These people would be identified by the conquering legions, and forever known to later generations by the tattoos on their skin. The Romans called the tribes Picti—“the painted people”—and Pritenii—“people of the designs.”
These northern Celts left behind no written accounts of their civilization. Yet they possessed considerable skill in working with the most prevalent commodity their land produced: stone . . . the essential building block of a nation—granite, in all sizes and shapes—from pebbles to giant boulders no fifty Goliaths could budge. By these stones they documented their legacy.
The Picts took stone and with it raised dwellings, wheelhouses, forts, ovens, furnaces, circular duns, and monuments. The most remarkable such construction was the broch—ancestor to the stone castle—a circular tower up to fifty feet in diameter and rising to heights of forty or fifty, with walls up to fifteen feet thick at the base and stairways rising to the parapet walks atop them. In the enclosed center, an open central area provided living quarters as well as protection from enemies. This Pictish fabrication was carried out without the use of mortar—a drystone construction.
The Picts also left behind monuments of giant standing stones, upon which they carved their own unique style of decoration. In the absence of written records, their living quarters and these stone landmarks, in addition to the murky tales and myths passed down through the centuries, provided the most substantial links to their culture for those who followed them.
When records eventually began to be kept by the Picts, the most prominent was a list of the kings that had evolved out of their ancient tribal chieftainships. The most distant records revealed the name of an ancient Celt by the name of Cruithne, who came in later years to be considered their first king. When the Irish later migrated to the land and encountered these Picts, they gave to their whole race the name Cruithne after this first king. Cruithne, it was said, had married and fathered seven sons who ruled after him, dividing the kingdom of the Picts into its seven provinces.
It was not until the year 55 BC that the Roman general Julius Caesar, with all of continental Europe and parts of Africa and Asia Minor under his feet, turned his eyes across the English Channel and himself sailed from Gaul across to Dover.
Rome was in a headlong rush to conquer the known world. Never had a people—from Palestine to England—successfully fended off its might. Over the course of the next century the island the Romans called Britannia, like most of Europe and the Middle East, was also overtaken by the ruthless efficiency of Caesar’s legions.
Fortresses were built and soldiers sent to man them. Communications stretched between these outposts. Roads were laid down for Rome’s armies. Fleets moved up the eastern coastline while the legions tramped northward by horse and foot. Latinized names were attached to every place on the great island. Indigenous tribes everywhere were brought under Roman control.
All but the northernmost segments of the island were eventually secure. These were the regions dominated by two major Celtic tribes—the Caledonii and the Maeatae—and four smaller.
Thus it was that when the Roman governor of Britannia, Petilius Cerealis, reached Carlisle between AD 71 and 74, he sent reconnaissance forces farther north to establish outpost fortresses, in order that the Romanization of the island might at last be completed. Gnaeus Julius Agricola, who replaced Cerealis in AD 78, pressed the advance with even more vigor. By the year 80 he had penetrated to the Firth of Tay on the east coast and begun to construct still more outposts. Four years later, far to the north, he had laid waste a huge indigenous army of the painted barbarians led by him they called Galgacus at the place the Romans called Mons Graupius, defeating them handily, taking hostages, and putting many more to the sword.
Indeed, by the time Agricola was withdrawn from the region and recalled back to Rome, most of the north appeared to be under the empire’s power. The governor had constructed some thirty forts in all, each skillfully situated and modern of innovation and design.
What Agricola did not know, however, was that among the natives dwelt a survivor of Mons Graupius who might well prove his equal. When the time was ripe this warrior, now grown, would match his cunning against Rome’s might, to avenge a father who had fallen on the battlefield, slain by Roman sword.
Though nowhere else in all the empire had its legions been forced to retreat before a native people, Rome had not yet entirely subdued the Cruithneach, known as the Caledonii.
Seven
As the gentle but determined Caledonian warrior predicted, the snows came early. And thick. It was the coldest winter in Foltlaig’s memory. The white powder still lay in drifts the following May.
The snow and its cold had not brought idleness, however. Foltlaig had spent the snowy winter months perfecting a very different strategy to defeat these latter-day Romans than his continental kin had used five centuries earlier to sack the city whence originated these interlopers. On his mind was no raid on Rome itself, but rather a conquest that would prevent its soldiers making further penetration, and perhaps drive them from the north altogether.
Throughout the winter, Foltlaig had been unable to quiet the disturbing voices within him. He remembered the old Caledonian leader Gaelbhan well, remembered his courage and the stirring words of his call to arms. Would that crusty old warrior consider him a coward for going out to meet the enemy in the dead of night rather than mounting a great pitched battle as he had done?
And yet, Foltlaig argued with himself, Mons Graupius had shown that the Pritenae warriors could never defeat the more organized and efficient Roman soldiers in direct battle. Something more than sheer numbers was needed.
The nature of that something more would be the subject of the upcoming meeting that Coel had now called again with the Maeatae, as well as with leaders of the Borestii from the east and the Damnonii, Votadini, Selgovae, and Novantae from the south.
The hour would soon be at hand for them to reclaim their land, hold it, secure it, and drive the Romans from it, as Foltlaig had promised his father. Such could be accomplished only if the various tribes could lay aside their feuds and disputes and rally together as one.
To this purpose, Foltlaig and Maelchon had traveled tirelessly throughout the winter months garnering support among the tribes north of the Solway. For the past three weeks, Maelchon had sojourned to the northern brethren of their own Caledonii, as well as the neighboring Borestii. He was due back at the fortress any day, and Foltlaig eagerly awaited his return.
Word had arrived yesterday that the Maeatae chieftain, Ainbach, true to his word, had convinced the Votadini to link with their cause. He himself would arrive with the Votadini chief early next week. Foltlaig had personally extracted promises from the three southwestern tribes to join them as well.
A messenger interrupted his thoughts.
“Your son has entered the settlement, Son of Gatheon.”
Foltlaig glanced up. Quickly he rose and followed the bearer of the happy tidings outside.
Eight
Several hours had passed.
Foltlaig and his son Maelchon walked out of the settlement and across the wide expanse of heath. Most of the snow in this open space had melted. There had been no fresh fall for ten days, though clumps and mounds of white still clung to the shadowy recesses.
They continued for some time in silence. The elder man’s strong muscular arm stretched around the equally muscular shoulders of the youth, who was actually a finger’s width taller than his father. Little could they know how similar they were in display of shared love—for which there was no shame among those who drew ancestral strength and vision from their emotion-rich Celtic blood—to some of their own notable patriarchs.
“The news you bring gladdens my heart, my son,” said Foltlaig at length. “I confess, I harbored an anxiety that our brother tribes to the north might not agree to join us. Neither their land nor that of the Borestii is yet threatened, so I feared they might not come.”
“You and Coel remain th
eir leaders, Father.”
“Perhaps. But it seems they grow more independent each year.”
“Perhaps I shall have to marry one of their chieftains’ daughters and become chief myself.”
“A worthy plan to keep the Caledonii united,” laughed Foltlaig. “But what of the girl’s mother and brother? You know as well as I that one does not become chief among the Caledonii so easily!”
“There are the ancient seven sons of Cruithne.”
“An unusual case among our kings.”
Foltlaig took his arm from around his son. They continued to chat casually.
“Will they really come, Father, do you think?” asked the younger man after a brief silence.
“It begins to seem so, Maelchon,” replied Foltlaig, “if all the reports are true. You yourself have brought the good news from the north.”
“Even if they do not, we could still carry out our plan with men from our own tribe.”
“You are right, of course. But it is not merely great numbers we need, but rather the precedent of working together. If we do not do this now, how will those who follow be able to do it in the future?”
“Why is it so difficult for our people to join in common cause?”
“Because men find it easier to dispute than to unite. Easier to fight than to live and work together.”
“I have heard you say it often, Father,” said Maelchon. “Yet you yourself are a fighter.”
“I do not fight unless it is the only way. I would always rather seek resolution by other means. Nor do I fight with my own, but only against a clear enemy.”
“You are commander of all the Caledonii.”
“Because our chief has made me so. He values my ability to outwit both man and beast. And he thinks I possess a certain courage.”
“You are the bravest warrior in the land, Father! Everyone knows it.”
Foltlaig smiled.
“Perhaps that is why so many even of our own people find it difficult to understand me,” he replied. “You remember our saying, Na sir ’s na seachain an cath.”
“I remember.”
“Neither seek nor shun the fight. When the enemy shows himself, only a coward turns away. When fighting is required, none worthy of being called a man will shrink from the confrontation. Yet many are the battles a wise man does not have to fight, but into which fools rush headlong. A man displays no lack of courage by using intelligence and strategy to prevent hostilities. It is a matter of wisdom, not cowardice, to discover where a man may agree with his fellows.”
“But in this matter of the southerners,” asked Maelchon “—is this not a time when we must fight?”
Foltlaig was silent a long while. How could his son comprehend the depths in the question he had posed? It had taken Foltlaig himself twenty years to know how to face it. That the question now came from his very son’s lips made the answer all the more difficult.
“I believe it is just such a time,” he said at length. “But we will fight not to kill, but to demoralize. I would take no life unless it is required. Killing may be required but is not the chief duty before us. What is important is that we drive the Romans from our land. If they persist, then we may have to kill, but not before.”
Again a silence fell. As in one accord, both men turned and began walking slowly back toward the fortress. Maelchon reflected on his father’s words.
“Why do you say,” he asked after some time, “that the tribal leaders must join together now so that those who come after them will also be able to?”
Foltlaig smiled.
“It is another one of my habits that some of the men tire of,” he replied, “—always looking ahead, trying to see into the future. But to answer you—I am concerned for those of our people who will follow us, for your grandsons and their grandsons, and theirs after them.”
He paused and gazed all about them where they stood.
“Look around you, Maelchon—what do you see? A beautiful land, but a cold, hard one as well. You and I love this land precisely because it is such. Only the strongest and fittest choose to dwell here. This will never be a land of ease. Those who make their home here will forever do so because they love the loneliness of its vast reaches. Those who come after us will never be able to hold this land without recognizing their brotherhood upon it.”
Foltlaig paused briefly. He thought again of his father. “The Maeatae and the Selgovae are truly our brothers,” he went on, “united to us from long ago by ties of blood. Yes, there have been times I have had to fight against them. I have occasionally even fought against those among our own Caledonii who have risen against our chief. But such must not be our way.
“There will always be enemies. There are tales of treachery from times past, among our own people, which swirl in vague mists, mingling the legends of our first and mighty king. That was many generations ago. We must no longer be our own enemies. Only in unity will we hold this land.
“In common blood and heritage and purpose we must join, we must unite. We must make mutual cause against these interlopers, or you may be assured, my son, that the day will come when those who follow us will lose this land.”
Nine
The representatives of the other tribes came, just as Foltlaig had hoped.
By late spring all had convened at the Caledonii fortress of Rannoch. The gathering of Pict leaders was unprecedented. The seven tribes represented had battled amongst themselves for two centuries to maintain and expand their respective territories. Occasional alliances had formed between two of the tribes, but only for the purpose of making war against some third.
That the chiefs of all seven had now come together against a common enemy would not have been believed by any of them had a seer foretold it a year earlier. But each now realized the enemy from without was too strong for any of them to resist alone.
Even united, most wondered what chance they had. The Roman fortresses throughout their region had been standing and manned for twenty years. The great leader Gaelbhan had been thoroughly routed at Mons Graupius. Twenty years before that, farther to the south, the revolt of the now-famous warrioress Boudicca had likewise ended in defeat, with the mighty Celtic queen taking her own life by poison. No one who had tried to stand against the Romans had succeeded for long. How could they possibly hope to succeed now?
And yet they came to Rannoch, some twenty or thirty of them, all seven chiefs and many of Foltlaig’s counterparts from their tribes. Four women were among them—one chief and three warrior generals. Boudicca’s reputation had spread, with the result that more and more Celtic women were rising up to rival the males of their clans in military might. The chieftainess from the Damnonii had risen to her present position by parading through her village with the head of her predecessor, a man, on the end of her sharpened, metal-tipped spear. She had only been challenged once since, with the same result.
Most of those present were large, the women as well as the men, and powerful. A few displayed reddish and purple markings on their faces. On the arms and shoulders and chests of the men and of one woman who wore no covering above the waist could be seen great variety of artful tattoos, in pattern and design much like those that adorned their symbolic standing stones, pottery, and other carvings. The men as well as the four women wore about their necks and wrists jewelry made of silver, bone, and shell.
When food and drink had been sufficiently consumed and the assembly seated around a blazing peat fire—for the cold of winter had not altogether retreated before springtime’s advance—Coel nodded to Foltlaig. He now rose to address the gathering.
“My fellow warriors,” Foltlaig began, “on the eve of the battle when my own Caledonii brothers took arms against the southerners, I myself sat listening as the great Gaelbhan addressed his army. Never have I forgotten his stirring words. They were filled with challenge and hope. Yet before day’s end they became a bitter memory, for I watched my own father die that day.”
Foltlaig gazed intently at his hearers.
His voice grew soft and reflective.
“Let me tell you again the words the great man spoke to us before the dreadful defeat of that day, to remind us that the same challenge is now before us.”
Again he paused briefly, then raised his voice and began to recite from memory the words that, in equal proportion with love for his only son, had burned within him during the twenty years of his manhood.
“‘I believe,’ Gaelbhan said, ‘that what we do here today will mean the beginning of liberty for all of us. So many have fought against these foreigners, and now the final hope rests in us. We are here gathered, my Caledonian brothers—the last free men on this isle. The plunderers of the world, after exhausting the land with their devastation, have now advanced on us.
“‘We, the most distant dwellers upon the earth, have been protected from their advance until now. Our remoteness has kept us safe. But now they have come. And we will either become their slaves or send them back where they came from. As for me, I will never submit to them. I will stand with my back to the sea and my sword in my hand and await my destiny.’”
Foltlaig paused, eyes closed, bringing the next words to mind.
“‘Look back, my brothers,’ he said. ‘Beyond us lie no more tribes, nothing but waves and rocks and cliffs. Before us . . . the enemy.’”
Foltlaig stopped again and drew in a breath before completing the climax of the battle speech that once had so inspired him.
“But they have yet to subdue us,’ Gaelbhan concluded. ‘And they never will. We will show them how sharp are our spears, how valiant our hearts! So to battle! Think of your ancestors . . . and of your posterity!’”
Foltlaig’s voice trailed into silence. The gathering fell somber.
In a culture where there were no written reminders of the past, such an oral tradition carried great weight. The flames of the burning peat danced silently into the air in the middle of the wide circle in which they sat. Every man and woman stared into its red-orange depths, pondering this message given, as from the grave, to those who now carried the future of this entire land on their shoulders. It was as if, through his remembered words, mighty Gaelbhan had come to life in their midst.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 39