by Craig Zerf
They would do as he commanded.
They all agreed.
Early the next morning Nathaniel and his thirty thousand strong host marched on the Romans. Ten thousand cavalry and twenty thousand foot soldiers.
They would outnumber the legionnaires by over ten thousand. In his heart Nathaniel knew that it was not enough.
But this was it. This was his throw of the dice.
And he was feeling lucky.
Chapter 17
Marius couldn’t believe that the savages from the other side of the wall were actually attacking the Roman fort. Well, not so much attacking, he conceded, as much as standing there in front of them and taunting them.
Many of them had pulled up their kilts to expose the nakedness underneath as the shook their genitals at the Romans and laughed.
And there were so many of the buggers. Marius had never seen so many tribesmen in one place. There must have been thirty or forty thousand of them and their screamed insults and banging of shields filled the land with a noise akin to thunder.
General Valerius had already commanded the legates and tribunes to form up the 2nd, 6th and 20th legions and array themselves on the battlefield.
The general had decided on the standard open field conflict battle formation, Pig’s Head or Arrow formation. The 2nd legion would be placed front and center, as they were the most elite of the three legions. They would be flanked by the 6th and the 20th. The commanders and the small amount of reserves would fall in behind them and the cavalry, such as it was, would be arrayed on either side.
There was little, or no, reason for any more advanced tactics. They were all confident that the battle would be short lived and successful.
The Romans would march forwards, the enemy would charge them. They would meet in the middle. The barbarians would retreat under the pressure of the Roman killing machine. The enemy cavalry would gallop around ineffectually trying to attack the Roman shield wall and, eventually, the barbarians would turn and the battle would become a rout.
The horns sounded and the whistles blew. Shouted commands came rippling down the Roman line.
‘Advance!’
Shields were locked and, as one, the Roman army advanced, steel shod sandals stamping in unison as they marched forward.
Nathaniel’s army did not move as they faced the might of the Roman war machine bearing down on them. The Roman Arrowhead formation broke into a run, covering the ground quickly, but still the highlanders remained stationary.
‘We’ve petrified them,’ shouted one of the tribunes. ‘They can’t even move!’
A cheer went up amongst the Romans and they struck the highlanders like a storm-wave hitting the beach.
The highlanders fought back hard but the Roman impetus overwhelmed them and Nathaniel had the horn blow the retreat. Slowly, foot-by-foot, the highland middle gave ground. Back they went, their retreat ordered and slow.
General Valerius sounded the horn and the Roman reserves threw themselves into the fray in order to provide the final push.
It was only then that the Roman general realized that, as the highland middle had retreated, the wings of the barbarian’s formation had not moved and, in fact, the cavalry had ridden around the outside of the formation and were now ranked behind him.
The Roman army had been encircled.
However, this was not a problem. The horns blew commands and the Roman arrowhead formation pulled back into a massive square, five deep and each side containing five thousand legionnaires, inside were the commanders and the standards. There was no way that the barbarians would be able to break through this ring of steel, they would simply dash themselves to death on it as they tried.
And then Nathaniel gave his next command.
Scores of warriors ran up. There were five sets of them and each set carried a straight young tree trunk that had been stripped of branches and bark. These trunks were then planted upright into a row of five pre-dug holes in the ground. There was a long length of rope tied around the top of each trunk and, when it was hauled on, the trunk bent backwards until the tip almost touched the ground. On the tip of each of the trunks was a leather bucket. Into each of these buckets a man placed a small wooden cask. Every cask had a short length of oil soaked twine sticking out of it. Using torches, the lengths of twine were all lit.
And then the men let go of the ropes.
The trunks snapped back into an upright position, cracking to a stop as they reached their zenith and throwing the small wooden barrels high into the air. They arced through the sky, leaving a trail of fire as they did so, heading straight for the Roman army.
‘Form a tortoise,’ shouted the legates. ‘Incoming boulders.’
The disciplined Romans raised their shields to protect themselves from the incoming rocks.
But they were not rocks. Every barrel contained around fifty pounds of black powder. As well as the powder, Nathaniel had rammed in two hundred caltrops to provide shrapnel. The short lengths of twine were timed to ignite the barrels while they were still in the air to provide an airburst, resulting in maximum damage.
The five barrels exploded almost simultaneously, the sound echoing around the valley and the hills. The ground shook and the land was filled with smoke and fire and the buzz of the red-hot caltrops as they whipped through the air, ripping through both flesh and armor. Tearing heads from bodies and limbs from torsos. The tightly formed Roman square simply disintegrated into a melee of shocked and disoriented individual soldiers.
Nathaniel’s battle horns bayed out and the highlanders charged.
No battle is ever a foregone conclusion. The Romans were outnumbered but they were professional soldiers and they had a tried and tested command structure. The highlanders were magnificent warriors and their massive broadswords wreaked terrible havoc amongst the enemy. But, in the end, the outcome came down to individual acts of courage and heroism.
The 4th cohort 2nd legion managed to form an arrow and started to cut into the highland advance, collecting more Romans as they plunged onward, gaining in strength. An unknown highlander leaned forward in his saddle, covered his horse’s eyes with his hands so that it did not falter and simply galloped into the front rank of the arrow formation, going down in a flurry of churning hooves and sandals and blades. His compatriots poured into the gap that he had formed with his sacrificial charge and they tore the formation apart.
Padraig Lancelord fought like a man demented and possessed. Already three horses had been cut down from under him but he would spring up, find another free mount and hurl himself back into the fray, bleeding from a multitude of cuts.
Nathaniel saw a highlander impaled by a Roman spear, only to grasp it with his free hand and drag himself down the shaft in order to get close enough to the legionnaire to behead him with a massive swing of his broadsword. He died with a smile on his lips.
Another Pictish warrior, sword broken and discarded, was savagely throttling a Roman tribune whilst at least three more Romans stabbed and cut him in an effort to stop him. Finally he fell to the ground, his flesh almost flayed from his body. But when he fell, the tribune fell, dead, beside him.
The marine watched as the battle waxed and waned across the field, surging and retreating. The field was awash with blood, the friable brown soil turned to a viscous, slimy, red mud that was treacherous underfoot, causing men from both side to slip and fall.
And, as the marine judged the battle to be finely balanced, he sounded the horn one last time and committed his reserve cavalry. Fully two thousand more fresh, heavily armed men.
It was the death knell for the mighty Romans and a shudder went through the legionnaires like a final drawing of breath.
Neither side showed any quarter and the scale of slaughter was horrific. Eventually small groups of Romans gathered together, scattered about the battlefield, and simply waited to be dispatched, some individuals simply too exhausted to raise a sword in defense.
Nathaniel, who had lost his horse to a sp
ear thrust, came across a group of three legionnaires and he swung his axe left and right, swiftly decapitating two of them. The third jumped back and raised his sword.
‘Okay, highlander,’ he said. ‘Let’s do the dance of death.’
Nathaniel grinned and the Roman grinned back at him. They sparred for a while, steel ringing out against steel as blows were struck and parried. But it was obvious that the marine was a superior warrior and, after a few short minutes, the Roman held up his hand.
‘Enough, highlander,’ he said. ‘I’m all done in. Can’t hardly breath.’
He knelt down in front of Nathaniel and took off his helmet, exposing his neck. ‘Make it quick, tribesman.’
The marine raised his axe and, as he was about to swing, Padraig shouted out.
‘My lord. Stay your hand.’
The Lancelord came sprinting over.
‘Please, spare this man, my lord,’ Padraig begged. ‘He saved my life. He refused a direct order to kill me and the children that I was with. He even had to kill one of his own to do so.’
Marius looked up at Padraig. ‘You look better,’ he said. ‘I’m glad. It’s not my place to kill women and children and wounded men.’
Nathaniel lowered his axe and looked around him. Nary a Roman was standing. The battle was over. He held his hand out to Marius and helped him to his feet.
‘Rise, brave Roman. Your life is spared. Please, return to the castle with me. I shall provide you with food and shelter. After that, you will be free to do as you wish. We owe you for the life of our beloved Lancelord.’
The highlander built two huge funeral pyres. One for the Romans and one for their own. The druids said the words. Mead and Uisge were thrown on the flames and a herd of goats sacrificed by throwing them, alive, onto the pyres.
Then the host went home.
Chapter 18
All of the chiefs sat around the huge round table. And all about the table were seated more luminaries. Heroes from the battle, wives, elders, druids. Three chairs away to Nathaniel’s left sat the Roman, Marius, a goblet of mead in his hand and a look of utter bemusement on his face. On the marine’s right, MacDonell, Padan and Torkill the druid.
But Nathaniel had little time for sitting. He was cruising the room. Patting backs and shaking hands. Giving credit where due and swapping stories of the great battle.
It had been a magnificent victory. A victory from which Rome would never fully recover. Twenty thousand Roman soldiers dead for the loss of only two thousand Pictish warriors. Nathaniel had left enough Romans alive to return back south to spread the news. To venture north of the wall was to court certain death.
Blood had been repaid with blood.
Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo Hogan had made sure of that.
Finally the marine made it back to the table and sat down exhausted, in his seat. Someone shoved a goblet of uisge into his hand and he drank deep, the fiery liquid burning his throat and warming his lungs with its fragrant fire.
He looked up and saw Marius the Roman standing next to him. The legionnaire knelt down.
‘King Arthur,’ he said. ‘I thank you for this kind invitation to sit at your round table and drink with you. It is an honor beyond all that I ever in my life expected.’
Nathaniel patted him on the back. ‘No worries, Roman. And it’s Arnthor, by the way, not Arthur.’
Marius smiled. ‘Forgive me, king. I pronounce it in the Roman way. Arthur. Our tongue is different. Much like our pronunciation of the name of your queen. You say Janiver, we say Guinevere. And pray tell, king Arthur, where is your queen? I would like to pay my respects and give my thanks. As well would I like to thank Padraig Lancelord.’
Nathaniel stared at Marius for a full ten seconds before he spoke.
‘What did you call the queen?’
‘Guinevere, king.’
The world spun around Nathaniel. Colors smeared and sound seemed to stretch out around him. Laughter and music became a dirge and a lament.
Arthur. The round table. Guinevere. Lancelord…Lancelot!
He cast his gaze around the room, searching for his friend and his queen. His lover and his right hand man.
Torkill the druid grasped the marine by the shoulder.
‘My lord,’ he said. ‘What is wrong? You have gone as pale as death.’
Nathaniel grabbed his axe from his belt as he sprang to his feet and ran from the room. Torkill, Marius and Padan followed him.
He sprinted down corridors, throwing open doors, almost tripping and falling in his haste. Grunting as he ran, like a gut-shot animal.
Finally he came to Padraig’s room and he kicked the door open.
Entwined on the bed were the two of them. Their naked flesh burnished gold by the firelight, the sounds of their passion cutting through the air like daggers. Slicing into Nathaniel’s heart. Wounding him. Rending him.
A cry of mortal agony escaped from his lips and he stood rooted to the spot.
Janiver gasped and pulled up the bedclothes to cover her nakedness.
Padraig walked over to Nathaniel and fell to his knees in front of him, tears steamed down his face.
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ he gasped. ‘I could not stop myself. By the gods, I tried. I tried so hard.’
He pulled his long hair from the back of his neck.
‘Please, lord. Strike me down now. Kill me.’
Nathaniel stood, panting with rage and passion, his chest rising and falling like a set of bellows.
And then he raised his axe high and brought it down…stopping as it touched Padraig’s neck.
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘You will live. Death is too good for you.’
The marine turned and ran from the castle and into the fields. He ran from the pain. He ran from the horror. And behind him followed Torkill and Padan.
He fell to his knees and raised his axe above him.
The night skies burst open with a flash of color and a bolt of lightning crashed down from the heavens and struck the axe.
And the druid cried out in dismay and terror.
For The Forever Man had gone.
Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo Hogan, King Arthur – was no more.
Chapter 19
Tad picked up the hare that he had just killed and placed it into a sack tied to his belt. That made four. Enough for the day. He would dress them when he got home. Every bit would be used, from flesh to fur to entrails.
As the little big man walked back towards his cottage he kept an eye out for wolves. There had been a vast increase in both their numbers and their size of late and it was a foolish man who didn’t keep his eyes peeled for them. Especially when out alone.
He approached the standing stone with Nathaniel’s mark on it and, as he always did, remembered the day that the marine had simply disappeared into thin air, leaving not a trace behind, save some footprints in the snow.
After the marine’s almost magical disappearance in front of so many witnesses the standing stone itself had become a place of reverence. Almost an object of worship. Many people went so far as to leave offerings at the foot of the stone. Fruit, bunches of flowers. At times a chicken or rabbit.
Tad noticed that, this morning, someone had left something more substantial. It looked like a pile of clothing. Perhaps a blanket.
It was only when he got closer that he saw it was actually a person, lying huddled up in a fetal position at the foot of the stone. He was wearing a great kilt, a rough leather tunic and a pair of thick sandals. His face was covered by a mane of dark hair.
Lying, in the snow next to him, was an axe.
An axe that Tad knew only too well.
He ran forward and knelt next to the body, pushing the hair back to see his features.
And, unbidden, tears sprang from his eyes and ran freely down his cheeks. The man looked slightly older, perhaps more careworn and haggard than touched by age. He was scarred and his hair and beard looked like they had not seen a barber for at least a year, but there was no mistaki
ng it.
Nathaniel Hogan was back.
***
The marine sat at the table. His face was drawn and pale. His eyes haunted. Tad had dragged him back to his place and laid him on a pallet to sleep. He had slept for two days and now, finally awake, he was drinking some hot rabbit soup that Tad had made.
He had not yet spoken and Tad had not pushed him to.
Finally, Nathaniel finished the soup. He cleared his throat.
‘You look different,’ he said to Tad.
The dwarf nodded.
‘Aye. So do you.’
‘You look older,’ continued the marine.
‘Your hair is longer,’ answered Tad.
Nathaniel leant forward and touched the hair at Tad’s temples.
‘You’re going gray.’
Tad nodded again. ‘Aye. Time will do that to a man.’
Nathaniel looked baffled. ‘How? I mean…how long has it been?’
‘How long do you think?’ Asked Tad
The marine shrugged. ‘A year. Maybe a little more.’
Tad smiled. ‘Try twenty-two years, my friend. When you left I was a young man. Now I am forty-four years old. Hence the gray hair.’
‘Where’s Gruff. Gruff McGunn?’
Tad shook his head. ‘Dead. He died in a skirmish with the orcs some twelve years back. A lot has changed since you left, Nate. A hell of a lot.’
Nathaniel squeezed his eyes shut. Nothing made sense. He had no anchor with which to fasten his reality to the world. He had no center. His world was awash with uncertainty. A wave of self-pity washed over him but he crushed it before it had a chance to grow. For that way lay madness.
‘Tell me all,’ he said to Tad. ‘Leave nothing out.’
And so he did.
Over the last twenty years the Fair-Folk had expanded both in influence and numbers. It was guesstimated that there were in excess of three million Orcs, and around two million goblins. Numbers regarding trolls were unsubstantiated and, as for the actual Fair-Folk themselves, estimates varied between one hundred thousand to as high as half a million.