In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  Gartnait shook his head sadly then brightened up. “But let us talk of better things than Colm of Broch Tava. Tell me of the women of Rome. Are they beautiful?”

  Brude span some more stories until it grew dark, then he was given a space beside the wall, a mattress stuffed with old straw and a blanket. He lay awake, unable to sleep, while the rain pounded down. He thought about Colm. And Mairead.

  The morning dawned bright and chill with light clouds floating high in a pale blue sky. The air was filled with the smell of the damp earth after the overnight downpour but it promised to be a good day for travelling. After a breakfast of porridge, Brude packed his goods onto his mule. Some women gathered round and he traded a few trinkets for some dried meat, bread, honey and a small bag of salt. Then he threw on his new cloak, fastened it with one of the many brooches he had left and said his farewells to Gartnait and his family.

  A small crowd of children accompanied him to the bridge, scampering round his feet, pestering him with questions about where he was from and what he had seen. He laughed them off and crossed the long wooden bridge to the north bank of the Tava, turning east, out past the high cliffs and onto the river plain.

  He took his time, enjoying the peace of the springtime countryside. Bees were buzzing from flower to flower and the blossom filled the apple trees. It had taken him so long to get here that he wanted to savour every moment. The thought of reaching Broch Tava still brought some trepidation but he remembered the words of Cleon, his friend from the home of Aquila in Rome. Cleon was a Greek, an ex-slave and a follower of the teachings of Epicurus. Whenever Brude was worried about something, Cleon would smile his friendly smile and tell him he should not concern himself about things he could not affect. “What is, is,” Cleon would say. “Deal with things when you meet them but don’t worry about what might or might not happen.” Brude would always reply that it was easier to say that than to do it and Cleon would always agree. “But it helps to try,” he would say with a happy smile.

  Brude wondered what Cleon was doing right at that moment. He imagined his friend eating his hearty breakfast before dragging out his scrolls and tallies, ready for another day of recording the household’s business affairs. He smiled at the thought. Cleon was always happy and at ease with the world. The only time Brude had seen him sad was the day they had said goodbye, nearly three years ago, when tears had run down Cleon’s cheeks as they clasped hands for the last time. Of all the things and people he had encountered in the empire, Brude missed Cleon the most. He wondered whether the old Greek would be happy if he was here now, in the lands of the Boresti, far away from all the comforts of Rome and living among the savages he had heard so much about. Brude laughed to himself at the thought. Cleon would claim to be content anywhere, he knew, but would admit to preferring to be content in comfortable surroundings.

  Brude walked along the wide plain, the hills away to his left, the Tava, much wider and deeper now, off to his t, hidden behind the trees. By the time he reached Broch Tava the river would be about two miles wide and merging with the open sea. He mentally kicked himself. A mile was a Roman measure, one thousand paces, not a term the Pritani would use at all. He was no longer a Roman, he told himself. He did not feel Roman. All the time he had been there, he had known he was Brude, son of Anndra of the Boresti, a Pritani warrior. Yet the closer he got to home, the more Roman he felt. The feeling had come to him again last night, sitting with Gartnait and the men of Peart, one of them by birth yet not one of them. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

  He went back to studying his surroundings. There was a trackway of sorts but he decided to avoid that. The plain was very fertile, good farm land, with several farmsteads and isolated houses scattered across it, all the way from Peart to the hills west of Broch Tava. He was not in the mood to meet any of the locals because he wanted peace to savour his journey home, so he led his laden mule through the scattered woodland, leaving the trackway to the south. Knowing the dangers for any lone traveller, whether following a track or not, he unwrapped his gladius and looped the strap over his left shoulder so that the sword hung at his right hip. It felt comfortable and reassuring.

  He stopped at mid-day, making a cold camp in a wide clearing beside a shallow stream, which burbled its way cheerily through the trees. He left the mule to graze, knowing it was unlikely to wander off, and sat down, leaning against a birch tree to eat some of the bread and honey. The sun was warm now so he took off his cloak, laying it on the ground beside him. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the woodland surrounding him. Soon, he drifted off to sleep.

  He woke with a start, unsure what had roused him. The sun had not moved far; it was still early afternoon so he must have only dozed for a short time. The mule was still nearby, stripping some leaves from a small bush. Rising to his feet, he went to fetch it, looping the halter rope round a branch to make sure it did not run off. He looked around carefully, eyes and ears straining for signs of what had woken him, some sound that was out of place. It could have been a passing deer or fox, he thought, or even a wolf though that was unlikely. He was not bothered by that, for wolves rarely attacked people, especially in the springtime when other food was plentiful. A bear would be a different matter entirely. If it was a bear, he would have no option but to flee. He glanced at the mule. Whatever it was had not spooked it. He checked the wind, little more than a slight breeze wafting from the west. So if there was something approaching he guessed it was coming from the east otherwise the mule would have been more concerned.

  He decided to fetch his cloak and staff and set off again, chiding himself for being scared of shadows but he had barely taken two steps when he saw movement as some men came out of the trees on the far side of the stream. He stopped and looked at them. There were three of them, long-haired and painted with blue dye, dressed in wool and leather. They were carrying spears and the leading man also had a sword, a symbol of high status, strapped to his waist, but they wore no helmets and carried no shields. They had seen him, so came out of the trees cautiously, checking to see whether he was alone. As they walked into the sunlight, he saw that one of them, a short, dark-haired man, was leading a bull, a magnificent long-haired beast with wide, sweeping horns and a ring through its nose. The third man was also leading a rope. At the end of it, hands tied together, was a young boy of around ten or twelve years of age.

  He knew them now. They had been on a cattle raid and had stolen someone’s prime bull. And, for some reason, they had taken the boy as well.

  Satisfied that he was alone, the three men splashed across the shallow stream. The leader, a man in his early twenties, stopped a few paces away and looked sneeringly at Brude. “What have we here? A stranger in the lands of the Boresti?”

  Brude smiled as pleasantly as he could. “My name is Brude.”

  “And where are you from, stranger?” Brude saw that the man was eyeing the sword that hung at Brude’s right hip, greed clear in his expression.

  “Many places,” Brude replied cautiously. He had no desire to get involved in a fight, especially against three armed men, but the young man’s arrogance annoyed him and he felt his own anger rising. He masked it with his practised blank expression. He looked at the other two men. The short one leading the bull was young as well, probably under twenty, and had the look of a born follower. The other man was taller, well muscled with strong arms bearing many painted designs, his long hair braided, his eyes sharp and watching carefully. He, Brude thought, was probably the most dangerous of the three if it came to a fight though he seemed willing to take his lead from the man with the sword who was probably his lord. Brude looked back at the swordsman. “And who are you?”

  The man glared at him as if Brude should have known him. “I am Oengus, son of Gartnait,” he replied. “I expect you have heard of me.” His eyes blazed a challenge.

  “Not until yesterday,” Brude said. “Your father said you were out hunting.” He looked pointedly at the bull and the young boy. “Successfull
y, it seems. Who’s the boy?”

  “Nobody,” snapped Oengus but the boy lifted his gaze to look at Brude. Defiantly, he said, “I am Castatin, son of Colm of Broch Tava.”

  Oengus rounded on the boy, snapping at him to be silent. To the tall man holding the boy’s tether, he said, “Fothair, if he speaks again, hit him. Hard.”

  The man named Fothair nodded in acknowledgement but without enthusiasm. He turned to glare at the boy, jerking the rope to make the lad stumble and nearly fall.

  Brude stared at the boy as he struggled to regain his balance. Castatin, son of Colm. The son of his friend. The son of the head man of Broch Tava. He tore his gaze away and looked Oengus in the eyes. “Let the boy go,” he said firmly.

  Oengus laughed at him. “Are you mad? He is a hostage for his father’s behaviour. And I do not take orders from wanderers like you.”

  Brude held his arms at his side, his palms open and facing Oengus. “Then let us trade. You can take the mule and all that is on him except my personal gear. You can even keep the bull. Give the boy to me.”

  Oengus did not even consider the offer. “I have a better idea,” he said. “You give me the mule and your sword and I’ll let you live.” He hefted his spear, holding it in two hands, the point an arm’s length from Brude’s chest.

  Brude glanced at the others. The short man was grinning in anticipation, the tall Fothair was watching carefully, his face expressionless but his eyes alert, while the boy Castatin was staring, eyes wide, at Oengus. Brude looked at Oengus again, his arms still at his side, ignoring the threat of the spear. “I do not want to fight you,” he said.

  The short man laughed while Oengus grinned mockingly. “If you are afraid, then give me your sword and I will let you go.”

  Brude looked at him calmly. “I am afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid of breaking my oath.”

  Oengus frowned. “Oath? What oath?”

  “I made a promise not to kill any more. So release the boy and we’ll all go our separate ways.”

  Fothair said, “Oengus, we have no time for this. Leave him and let us go home.”

  “Do you think I am afraid of this wandering merchant?” Oengus snapped, his eyes never leaving Brude’s face.

  “No,” Fothair said, “but he does not seem afraid of you either. Come, we have what we wanted.”

  “I want his sword,” Oengus hissed between gritted teeth. “Last chance, merchant.”

  “You are a fool,” spat Brude. “Your friend has more sense than you.”

  Without warning, Oengus roared a challenge and lunged with his spear, aiming for a quick killing blow that would drive the point of the blade into Brude’s chest. Brude, ready for the attack, swayed back, twisting his body and moving lightly on his feet. With his left hand, he grabbed the shaft of the spear just behind the blade as it shot past where his chest had been only a moment before. He pulled, dragging Oengus towards him and crashed his own right shoulder into Oengus’ chest. Oengus gasped as the blow took all the air from his lungs. He let go of the spear as he fought for breath but Brude’s fist thumped into his stomach and he doubled over only to meet the shaft of the spear as it swung viciously upwards. It caught him on the face with a loud smack, breaking his nose and jerking his head back, blood spraying in the air. Brude’s fist caught him again, smashing into the side of his head to send him sprawling to the ground.

  Brude span, facing the other two men who were looking at him in awe, unable to comprehend how Oengus had been felled so quickly. The man called Fothair released the rope holding the boy and gripped his spear with both hands. Brude saw that he was afraid, yet determined to support his lord. “We’ll get him together, Cet,” Fothair shouted to his companion. The short man, eyes wide with fear, also readied his spear. He circled to Brude’s left, leaving the bull, which, alarmed by the smell of blood, bellowed in protest as it trotted off to the stream.

  Brude said nothing. The time for talking was past. Oengus had been caught by surprise but these two were ready for him. He dismissed Cet, concentrating on Fothair who jabbed his spear forwards, aiming for Brude’s eyes but not over-committing himself as Oengus had done. Brude smiled the smile of a wolf. He hefted the spear he had taken from Oengus into his left hand, holding it two-thirds of the way down its length, clamping the lower part against his left thigh. With his right hand he deftly pulled his short sword from its sheath, twirling it to hold it underhand, the point towards Fothair.

  The tall man watched the blade as Brude waved it gently, keeping the tip moving. Then he stepped forwards, whipping his left arm so that his spear crashed against Fothair’s own spear, knocking it wide to expose his left side to Brude’s sword. The blade lunged forwards, aiming for Fothair’s neck. The tall man let go of his spear, staggering backwards to evade the deadly thrust. Brude saw the boy Castatin dive forwards, crouching on the ground behind Fothair so that the tall man fell over him, arms flailing as he crashed to the earth.

  Brude turned again, looking for the man Cet, who was trying to get behind him. The young man stopped when he saw Brude face him, fear etched in every part of his face. “Drop your spear,” Brude told him. Cet did so immediately. “Now go help your friend in case he chokes on his own tongue.”

  The man called Fothair was struggling to his feet, groping for his spear but Brude quickly sprang to stand over him. He jabbed his own spear downwards, letting the blade strike the ground barely two fingers’ breadth from Fothair’s nose. “Don’t be stupid,” Brude told him.

  Fothair exhaled in defeat. He lay on his back, looking up at Brude standing over him. “What now?” he asked.

  “The boy comes with me. You can keep the bull.”

  “Oengus will not forget this,” Fothair said.

  “I hope not. If we meet again I hope he has more sense than to try to kill me.” He turned to the boy and beckoned him over. The lad approached warily, his face shining with excitement. Brude lifted his tied hands and easily cut away the bonds with the sharp blade of his sword. “Are you all right?” he asked the boy.

  Castatin nodded. “That was amazing. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

  “Rome.”

  “That’s a Roman sword, isn’t it? My father told me about them. Are you a Roman?”

  “No,” Brude told him. “No, I’m not a Roman. I’m from Broch Tava.”

  Castatin was full of questions, most of which Brude answered sparingly or not at all. The boy was tired but excited and talked incessantly. Brude let him ride on the mule, unloading one large pack which he strapped over his own shoulders. They headed for the track for it was the fastest way to get to Broch Tava and Brude now wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and Peart. “You should have brought the bull,” Castatin chided. “It was my father’s stud bull. I was supposed to be watching him but they caught me last night.”

  “I’m sure your father can get another bull. It’s not so easy to replace a son.”

  Castatin looked doubtful. “It’s his favourite bull,” he said. “He’ll be very angry.”

  “Then he can be angry at me. Has he still got a temper?”

  Castatin looked at him, puzzled. “Do you really know him?”

  “A long time ago. Before you were born.” He hesitated, unsure whether to ask the question he had to ask. hat is your mother’s name? Maybe I know her as well.”

  “She’s called Mairead. I’ll be head man when I’m older because of her.”

  “I remember,” said Brude softly as his dreams evaporated.

  They reached the track and headed east towards a low line of hills. He knew that when they reached the top they would be able to see the last hills before Broch Tava, including the flat-topped Law. He knew now that the Law had once been a volcano, which gave it its peculiar shape. Why, he wondered, had he had to travel so far to learn about something so close to home? In the lore of the Boresti it was a holy place, possessed by spirits and fire demons and was shunned by mortals.

  Castatin suddenly yell
ed in delight and pointed up the track. Brude saw a group of riders galloping down the slope towards them, raising a small cloud of dust as they came. They were riding horses, not the small war ponies he remembered. He had rarely seen so many Pritani horsemen together at one time. There must have been nearly twenty of them. “It’s my father!” Castatin squealed with glee.

  Brude stopped and waited as the riders reined in a few paces from him. There was Colm, still tall, still dark-haired and handsome, swirling blue designs painted on either cheek, dressed in fine linen with a bronze breastplate on his chest and a long sword at his hip. He glared at Castatin then at Brude and Brude saw that Castatin’s joy had turned to concern. He had expected the boy to run to his father, but he stayed seated on the mule, biting his lips nervously. From behind Colm the riders, all armed for war, fanned out to surround them.

  Colm nudged his horse forward, approaching slowly. He looked at his son. “Are you harmed? Who was it who took you?”

  “I am fine, Father. It was Oengus of Peart who stole your bull and took me. This is Brude. He rescued me.”

  Colm’s gaze snapped to Brude who smiled back at him. “Hello, Colm. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  There was a moment’s puzzlement in his eyes, then Colm’s jaw dropped and the blood drained from his face. “Brude?” he whispered. “You can’t be Brude. Brude is dead!”

  Brude laughed, rolling up his right sleeve to reveal the tattoo on his forearm. It was a swirling design signifying his coming of age, the only tattoo he had ever had. “I got this the same day you got yours.”

  Colm sat there on his horse, his eyes darting from the tattoo to Brude’s face, his mouth open, unable to speak. At last he composed himself. Brude was ready for a warm greeting, a clasping of hands, a brotherly hug. Instead Colm just said, “You are alive, then? After all these years?”