Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘Over there,’ a man hissed.

  Cathal looked to where two figures had appeared from what must be a hidden gully further up the valley. As they approached he could see they were tall, spare men, bare-chested, wearing ragged plaid trews or bracae. The elder, hawk-nosed and hollow-cheeked, had a mass of wild, unkempt hair that might have been white, but was so matted and caked with filth it was impossible to tell. Faded tattoos of outlandish figures and shapes covered his chest and stomach. His companion had the same predator’s features, but his hair and moustaches were the dirty russet colour of a year-old fox pelt, and the tattoos were fresh. They were unarmed apart from a wood-handled knife that hung from a belt of twisted fibre at the younger man’s waist. Cathal described them to Gwlym.

  ‘Take me to them,’ the priest said, dismounting, and Cathal guided him across the springy turf to meet the pair. The older man snarled what might have been a greeting and revealed a mouth inhabited by two blackened teeth snapped off close to the gums. A conversation followed in a language that at times seemed familiar, punctuated by grimaces and hand signals on the part of the tattooed men. Eventually the druid grunted something and turned to Cathal.

  ‘I believe the elder is called Bruda. He claims to be a king of the Caledonians. The younger is his son, also Bruda, and this,’ the pus-filled sockets made a half circuit of their bleak surroundings, ‘is his domain. He also claims lordship of three more valleys – he calls them glens – but I am uncertain of the details, because, though their speech is similar to ours, they regurgitate it like a dog vomiting.’

  ‘Did you tell him why we are here?’

  ‘I did.’ The druid’s thin lips twitched. ‘He asks why he would ally himself to a man who comes with fewer warriors than he commands himself, a ragged creature, who, though large, is running to fat.’

  An involuntary growl rose in Cathal’s throat. The younger man’s eyes narrowed at the sound and his hand twitched for the knife. Cathal forced his features into a smile.

  ‘Tell them that I lead an army of twenty thousand warriors.’

  ‘The number would mean nothing to people like these.’ Gwlym chortled. ‘I told him there would be much gold when our enemies are put to the sword. In reply, he asked me what use was gold, other than to decorate his women and make them fight among themselves even more. Besides, he prefers them naked.’

  Cathal shook his head. They were wasting their time. What good would these men be anyway? They could barely feed or clothe themselves. Still, he would not give up yet. ‘Have you told him what will happen when the Romans come?’

  ‘Of course,’ Gwlym snapped. ‘He thinks of them as just another tribe. He likens them to a man who rules over a glen five days’ march north of here – it may be more – who sent emissaries announcing himself as the High King of these lands and demanding his loyalty. King Bruda simply killed the messenger and heard no more of it.’ Young Bruda growled something to his father. ‘The word Roman means something more to him. He is reminding his father of a story he told him when he was young. In the time of King Bruda’s father a traveller appeared in the valley seeking the tribe’s support.’ Gwlym went very still and his tongue flicked out to lick his lips.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He told them the spirit of the hare and the horse and the wolf were with them, and would bring down the wrath of Andraste on their enemies. He was a druid.’ Gwlym’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘A druid of Mona.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘Bruda is uncertain. He can’t remember whether his father fed him and sent him on his way, or, more likely, killed him – in which case I suspect they ate the poor man.’

  More warriors filtered from the gully mouth to the west. ‘I brought gifts of silver,’ Cathal told the druid. ‘Is it worth leaving them?’

  Gwlym shook his head. ‘No. It would not change his mind and he would probably lose them. But Colm has a skin of beer strapped to his saddle he thinks I don’t know about. They would appreciate that and it would do no harm.’

  ‘Then give it, with my thanks.’ He turned and walked back to his horse.

  ‘Do not despair, Cathal, king of the Selgovae,’ Gwlym called. ‘Did you learn how to wield a sword in a single day? This is but the start. Olwyn was right that you needed fewer men, but she forgot that you still must be able to project power. Bruda would probably never have joined you, but others may. Yet it is not enough to seek them out in their dozens and their scores. We must find a way to bring them to you in their thousands.’

  ‘And how will I do that?’ Cathal demanded. ‘Is this a prophecy you give me or the kind of hope that keeps a hunter expecting a deer to appear round every corner of the track?’

  ‘It is neither,’ Gwlym said airily. ‘But there will be a way. Perhaps if these poor creatures will not listen to a man, they will listen to a god?’

  XLIII

  A week had passed since the rearguard Cathal left to make a show of defending the line of the Abhainn dhub caught up with the main force and reported that the two legions had crossed and set up camp on the north side. Yet there had been not a word of a further Roman advance.

  Once more his mind had spun with the potential disasters the third ‘lost’ legion might cause to his scattered and, he would be the first to admit, disorganized forces. The war chiefs of the Venicones, while undoubtedly brave, had differing ideas of discipline and their responsibilities to their forces. Most had thought to ensure their people were supplied with spears, at a minimum, though too many men for Cathal’s liking carried reaping hooks, woodsmen’s axes and even wooden pitchforks. Shields and helmets of bronze or iron were virtually unknown except among the chiefs like Donacha and their personal bodyguards. Food was an abiding problem. It quickly became clear that, apart from the few days’ rations they carried with them, the men expected Cathal to provide food, or sanction expeditions into the local countryside to raid farms and homesteads to find it.

  Since the families of one of the Venicones sub-tribes that made up Cathal’s army invariably occupied the houses and owned the cattle, goats and pigs the raiders sought, he did everything he could to deter these excursions. Fortunately, his Selgovae had stockpiled sufficient seed and dried fish and meat to last them for some weeks, but Emrys and his men didn’t hide their reluctance to part with their carefully hoarded supplies to less practical and deserving allies. Cathal knew he had to find an alternative supply soon or his ‘army’ would begin tearing itself apart.

  For the moment, then, the Romans posed a lesser problem than his allies. But for the sake of the plan that had been forming inside his head he couldn’t allow his Celts to get too far ahead of the enemy. Two days’ march, at most, would be enough, and less if the terrain and the circumstances allowed it. He called a day’s rest halt and joined Colm and his men on a patrol back along the route they’d come. He’d made no attempt to hide their tracks, so there was no reason the Romans couldn’t follow him. Yet after six hours in the saddle there was still no sign of them, even of their patrols.

  When he returned to the Selgovae camp he was puzzled to find Olwyn in Gwlym’s shelter and in deep conversation with the druid, and more so when they made a joint appeal for a further day’s rest. There was no reason not to, unless the Romans made a sudden, and apparently unlikely, thrust, so he gave his permission. The cause became apparent the next afternoon when Olwyn asked to speak to him. Her request came as such a surprise, given the lack of formality in their relationship.

  She came into his tent carrying a basket and, not so surprisingly these days, accompanied by Gwlym. They were followed by Cathal’s smith carrying a second, clearly much heavier basket.

  ‘You may leave us, Finngail.’ Olwyn dismissed the craftsman when he’d set down his burden. ‘But your lord will hear of your part in our doings and no doubt reward you.’

  ‘What is this?’ Cathal smiled. ‘Have I missed the Imbolc gift-giving this year?’

  ‘It is a gift indeed, lord king.’ She didn’t
return his smile. ‘We hope it meets your approval.’

  ‘You may remember that when we met the odious Bruda and his son,’ Gwlym said, ‘I mentioned the projection of power? With the help of your good wife, I have been giving the matter some thought. The question was how to make your presence even more imposing without the addition of sheer numbers, which might intimidate those you were attempting to impress. This,’ he waved a hand towards Olwyn, who was delving into the heavier basket, ‘is our answer.’

  She emerged holding a metal helm that glittered silver and gold in her hands. And much more than a helm. Beneath the rim it incorporated a full face mask of silver, a much more subtle representation than the one worn by the Argento Rìgh, and from the flanks a pair of wings the length of a spear point projected vertically to give it a mystical look. ‘It is only a Roman cavalry helmet taken as booty in some raid,’ Gwlym said dismissively. ‘But Finngail took great delight in giving it a coating of silver and adding the accessories. Donacha was happy to part with the Argento’s bauble. The whole is modelled on my memory of something similar Boudicca captured at an auxiliary cavalry barracks.’

  ‘You expect me to wear this? To fight in it?’

  ‘Wear it?’ Gwlym sounded indignant. ‘Of course. But if you wish to fight in it I’d suggest removing the mask – Finngail assures me it is simple enough. It would impair your vision, and I believe the late departed auxiliaries only used them in ceremonial parades.’

  ‘But to what purpose?’ Cathal was still confused.

  Olwyn grunted as she withdrew a second object from the basket. A massive shirt of linked iron rings large enough to fit even Cathal’s great frame and polished so bright that it matched the helmet in brilliance. ‘We spoke of the Caledonians not listening to a man,’ Gwlym continued. ‘But perhaps to a god. Wear this on our next mission to find more allies and no man could doubt your power, no matter how few warriors accompany you.’

  ‘But it’s absurd.’ Cathal looked from Olwyn to the druid. ‘I will look a fool.’

  ‘No, lord king,’ Olwyn assured him. ‘You will look like Taranis come down from the clouds to lead us to victory.’ From the second basket she drew out a cloak of the deepest, darkest green. Cathal recognized the fine wool of her most cherished dress and saw the twin lightning bolts embroidered across the back. ‘We will find something similar, though less grand, for your escort to wear, so that they provide a fitting accompaniment to your rank. There is one thing more.’ The curtain twitched back and Finngail returned, carrying an enormous sword across his arms. Cathal’s heart stuttered as he recognized an exact replica of Ghost Bane, broken fighting the Roman on the frozen Thuaidh. ‘I took the liberty, lord king,’ the smith said. ‘I hope I did right?’

  Cathal accepted the sword and swung it so the bright iron blade hissed through the air. His eyes glittered with the sheer joy of it. ‘You did right, smith. The gods could not have made finer.’

  A week later, Cathal picked his way through another fractured, bog-ridden valley at the head of his bodyguard, with Gwlym at his side. Their route took them along the flank of a great lake dotted with what at first looked like islands, but in reality were houses built on wooden platforms. The occupants watched the little column with suspicious eyes and drew in the plank bridges that connected them to their fields. Herd boys took fright and drove their beasts and skinny sheep away from the approaching riders.

  Emrys and Colm had found the valley and the location fitted the flimsy geography supplied by Bruda, but Cathal held out little hope. This was their third expedition in as many days and the new allies he’d attracted numbered barely a score. The flamboyant costume he wore and the power it projected had been a surprising success, but the sparsely populated valleys and their piecemeal rewards made him wonder if it was worth the effort.

  Even as the melancholy thought formed, a smudge of smoke at the head of the lake drew his attention and his interest revived. It came from some sort of building complex on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley, positioned so it resembled the Venicones sanctuary above the crossing of the Abhainn dhub. As they advanced up the lakeside he became aware of a substantial settlement behind a wooden palisade on the lower ground beside the lake.

  He exchanged a glance with Emrys. This was very different from what they’d come to expect.

  Gwlym must have sensed their interest. ‘What is it?’ the druid demanded peevishly. Cathal explained what he could see and the priest nodded. ‘Yes, that is what Bruda described to me. Perhaps this is the gods’ reward for a sore arse and the dullness of your conversation.’

  A worn track led through cultivated fields to the gateway of the lower settlement. Cathal’s bodyguard tensed as the double doors opened and fifty spearmen emerged to bar their way. Cathal murmured news of this latest development to Gwlym. ‘Continue,’ the druid said. ‘I believe we will be safe enough.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Cathal grunted as he led the little column forward. ‘Whatever happens, no man will draw his sword until he hears my order. Is that understood?’

  Emrys led a chorus of agreement.

  Yet the closer Cathal came to the waiting men the less he feared a confrontation. The way they stood and the manner in which they held their weapons presented no sign of a threat to a warrior who understood these things. They weren’t so much a guard as a guard of honour. Big men, with the tawny thatch that appeared to be the mark of these mountain dwellers, chosen for their stature, and with pride in their bearing. Each warrior carried a seven-foot ash spear and wore plaid shirt and trews, with a bronze torc at his neck that presumably proclaimed some special status. But what truly distinguished them was that, like Cathal’s own guard, each man wore an iron sword on a belt at his waist. Their expressions were proud and fierce as hunting wolves and they made Bruda and his son seem like feral dogs by comparison. A barked order confirmed his impressions as the warriors separated to form two lines ahead of him and reveal a delegation of three older men.

  Cathal drew to a halt fifteen or so paces short of the waiting elders. He didn’t dismount, but used the height advantage to survey his surroundings. Within the enclosure he counted something like seventy heather-thatched, conical roofs, and about a hundred men, women and children drifted from the double gates to stare at the exotic newcomers. The slopes of the closest mountains had been cleared of timber, but those in the distance glowed a bright, verdant green. The hillside to his right rose in a series of walled terraces to a smaller enclosure occupied by the stone buildings he’d originally seen from the lakeside. None of the walls by themselves would stop a determined assault, but the amount of work that had gone into constructing them must have been enormous. Like Cathal’s helmet they were an expression of power. Only a man of enormous authority could have persuaded his people to give their time and labour to build this eyrie.

  He sensed the three elders approach, but he ignored their presence and continued to stare at the fort on the hill. Instead, Emrys came forward and guided Gwlym to meet them. At first they seemed bemused by the druid’s presence, but eventually a conversation developed between Gwlym and the youngest, a tall man with a thick brown beard. Eventually, Emrys escorted the priest back to Cathal.

  Gwlym’s thin lips were set in what might have been a grimace, but Cathal knew was actually an expression of extreme complacency. ‘His name is Rurid and, like Bruda’s, these people are known as the Caledonians. Unlike him their king has heard of a mighty warrior whose footsteps make the mountains shake, a sky god whose very voice is enough to draw lightning from the clouds and whose horses are fleeter than the swiftest arrow. He wonders why you have wasted your time among the petty carrion and oath-breakers of the outlands when he is so obviously the man you seek.’

  ‘I assume you replied with suitable subtlety?’ For the first time Cathal allowed the dark eyes of the silver mask to drift over the delegation.

  ‘I told him that even a god preferred to test himself against the weak before he approached the strong. I also
said you looked forward to dealing with an equal.’

  ‘Good.’ Cathal allowed himself a slight nod of acknowledgement towards the three men and they visibly relaxed. ‘How much have they learned about why I’m here?’

  ‘They appear to know precisely why you’re here.’ A troubled frown creased the blind druid’s forehead. ‘In fact, I have a feeling they’ve been expecting you for some time.’

  Rurid spoke again and Gwlym translated his words. ‘He invites you to an audience with his king, if it pleases you to accompany him to his palace on the hill. He apologizes for the inconvenience, but King Crinan is indisposed and never leaves his stronghold, except to walk the walls and survey his lands.’

  Cathal’s mask hid his grimace of disappointment. He had hoped for an ally who would lead his warriors in battle. If Crinan was so aged and infirm he couldn’t leave his house that complicated things. Still, he dismounted and handed his reins to Colm. ‘Tell him I will be pleased to make the climb, accompanied by you and three of my guards.’

  Gwlym translated the words and Rurid nodded gravely, taking step with Cathal as the escort closed in behind them. A pathway of wooden planks led through the houses and granaries and Cathal noted that the people were well enough fed, and well clothed. Women in brightly coloured dresses spun thread on spindles or worked looms with the finished product. Men, young and old, sharpened and polished unfinished swords and spear points with specially selected stones while they drank from clay pots. The sound of rumbling quern stones added to the familiar background noises, and the scents of cooking and smoke from the perpetually burning hearth fires hung in the air.

  The track led to a gateway through the first of three stone walls that held the terraces. Here the clamour of hammer against iron was almost constant and heat blasted from furnaces outside huts built from stone. Blackened, bare-chested men sweated and grunted over glowing bars of metal, massive arm muscles flexing as the hammers rose and fell.