by Jules Watson
The man shook away her touch as if he’d been scalded. ‘Prisoner? Do you think my lord gives fools his command?’ he demanded. ‘If you were a prisoner, you would be travelling under Roman escort, not your own. And you are going north, my lady.’ At last he smiled. ‘My lowland lady.’
One of the other men spoke up now, and his eyes were indeed roving over the curves of Samana’s body. ‘What do we do with her, then? I’ve got an itch here I haven’t scratched for weeks. Shall we throw dice for who’s first?’
Samana could not repress the cry of horror that burst from her, yet the leader’s flinty eyes darted warningly to his men. ‘No. She is a friend of the invaders, so we’ll take her back north. Our lord and the other chiefs can retrieve all the information she undoubtedly carries.’ A cruel smile curved his mouth. ‘She’ll be more use that way.’
‘But Gerat, she can buck under me as well as talk!’
‘I said no.’ The leader’s gaze met Samana’s own, and in it she saw contempt, not lust. ‘She’s high born all right; she told the truth there. Our lord would not allow it, as well you know. Now get back outside: take all their weapons, their food. Hurry!’
After letting her dress, Samana’s captors dragged her outside into the cold night air, and she stumbled, averting her eyes from the twisted bodies scattered around the campfire.
Beyond, the river ran black and swift under a shining half-moon, indifferent to her plight. Yet it was only after Samana was thrown into the saddle of her mare, her hands tied, that her dazed brain could begin to comprehend what had happened.
Our lord and the other chiefs, the leader said. And who were they? Who were Calgacus’s allies? She was taken with a shudder of shock, and had to hunch her shoulders so her cloak did not fall.
Agricola hadn’t known for sure, but the recent fort attacks bore all the marks of the Erin prince, and snippets of other information had hinted that Calgacus and Eremon had grown close. Had that closeness now turned into true allegiance? It felt true … it must be true.
So that was where they were taking her.
To see Eremon again.
A font of hysteria bubbled up, and Samana began to snort with laughter, to shriek with a terrible, wild mirth that she could not contain. Then the leader turned his horse back and slapped her across the face with a hard hand, and she slumped into stunned silence and did not laugh again.
BOOK FOUR
Sunseason, AD 82
CHAPTER 45
The waiting time was over at last.
Eremon’s plans had been carefully laid with Calgacus; now they walked through the encampment on the night before those plans would be set in motion. Together, the king and the prince wended their way from campfire to campfire in the valley, speaking to their men, sharing ale and jests, giving reassurance and information as needed.
Yet Eremon had another subject to broach with his Caledonii ally, and had only been waiting for an opportunity to speak alone, which came rarely in a camp of 1,700 men. Perhaps, too, he had waited to gain some measure of control over his rage. In that, he feared he had failed.
He and Calgacus were making their way down a gully beside a swift, stone-tumbled stream bed, caught in the dark reaches between two campfires, when Eremon found himself blurting out what he had wished to raise calmly. ‘You have not yet given me your answer about the Orcadian king.’
Calgacus halted, and in the half-dark Eremon could sense the tension that tightened his shoulders as he sighed. ‘I think perhaps I was avoiding the discussion, in truth,’ the king replied. ‘For you won’t like what I have to say.’
Eremon’s held breath was expelled in a soft hiss, and Calgacus’s head reared in dark outline against the bloom of fire below.
‘You know I wish to exact revenge on him as much as you, prince – my mother was a priestess, after all. But we have an entire legion of Romans down there on the plain; they are our priority, and you know it. We don’t know how badly wounded Maelchon is, or how well fortified his dun, or how many men he has. No one has ever known. If you take your warriors and leave, you weaken us. Revenge is not worth that.’ The king’s stiff posture softened. ‘Rage can be a man’s undoing, Eremon. It can make him foolhardy, but I cannot afford one moment of foolhardiness. You are not my vassal, and can do as you wish. But I cannot give you men to aid you against Maelchon. I would counsel you to leave him alone. For now.’
Eremon’s blood pounded on his temples. He had known, somewhere, what the verdict would be, for he himself knew that the king’s reasoning was sound. ‘Yet Maelchon remains a danger at our rear,’ he argued gruffly.
‘I fear so. But the Decantae have allowed me to station scouts in their lands with their own, to watch for any movement from the Orcades.’ Calgacus’s hand squeezed his shoulder. ‘Let this thought comfort you, prince. Maelchon has shown where his true allegiance lies. I do not think another year will pass before you meet him on the end of your sword. Then you can have your revenge, and it will be all the sweeter for waiting.’
When Eremon rejoined his own men at a fire outside his shelter, Conaire glanced up at him, eyebrows arched in enquiry. Eremon replied with a tiny shake of his head, but as he seated himself on his folded cloak, Rori, oblivious, displayed far less tact.
‘My lord,’ he blurted eagerly, laying his bow across his knees, ‘when are we setting sail to challenge the Orcades traitor?’
At the expression on Eremon’s face, Colum winced and looked down at the sword he was sharpening and began to whistle, applying the stone with vigour. As the strained silence stretched out, Rori realized he had said something wrong, and shrank back, his eyes darting from Eremon’s face to Conaire’s set mouth.
‘We must leave King Maelchon for the time being.’ Eremon’s voice was admirably calm. Yet he didn’t feel it; by Hawen’s breath and balls, he didn’t feel it. ‘We cannot spare the warriors at this delicate stage. But the time will come, soon.’
Fergus muttered a curse, dipping the base of a spear-point into the fire-pot of birch tar. But after a warning glance from Conaire the youth sat back with a silent scowl, setting the sticky tang of the point into its pale ash shaft.
Thank the gods that Lorn preferred a fire with his own men on the other side of camp, Eremon thought sourly, for if he was here they would never hear the end of it. Irritated by the lengthening silence, he took a more normal breath and glanced around at his men with a raised eyebrow. ‘Speaking of this delicate stage, are we all clear about what we have to do? Do you have your supplies ready?’ Immediately, Colum and Fergus nodded.
Eremon, in large part to assuage the potent brew of guilt, hurt and rage that was fermenting in his gut, was leading the first attack on the Roman army. For the oncoming column had now reached the narrowest neck of land, the point where the eastern hills came closest to the sea – a place not too far from their hidden glen.
‘Rori?’ Eremon’s eye now fixed on his youngest warrior, as he recognized the embarrassment still painted on Rori’s freckled cheeks.
Rori held up an arrow. ‘I am going with the Caereni archers tonight, my lord.’ His smile was tentative. ‘I have food and water packed.’
‘Good.’ Eremon grinned at him. ‘That is quite enough glory for now, eh? Remember that you get to strike the first blow, Rori, before we get anywhere near!’
It had been Conaire’s suggestion, carefully thought out, to give this first attack to the archers, not the swordsmen. Eremon would follow with his troop of warriors, but they would remain in reserve, as Nectan’s men cut the horses out from under the Roman cavalry and officers. The Albans hoped this would not only make retreat harder, but also instill panic into the rest of the Roman ranks, for fear was a potent weapon that worked outside the range of a blade.
Suddenly, Conaire’s eyes flickered upwards, and Eremon turned to see one of the Caereni archers standing on the edge of the pool of firelight. ‘My lord.’ The little man went down on one knee, his head bent in the usual deference these strange, half-wild peo
ple showed Eremon.
‘Yes?’ Eremon’s mind scrambled for a name; the Caereni men all looked similar with sloe eyes and raven-black hair. Yet then he remembered it was Nectan’s brother, left in command in his absence. ‘Yes, Domech?’
‘Our people will sacrifice to the Goddess, the Great Mother, this night. As Her consort, the King Stag, you must come and eat of the deer’s heart and be marked with his blood. Then She can protect you in the forest.’
Eremon sensed his men’s bemused reactions, although Rori and Fergus stiffened at the implicit demand in the man’s words.
Smiling to himself, Eremon agreed immediately, and rose to gather his weapons. He straddled two worlds now, as he was sometimes reminded, and suddenly a snatch of the sweet wildness he had felt that night in the stone circle floated up inside him: the fire and the leaping shadows; the antlers heavy on his brow. Perhaps this sacrifice would help him to focus once more, to be clean.
‘When the moon rests on that peak there, I will return,’ he told his men, pointing with a spear. ‘Be ready for me then.’
Lucius Antonius Saturninus, the legate of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix legion, watched the sun creeping over the low wooded rise that lay between his army and the northern sea.
Behind him there was a series of twangs and slaps as his slaves unpegged his leather tent and dropped it to the ground to begin folding and rolling. Around him in the half-dark, narrow vale in which they’d camped, the legionaries and auxiliaries quickened their preparations for departure. Hundreds of fires winked out one by one, extinguished by sand; cookpots clanked as they were packed on to bed rolls; buckles chinked as armour was donned and weapons fastened. The mass mutters and movement of nearly 5,000 men sounded like a high wind over the trees of a vast forest.
Sniffing the damp, salt-tanged air, Lucius climbed the few steps to the top of the wooded rise, pushing through the tangled screen of gorse to see the sea. It seemed calm today. Lucius sighed and edged his way around the knoll to face back towards the mountains. He only wished he was so calm.
He should have been. He commanded the largest army sent into northern Alba so far, a mixed force drawn from his own Twentieth legion, consisting of a detachment of elite legionary foot soldiers, supplemented by auxiliary infantry and cavalry drawn from the conquered peoples of the Empire. Yet it had been ten days since the army left the safety of the Venicones lands between Forth and Tay, and still they’d seen no sign of the people who were said to cluster on these fertile east-coast plains. They had come across smaller duns, and sacked and torched them, yet they had been deserted of defenders.
His primus pilus, the leading centurion, was uneasy, and that made Lucius uneasy. Yet Agricola’s orders, before he boarded the ship to take him south, had been explicit. The army was to keep advancing until it reached the point where the north-east plain opened out to its fullest extent. It was then to seek out the main tribal duns and subdue them with artillery, specifically, the Caledonii king’s seat of power. Or, if faced in the open by a significant force, it was to give battle.
It sounded simple, and yet there was a problem. The populace had fled. There was no one to fight, which, among these fierce barbarians, was unheard of.
So Lucius had gone on, but with increasing unease. And as they went north, the hills and the broken glens that spread from them gradually drew closer to the east coast, forcing the army into a narrow marching order that left it strung out for a league. The auxiliary cavalry was in the front, the baggage and artillery next, then the elite legionaries on foot and finally more auxiliary infantry guarding the rear. Lucius was anxious about marching in such a narrow column – he preferred open country when he could use the cavalry to guard the flanks properly – but there was no choice.
And it wasn’t just practicalities that pricked at him, it was the land itself.
The line of mountains to their left, with their dark flanks and roiling cloud-crowns, the unnatural silence of the valleys, the absence of cooking fires, and, worst of all, the utter lack of any resistance were conspiring to make him afraid.
And though the soldiers tried to laugh at the aged skulls hung in clusters from the oak groves, and strange symbols scrawled in blood on house walls, and lines of raw, staked-out skins, the Alban druids had done their work well. Lucius heard the increasing mutters of the young tribunes around him, as well as the experienced centurions, and saw the swift, fearful glances sent over hunched shoulders. These damned barbarians were attacking their resolve and courage without dealing a single blow!
What Lucius wanted, with increasing desperation, was to come across a great force of savages spread out on the plain before them, shrieking their war cries. Lucius would understand what to do then, knew the attack formations and strategies that would ensure victory. But this desertion was worse than resistance, for there was no way on the gods’ earth that the barbarians had given up. Lucius just couldn’t believe that, not after those vicious fort raids.
Eventually, Lucius came down the slope to commence armouring, standing still with his arms out as a slave tightened the straps of his cuirass and knelt to fasten his greaves around his calves. Another slave then led his horse to him. As Lucius swung into the saddle, he fixed his eyes on the eagle emblem of the legion, borne proudly by the standard bearer standing to his left. Its bronze wings spread fiercely, gleaming in the sun’s first rays, as did the discs on the standards of the maniple regiments, held up by each unit’s signifer officer so the men could fall into rank behind.
Yet far above the flowing stream of bold crimson shields, iron helmets and lance tips, Lucius could also glimpse the Alban hills that lay between the army and the higher mountains. The native colours were subdued compared to the red tiles and blue sky of Roman lands. This Alban sunrise was flaming, but the wind-scoured trees and open heaths were all dull greens and purples and umbers, the hollows still steeped in cold shadow. Between the open tracts of heath were dark wedges of close-clustered trees, huddled along the banks of the many small streams that cut the plain into ribbons.
Lucius had put the remnants of his faith in that open land, and his scouts. There was no chance that a rebel army could creep up on them unawares. His men had been watching that land constantly, and the hills above.
The sun was high enough now to stretch the combined shadow of Lucius and his horse on the ground, its tip trembling as his helmet plume waved in the cool breeze. The shadow was that of a giant, a beast with long legs and a huge head, and Lucius smiled at it to bolster his spirits. With their superior weapons and tactics his men surely were giants compared to the savages of this land. He must remember that.
The men had at last formed up, and Lucius raised his gloved hand as a trumpet cleaved the air with the order to depart. With his other officers, surrounded by their own personal guard, Lucius moved out behind the auxiliary cavalry, casting a glance back at his men.
As they streamed out of the vale, the strengthening dawn glittered over the army as if it were a great, many-legged insect; armoured with hard, polished iron plates, bristling with the teeth of javelins, rumbling with the tread of heavy feet. Each part moved together, each man could react to his officer’s orders as if he were part of one beast. His fears dampened by a surge of pride, Lucius turned his attention forward.
They were at the narrowest part of the plain now, the scouts said. Not far to the north the line of the mountains angled back the other way, and the great north-east plain would spread out before them. Then they would no longer be hemmed in so close to the coast.
That thought lent an eagerness to the angle of Lucius’s seat, and his horse responded by quickening its step.
It was still morning when they came to the river crossing Lucius had decided to avoid the previous night. The shallow pool at the ford was already churned by the passage of many hooves when his own horse picked its way down into the swirling water.
Lucius was leaning down, closely watching his stallion’s step across the slippery river cobbles when his reve
rie was shattered by a whinny. Clutching the reins, Lucius jerked his head up, his eyes locked with disbelief on a horse that lurched its way up the bank and collapsed on its forequarters, its rider flung to the muddy ground.
Then chaos erupted all around him, with piteous cries and horses stumbling and falling. On the solid ground behind, the baggage and artillery carts rumbled to a halt, and there were shouts and whip cracks as the drivers tried to make their beasts retreat. Dazed, Lucius barely registered the whining all around him, like angry bees, until his prefect cursed and crowded his horse close, nudging Lucius through the water and up the bank.
‘Archers!’ the prefect cried. From the woods!’
‘How…?’ Lucius began, before his own horse suddenly reared up, nearly unseating him, and he felt the impact shudder through his own body when an arrow found the stallion’s chest.
Then Lucius had no time to listen to the screams of horses or terrorized men, as his body hit the ground with a blow that took his breath away. His cheek pressed into the mud, Lucius could only stare as one of his tribunes was crushed by his falling horse, his face twisting into a rictus of agony, as death rained from the skies above.
Eremon watched from a knoll that rose above a stream fringed by alders and willows. His heart pounded relentlessly, from fear and excitement, and with sheer admiration for Nectan’s archers. All of them, including his men, had gone without sleep and food for three days now, as they crawled in stages out over the plain. They’d travelled only by night, keeping to the patches of trees where they could, the fierce hatred of the Caereni for those who attacked the Sacred Isle immuring them to cold, hunger and damp.
After three days the little men lay safely hidden, spread out in mires and woods and gullies on a narrow front, and the Romans did not even know they were there. With their clothing and their way of moving as if one with the trees and swamps, the Caereni were invisible to the Roman scouts.
