by Hall, Ian
“Never,”
“Yet I have said it,” Sewell smiled. “You are not alone in your plots, Calach, son of Ranald. The Irishmen have been promised land from the Selgovae in return for their swords this summer.”
“Then perhaps we can harry the wall, when Roman attention is elsewhere.” He grinned.
“There will be no harrying of walls, Calach, please. Your brother’s message is clear. The Roman nerves on the wall will be alert, they will not be distracted. If anything they will be more vigilant, expecting you to attack.”
Calach stood for a while, just looking at Sewell’s face. “Three tribes against the Romans?”
“The plans are already made.”
“I’d love to be a bird, looking down.”
“Oh, there are a few of us with that wish.” He grinned, as if sharing a joke. “Send messengers to Finlass and Mauchty, withdraw your raids until the summer is done. Your turn will come soon enough.”
~ ~ ~
Titus Flavius Caesar Vespasianus Augustus, the leader of the largest empire the world had ever seen was a middle-aged man with a slightly lazy paunch. His shoulders looked as if they had once been strong, but he lay back on the chair, his attention lazy and indolent. He looked upon the delegation with bored and lethargic eyes.
Marilicus stood nervously, but Uwan saw the emperor’s delay as a tactic, a means to unsettle the delegation, and it seemed to be working.
“What news of the Island’s conquest?” he eventually asked, his attention seemingly torn between the grapes at his front and the floor. Then he looked up, and the gaze cut into Marilicus. “Are you here to announce that you have driven the scum into the sea as I ordered?”
Marilicus, usually so aloof looked lost for words. “My Emperor, Governor Agricola has swept the vermin from the south of the northern part of the island, and built a wall across the narrowest part.”
“A wall?” suddenly Titus’s face filled with emotion, his teeth showing behind bared lips. “Did I ask him to build a wall?”
Marilicus shook his head. “No, my Emperor, the defensive wall…”
“I will hear no more mentions of a wall!” he roared, “Rats hide behind walls. Brave Roman soldiers do not!” Titus rose to his feet in a flash, “I will hear nothing of this wall!” he swept to the edge of the dais, but did not step down. “You disappoint me, Tribune, your family will suffer for this.”
Uwan tried to mollify the Emperor’s rage, and sensing no spiritual attack behind his words, spoke directly to the man in glowing white.
Marilicus has done nothing wrong, there is no need to punish him.
Instantly Titus looked around, his face now revealing traces of fear. “Who said that?” he muttered. Uwan rebuked himself for being so direct; this man was obviously not as stable as he had first surmised.
Calm down.
This time he soothed from the edges, rather than rushing into the man’s head, providing a distraction.
Look at the boys.
“Who are these?” he stepped to one side, and thrust his hand at the Votadini boys, now openly trembling.
“They are the sons of a southern chief, my Emperor.” Marilicus stood to one side, still noticeably recovering from his earlier lambasting. “They come to pay homage to their benefactor, their father alone in the southern tribes did not resist our forces.” One by one the boys knelt on one knee, bowing their heads low. “They have been learning Latin for some weeks now.”
“Do you speak their language?” Titus asked, his head snapping in Marilicus’s direction.
“No, my Emperor…”
“Make them talk in their native tongue.”
Marilicus looked at the boys, then at Uwan, then back to the boys. “Speak.”
Egred, the eldest, looked at the Roman Tribune, but it seemed words would not come, his mouth opening, his jaw slack.
“Say something.” Uwan hissed forward, and found Egred looking back at him, his eyes full of fear. “Tell him you’re happy to be here or something. Anything! He won’t know the difference.”
For the first time since they’d met, Egred nodded his thanks, then turned to the Emperor who had been watching the exchange with considerable interest.
Egred stepped forward. “Emperor Titus, my name’s Egred, we are the sons o’ Pe’weric, the chief o’ the Votadin clan.” Egred glanced back at Uwan, who nodded his approval. “We’re happy to be here, an’ look forward to many days in this great city.” He bowed his head slightly, signifying the end of his speech.
Titus looked at Egred for a moment, his eyes quizzical and challenging, then he grinned and shook his head. “It’s just slurred gibberish.” He looked openly disgusted. The dignitaries who stood behind the throne mirrored their emperor’s expression.
“Yes, my Emperor,” Marilicus said, waving Egred back with a condescendingly false smile. “We have great difficulty in communication with the natives of the north.”
Uwan found himself in the gaze of the Emperor, and lowered his gaze. “Yet he seems to have no such problem.” Titus pointed directly at Uwan.
“A new acquisition in Caledonia, my Emperor. This slave was recently bought to teach the boys some Latin.”
“He holds his head high for a slave.” Titus moved forward, stepping down the marble steps towards Uwan.
Carefully Uwan allowed the slightest wave of thought to waft between them.
You are interested in me. I might be important in some way.
“Does he speak our tongue?”
“Quite well, my Emperor.”
Titus narrowed his eyes. “Speak slave!”
“On which subject would you like me to speak, my Emperor?” Uwan said in perfectly inflected Latin. He kept his voice low and empty of authority.
“Oh, I will have fun with this one.” Titus said, walking back up the steps to his large stone throne. “May I borrow him?”
Marilicus looked at Uwan, flashing a genuine smile, his first since entering Titus’s presence. “Take him, my Emperor, he is my gift to you.” He looked genuinely pleased to have the attention taken from the matters in Caledonia.
Titus turned and sat down, and made a sweeping movement with his hand, dismissing the party from the palace without another word. Two guards approached Uwan, and taking him lightly by the elbows, led him away.
~ ~ ~
The rebellion in the south began with the slaughter of the small Roman detachments placed near the small towns. The clansmen, so soon already weary of their Roman neighbors, fell upon them in their hundreds. Few survived the initial onslaught, even fewer escaped from the now enemy lands of the ‘flatland’ clans.
The warriors of the southwest, swollen in number by the men of Dalreida, now emboldened by their small victories, took to their war chariots and headed east across the lowland moors.
There was no major encounter, no pitched battle, but the rebellion of 81AD proved costly to both Agricola’s forces and his plans for further expansion north.
Two legions marched into the small enclave, only to find the villages empty, the fields deserted. With their knowledge of the terrain the three separate armies avoided a head to head meeting, and attacked the Roman marching columns from the flanks.
In the first moons of summer Agricola was forced to recall the legions to the center of the region to regroup. With the words of his emperor constantly in his mind, he now felt under extreme pressure to finish his task, chase the painted men into the sea.
With three distinct armies at his front, each mobile and independent, he knew it would take time to deal with the rebellion. Time he did not have.
~ ~ ~
It took Uwan only days to find that Titus alone was responsible for the push into the Norlands, he had said so many times, almost basking in the knowledge, teasing Uwan with it.
“Push them to the sea,” Titus said, and not for the first time, his mind seemingly bent on the task. “That’s what I ordered Agricola.”
As the emperor divulged his plan, Uwan t
hought of the dhruid directive, then wondered if the Norlands people would be best served in a different manner. He meditated most evenings, and tried to communicate with the dhruids back home, but his attempts were met with stony silence. Originally the counsel of the highest dhruids had thought to use Uwan to change Titus’s mind, take the legions away, but again, Uwan strove for a better more permanent solution, he had no intention of staying in Rome until he died, being a puppet master over the ever erratic leaders.
As the emperor became increasingly excited at the opening of a new series of games in his new amphitheater, Uwan listened to every errant thought in the palace. From his seemingly stable position, the machinations behind Titus’s back provided a different side of the story. Having less than two years in power, Titus had seen the completion of the amphitheater as a publicity exercise, and filled the first one hundred days with entertainment so lavish that it had almost bankrupted him. He used the games as a strengthening of his popularity, and it had worked.
Uwan began to focus some of his attention on Titus’s younger brother, Domitian, and it was in passing one day that he overheard his voice in conversation.
“My brother has promised me before, Heronus, and naught has come of it.” Uwan, heading along a corridor, slowed as he neared the two figures. One was definitely Domitian, Titus’s younger brother, the other he did not recognize.
“You must be patient.”
“How can I have patience? I have done nothing but his bidding. I re-build Pompeii for two years, I re-build in Rome after the fire last year, and yet no seat on the Senate is forthcoming. I have overseen his Flavian Amphitheatre, ready for his bloody games, yet he treats me like a child.”
In the moons approaching summer, Uwan had met Domitian many times before, but the two brothers’ relationship always seemed to be amicable. This was the first time he had witnessed any displeasure. He gently asked a question.
What do you think of Titus’s obsession with the Caledonii?
Uwan paused in the corridor, slipping between two very convenient pillars. The message he’d sent had been as neutral as he could manage.
“And his obsession with the north of Britain has now ensnared two legions.” Domitian snarled. “And for what gain?”
“None, my friend,”
“With the third legion in the south, we have three of the best armies in the Empire doing nothing but chasing sheep in an already fenced field. What has Agricola found in those barbaric lands to warrant my Brother’s attention?”
“There were rumors of gold, remember?” Heronus answered.
“And what have we to see for it?” Domitian surged. Uwan could feel the passion in his words; this man had far more spiritual authority than his elder brother. “Nothing. If I had the power, I would strip Britannia of two legions, and pursue our interests against the Chatti in Gaul, they are much more in need of our attention.”
An excellent plan, you must examine it more.
With those words, Uwan set a new plan in motion. In the summer moons, as the Romans reveled each day in the games of the new Amphitheatre, he wandered unnoticed through the palace of Titus. Each time he passed a member of the Praetorian Guard, he passed them a suggestion.
Domitian would be a far more worthy Emperor than Titus.
The games lasted for one hundred days, and Titus and a changing retinue attended faithfully each day.
Although Uwan could have engineered a reason to be allowed to attend, he felt enough suffering in the air to intentionally miss any such appearance, content to listen to the myriad of tales brought back into the palace. Hundreds of men chained from all corners of the empire, fought for their lives each day. A huge variety of animals and reptiles by the thousand, all died for Titus and his people. When the floor of the amphitheater was washed each night, there were tales of rivers of blood and body parts.
As the days of summer rolled onwards, Uwan worked incessantly, slowly bringing each section of the guard under his influence.
When the games finally ended, Titus raised his household and declared he was going to travel. The next day was bedlam as a caravan was organized, and clothes and possessions were loaded. Of course, Uwan suggested that he be allowed to travel with the Emperor, and met little resistance from the man.
Many dignitaries travelled with him, a few senators, and a huge host of followers, it was easy for Uwan to walk close to Titus’s carriage, his mind working a sickness in the emperor. He wove between the soldiers of the Praetorian Guard with ease, his presence now usual around the emperor.
You feel nauseous.
By the end of the first day from Rome, Titus had ceased waving to the crowds, and retreated inside the carriage, his face pale and frowning.
At the first way-station, he refused to eat, retiring to sleep.
It came as no surprise when cries suddenly cut through the night.
“The Emperor is sick!” the call came from Titus’s bedchamber. Slaves flustered and waved their arms in panic.
“Send for the physicians!” Uwan called, then heard his command echoed down many corridors.
You feel your stomach constrict.
Uwan had little time to finish the job, but his plans included Domitian, and had to wait for the Emperor’s brother to arrive. To the dhruid’s chagrin, Domitian looked genuinely fearful for Titus. He sent another command to the struggling form on the bed, and Titus moaned louder, clutching his belly.
The physicians arrived in a group, mostly looking bemused, but also unwilling to suggest anything constructive. This suited Uwan’s purpose.
Your lungs find it difficult to inhale.
Titus gasped, his hands straying to his throat.
“Perhaps it is food poisoning?” the lead physician offered.
Domitian, go to the guard. You will be safe there.
“I cannot watch this.” Domitian said, tears running down his face. He rose and left, his white robes rippling in his wake.
As the morning sun rose, Titus breathed his last.
And as Uwan watched from a far balcony, he witnessed Domitian being saluted by the guard as the next Emperor.
Reduce the legions in Britannia. Drive the Chatti to the sea. The Chatti are the greatest threat to the Empire.
Uwan slipped out from the house and began to walk north. The road was dusty, but his eyes looked further than the vineyards on the distant hills. Already he could see the purple heather of his homeland, and relished the feeling of returning to Lochery.
~ ~ ~
Wesson crouched in the bracken, the long green ferns easily hiding himself and his men. The Roman patrol on the beaten track in front of them looked tempting, but he resisted the call to charge. His mission was now single-minded: get his men safely over the river to Calach’s country.
It seemed to take ages for the patrol to pass, but soon they were out of sight, the river just a short run away. “We have to go, chief.” Anders said from Wesson’s shoulder. “This is a busy section; there’ll be another patrol along soon.”
“We wait,” Wesson’s tone tolerated no opposition. He had almost decided to rise, when he noticed a glint in the grass on the other side of the wagon-rutted track. “Everyone be still!” he hissed. “We have company.”
Slowly, a figure moved out of the long grass, his heavy leather tunic blending well with the dark shadows of the trees. One man became two, then soon, a large group of archers slipped from the trees, ran quickly along the track, then off again, into the woodland.
“I counted forty,” Anders said. “We could have taken them.”
Wesson whipped round on his second in command, the post so often changed in the last few moons. “Have you learned nothing?” he snapped. “They’re getting clever, these scum. They would have chased us into the water; we’d have been cut down for sure. I want to get to Calach without another man lost.”
At Wesson’s bidding, his group of two hundred warriors, men and women, had stripped down to the essentials for the trek north; a knife in thei
r belts, their primary weapon, and a bag of food slung over their shoulders. No archers were left, just the last of the Damonii, the only ones to survive the rebellion.
Just two moons ago, at the height of summer, the Novants had surrendered to a large Roman force, their cries lingering into the night. Having fought for four moons, the Irishmen slunk back to their ships, returning to Dalreida. By the time the apples had begun to ripen on the trees, the Damonii were the only clan fighting. And they had fought well. Thousands of Romans lay dead in the hills of the western men.
But now, his thoughts were only to the survival of the remnants of his army.
“We go!” Wesson rose from the ferns and began the last walk to the river. It was far too deep to wade, and as Wesson slowly sank into the cold salty water, he gave thanks to be leaving the lowlands, the land so long fought for.
“I will return.” He panted as he began to swim. “I will avenge my people.”
He had hardly reached halfway over when fatigue set in, his arms tired, his stroke failing. Then he noticed a lone figure on the bank ahead. At first he thought of ambush, then, treading water, he cleared his eyes. A dhruid.
You will all make it over safely.
Wesson sighed in relief, resuming his stroke, his arms feeling immediately stronger. Soon he felt rocks touching his feet, and rose out of the water. The dhruid’s head was bowed, his hood covering most of his face, and therefore by tradition unapproachable. Wesson turned back to the river, seeing two hundred bobbing heads.
“Come on!” he roared, waving his soaking arms in encouragement. As his warriors arrived on the bank, he embraced every one, pushing them behind him, up out of the water. Then, as the last one straggled ashore, he turned to thank the dhruid for his help to find the figure gone. He ran up the bank, looking to left and right, but apart from his own warriors, the bank was deserted.
“Thanks be to Lugh!” he said. “Up into the trees,” He ordered. “Light fires, we get dry, and we rest, for tomorrow we march to join Calach.”
A low, tired cheer answered his command.
As he followed his men into the wood, he wondered how many other groups had made it this far.
