the horses.
“Who won’t?” Aysar asked.
Calach untied the three horses, and handed each their reins. We ride bareback for a while. Grab your saddles an’ anything else you can carry.
“What....?”
“No questions Aysar. Romans are coming through that gap in the forest any moment now. He turned to help his brother mount, then handed him the saddle to hold..
“Aysar!” Lachlan, interrupted. “Calach killed.......”
“Enough Lachlan, save it for later.” Calach said. “Agh, Lachlan, no wonder you found it hard to keep up!” Looking on as Lachlan uncovered the Roman’s helmet, which he had wrapped in the liberated red cloak.
“Here,” Calach said, tossing the helmet to Aysar, who sat bareback, his saddle tucked in front of him, ready to move.
“Hey! That’s mine!” Lachlan whined, childishly.
“You’ll take both hands to ride out o’ here.” Calach chided. “Aysar can carry it for you.”
“It’s my trophy, I captured it. It’s mine.” He said with a smile on his lips. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen an’ one day I’ll wear it into battle against the Roman army!”
Calach threw himself onto his horse, savagely pulling the horse’s head around. He spurred the horse on, leaving the clearing, plunging them rapidly into the forest again.
As they rode, Calach shouted. “If you get the helmet, then I get the cloak. Is that fair?” Calach grinned, stealing looks behind them.
“That’s fine by me.”
“All right, enough for now Lachy. Let’s just concentrate on putting distance between them an’ us eh?”
The three horses picked up running pace easily and continued into the evening, following the setting sun westwards.
* * *
“Ah wish Calach was here,” Fetasius ambled towards the stone circle just outside Lochery.
“Aye, an’ Lachlan too,” Benelek replied. He was missing his older ‘brothers’ more than he’d thought he would. Th
ey had only been gone for five or six days, but to the bored youngsters it was like a lifetime.
“There’s never anything interesting to do, it’s just one job after another.” Fetasius kicked another stone through the grass.
“Ranald said that we ought to find Rawana an’ volunteer for the some milling that needs to be done,”
“Rawana would only tell us to do more an’ more flour, an’ that’s just not interesting enough for two warriors like us!”
“We could spend time wi’ Ishaar, our personal guard!” Benelek sneered. The two had been under the watchful eye of Ishaar and his personal guard since their arrival in Lochery and it was a rare occasion to have given them all the slip that afternoon.
“Never, my arms are tired all the time wi’ the practice that they put us through!” Fetasius referred to their daily sword training, now held away from the other boys under the direct command of the Brigante guard.
“Race you to the stones!” Benelek gave no warning, and he was off, confident that his race would be agreed to, and equally sure that he needed a slight start on his older brother to even stand a small chance of winning.
They both collapsed outside the circle and crawled forward to sit leaning in the shade against one of the stones. They were still there a few moments later, recovering from their race, when they heard voices approaching from the opposite side of the circle. With a mischievous smile between them and a slight motion of Fetasius’s head, they crawled round the stone till they could see the owners of the voices. It was Sewell and he was talking to one of the outlying dhruids, one of the older men from the north. Fetasius looked at Benelek and questioned his younger brother with a look and a shrug of the shoulders. Benelek shook his head in answer. None of the boys knew the identity of the other dhruid. They both squirmed back round the menhir as the dhruids came closer.
They knew that they should have run away, or at the very least made the dhruids aware of their presence. No-one listened to dhruids talking together; it was against everything they had been taught, as well as some of the lesser laws. But knowing they shouldn’t, typically they lay and listened, knowing all the time that if they were discovered they were in serious trouble. They listened until the horn sounded for dhruid meditation and the two grey-robed figures walked off in the direction of Lochery, and the more they had listened, the more afraid they had become.
