Caledonii: Birth of a Celtic Nation. 5. A Druid's Work

by Hall, Ian

  As they neared the column, one of the lagging Romans looked over his shoulder, realized that they were being attacked, and roared to the rest of the patrol. As he turned to face the still advancing clansmen, Calach’s first arrow took him cleanly in the throat. Another hit him in the centre of the breastplate, and he fell to the ground clutching his bloody neck.

  “Now!” Calach shouted as he fired his second arrow, sending it past the dead body into the heart of the column. The Roman leaders immediately barked orders and the patrol soldiers began to organize themselves, turning to form the beginnings of a shield wall against Calach and his archers. As they turned to face outward, a volley of white arrows came from the hillside and bushes on either side of the column. Despite their armor, Romans fell in numbers, attacked from all sides, arrows taking their toll. Then, before they could properly re-organize themselves, Calach and his men were charging into the Roman soldiers, swords swinging in huge arcs.

  Calach swung his sword at the first Roman in his path who parried his swipe with his short sword, then thrust his shield at the young warrior. Calach stepped to one side, then kicked at the large shield, sending it and its owner spinning. A second sweep of his sword took the Roman in the upper back. As the Roman fell to the ground, Calach was already engaging his next opponent.

  This soldier was shorter, stockier, and waited warily for Calach’s move. The Caledon feinted first one way then the next, then swung at the Roman’s head. The soldier parried the blow, but did not advance; he stared into Calach’s eyes, watching for some sign of his next move. Calach swung twice at him, but the Roman first side-stepped then, planting his foot solidly forward, parried the second blow with his shield. Then the Roman broke formation and struck.

  A swift forward lunge caught Calach in the side, slipping past his ribs. As he watched the disappointed look pass over the features of the Roman, Calach moved towards him, past his guard and caught his sword arm, the Roman’s short sword now useless behind him. Calach’s longer sword was swinging over the Roman’s head, but he was too close to use it. He brought the pommel of the sword into the Roman’s face, breaking his nose. The man cried out, and as Calach relinquished his grip on the Roman’s arm and stepped back, he slid his sword across the Roman’s exposed throat. Although the edge of the Norlands swords were not sharpened to a razor edge, the new notches in the blade’s edge from the fight ripped open the Roman’s throat like a saw. Blood gushed from the severed arteries, covering Calach’s face and chest. The pain was enough to cause the Roman to cry out and drop both his sword and shield, knowing that his throat was cut deep. Calach swiped brutally at the screaming figure, his heavy sword taking the Roman across the forehead, cutting through helmet and skull.

  As Calach looked up at the rest of the affray, quickly took stock of the Norlands position. Only five Roman remained standing, and those that did were being mercilessly chopped down by the larger numbers of Calach’s troops. “Kill them a’!” He shouted above the sounds of fighting, rounding on the final group. “No survivors!”

  He ran to the last of the conflict and slashed wildly at the back of the nearest Roman. His sword tore across both calves, almost chopping through both legs, sending the screaming Roman to the ground. Another Norland sword finished him as he struggled to continue the fight.

  Calach caught his breath, a wild expression coursing across the smile on his face. A quick look around ensured that all the Romans were dead. “Right!” He barked into the euphoria of the moment. “Make sure they’re a’ dead! Dirks into their mouths! An’ we need to do it quickly!”

  Calach strode off in the direction he’d come, and was met by Aysar, coming along the route.

  “Everything a’ right friend?” he asked as they embraced.

  “Aye, there was two tried to get away, but we got them. Bruce is bringing in the bodies now.” Aysar clapped Calach’s back as they walked towards the others. “That was our biggest haul yet! Thirty!”

  “Aye, but just a twig o’ heather from a hillside full o’ it!”

  “True Calach,” Aysar grinned, “but thirty less a’ the same!”

  Calach disengaged himself from his effusive friend and walked into the centre of the battleground. Despite their victory, he knew that events like this would only make their job harder; the Romans would quickly increase the number of men in a patrol. He looked on as his men stripped the bodies of everything useful, clothes, weapons, individual items. Men now moved up and down the glen, watching for a Roman counter-attack.

  It seemed to take ages for the carts to arrive, but moments later the haul from thirty Roman soldiers lay ready to be taken north to the Caledonii forges.

  As he walked around the area, he issued orders constantly, lending a hand where he could. One by one, the naked bodies were tied to horses and dragged up the hillside to a marshy region high up in the moor. Calach went over the battleground until he could examine it no more. No trace of the conflict remained, apart from the blood and trodden down grass, and that would repair in a few days.

  Calach and his men slept lightly that night, far from the site of the conflict, their sentries numerous and alert.

  The next morning Calach drove his column north across the moors. One of the carts contained iron, and this was delivered to the two sword makers. The other carts contained food, clothing, leatherwork and Roman sandals, which they distributed at the villages they passed. After the cart was emptied at the smiths, they would be re-loaded with the manufactured swords and brought to Lochery, the growing number of foreign warriors needed to be equipped.

  ~ ~ ~

  “We have to move north, faither!” Finlass knew he shouted, but emotions were running high, spurred by warmed beer. His hand clenched the shaking tankard. “We can’t stand here on our own.” His words reverberated around the almost empty hall.

  Ma’damar’s face remained impassive, his eyes seemingly focused elsewhere.

  Conrack motioned expressively with empty hands. “I think Finlass is right. We’ve seen what the Romans can do, an’ no matter what you think, there’s no stopping them here.”

  “We can’t defend Meatae lands from here, Da.” Finlass spoke quietly. “Even if they didn’t decide to attack us here, they can march past us an’ go north anyway. Our people would be powerless to stop them.”

  “Barton has stood for generations!” Ma’damar bellowed, the tendons in his neck straining. “But you seem to have our tactics all planned! What would you do, my sons?” he sneered.

  His eyes seemed to burn into Finlass skull. Despite his father’s obvious antagonistic stance, he remained stoic. “We fight them on the open field. The open moor, where we can’t be trapped like the Selgove were at Shiels.”

  “Aye,” Conrack, walked over the room to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother. “Or like those poor bastards at Bruins Hill. We a’ heard the survivor’s story o’ that one.”

  Finlass felt stirred. “Aye, how would you like Bar’ton to become another Bruins Hill?”

  The two brothers ceased their verbal assault for a moment, watching Ma’damar’s features tighten. The old man raised himself from his large carved chair and walked carefully down the steps to the floor of the room. Suddenly Finlass was struck with the fragility of the old man. Ma’damar was still a large man, but just then, as he walked down the steps, Finlass saw the old creaking bones show through the stern exterior, caught a glimpse of the frightened old man behind the leather helmet and bushy red beard.

  Ma’damar laid a hand on both of his son’s shoulders, then slid the grip to grasp the hair firmly at the nape of their necks. In a moment of seeming capitulation, he’d tricked them, suddenly he was fierce again; the proud father they both had known for all their lives.

  “I was born here.” He hissed into their pained faces. “I was born here!” He looked from one son to the other, his eyes just inched away. “I will die protecting the lands under my control from these marauding foreigners.” Ma’damar pulled on their hair tighter, forcing
their heads together. Finlass gritted his teeth, taking the pain.

  “I will stand here and defend my home.” Ma’damar continued. “An’ I will consider any man a coward if he doesn’t stand here wi’ me!”

  He forced their heads upwards. Finlass thought he could take no more without striking back.

  Ma’damar looked into the eyes of his eldest. “Will you fight wi’ me, son?”

  Finlass sighed. “Aye, Faither,”

  He watched his father’s eyes shift to his brother.

  “I will Faither.” Conrack said quietly.

  In one fluid motion, Ma’damar threw them both to the floor, and strode resolutely through the space they had vacated.

  “In that case,” he bellowed as he left the hall, “Get your armor on an’ join me on the wall!”

  Finlass lay for a moment, his breath coming in gulps. He watched as Conrack got nimbly to his feet, and held out a hand. Shaking his head, he pulled his elder brother roughly to his feet. “He’s wrong of course.” Conrack looked at his father’s retreating figure through the open doorway.

  “Aye, he’s wrong.” Finlass brushed his tunic with his hand. “But there’s nothing we can do about it.”

  “He’s made sure o’ that.” Conrack’s face had a determined look. “We’d be cowards now if we argued against it.”

  “But what can we do? He’s our Faither.”

  “Let’s get mucked in.” The younger brother said. “We may yet see something in our favor to make him see that we’re right.”

  “Somehow Conrack, I don’t think being ‘right’ matters anymore.”

  “Aye, Finlass, maybe,”

  ~ ~ ~

  It took three days for the Roman force to assemble near the walls of Bar’ton, such was their number. During that time, the Roman vanguard dug offensive ditches and raised high ridges on the farmland at the base of the hill. Finlass and Conrack had led sorties against the legionaries as they worked, but the Meatae casualties had been high; the Romans well prepared and organized. Their attacks were met with stalwart defense; the legionaries had plenty of time to form their shield walls.

  As he stood on the fort ramparts, Conrack watched as the siege engines were brought near the front of the Roman positions. From his lofty vantage point, it seemed inconceivable that missiles fired from the three separate encampments would reach the fort. He remembered the storyteller’s account of the Bruins Hill siege and made obvious comparisons. More Romans assembled every day, Conrack was already certain that the Meatae forces were easily outnumbered two to one. Although he tried hard not to admit it to himself, he was beginning to lose hope of winning.

  Then with a distant creaking of their war machines, the boulders started flying overhead.

  Stones so large that only two men could lift, being tossed into the Meatae fort, landing on men, equipment, buildings, and smashing everything in their wake. Finlass watched on in futility as his home was broken to pieces around him. He watched from the fortress walls as they Romans below went about their daily lives, careless to the destruction they caused in his home. Determined to wreak some form of revenge, he swiftly formulated a plan; a night attack against these giant war contraptions.

  He strode quickly to the main hall.

  “We burn them.” Finlass looked at his father, who stood in conversation with his clan captains.

  After a moment Ma’damar turned, “What?” Finlass saw the dismissive look, the same scold he’d had for years. “What did you say?”

  Finlass shook his head and retreated from the group, heading through the doorway. “Nothing,”

  Conrack had witnessed it all, and pulled on his brother’s sleeve as he passed out of the great hall doorway. “I’ll go with you.”

  Shouts of warning came from outside, and suddenly a boulder smashed into the wall, tearing the timbers apart and showering those inside with huge splinters.

  Finlass ran outside. “At least here I can see them coming.”

  Conrack grinned. “How many men do we take?”

  Finlass joined in his brother’s mood. “We take thirty. We need soot blacking, and buckets of tar, anything that will burn quickly.

  That night, knowing every inch of ground, the thirty young Meatae assembled at the wheels of the giant wooden catapults. Two dead Roman guards had been dragged into the grass. Even as Finlass stepped past the wooden feet, he rested his hand on the worn wood.

  Old wood, and not from cold lands.

  “Let’s get these things burning.” He looked carefully at the workings, at the complexity that he could not fathom. “Spill the oil on the ropes, they’ll burn quicker.”

  With all three machines suitably oiled, Finlass lit a taper from a coal they’d brought in a bucket. With their leader’s urging to disappear, the men took to their heels, more attention given to flight than concealment.

  With a thrust of the taper at the first machine, the oil caught alight immediately. Finlass lumped across the small dyke the Romans had built and dealt the same blow to the other two structures. He’d hardly gone a dozen strides into the diminishing darkness when a shout rose behind him. Without looking back he raced for the familiar pathways around the fortress, sheep and cattle trails they’d known since being children.

  Once he’d rounded the hill a little, he glanced back to see if there had been any pursuit, but the Romans were far too engrossed in pouring buckets of water on their war machines. Finlass paused, taking in details, giving himself a breather.

  There was no doubt, the fires were swiftly under control and extinguished, Roman efficiency dealing with the threat before the wood could become engulfed in flames. Finlass gave a curse, but continued up the hill to the gates.

  The next morning, he stood on the rampart and watched with pride as soldiers attended the machines, making repairs, making adjustments to the complex structures.

  “At the very least we’ve delayed them.” He turned to the nearest sentry as the man’s head jerked backwards, a huge hole below his chin. As he fell listlessly to the parapet, Finlass saw the bolt sticking out from the back of his head. Sharp and deadly. “Down!” he roared both ways along the wall. “Get down!”

  Yes, he’d delayed the boulders, but that had just meant they’d get to the iron bow much quicker.

  The next day, the stones began again.

  The people of the Meatae clan fell to the bombardment in such large numbers; they soon ran out of wood to burn the corpses. The dhruids blessed the bodies, and the clansmen carefully lifted them to the battered ramparts and dropped them over. Soon, a southerly wind would bring their odor to the fortress.

  As the stones fell, Finlass counted the days.

  On the afternoon of the seventh day of siege, a boulder hit a section of wall on which Ma’damar stood. Finlass watched with horror as his father’s body fell back into the tumbling stones from the broken wall.

  “No!” Finlass almost leapt from the wall. By the time he reached the fallen section, short iron arrows were hitting those who tried to find the fallen chief. Hampered by the Roman fire, they worked bent low, crawling over the rubble, lifting stones, tumbling them forward, trying to erect some form of defense.

  Ma’damar’s body lay crushed beneath the stones, his face unrecognizable, only identifiable by his jeweled armor.

  Tears streamed down Finlass’s face as they carried the old man to the hall.

  With the falling rocks now forgotten, the clan paid its respects and knelt to the new chief, standing uncomfortably by his father’s body.

  “What are your orders, Chief Finlass?” Conrack said with a hint of a smirk.

  Finlass spent no time in preparing the clan to retreat to the north. “We can’t turn Bar’ton into another massacre.”

  He informed Quen’tan, who simply nodded. “There are few Romans to the north, we can fight our way out.”

  Then a silence descended on them. Initially Finlass was at a loss to really understand what had happened. Then Conrack stated the obvious. “They’ve
stopped firing.”

  Finlass gave his brother a sharp look, but it seemed to be the truth. He heard no stones landing, and no creaking of the Roman machines as the men primed them ready to fire. He walked to a broken part of the battlements and cautiously looked down.

  The whole Roman encampment was in flux. Men were being marshalled from every side, men marching south, men dismantling the machine’s bases and wheeling them away. The brothers looked on in disbelief as the whole legion dispersed from the base of Bar’ton Hill and walked away. For miles to the south, men walked away, and ships sailed across the wide river.

  ~ ~ ~

  Despite seeing some coastal towns on the voyage, sailing into the walled harbor at Formia took Uwan’s breath away. It seemed that the whitewashed houses of the town were built one on top of each other, the uniformity of the warm terracotta roofs rising from the busy harbor buildings, each dark window an indication that he had not only travelled many days, but moved into a new civilization itself.

  Even in the midst of winter, the sun shone in a flawless sky of blue and the wind was warm, from the south. Despite his obvious proof to the contrary, it was difficult to believe the two lifestyles could coexist. He tried to shake his feeling of the Caledonii’s inferiority, but the evidence lay before him; the Roman structures put the Norlands architecture to shame. The smooth stone wharf the ship got tied to looked so worn in places by the wheels of the carts, as he unloaded the goods from the ship, he could hardly conceive of the age of the road.

  As he walked with Marilicus’ caravan through the harbour town, it was difficult to believe of the construction of the houses, their flat roof concept laid out for ease of building, not for defense, the whitewashed stucco walls so different from his own tents and rough brochs. People lined the streets, children, slaves, but each happy face seemed satisfied enough with their lot.

  Once they had left the town, the busy road to Rome was dusty, and yet Uwan walked with happiness, his eyes filled with wonder at every turn. The Roman people had cultivated most of the farmland along the road, again leaving the farming abilities of his own people far behind. The slaves in the fields stopped their work and waved at them.