In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  They marched south, another leg in the long journey that took Brude inexorably away from his homeland. The soldiers who guarded them were talkative, chatting among themselves with tharshot of the slaves. By listening carefully, Brude learned they were heading for somewhere called Hispania. The name meant nothing to him but one of the soldiers had been born there and was looking forward to returning. That made Brude think of his own home and family. He still felt the loss keenly and now, after only a year in captivity, he had lost his second family by being separated from Batix, Brigid and Julia. He decided that he would not suffer a loss like that again so he stayed distant from the other slaves on the march. He knew them all, of course, but he was not close to them and he was determined that it would stay that way. He reckoned he could survive on his own. Batix had taught him a lot about how to get by and, despite his youth, he had learned the lessons well.

  It took weeks to march all the way to where the sea met the mountains and the season had turned by the time they got there, the trees shedding their leaves and the wind whipping up a chill. Brude overheard the soldiers discussing what to do. Apparently they had to cross the high mountains to get to Hispania and they were worried about being caught by winter snows. In the end, the soldiers requisitioned some warm clothing for themselves and the slaves before pushing on.

  Brude thought he knew mountains but he soon discovered that what were mountains in his homeland were really only hills. The mountains they crossed into Hispania were jagged peaks, which towered to dizzying heights above them, the summits often lost in the clouds, their tops covered in snow even though winter had not arrived. The Roman road forged through the passes and the soldiers kept them moving at a wicked pace, fearful of being caught by snow. Fortunately, they made it through the mountains before the first snowfall of winter, eventually reaching a hilltop town on the coast that the soldiers called Saguntum.

  After only a few days’ rest they pushed on, now heading westwards, through more hills and valleys, following the Roman roads that Brude was so used to now. What he had also learned on this march was that the small stone markers he had thought marked holy places were actually called milestones. When he counted the paces from one to the next he was astonished to find that the distance was exactly one thousand paces at the soldiers’ military pace and that the markings on them indicated how far it was to the next town or city. It was a revelation that staggered him and brought home to him just how organised and uniform the empire was. The Romans seemed to build everywhere. Roads, towns, cities, they stamped their mark on the countryside wherever they went.

  Pressing on through the chill of winter, they reached Asturica, footsore and weary, early in the new year, before spring had started to turn the land green. The slaves were handed over to another group of soldiers. The guards who had accompanied them on the long journey from northern Gaul went off without a word; another lost farewell in the growing line of separations Brude was experiencing.

  They found themselves in an enormous, strongly guarded camp which held over six thousand slaves. They soon discovered that they were there for a purpose and that purpose was to build. The town needed a new queduct so the new emperor was going to give it one. Army engineers and skilled masons would oversee the work but the manual labour was to be done by slaves and animals, which were treated much the same by the Romans.

  The aqueduct had to cover a distance of twelve miles from a hillside spring to the city. The engineers had already plotted a route, the owners of the land the aqueduct would cross had been removed, either voluntarily or by force, and the stone was to be quarried from nearby hills then dragged into position by the slaves.

  It was backbreaking work. Brude was assigned to the transportation teams. They used wagons, mules and oxen and he was shown how to use the incredible devices of rope and wood that the Romans used to lift heavy stones. Yet even with these, a lot of the work involved human muscle power to shift the huge blocks. His days turned into an agony of pushing, pulling, heaving and lifting, always walking a slightly longer distance as the weeks passed and the aqueduct grew longer and longer, closing on the town. He saw that the blocks were only the outer facing of the huge foundations and walls of the aqueduct. The Romans used what they called concrete to give the structure its strength, the stones being laid precisely around a central core of concrete, constantly watched by the engineers who had to make sure that the final result was a smooth gradient for the water to flow down at a regular speed for mile after mile.

  A part of Brude recognised it as a brilliant piece of engineering but at the same time the greater part of him was usually too exhausted and concentrating on doing his own job well enough to avoid punishment to appreciate what they were achieving. The main object in his life was simply to survive.

  He worked on the aqueduct all through the baking heat of the summer, all through the cold and snow of winter and then through the following summer. Men died from exhaustion, from exposure or from accidents when blocks fell or ropes gave way. Nobody paid much attention to the losses; slaves were plentiful.

  By the end of the following winter Brude was twenty years old. His skin, once pale and white, was burned brown by the sun. He was strong, the muscles of his arms and legs more powerful than they had ever been. Above all else he knew how to survive as a slave. What he did not know was how he was ever going to gain his freedom.

  By the following spring the aqueduct was nearly completed and some of the slaves began to speculate about what would happen to them. Brude was busy trying to think about how to get involved in some skilled work, perhaps carving the stone blocks or even learning how to sculpt the statues the Romans were so fond of. He was not sure whether he had the skill for it but he thought there might be a route to freedom that way. Annoyingly, he could not think how he could ensure he was chosen for that type of work. Bribing someone might work but as imperial slaves they received no pay and some of the other, less savoury ways of ingratiating oneself with the overseers did not appeal to him.

  As unexpectedly as ever in the life of a slave, things changed again. One morning, as they were finishing their frugal breakfast, a stranger appeared, accompanied by two armed guards. The man himself was big, hugely muscled but slightly overweight, his hair cropped short and almost entirely grey. In his prime he must have been formidable; even now he did not look the sort of man who would back down from a fight. His keen eyes surveyed the slaves as he wandered around, one of the overseers accompanying him and answering questions, which the man snapped at him. Every so often the big man would stop to examine a slave, sometimes nodding his head. When he did this the slave was sent to stand near the gate of the camp. Brude recognised another slave sale; the aqueduct was nearly finished so some slaves would be sold off.

  The big man approached Brude who lowered his gaze as he had learned was safest to do. The man, though, reached out and lifted his chin, staring him in the eye. He asked, “Where are you from?”

  “Caledonia,” Brude answered, using the Roman name for the land north of the Wall.

  The man’s eyes studied him carefully. “One of the painted people, eh?” He seemed amused. “I’ll try him,” he said to the overseer. Brude was sent to stand with the other chosen men.

  After an hour of careful selection the big man had pulled out nineteen slaves. He had them lined up in a row, then he stood in front of them. “I am Gaius Lollius Curtius,” he announced in a deep, strong voice. “I am going to stand in front of each of you in turn and I want you to hit me.” That got their attention. The man grinned. “Don’t worry. If you do manage to hit me there will be no punishment. One punch, that’s all you are allowed. If you hit me hard enough I’ll take you away from this place.”

  They watched him intently, hanging on his every word. Life in the camp was hard and all of them wanted nothing more than to get away from there.

  Curtius marched purposefully to one end of the line, where Brude stood fifth from the end. Curtius approached the first man and stood two paces f
rom him, thrusting out his chin. “Hit me!” he barked. The man swung a clumsy fist and Curtius swayed back, easily avoiding the blow. The slave overreached and stumbled. Curtius caught him and steadied him, pushing him back into place before moving on to the next man. “Hit me!” he said again. Another wild swing missed, much to the amusement of the watching guards and of Curtius himself. He gave the slave a mocking smile before moving on.

  The third man managed to clip Curtius’ jaw with a straight jab. Curtius nodded, his eyes sparkling. He pushed the man back into place and moved on to the man beside Brude who tried the same jab but missed completely as Curtius ducked aside.

  Then it was Brude’s turn.

  Curtius stood in front of him, blue eyes shining with enjoyment, daring Brude to hit him. He thrust out his chin and barked, “Hit me!”

  Brude hit him in the stomach.

  Curtius was astonishingly fast for such a big man and he nearly avoided the blow but Brude caught him with enough force to drive the wind from him and make him step back, doubling over. Brude quickly stepped back into line, remembering that he was allowed only one punch. To try another would be to invite punishment. Even now he was anxious that he had done the wrong thing, but Curtius had not actually said they should hit him on the chin, just that they should hit him.

  The big man straightened up, rubbing his belly where Brude’s fist had caught him. He grinned hugely at Brude. “Well done, lad. What’s your name?”

  “Brude.” He was astonished. No Roman had ever asked his name before.

  Curtius thought for a moment. “That’s no Roman name. I think we’ll call you Brutus.” Then he moved on to the next man.

  He went down the line but only three more men managed to come close to hitting him. At the end he picked out four men in total, including Brude. Then he counted out some coins, which he gave to the overseer. A clerk scribbled out a receipt while Curtius beamed at his four new slaves. “You may live to regret this, my lads,” he told them gleefully. “But you’ll be well fed, well clothed and well trained where we are going. You’ll have names and if you are good enough, you’ll have some respect. If you’re really good, you’ll be able to earn your freedom.” He was looking straight at Brude when he said that and must have seen the sudden spark of interest in Brude’s eyes. He walked closer. “Do you want to ask me a question, Brutus?”

  Brude lowered his eyes. “No, Master.”

  Curtius grabbed his chin and lifted his head. “Yes you do. And that’s the first thing you have to learn. From now on, when you’re with me, you can ask questions. You are still slaves and you behave like slaves with others but with me you can ask a question as long as you ask permission first.” He stared into Brude’s eyes. “So what do you want to ask me?” He released Brude’s chin from his iron grip.

  “Do I have permission to ask a question, Master?” Brude asked him.

  “Clever boy. Yes you do.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Rome. To the amphitheatre. You are going to become gladiators.” He paused to let that sink in, then he added with a laugh, “Even if it kills you.”

  A.D. 209

  Broch Tava had changed. He supposed it was inevitable but, somehow, it seemed so different from the way he remembered it, not like his home at all. One of Colm’s men had galloped ahead to bring word of his coming and of Castatin’s safe return so there was a crowd gathering as they approached, villagers keen to see a man come back from the dead.

  Most of the other riders had taken their lead from Colm and were rather cool towards Brude, barely speaking to him. One of them, a young man who introduced himself as Seoc, asked him who his father was.

  “The old head man?” Seoc asked when Brude told him.

  “That’s right.”

  “I remember him,” said Seoc. “I vaguely recall he had a son but I don’t really remember you. I was just a kid when you all went off to war.”

  “You’re making me feel old,” said Brude with a wry smile. Seoc was in his early twenties so would probably have been around nine or ten years old when Brude had marched off with the war band. At that age Brude would hardly have had anything to do with him.

  Seoc looked as if he was going to ask another question but Castatin interrupted with a question of his own. “How old are you?” the boy asked him innocently.

  “Not as old as I feel,” Brude told him. He saw Castatin looking puzzled as he tried to figure that out. Brude explained, “I’m the same age as your father.”

  “You don’t nt s as old as him,” Castatin told him.

  Brude laughed. “Thank you for that,” he said. He liked the boy, which he thought was only right as the lad was Mairead’s son and her gentleness and inquisitiveness would have rubbed off on him. As they neared Broch Tava, Castatin grew anxious. He jumped down from the mule to run ahead. “I’ll tell my mother all about you!” he shouted as he charged off.

  They approached the village from the open plain on the north side of the hill that would take them to the broch with scarcely a climb. Beyond it, Brude knew, the land fell away steeply, down towards the river where most of the people lived. The broch sat on a spur of the hill overlooking the village. From the walkway at the top, it gave panoramic views over the river and the inland plain all the way to the northern hills. Only to the east was the view restricted for the very top of the hill was steep, uneven and covered with thick woodland. Now he could see that the broch still stood there majestically, jutting skywards like a squat, accusing finger, a thin curl of smoke from the hearth rising from its circular summit. When he had left, the broch was where his father had his seat and there had been only a couple of roundhouses outside because the villagers got much of their food from the sea so most of the dwellings were down on the flat river bank where there was also good grazing for their livestock. Now, he saw, the woodland near the broch had been cut back, creating wide fields on the open land to the north and west, some ploughed, some with cattle, freshly shorn sheep or goats. There were enclosures formed by walls made in a similar dry stone way to the broch, although much more crudely, with each stone delicately balanced, held in place by gravity and the weight of the stones above, not cemented to its neighbours at all. There was a skill to building these walls, or dikes as they called them, but compared to what Brude had seen in Rome they looked paltry and crude. Even the broch, which he had once thought the mightiest structure in the world with its immensely thick walls and the stones fitted neatly together, now looked less impressive.

  In addition to the new fields, the broch had acquired a wooden stockade, stretching in a wide, rough circle, the pointed timbers high, sturdy and strong. Over the top of the high fence he saw the roofs of new buildings too, huddled round the broch. The village had obviously expanded considerably under Colm’s rule.

  Brude stopped to take the pack from his back and refasten it to the mule. He also unlooped his sword from over his shoulder, stuffing it firmly into his bedroll. Glancing up, he saw Seoc watching him. “I won’t need it here,” Brude explained. He took up his staff and walked on.

  He was close now, a warm feeling of homecoming filling his senses. He had dreamed of this moment for so many years that he wanted to savour it. The crowd stood at the wide gate which led through the perimeter fence to the broch. He was close enough now to make some of the people out. There were men, women and children and he was struck by the realisation that a surprising number of the men were armed with sharp spears and sporting shields. He saw Castatin speaking to awoman who was crouching down to hug him and hold him. As Brude drew near, Castatin pointed back at him and the woman stood up to look at him.

  He stopped, standing there in full view of everyone, only a few paces from her. His heart pounded faster as he saw her and knew her.

  Mairead.

  She was probably standing in roughly the same spot as she had been when he had last seen her, nearly thirteen years before, when he had marched away. That memory of her was still strong in his mind and seeing her
again brought it back to him once more. She looked at him, her eyes wide, her lips parted in surprise and wonder. Castatin tugged her arm and she took a faltering step towards him. All Brude could do was stand there feeling stupid. The only words that came to him were, “Hello, Mairead.”

  “Brude? Is it really you?” Her voice was smooth as silk, yet full of strain and worry. She was tall for a woman, her long dark hair curling around her shoulders. She was no longer the girl he had left behind but a woman, a mother now, with a full figure and some worry lines around her eyes. She wore sparkling pins in her hair and a brooch of gold on her finely woven dress. Painted on her left temple, half hidden by her hair, was an intricate, swirling, blue pattern. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  But she was Colm’s wife.

  She reached out with her left hand, gently touching his cheek, as if trying to make sure that he was really there. Her fingers traced a delicate line down his chin then back up to his short hair. Her touch was as soft as silk yet it burned itself into his skin. She stared at him, confusion written all over her face. He saw her eyes begin to fill with tears. “Brude?” she whispered. “Colm said you were dead.”