As the four groups set the fires and two others stood guard, the seventh and final unit of ten targeted the two granaries and the workshop. In most cases, these stood inside the ramparts. Here at Corbridge, however, they had been built outside the walls. At this hour they were unmanned, full of much dry fuel, and blazing high within minutes. Destroying provisions for both sustenance and the capacity to rebuild, with winter fast approaching, was sure to add impetus to a southern retreat.
With granaries and workshop in flames, they would likewise attempt to burn the bathhouse outside the walls. This would be more difficult, in that it was constructed of both turf and timber. It was an optional target, in that the destruction of its hygienic function would not greatly alter the disposition of the emperor’s troops. The elimination of the recreational service it offered in such a forsaken outpost as this, however, would further demoralize the Romans and render their withdrawal more likely.
As four or five perimeter fires began to heat up and grow, Maelchon flung a coiled rope to the top of the outer wall at a point where it appeared unlikely he would encounter a guard. Yanking hard to make sure it was secured tightly against one of the upper beams, he pulled himself up the outside of the rough wooden planks.
Reaching the top of the wall, he carefully peeped over. No sentries were nearby on the elevated interior walk. Maelchon scrambled hastily over the parapet and onto the walkway.
On the ground below, guarding him as he thus penetrated the Roman stronghold, stood both his father and the third member of their leadership team. Both held spears in hand, prepared to send to his death any Roman sentry who made an appearance.
The outer rampart-wall upon which Maelchon stood ran rectangularly around the entire camp. Enough structures abutted against it that, with the wall in flames, the fire would eventually spread throughout the interior. His present assignment, however, was to make sure the Romans were not able to contain the blaze merely to the circumference. He would now strike into the very heart of the fortress.
Maelchon glanced quickly to his right, then his left.
The principia, or headquarters building, in the middle of the compound, was probably unreachable, though the barracks might be within range. The latrines and various storehouses were not vital. Near them sat another free-standing structure which Maelchon recognized as the hospital. Foltlaig had given specific instructions to leave it untouched.
Glancing about further, he spotted what he had been looking for—the stables.
It would have been better had he been able to scale the wall fifty yards closer, but this would have to do. Their summer’s scouting had paid off. He hoped his counterparts this night at Milton, Birrens, and Rochester were finding themselves equally well positioned to inflict the most important and damaging blow of all—that which would send the interior of the fortress up in flames.
He signaled down to his father and Rhodri to follow on the ground. Maelchon loosened the rope’s coil. Carrying it as he went, he crept quickly southward beside the parapet toward a point that would give him the best chance for a perfect shot. Though all was still calm in the fortress, he could already smell the burning peat. One or two sentries roamed about below, unconscious as yet of their danger.
When he judged himself near enough, Maelchon stopped.
He attached the coil of rope to another wall-post and signaled down to his father. Moments later he was hoisting up, by means of the very rope that had enabled his ascent, a long spear. On its tip was rigidly impaled a brick of peat that had been prepared in one of the fires and now burned brightly.
Suddenly a shout sounded from below.
The flaming lance had been seen against the night sky!
More shouts followed. He had not a second to lose.
Maelchon loosened the rope from the end of his blazing weapon, then took firm hold with his right hand at its balance point. He drew back his arm and sent the fiery instrument of freedom toward its mark.
In seconds the straw beside the horse stalls had ignited into a rising ball of flame. A minute later it was out of control and spreading about the building. In the meantime, Maelchon had sent the end of the rope back to the ground for a second spear, which he now likewise unfastened.
Again he cocked his arm in readiness and, with a mighty thrust, heaved a second flaming missile with all his might. He feared it would fall short. But it landed on the barracks building. Its roof of thatch was ablaze in seconds.
All about the fortress, pandemonium now broke loose. Soldiers poured out of their quarters, yelling, pulling on tunics and boots and paenula as they ran, trying to ascertain the cause and direction of the attack.
Their running steps converged upon the burning stable buildings, where whinnying, terrified horses were bolting for freedom. Quickly the realization spread that the native attack against them involved far more than a single fire.
By the time arrows were being fired in Maelchon’s direction, he had leapt back over the wall and was scrambling down the rope to the ground, flushed with the exertion of success.
“Well done, my son!” cried Foltlaig. He could see the smoke rising from inside. Encircling the entire fort, the ring of wall-fire now began to take control.
“And to you, Father!” rejoined Maelchon. “Your plan has worked to perfection. They are in confusion inside, while their fort rises in flames.”
“Would that it were daylight, that we might see evidence rising in the sky that Milton, Birrens, and Rochester have likewise been set to destruction.”
“Our brothers will succeed—have no fear. Now we must be away!”
Noises and angry shouts of the fortress coming awake as the soldiers roused themselves was all the indication any of the fire-builders needed that their job was done. Foltlaig’s instructions had been clear. Once the fires were well set and the walls burning on their own—the time for retreat had come!
Foltlaig, Maelchon, and Rhodri sprinted round to the front of the fortress. They were met by two of the fire units and one of the guard units. All hastened to the prearranged spot well clear of the fortress. They must secure the northern road leading away from Corbridge against the escape of messengers.
Quickly they all ran, carrying ropes, spears, and other provisions as they went, retreating not as cowards but as victors. They were joined presently by the guard and fire units from the opposite side of the fort. Both fire units were doing their utmost to make haste, hauling the fire carts behind them.
Within five minutes, breathing heavily, seventy members of the united tribal force stood at a distance of some two to three hundred yards, watching as the blaze spread and joined into a great circle of fire. Radiant orange in the night, it gradually engulfed the entire fortress.
Not a single man or woman of their company had been lost.
Now they would begin a gradual retreat northward on the Roman road, spreading out in a planned pattern to guard the road and other potential routes. Their comrades would be doing likewise as they retreated from Rochester—a much more vital task, given its proximity to the largest of the forts—until they met, two days hence, to join forces in a similar attack first on the great strategic fortress at Newstead. After that, continuing still farther northward, they would complete their campaign at Inveresk.
As they went, Turenna’s forces farther west would remain in their separate companies of seventy, the one moving from Milton to Dalswinton for attack the following night, and the other inland from Birrens to Glenlochar.
Thence would the two western companies, their work more quickly done, retreat northward through the western wilds of Carrick, disbursing quietly to their own tribes.
Fifteen
Seven days had now passed since the first flames had been set to the Roman fortresses at Corbridge, Rochester, Birrens, and Milton. The only failure had occurred at Milton, where a brief rain had foiled the attack. The threescore-and-ten company of Picts, however, had more than avenged themselves the next night at Dalswinton. Their companions had been equa
lly successful at Glenlochar and had already disbanded.
Meanwhile, Newstead had been burned to the ground by the united efforts of the two companies under Foltlaig and Maelchon. Now smoke had begun to rise as well from around the walls at Inveresk.
The Romans here, however, had not been altogether surprised. When this truth began to dawn, Foltlaig assumed that a horseman from Newstead, or perhaps Milton or Dalswinton, must have gotten through with the message that danger was approaching.
In actual fact, the treason lay much closer.
A cowardly Pict youth, anxious to ingratiate himself with their conquerors, had slipped away in the early morning hours from the Selgovae fortress at Eildon Hill, where Foltlaig and his men had refreshed themselves with their southern cousins en route to the attack. The traitor had traveled north to Inveresk, even as Newstead rose in flames, to warn the Roman commander on duty at the northern fortress on the mouth of the Great River.
As a result of this subversion of kinship, Foltlaig’s men found themselves at Inveresk engaged in battle of both fire and sword. It was not the first time the land of the Picts had seen kinsman betray kinsman. Nor would it be the last.
Even as the combined groups numbering one hundred forty began to set fires around the circumference of the enclosed rectangle, they heard shouts from inside.
Within minutes fully outfitted soldiers appeared round the parapet walls. Moments later, archers, spearsmen, and slingers were raining down arrows, lances, and stones upon them, their counterattack aided by a near full moon that bathed the fort and its surroundings in a pale glow.
“Back . . . fall back!” Foltlaig commanded his men with great shouts.
The guard units surrounding the fortress returned the Roman fire as best they could. They had not prepared for full confrontation, however, and their battle provisions were scanty.
Foltlaig ran toward them, waving his arms and shouting to arrest their attention.
“Break it off—follow the others!” he cried. “You must retreat!”
Within minutes, all were making for the high ground, with its protection of boulders and a few trees, that lay across the open heath from the fortress.
Maelchon, meanwhile, delayed a few moments more to carry out his assignment.
From a position which he hoped was in the approximate vicinity of the stables, Maelchon prepared his burning spears. There was no time to scale the wall if he hoped to get away with his life. They would have to be launched from here.
He grasped the first flaming lance, drew back his arm, and with a great heave aimed it up and over the wall. He hastily prepared another, sent it after the first, then turned and sprinted after his father. Foltlaig was already halfway across the heath to safety. The fire and guard units were there making for the small wood as fast as they could.
Both front and rear gate of the fortress now swung upon.
A column of Roman cavalrymen rode out the front. A company of light infantrymen poured through the opposite gate behind.
Escaping on foot, the painted natives were no match for the horsemen. A slaughter seemed about to begin. The treachery of their own had surely placed every man of them into the Romans’ hands!
They continued sprinting toward the wood.
Maelchon, behind his fellows from his business with the spears, saw perhaps better than all the rest their grave peril. He ran alone, at an angle to intercept his comrades. But suddenly, to his horror, he saw that a single figure lagged behind.
It was his father!
As he watched the drama unfold, all at once the words from his father’s lips echoed in his brain: Na sir ’s na seachain an cath—“Neither seek nor shun the fight. When another shows himself an enemy, it is only a coward who turns away. . . .”
Almost as if Foltlaig had likewise heard the same words he had spoken, suddenly the Pict leader ceased his flight. He stopped. In an almost unconscious moment of sacrificial decision, he turned alone to face the approaching column of soldiers, placing himself between the cavalry and his escaping men.
“No, Father!” yelled Maelchon. “Run . . . run!” The same instant he broke off his retreat toward the wood and sprinted shouting toward his father.
But Foltlaig heard nothing. And Maelchon was too far away to help.
Rising to the full stature of his height, he now deliberately began to walk forward, reaching across his body as he did, and slowly withdrawing the sword that hung at his side.
The lead Roman officer hesitated at this strange sight of painted native warrior approaching fearlessly with a look of death in his eye. He reined back his horse, suddenly oblivious to the fact that across the ground in the distance the rest of the natives were escaping to safety. The Roman’s chest was covered in an armored vest of leather and metal strips over his tunic, and a red cloak hung from his shoulders. Because of his haste from the fort, his head was unprotected by helmet. In his hand he held a two-edged, sharply pointed sword.
Behind him halted the cavalrymen and foot soldiers, awaiting the result of this confrontation.
Maelchon saw it all and divined his father’s intent—to delay the Roman charge long enough for his own men to reach the protection of the wood on the other side of the hill.
“Father—no!” came a final bloodcurdling cry of protest from his throat as he ran frantically toward the scene.
But it was too late.
Already the Caledonian warrior had risen tall and was engaging in mortal blows of the sword with the centurion who had so warily eyed his approach. Foltlaig could hardly hope to unseat his adversary from the ground. His only thought at the moment was the protection of his son and his men.
Even as the two swords struck against each other, clanging repeated blows, the son’s loud cry was heard over the field of battle.
Knowing whose voice shouted across the plain behind him, Foltlaig glanced toward the sound.
A thousand emotions tore his breast to see his son running and imploring him to give up the fight and make good his escape. Yet perhaps for the first time in his forty-three years did Foltlaig understand why his own father—and fathers before and after him throughout all time—had marched to battle. Men fought, and men would always fight . . . the foe must be faced.
To call oneself a man required bravery. This was no land to make heroes of cowards. With fortitude and strength had it first been explored. With valor had it been won. And only with courage would it be held—whenever and however the summons to courage was demanded. . . . If he did not face this rival, his son and all the others might die. What would bonds of love mean then?
On the field of battle, a man must be one with himself, or he is lost. The thinker would have to remain silent. The warrior had risen up. The Fidach of his nature could not meet this Roman enemy. Today Cruithne had won the inner struggle.
For a brief instant the eyes of father and son met. The next, Foltlaig waved him away.
Maelchon hesitated, torn between obedience to his instinct or to his father’s gesture of command.
In the split second that the exchange required, a punishing blow fell from the centurion onto the shoulder of the Caledonian warrior. Blood spurted from a great gaping wound that sliced through the muscle of his upper arm. The sharpened blade did not stop until it struck bone.
A great deep cry of agony rent the air.
Seriously weakened, and with the help of his other hand, Foltlaig attempted to lift the sword in defense. But the fingers clutching its handle, as well as the entire limb, were already lifeless.
Another blow came crashing down, this time to the side of his head, though fortunately with the blunt edge of the Roman’s weapon.
Foltlaig slumped to the ground.
Meanwhile, hearing their leader’s cry, looking back, and seeing Foltlaig fall, every remaining Pict arrested his flight away from the fortress. All turned now and rushed forward to engage the Romans. If the freedom of this land required their blood being spilled on its soil along with his, they would give it.
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Hearing the piercing war cries of his comrades approaching from the hill of retreat brought Maelchon to his senses.
In a mad frenzy of passion and rage, he resumed his forward flight. Before he knew what had happened, his own sword was dripping red halfway to the hilt with the blood of the Roman centurion, who lay dead on the ground, his horse sprinting away riderless.
The screaming of a hundred forty maniacal, painted Picts, throwing spears and brandishing swords as they ran, and the sight of their own leader so suddenly cut down, brought to the minds of every Roman cavalryman and infantryman the tales they had heard since Agricola’s time about these murderous barbarians. Thinking it perhaps better to engage this enemy from behind the safety of the fort’s high walls, they fell back toward the gates. The frenzied mass of attackers swept past father and son after them.
Unaware what a poignant scene he was playing out from among his father’s worst fears, Maelchon stooped down to the bloody and broken form of his father. Foltlaig was unconscious but yet breathing.
Tears gathered in Maelchon’s eyes as he tenderly stretched his hand under the older man’s limp neck.
“Father . . . my father,” he whispered.
But there was no time for deliberation. Grief would have to wait. With the sounds of battle echoing behind him, Maelchon gathered the fallen warrior in his arms, lurched with difficulty to his feet, then staggered back up the hill and to the safety of cover.
Behind the shelter of a large rock, he carefully lowered Foltlaig to the ground. His own arms and chest were covered with the terrible sight of the very blood which now ran in his veins. Maelchon attempted to make the suddenly frail general as comfortable as possible. As he did he spoke in gentle tones of comfort, then set about to wrap the ugly gash tight with leather strips and thongs to stop the flow of blood. He was attending the wound, tears flowing down his cheeks, when the sounds of the companies rushing back to join him met his ear.
“They are beaten back inside the fort.”
Maelchon glanced up at the bearer of the message.
“For good?” he asked, rising.
Legend of the Celtic Stone Page 42