by Craig Zerf
‘Aye,’ agreed Morleo. ‘We shall make them pay for their arrogance. That is for sure.’
The Romans came over the hill in marching order. Within two hundred yards of the waiting tribesmen they deployed into a single line, 480 wide. Their movements precise. Parade ground perfect. Their shields shone bright in the weak Celtic sun and their uniforms showed blood-red against the green of the pictish heather.
Chief Morleo Drest drew his sword from the scabbard that lay across his back and started to bang it against his shield. Slowly, all of his warriors picked up the cadence.
Then the pipers joined in. The asymmetrical wail of the bagless pipes cut across the valley and echoed off the far hills. Like a dirge of ages, raising the hackles on every pictish neck as they cried for battle.
Standing across from the massed tribesmen, the Romans felt the first thrill of fear as the haunting sound enveloped them.
‘Stand steady, men of Rome,’ commanded the Pilus Prior from his horse at the back of the Roman formation. ‘Just a bit of folk-music to get us in the mood.’
There was a rustle of laughter at the officer’s joke and the tension ratcheted down a few notches.
As the pipes reached a crescendo the tribesmen charged.
‘Mountain fall and field burn – hard are we and heather bred – Gyet! Gyet! Gyet!’ Shouted chief Drest as they ran.
And his men shouted with him.
‘Gyet! Gyet! Gyet!’
The Romans stood still.
Behind them the Pilus Prior shouted.
‘Steady, men. Steady. Wait. Ready plumbatae.’
The legionnaires planted their shields in front of them and pulled a lead weighted dart free.
‘Ready,’ shouted the Pilus Prior. ‘On my mark, six darts rapid time.’
The tribesmen charged closer and closer. When they got to about eighty feet away the Pilus Prior gave his order.
‘Throw plumbatae. Go, go, go!’
Every dart was fitted with a small fluted hole so that it created a high-pitched whistle as it spun through the air. 480 darts whistled towards the target, followed closely by another 480. And another. And again. Again. Again. Almost three thousand screaming messengers of death dispatched in under six seconds.
Many missed their targets, thudding harmlessly into the turf. But many others struck home, embedding themselves deep into human flesh. Heads, shoulders, thighs and feet. Fully two hundred tribesmen went down, slowing the charge and sucking the momentum out of it.
The Pilus Prior stood up in his stirrups.
‘Men of Rome,’ he bellowed. ‘Form a wedge.’
The legionnaires rippled smoothly into a wedge formation. At the point of the arrowhead stood Marius and Seneca, the rest of the soldiers fanned out behind them.
‘Double time,’ screamed the Pilus Prior. ‘Draw Gladii. Charge!’
The Romans and the tribesmen met in the middle of the field with a sound like thunder. Over two thousand bodies smashing together at full sprint.
The Roman wedge cut through the tribesmen’s formation with ease, splitting them into two separate units. The tribesmen fought back with great valor, crowding against the Romans and swinging their massive swords overhand in an attempt to break up the arrowhead formation.
But the Romans kept their shields high and they fought like automatons.
One step forward, shield moved slightly to the left, gladius stabbing through to impale a tribesman. Shield wall closed. One step forward, repeat.
Romans in the middle of the wedge used their longer reaching pilium spears to thrust and slash at the enemies heads and, when they stepped over the fallen, their small daggers were used to dispatch any who lay on the ground or, sometimes, the wounded were simply crushed under iron shod, hobnail sandals.
‘To me,’ shouted chief Drest as he gathered his clansmen around him and charged once again at the iron wedge. But it was like trying to fight a stone wall. A stone wall that fought back.
The tribesmen were fighters but they were not professional warriors. They were farmers and tinkers and craftsmen and thatchers. Brave men but, ultimately, amateurs.
The Roman legionnaires were full time, highly paid and trained professional soldiers. Many of the tenth cohort had joined up when they were fourteen years of age and had been fighting across Europe for over twenty or even thirty years. Their tactics had been forged against some of the hardest warriors in the world and, to date, the Romans had never lost a battle. Not a single one.
‘Legionnaires,’ commanded the Pilus Prior. ‘Form the saw.’
Again the machinery of the Roman legion moved smoothly into place. The wedge unfolded into two lines of soldiers, the one staggered slightly behind the other, like the teeth of a saw.
The first rank crashed into the tiring clansmen, smashing them down with their shields and then stabbing with their gladii. After three or four beats of frantic fighting the Pilus Prior blew a whistle and the second rank stepped forward. Fresh arms and legs cleaving into the tribesmen while the first rank rested. After another three beats the whistle went again and the ranks changed, forcing the clansmen back until they eventually broke and ran.
‘Romans, close order.’
The cohort closed ranks to form a solid, tight packed line, shield to shield.
‘Advance, double time.’
The line of Roman warriors crashed forward, sweeping away all before them as they jogged towards the Pictish settlement. By the time they got to the actual houses there was almost no resistance left. Behind them the field lay strewn with the dead and dying Picts.
The Romans had suffered only two casualties.
‘Kill them all,’ commanded the Pilus Prior. ‘In the name of the emperor, leave nothing standing.’
The cohort broke into smaller groups, twos and threes. Almost immediately torches were lit and thatch started burning.
The sound of women and children screaming in mortal terror rent the air as the Roman swords did their work.
Marius and Seneca smashed down a doorway and ran into a large hut. Lying on the floor was the bleeding body of Padraig Drest, the chief’s youngest brother. Blood poured form a multitude of wounds. His stomach, his head, both arms. Around him stood a group of young children and, sitting on the floor, Padraig’s head in her lap, sat a beautiful young girl. Probably fifteen years old. She was weeping.
Marius stepped forward and raised his sword. A small boy jumped in front of him. He was holding Padraig’s huge broadsword but he could barely stand upright with the massive weight of steel in his hands. There was absolutely no chance of him actually raising the blade clear of the ground.
‘Get back, Roman dog,’ the boy shouted. ‘Leave my uncle alone or face my wrath.’
‘By Mars and Juno,’ cursed Seneca. ‘Just kill the little savage and let’s get on with it.’
Marius moved towards the little boy and, as he did so, he noticed a dark stain spread across the front of the boy’s trews as he wet himself in terror.
But he did not move as he strained to lift the mighty sword.
Outside the hut one of the centurions shouted.
‘Marius. What’s going on in there? Any occupants.’
Seneca was about to answer but Marius put his finger to his lips, signaling silence.
‘Nothing here, centurion,’ yelled Marius. ‘Just checking for valuables.’
Seneca raised an eyebrow.
Marius shook his head. ‘I don’t kill women and children and dying men. Never have, never will.’
‘Well get out of the way then,’ said Seneca. ‘Because I do.’
He raised his sword and brought it down on the boy’s neck with enough force to separate his head from his scrawny shoulders.
But the blade never connected as Marius parried the blow and sent a reverse slash through Seneca’s neck, severing his jugular and spilling his life’s blood. Then he grabbed the body and dragged it outside, pulling it to the burning hut next door and throwing it into the flames before anyo
ne noticed. Afterwards he ran to join up with the rest of the cohort as it started to reform.
The Romans drew up into their ranks, standing silent amongst the burning remains of the dead and dying settlement. Once again, the imperial lion of Rome had bared its teeth.
With measured cadence they marched out. Heading home.
Lying, bleeding, on the floor of one of the few remaining huts, the new young chief of the now decimated tribe lay broken and bleeding.
But he would not die. Because his hatred was keeping him alive.
And chief Padraig Drest swore his revenge.
Chapter 8
Nathaniel grunted as Janiver pulled the stitches tight, sewing up the wound in his right shoulder muscle. The price of being a little too slow in his last fight.
He had won. Just as he had won the last five before. But he bore a number of scars from every encounter and he was in bad need of a protracted period of rest and recuperation.
Janiver lent forward and bit the length of gut off with her teeth, tucking and tying the loose end, packing it with a paste of boiled down cow’s urine and then wrapping a clean linen bandage around the wound. Then she produced a comb and combed the knots out of his long dark hair, finally plaiting it so that it lay down his back, between his shoulder blades. Then she did the same to his beard, combing it and plaiting it and winding it with threads of golden wire.
Her administrations complete, she kissed him tenderly on the lips and took his face in her hands and stared into his eyes.
‘My lord, Arnthor,’ she said. ‘I wish that you could stop fighting. My heart stops at the thought of losing you.’
Nathaniel grinned. He had been introduced to the beautiful Pictish woman a mere few days after he had arrived and he had immediately felt a close report. As if he had known her for years. When he told this to Torkill the druid, the priest had nodded sagely and then told Nathaniel that he had actually known Janiver for many years.
When the marine had asked how this was possible Torkill, had told him that he was The Forever Man. He had always and would always have known and loved Janiver. It was both ordained and pre-ordained. Again Nathaniel had asked how, but Torkill had merely shrugged in that maddening way of his and told the marine that he had no idea, he was merely a priest of the Earth and Nathaniel was The Forever Man.
Eventually Nathaniel had given up trying to puzzle out the when’s and why’s and he had simply reveled in Janiver’s obvious love and hero-worship.
‘Fear not, my darling,’ he said. ‘For am I not The Forever Man?’
She nodded. ‘That is why I call you Arnthor, chosen by Thor, for you truly do sit on the right hand of the father of all gods. But even gods can die.’
The marine kissed her. ‘Bring me my great kilt, woman,’ he said. ‘Enough talk of death. Tonight we rejoice, for I have gained control of another clan. I now control six. Not long and I shall be in a position to challenge Tavish MacDonell of clan Ranald for the kingship. Then, once I have united all of the clans, we can concentrate on doing what I am destined to do – fight the Romans.’
Janiver helped him on with his kilt, pleating the bottom half and belting it around his waist and then hanging the plaid by draping the top half of the material over his left shoulder and tying it to his belt. Nathaniel’s kilt was made up of strips of tartan from all of the clans that he had thus far conquered. A garish mix of reds and blues, green and yellows.
His axe went onto the right hand side of his belt, a short sword on his left, a dagger into a sheath on his left calf and another small throwing knife on a thong around his neck.
Janiver wore a white, floor length linen dress, simple and form fitting. Around her waist, a thin gold chain. No jewelry apart from a band of gold around her head, almost, but not quite, a tiara.
They left the main hut and walked to the feasting area accompanied by the druid, Torkill and Nathaniel’s right hand man, the red-bearded Padan.
When they reached the area they were greeted by a huge cheer. Nathaniel smiled and sat at his appointed seat, the head of the main table. But Janiver stayed on her feet and wandered amongst the crowd for a while. Greeting, talking, resting her hands on some men’s shoulders. And wherever she went the sense of love and worship for her was an almost palpable thing. For, if Nathaniel was both their leader, and The Forever Man – he was untouchable. Aloof. Almost a god. But Janiver was theirs. A woman of flesh and blood. Born of a known family and grown up in the highlands. She was their link between the mundane humanity of their own existence and the otherworldly existence of The Forever Man. A man that even the druids held in awe.
‘She assumes too much,’ whispered Torkill to Padan. ‘She is not yet queen but she acts as such.’
Padan shrugged. ‘So? The people love her. Let her have her fun, she works hard and receives little enough attention from lord Degeo who has too few hours in the day to achieve all that he needs to.’
The druid noted well the look in Padan’s eyes, seeing in him the same adoration that he saw in the crowd and he ceased speaking. It would do no good, he thought. The woman had cast a spell on them all, not a literal one, of course, but a binding one nevertheless. He could not be affected as he was a druid and, as such, was also celibate. Mother earth was his lover and father, Thor was his belief. But it mattered not, he concluded. Padan was correct, the people loved her and, the people were Nathaniel’s people so, ipso facto – the people loved Nathaniel.
The festivities went on late into the night and Nathaniel worked the crowd, talking to all, cajoling, discussing and simply inveigling himself. He tried to steal the odd moment with Janiver but such were the many demands on him that he saw her only from a distance throughout the entire evening.
As the night progressed, oxen were roasted on a spit and heaping piles of vegetables, loaves of fresh baked bread and gallons of mead and ale were served up to all.
Dances were danced and songs were sung and when the sun rose, Torkill sacrificed a goat and called on Thor’s blessing to all.
Eventually Janiver retired to the bedchamber and, after she had left, the festivities drew to a close. But Nathaniel stayed on with a select group of chiefs, discussing the future and planning his next steps until the first sliver of morning sun peeked clear of the horizon and led him to bed.
Later that next day a small group of people arrived at Nathaniel’s settlement. Ten women and children surrounded four old men who were carrying a bier. And, on the stretcher lay Padraig Drest. His face was drawn in agony and his skin was as pale as death – but he still lived, born aloft by his desire for revenge and his hatred of the Romans.
Nathaniel came out to see him and the young man grasped the marine by his hand and, his story interrupted by his blood gurgling breathlessness, he told Nathaniel of the attack on his settlement. Of the killing of his brothers and all of his people. The merciless slaying of women and children. And then he swore his obedience to The Forever Man.
‘I have no tribe left to speak of,’ he whispered. ‘But my family is large and powerful. As soon as I have regained my strength I will ensure that at least another three tribes flock to your banner. The time for clan warfare is over. It is time to fight the Romans and only the Romans.’
Nathaniel nodded. He turned to the druid.
‘Take this man to my living quarters,’ he commanded. ‘Make sure that he lives and that he has all that he needs. Treat him as you would my son.’
Torkill bowed deeply. ‘As you wish, my lord.’
The marine beckoned to Janiver. ‘Go with. Check his wounds, see that he is fed. Meat, honey and ale. We need to get his strength up.’
Janiver curtsied. ‘My lord.’ She followed the group back to Nathaniel’s quarters.
***
Nathaniel missed Tad. His quick sense of humor. The repartee, the banter. Even the arguments. He missed talking to someone that knew what a motor vehicle was. Or an airplane. Movies, television. An ice machine. A foreman grill. Heated toilet seats. Okay - the marine kne
w that none of that existed anymore. But it used to, or it would. Whatever, the fact that you could talk about it was enough.
Here, in amongst the clans, it was all, “my lord this and my lord that”. Lord Nathaniel, Lord Degeo, Lord Arnthor, The Forever Man. So many names. He missed being Sergeant Hogan. Life was simpler then.
And, once again, Nathaniel wondered if any of this was real. Was he an almost immortal, time traveling super hero with a geas to unite the tribes and save the picts from Roman subjugation? And then would he somehow be transported back to his own time? Did he then have to continue his geas?
Or, was he simply a complete loon and, even now, was lying in some hospital bed in London? Drugged to the eyeballs and under full time supervision as he had suffered the mother of all breaks from reality and had become a fully certified basket case?
He poked at the fire in front of him with a stick and watched the sparks fly up into the frigid morning sky. He sat in a camp amongst over two thousand other warriors. He was waiting.
After another half an hour the druid returned on horseback, dismounted and walked up to the marine.
‘My lord. Chief Cradoc has accepted your challenge. You will fight tonight. By firelight. However, my lord, he has demanded unarmed combat.’
Nathaniel shrugged. ‘Whatever.’
The druid shook his head. ‘I agreed with his demands, lord, as I knew that you would insist but, I must warn you. Cradoc has never been beaten before in unarmed trial.’
‘Big bastard is he?’ Enquired Nathaniel.
’Not so much big as,’ the druid hesitated. ‘Large.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘Well,’ continued Torkill. ‘If I said that he was fat, you would get the wrong impression. But I suppose that one could call him fat.’
Padan snorted. ‘He’s the size of a house,’ he said. ‘Maybe six foot tall, but must weigh five hundred pounds plus. If he gets hold of you, my lord, you are a dead man. Trust me, I’ve seen him crush someone so badly that when he was finished there wasn’t a single connected bone left in his entire body. Like a bag of mud, he was.’