In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  Nechtan obviously agreed. He raised his voice so that all could hear him. “There are only one hundred of them! We have half as many again! And we are Boresti!” The Boresti cheered, waving their spears aggressively. One of the women, bare-breasted, her upper body almost entirely blue with war dye, ran forwards, shaking her spear at the Romans. Nechtan yelled, “Belatucadros is with us, so let us show these Romans what it is to fight real warriors. They have the high ground, but we shall soon take it from them!”

  Brude, despite his misgivings, was caught up in the excitement. He felt no fear, for his friends were with him. He saw Colm’s eyes shining, heard his cheering and knew that he was doing the same himself. Nechtan was right. No matter how impressively the Romans might march, they were outnumbered and could not hope to stop the Boresti.

  Then the cheering subsided as it became clear that the Romans had other ideas.

  There was another shouted order from the neat ranks. The first Roman line began marching down towards the Boresti, moving in unison at a slow, steady pace, forsaking the slight advantage afforded by the shallow slope. The second rank followed a few paces behind. Brude suddenly felt doubt grip him. Why were they attacking? They were outnumbered and had the advantage of the high ground yet they were marching down to meet the Boresti. They made no sound. There were no war cries, no waving of spears, no yells or taunts. The silence of their steady advance was unnerving.

  Nechtan bellowed his war-cry and the tribesmen answered it, yelling at the top of their voices, banging spears against their shields, letting the Romans know they were ready. The Romans paid no attention, simply marching on, not a sound coming from them in reply.

  Deciding to seize back the initiative, Nechtan yelled the order to charge. The tribesmen responded eagerly, cheering as they ran towards the enemy, racing to be the first to kill a Roman. Brude, although he was fast and knew he could have outstripped most of his neighbours, obeyed his father’s shouted reminder to stay close to him on his left side. Colm was to Brude’s left, screaming like a madman while others ran ahead, jostling and barging each other in their eagerness. Mairead’s father Fionnlagh, normally a placid man who tended the village’s sheep, was just ahead of Brude, yelling as fiercely as any of them.

  They got to within fifty paces of the Roman front rank when the Romans stopped, drew back their right arms and hurled their javelins. In the time it took them to do that, the first tribesmen had closed the gap to within forty paces. The javelins struck home with awesome power. Men fell, screaming, or tried to catch the javelins on their shields, only to find that the long iron spikes pierced the wicker and hide with frightening ease to strike at the unprotected flesh beneath. Still running, Brude watched in horror as any men who had escaped injury when they managed to catch the spears on their shields, found they had no choice but to drop their shields to the ground because the Roman javelins had bent on impact, the long iron tip protruding through the shield while the wooden haft bent at a right angle, dragging the shield down, rendering it useless. With discarded shields, the men had no protection against the next volley of javelins hurled by the second rank of Romans while the first rank crouched to give them room to throw. Brude saw Fionnlagh go down, a javelin taking him in the chest, showering blood. Brude yelled to cover his fear as he ran past the stricken warrior, knowing he was dead and that Mairead now had no father.

  Then the first Roman rank rose to their feet to fling their second volley. By this time, Brude, leaping over fallen men, dropped spears and discarded shields, was barely twenty paces from the Romans. He saw a javelin hurtling straight at him. He dodged to his right, flinging out his left arm to knock the javelin aside, somehow catching its flight so that the point did not actually hit his shield. Colm yelled in pain as the javelin crashed into his arm, side on. Brude ignored him and kept running.

  The final volley of javelins from the second rank of Romans flew over his head but he knew that the awful weapons had done terrible damage to the charging tribesmen. Their attack was disjointed, broken apart by the volleys. Ahead of him, a few men reached the Roman ranks only to find a wall of shields with the sharp, shining blades of short swords gleaming in the spaces between the soldiers. The Romans, still eerily silent, stepped forwards in unison, working together to meet the charging tribesmen head on.

  And the carnage began.

  Using their enormous shields to batter the tribesmen down, the short swords stabbed repeatedly forwards. While the Boresti flailed and jabbed extravagantly with their spears, trying vainly to breach the Roman line, the Romans were economical with their thrusts, the sword blades biting home then withdrawing. Men fell, their blood covering the grass. Women as well, for the Romans treated them no differently. Then Brude saw his father swinging his own sword uselessly against the shield of the soldier in front of him. Brude, scarcely aware of anything apart from the men on either side and in front of him, flung himself to his own right, aiming for the narrow gap between the shield of his direct opponent and the man facing his father. Jabbing his spear overhand, he yelled in triumph as the wickedly sharp point caught the Roman in the neck, releasing a fountain of bright red blood.

  Time seemed to slow. Brude’s father leaped into the gap as the Roman soldier fell. He swept his sword in a wide arc to knock over the man to his right. Brude heard the sound of his iron sword ringing on the man’s armour, cutting through the din of battle. He made to follow his father into the gap but was battered by the huge shield of the Roman to his left. He lost his footing as he was thumped again with incredible force, the metal rim of the shield catching him just above his left eye. He stumbled, felt his knees go weak and fell to the ground. As he dropped, he saw that his father was now confronted by the entire second rank of Roman soldiers. He tried to call out, to tell his father to run, but could only manage a strangled croak. He landed on the fallen Roman soldier, rolled helplessly, his vision obscured by blood streaming into his eyes. He hit the ground, lying awkwardly face down on the grass, his legs twisted and entangled with the limbs of the Roman he had killed. Without warning, a huge blow hit him as someone crashed down on top of him, then something hard struck the back of his already battered head.

  Everything went black.

  A.D. 209

  Peart looked more prosperous than he remembered. From the height of the hills overlooking the wide valley of the Tava, he gazed down and saw the village nestled beside the river, surrounded by a strong wooden palisade. Smoke curled up into the afternoon sky from the large roundhouses. Cattle, sheep and goats dotted the lush fields and people were everywhere, going about their daily lives. By the standards of the empire, it was a poor place but it compared favourably to other Pritani villages Brude had passed on the long walk north from the Wall.

  He wondered how much it would have changed. He had discovered that the Selgovae, once a proud people, were virtually gone, their lands and the people themselves now ruled by the Votadini who were ever friends to the Romans. The leaders of the Votadini used Roman goods, drank Roman wine from Roman glasses and some of them even had Roman-style houses with walls of brick topped by clay roof tiles. They were not part of the empire but they were friends of the empire. The rich men of the Votadini became richer while, as was ever the Roman way, the poor became poorer. The Wall, Brude thought, cast a long shadow.

  Would Gartnait of Peart be like that, he wondered. Was he, too, now trying to be a Roman? Brude looked to his right, towards the east, and saw the Tava, sparkling in the spring sun, broadening as it went. There, away in the distance he thought he could make out the black finger that was Broch Tava, standing like a sentinel on its hilltop at the wide mouth of the river. It was very distant, almost lost in the haze, and he might have been mistaken but he told himself he was nearly home. The thought filled him with a mixture of emotions; anticipation and apprehension in equal measure.

  Tugging the mule, he set off down the hill towards Peart, cautiously eyeing the darkening clouds to the west. If he was lucky he would reach the village b
efore the rain started and would be able to get shelter for the night. Not that he wasn’t used to sleeping outdoors but warmth and shelter were always preferable.

  The sky was overcast by the time he reached the gates of Peart. Two warriors stood there, watching him approach. He knew they would be suspicious of his appearance. His hair was still a lot shorter than any Pritani would wear and his sandals were definitely Roman. He had put away his Roman sword, wrapping it carefully in his bedroll beside his wooden rudis. His only visible weapon was the small dagger at his left hip. He had, though, acquired a long, roughly hewn staff that he used as a walking aid and which would serve as a more than adequate weapon if need be. He didn’t think he’d need it; most villages welcomed travelling tradesmen.

  The guards were cautious but not unfriendly. One of them led him into the village to meet the head man. Brude followed calmly, making sure he gave friendly smiles to the villagers he passed. Most of them watched him curiously as he went by but he soon had a small group of followers, mostly children.

  The head man’s home was a large roundhouse, bigger than the other dwellings, wattle and daub walls rising from a stone foundation, the conical roof made from turf laid over long branches, a thin column of smoke rising from the central hole at the apex. Another guard stood there, spear angled across his body. He ducked inside the low doorway when Brude’s guard told him that a travelling merchant had arrived to pay his respects. A few moments later, the head man came out to greet his visitor, followed by a group of young men and an older woman. Brude recognised the head man immediately. It was Gartnait who stood in front of him.

  Even after nearly thirteen years Brude knew him. He was older, well over fifty, with his long, braided hair greying, his skin wrinkled and flabby around his neck and face. He was plump, his belly large beneath his well-sewn clothes, a golden torc about his right arm. He had rings on every finger. His left arm, though, Brude noticed, was badly misshapen below the elbow and the fingers of his left hand were arched like a claw, unmoving. He looked Brude over as he opened his right palm in welcome. “Greetings, stranger,” he said. “I am Gartnait, son of Oengus, head man of the Boresti of Peart. And these are my people.”

  Brude nodded at the formal welcome. “Greetings, Gartnait,” he replied. “I am Brude. I bring goods to trade and news from afar. May I shelter in your home for the night?”

  Gartnait nodded. “Of course. Your name is Brude, you say? That is a Pritani name, is it not?”

  Brude had anticipated the question. He had not given his father’s name because he did not want news of his return to reach Broch Tava before he did and also because he could not be sure how he would be welcomed if they knew who he was. Even within tribes, the Pritani often quarrelled amongst themselves and he had no idea what the present relations between Peart and Broch Tava were like. To deflect the issue, he said, “I have several names, for I have travelled a long way. Brude will suffice.”

  “And where are you from?” Gartnait asked.

  “Most recently, Germania. Before that, Rome.”

  There was a murmur from the assembled villagers. Even Gartnait looked surprised. “You have been to Rome?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “The Romans are no friends to us.”

  “Nor to me,” said Brude, “but I bring some of their goods which I will trade for shelter and some food.”

  Gartnait nodded. “Then welcome. Let us see your goods and then you shall eat with me and tell me of your travels.”

  A woman brought a stool for Gartnait to sit on. Many of the villagers sat on the ground in a semi-circle around the doorway to the hut while Brude unpacked some of the packages fastened to his mule. Anxious to conclude this before the rain arrived, Brude took out some of the smaller, more valuable items and presented them to Gartnait; some rings of gold, brooches and a fine leather belt with an ornate buckle. He added a small brass cooking pot, then carefully unwrapped two finely crafted red pottery beakers, which brought a sparkle to the eyes of the woman standing behind Gartnait.

  There was some obligatory haggling before Brude accepted a fine new cloak and some warm, woollen leggings in exchange for the beakers and pot. He presented the belt and some brooches to Gartnait as a gift and they clasped hands to seal the deal. Brude could have traded more of his goods to the other villagers but, in truth, he wanted to keep most of what he had left, so when the first drops of rain began to spatter on the ground, he used that excuse to pack up his wares. He unpacked the mule and Gartnait had some men carry the baggage into the large house. Another man took the mule away, promising to see it fed and watered, so Brude ducked into the house at Gartnait’s invitation.

  The interior was gloomy, lit only by the central fire and the light admitted by the two doorways, which were on opposite sides of the hut. The smell of wood smoke and damp earth recalled memories of his boyhood, much of which had been spent in houses like this. They sat in a circle around the fire, Brude sitting on Gartnait’s right. He was introduced to the others. Three of the young men, two of them scarcely more than boys, were Gartnait’s sons, while four others who joined were leading men of the village who were accompanied by their wives. There were two young girls aged around ten who were Gartnait’s daughters. The old man told Brude that he had another son, his oldest boy, Oengus, who was away on a hunting trip. The woman who had been so taken by the Roman beakers turned out, as Brude had suspected, to be Gartnait’s wife. She was short and plump with a happy demeanour, though she scolded the serving girls into dishing up broth and meat for the guests.

  Brude exchanged greetings with everyone, knowing he would be unlikely to remember all their names. Gratefully, he accepted a wooden goblet of ale from one of the serving girls. They toasted Belisama, the goddess of rivers, who was important to the people of Peart, and then toasted Taranis, god of storms and thunder, so that the rain now pouring down would be no more than a simple rainfall.

  Brude enjoyed the broth and the tender strips of lamb that followed but was careful not to drink too much. He remembered the first time he had been to Peart all those years before and he was determined not to suffer the same sort of hangover.

  During and after the meal, he told them news he had picked up from the Votadini as he had passed through their land on his way northhat they really wanted to hear about was Rome. Eagerly, they all plied him with questions. Was it really the largest city in the world? How big was the empire? Did the emperor really sleep on a bed of feathers? He spun them some tall tales, knowing they would discount half of what he said anyway, for it was the Pritani custom to boast and exaggerate their stories and they would assume he was doing the same. In truth he only had to exaggerate a little for Rome was so different, so far beyond their experience, that they could scarcely comprehend the wonders of the empire.

  The subject turned to memories of warfare and Gartnait, the ale loosening his tongue, recounted the great raid, which had taken place when his youngest son was still a young boy. Brude sat still, listening intently as the old man said drunkenly, “Many of our kinsmen did not return but those that did, came home wealthier than any of the Boresti before us.”

  Acting as innocently as he could, Brude asked, “Your raid was a success then?”

  “For those who came back, aye, it was. But I led forty men away and only nineteen of us returned.” He stared into the fire while the other men nodded sadly, lost in their memories.

  “But you returned with much plunder?” Brude asked, smiling.

  “More than we could have hoped,” Gartnait agreed. “Peart is now mightier than ever before.”

  “Did the Romans not pursue you?” Brude persisted. “That is their usual habit.”

  Gartnait shrugged. “We heard they struck at the Selgovae and burned many villages but they never came this far.”

  “Too scared of us!” laughed one of Gartnait’s young sons.

  Brude ignored the laughter and changed the subject. “Can you tell me what other villages there are near here? I have heard that the land of the Borest
i is large and I would like to see as much of it as I can. Are there villages further along the river?”

  Gartnait gave a snort. “There are some farms and small places. The next place of any size is Broch Tava, out where the river joins the sea.”

  Brude detected an undercurrent of animosity in Gartnait’s words. “Perhaps I will go there. Do you know the head man?”

  Gartnait frowned as he took another swig from his beaker. He looked at Brude darkly. “His name is Colm. He is not to be trusted. You would be best to avoid Broch Tava.”

  Colm.

  Brude’s heart missed a beat. So Colm had survived and had returned to become head man of the village. He was aware of mutterings from the men around the fire at the mention of Colm’s name. Willing his emotions into check, showing the blank expression he had learned to adopt many years ago, he asked Gartnait, “You think he would cheat me?”

  “Colm would cheat his own mother if he still had one. He dreams of becoming leader of all the Boresti. He even asked to marry one of my daughters so that he can have a son who will become head man of Peart.”

  “He is not married then?” Brude was surprised; the secret fear he had nursed for almost thirteen years may have proved unfounded.

  “Married! Of course he is. He’s got a son as well. He just wants more. He wants everything.”

  “He doesn’t like to lose,” Brude murmured absently.

  “What’s that?” Gartnait asked him.

  Brude covered his mistake as best he could. “He sounds like someone I once knew. Someone who didn’t like to lose.”

  “That’s Colm all right. Each year he takes more and more from those who live near him, and he builds his village all the time. He has over seventy warriors now.”

  Brude raised an eyebrow in surprise. Few villages had more than a handful of warriors for they were the elite, the men who owned the most cattle, the richest men who spent their time hunting and practising the arts of warfare. When the Pritani went to war, the bulk of the fighters came from the ordinary villagers, farmers, herdsmen and fishermen who swapped their ploughs and nets for spears to follow the warriors into battle. To have seventy warriors was unusual to say the least. That was an extra seventy mouths to be fed by the rest of the village.