by Hall, Ian
~ ~ ~
The winter in the land of the Caledonii people that year was cold and wild. Winds blew from the north bringing snow in abundance. At the first hint of bad weather Calach had pulled his sentries back to their homes; there was no need to patrol when the enemy could not move his troops, spring would have to arrive before the Romans could march. Calach himself had hardly arrived in Lochery before the snows closed them in totally.
A new settlement to the north of the town had begun over the years, but it now had swollen to triple the size, including many warriors from the Damonii clan, and Wesson himself.
The snow brought hardship, but with preparation from the harvest the year before, the men did not starve.
There seemed to be an air of foreboding amongst the leaders, all knew that there was nothing left south of the wall. Everyone knew that the Romans would strike in the spring of the year. The leaders talked of nothing else.
“We must drill the men,” Calach said to the crowded room. Leaders from all the contingents sat around the fire in Ranald’s broch, their warm winter furs discarded behind them. “The Romans have moves they practice, an’ we must be the same.”
“We already know how to fight.” Wesson said.
“Yes, I know, but we’re going to have to adopt new ideas.” Calach persisted, and was pleased with the amount of nodding heads in the room. “Taking the rams with us gives us a way to break through the shield wall.”
The new weapon was a short tree trunk, twice the height of a man, with grips carved on each side. An impressive ram against men or the flimsy walls the Romans erected at their campsites. The Roman shield wall could easily be broken with chariots, but now with the new ram the tribesmen could break into their ranks too.
Ranald shook his head. “I think you’re making these Romans out to be more than they are.” He had joined their meetings more and more, although his questioning of their strategies sometimes tested Calach’s patience.
“If we overestimate our foes, we’ll do better on the battlefield.” Calach said, and Ranald sat back against the wall, his sneer hidden by the jug of ale at his mouth.
With its harshness, the snows of winter brought a respite for Calach and his men. It was a time of survival and little else. Nature performed its own culling within the land, taking the elderly and infirm, those who had not prepared well.
After the celebrations of the shortest day, and the re-lighting of the New Year fires on the longest night, Calach made the men rehearse tactics against shield walls, they now had enough Roman shields for the purpose. He watched from the defensive wall, barking orders, then strode amongst the men, correcting and explaining his changes. He drilled them in groups of twenty, and he drilled them in full battle order, thousands of men charging the now bent and battered shields.
Spring came early, and despite the land retaining the moisture of winter, its soil sticky and cloying, he resumed his watch on the Roman wall.
In the land of the Venicone, at Calach’s bidding Mauchty had watches at every headland, looking over the sea to the conquered land of the Votadini. But the furry buds had hardly emerged on the willow trees when the Roman sails were spotted, their dark shadows spreading like flies over rotting meat.
~ ~ ~
Daymen watched as the flat craft caught in the shallows and the soldiers disembarked, splashing through the surf water towards the beach.
“We defend Venicone lands now.” He spoke to the men at either side, his eyes never leaving the Roman vessel. “We have waited for this moment. We wait a moment more.”
The Romans ran on, upwards onto the beach, their long chainmail suits, belted at the waist, did not seem to hinder their speed. Their green tunics darkened as the water sprayed high.
“Now!” Daymen cried. “For the Venicone! For Mauchty!” He shouted as his fingers loosed the bowstring. He watched as his arrow was joined by many more, spraying from either side of him, concentrated into the narrow group of invaders.
From the Venicones’ position in the sandy dunes and long grass, a hail of missiles flew through the air towards the Romans. Daymen watched as some arrows missed their mark, but some struck hard in the Romans large, oval, curved shields, splintering the wood and metal construction. Arrows were deflected by Roman shields and helmets, dropping harmlessly onto the hard wet sand. A few Romans fell, their bodies dark in the low morning sun.
But as the second hail of arrows fell, Daymen knew that no matter how many had fallen, it was not enough. He seen a lucky arrow embed itself firmly in a chain-mailed breast, and his heart surged for a moment, then more Romans arrived onto the beach, and the shield wall became tighter, covering both bodies and making a canopy over their heads.
Once the formation was tightly knit, the unit of perhaps a hundred men slowly advanced up the beach.
“Keep firing!” Daymen shouted as he loosed another. This time a Roman fell, screaming in pain as his arrow skewered his knee.
Along the wide beach, more Roman ships were landing their contingents of soldiers.
Resisting the panic he felt, Daymen readied himself to fire again, quickly counting the fallen Roman soldiers as best as he could, now secure in their position directly in front. His next arrow hit a helmet, but bounced off, ricocheting high into the air. The Roman fell from the impact, but regained his footing immediately, adjusting his helmet as he stepped forward.
As the Romans regrouped, he counted the bodies on the sand.
Ten.
They had only dropped ten Romans in the first wave, and he had three arrows left.
Not enough!
He had to keep two in his quiver, which was Mauchty’s order, two arrows for use later. He shook his head in disbelief but the evidence was there in his quiver. Nine arrows fired; one kill.
Not enough.
Romans now charged along the beach from either side.
He knocked his last arrow to the bowstring with a plea to Kernos, god of the Underworld.
“Here’s one for Mauchty.” He whispered as he ignored the armored soldiers clambering to the bank and let his arrow loose, arcing high towards the Romans on his right, unprotected by a shield wall. The lead man fell back clutching his chest. Daymen was close enough to see the surprised look on the Roman’s face as he tottered backwards.
“Fall back!” Daymen shouted, first to one side, then the other. “Fall back to the trees!”
He lingered a moment to ensure that the order had been passed to all his men, then joined them, running full pelt towards the sanctuary of the nearby forest. A quick look behind him ensured that they were not being pursued. He glanced to left and right, and saw other groups, all running towards the cover and safety of the woodland.
As he reached the first of the trees, Daymen slowed, both watching the Romans disembark and assuring that he had left no stragglers behind.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Virres said from his side, his second in the group. Mauchty had assembled them in groups depending on village strength. Every man and woman in Daymen’s group came from the village of Dunbeath, a day’s march inland. Daymen wondered when he would see Dunbeath again.
“Is anybody missing?” He asked, his eyes still watching the Romans land on the beach. Their run to the forest had been slightly uphill, and from the edge of the trees they could see the whole curve of the golden sands, Daymen was transfixed by the sheer number of craft ferrying the men across.
I’ve already lost count, an’ I’m better at counting than anyone here!
“No Daymen, everyone’s here.” Virres replied.
Daymen shook his head. “Look at them, there’s just so many!”
They watched as the Romans formed into tight formations, marching towards them in stages, tight squares of green, red, blue and yellow, their golden emblems held aloft, catching the sunshine.
“Daymen,” Virres shook his shoulder. “It’s time to move.” The older man looked over Daymen’s shoulder. “It’s time to get back to Mauchty wi’ the news
.”
“Aye, you’re right!” Daymen shook his head and turned to face the group. To either side of him crouched the twenty warriors of Dunbeath. “Right! Everybody get ready to move!” He began to walk into the woods.
Daymen now set Mauchty’s plan into motion, one man to watch over the Romans, one man riding to Mauchty with the news. He looked into a young man’s eyes. “Farnie, are you ready for this?”
“Aye,”
“Do you remember the plan?”
“Aye, I’ll be careful Daymen, I watch the Romans from a distance, and I always watch my sides and back.”
“Good lad,” Daymen rubbed the youth’s already tousled hair. “Keep your distance, but we need information as to where they’re heading, an’ in what strength. I’ll lead the rest of the village to chief Mauchty.”
“To Kinress?”
“To begin with,” Daymen looked over the boy’s shoulder. “This is more than a scouting mission. This is invasion, what we’ve trained for. See you soon, lad.” He turned away and stepped into a short-gaited trot followed by the rest of the men from Dunbeath, preserving energy, yet quickly putting distance between themselves and the beach.
~ ~ ~
“Look there!” Aysar’s finger pointed out a new column, as the Roman legionaries formed themselves in a large semi-circle in front of the huge wall.
Bruce nodded. “This is no foray! This is on a larger scale.” His voice had broken significantly in the winter and now sounded low most of the time.
Calach was too deep in thought to voice an opinion.
By the Gods, I was right.
He found himself shaking, trembling with emotion. “We ride back to the top of the hill. We’ll watch from there.”
The hole in the wall continued to spew men out onto the unnaturally cleared grassland. As he rode into the trees, and up the steep slope, he used his hunter’s eye but found nothing awry around them.
That afternoon, from the crest of the Great Divide, he watched as thousands of Romans marched out from the wall.
So organized, so precise.
For a fleeting moment, doubt set in, and he wondered if he’d ever be able to subdue the Roman threat. He felt gratitude when Aysar broke the silence. “Ants from an anthill,”
The men around laughed.
Calach felt the mood change. “Aye,”
News of the Roman’s recent activity behind their wall had come to him on his last inspection around his scouts positions. With the curiosity of a wild cat, he had come down to the wall to see. Part of him was glad he had, part of him was very afraid.
Bruce is right. This is more than a foray! This is invasion!
Through his fear, Calach took a perverse pride in what he was witnessing. He had foreseen this moment, and he was lost in the glory of it, rather than be afraid of the consequences of such an action. Directly to his front, huge gates lay open, and through the gap streamed thousands of Roman soldiers.
I knew they wouldn’t remain behind their wall.... it made no sense!
Auxiliaries took up defensive positions in the cleared ground, then advanced towards the tree-line, halting in a long defensive line. After them, Roman Legionaries followed, advancing, following suit, then chariots, hundreds of cavalry, then the wagons, perhaps hundreds of wagons in all. They continued to file out of the gap in the wall until they took up the whole of the cleared area for as far as Calach could see, both east and west.
By Lugh! They’re going to invade us! I knew it!
“Bruce.” Calach spoke without taking his eyes from the scene in front of him.
“Aye?”
“Have you been to Bar’ton?”
“No, sorry Lord Calach.”
“Damn it to Lugh an’ back again!”
Aysar sidled up to him. “What are you thinking?”
“Who’s been to Bar’ton before Aysar? I need a message sending, an’ it’s got to go as fast as ever before.” Calach chewed nervously on his bottom lip. “Finlass has got to be told about this. We need his men here, an’ we need them quickly.”
“Finlass won’t be at Bar’ton Calach. He’ll be to the north, like he told us, the Long Loch, remember?”
I’ve waited for this to happen for years, an’ now it has, I’m dithering like a dolt!
“Aye, so he will.” Calach replied, though his thoughts were elsewhere. “So who knows the Meatae lands to the north then?” He looked around the men, but met only blank stares.”
“Just me Calach,” Aysar replied. “I’m the only one that knows the way.”
“I need you here Aysar. You’re too valuable to waste as a messenger.” Calach whipped his head round to face his friend. “What about Bruce? He’s old enough now.”
“Aye, he’s old enough, but he doesn’t know the way.” Aysar pointed at his own chest. “You know that I’m the only one who knows the way.”
Why didn’t I think of this before? Why didn’t I prepare messengers for this eventuality? Everyone knows the rallying points over here, but not in Meatae lands.
Aysar continued. “You’ve got others that can take my place here, Calach. Let me go. I’ll be back so quick you won’t know I’m away!”
With only a moment’s hesitation, Calach took a talisman from round his neck and handed it to Aysar, a silver boar on a leather thong.
“It’s Ma’damar’s sign...”
“But...”
“I know that Ma’damar’s dead, but it’s a’ I’ve got!” Calach snapped. “Wear this at a’ times. Ride like the very arms o’ Kernos himself were after you. Change horses twice, three times a day. If you have any problems, flash the boar talisman, curse my name and that o’ Finlass. You’ve got to get to Finlass! It’s vital Aysar.”
“Aye, I know it.”
Lost in his own thought for a moment, Calach briefly remembered the crannog, and the young lad taking his horse on his first trip to Bar’ton.
What was the lad called again?
Calach couldn’t remember.
Aysar nudged his friend in the ribs. “If he’s not at the long loch?”
“He will be. Or by that time, he’ll have found you Aysar, instead o’ the other way around.”
“Any specific message?”
Calach smirked, then turned back to his front. “The message is this... If there are no Romans attacking Finlass, I need every man he can spare over here now! Tell him that the Romans are attacking here in force. It doesn’t look like they’re leaving anyone behind. This is war for the men north o’ the wall Aysar. The Norlands have been invaded.” The last words were spat at the Romans forming in front of them.
“Anything else?”
“Aye,” Calach turned his head again. “Are you still here?”
Smiling, he offered his hand to his friend, clasping it tightly.
Aysar got to his feet, and crouching as he ran, made his way quickly back up the grassy slope to the horses.
The war has begun.
Guerillas of the North
Spring 82 AD
“I will lead the Caledonii!” Ranald said, his face reddening in front of the group of leaders around them. “It is my right!” The Roman legion lay south in the glen, a short ride away, marching north, their every step monitored by both Caledonii scouts and dhruids under Sewell’s control. Calach and his troops lay just ahead of the Romans, ready and waiting.
Calach could not believe his ears. “But I’ve trained them; I know what I’m doing.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Calach knew he was in trouble. He managed to dodge most of the power in the blow, but the back of his father’s hand still caught Calach’s jaw, enough to send him sprawling to the ground.
“And I don’t?” Ranald roared above him, raising his arm to strike again. He swiftly turned, striding purposefully to his horse, whipping its head brutally to the south. “Caledonii! Rally to me!”
Despite their training, the individual commanders surged to Ranald’s voice, they looked from father to son, their looks doubting this
sudden shift in leadership, but their clan honor and bloodlust came to the fore, this being the Clan’s first attack of the war. Cheers of “Caledonii!” rang across the glen.
As the leaders rode off following Ranald, one man remained, Aysar, the reins of Calach’s mount grasped tightly in his hand. Calach jumped to his feet and walked determinedly to his friend. “I hope the men will remember their training.”
He mounted and they both set off to join the group.
The men had rehearsed a plan to break the Roman shield wall with battering rams, then let the cavalry charge at the resultant disarray. Calach knew there was no need to ride like the wind to the battle, his part came in the cavalry charge, but as he neared the rising Caledonii, he knew immediately the plan had been torn to shreds.
Yes, the archers to each flank had fired first, catching the Roman column by surprise, Yes, the Caledonii vanguard rose with their battering rams, but even so early into the attack, Calach could see the fault develop. Despite the times he’d watched them practice the method, Ranald had reverted to the old methods, the single charge. The mounted warriors were easily slipping past the vanguard with rams, soon outdistancing their infantry support, clashing with their horses into with the frontline of the column, already in a strong shield line.
Their long-ingrained plans were unravelling before his eyes. “NO!” Calach roared, tears welling in his eyes. “After so much training.” He said. Only Aysar at his side heard the words.
~ ~ ~
Sewell, perched high on the side of the hill watched the Roman force advance. He sent waves of calmness down the slopes into the valley, dimming the eyes of the scouts who looked upward, dulling the ears of the men on watch.
He looked up to see the Caledonii charge, and smiled.
It is exactly as was foretold.
It only took a moment for the smile to fade.
Ranald’s leading the charge!
At that point, he heard Calach’s roar.
“No!”
The cry burst through his head like a thousand drums. In reaction he slammed his palms to his ears, but it did no good, the cry was gone, only the echo and the pain remaining. Sewell felt a reflection from all five dhruids who sat above the battle, their reaction like his own. Sewell opened his eyes again, looking down at the armies. Ranald still led the charge, and Sewell could do nothing more than watch, the melee of the battle already crowding in on the quietened aura of the glen. “Damn it to Lugh, what happened?” He hissed, feeling particularly useless in the moments before the sides met.