“So now all we have to do is get home and survive whatever Colm has in store for us,” Brude told him. “If we survive that, I have to think of a way to kill the emperor and escape with my life.”
“If anyone can do it, you can,” Fothair told him airily.
“Trust me. Nobody can do it. If I do get close enough to strike him, I am a dead man.”
“Then let’s hope the Romans are in a mood to let us all live,” Fothair replied.
Brude just grunted.
Down below, the camp site where the men of Broch Tava had stayed overnight was now deserted, Colm and his men having long gone. Even on horseback Brude doubted whether they would catch up with them much before they reached home. What would happen when they did reach home was more uncertain than ever.
Appius Flaminius Philo stood on the deck of the war galley savouring the tang of the sea spray and the rhythmic splash of the oars. He checked that the three other ships under his command were all maintaining position. Satisfied, he turned back to survey the land. He had looked over the maps the evening before when they had beached the ships in a wide, shallow bay and he knew that they should be reaching a broad estuary when they rounded the next headland. They were now north of the emperor’s army so, as he had told his men that morning as they boarded the ships, anyone they came across was to be considered hostile.
They reached the estuary where he saw the narrow plain and the line of low, steep hills that ran down to the shore. He also saw what he was looking for. There was a huddle of roundhouses near the shore at the foot of one of the hills. There were even the bare spars of a small boat under construction. He turned to his assistant Decimus. “Tell the ship masters to pick up the pace. All marines to don armour and prepare for action.” Decimus ran lightly back to the stern to relay the message. Soon, Philo heard the beat of the hortator’s drum pick up, the slaves manning the oars reacting to the increased rhythm and pushing the galley on faster. Signals would be flying to the other galleys, he knew. He could trust his men to obey his commands, so he turned back to examine the northern shore of the wide river. He thought he could make out people moving around in the village and there were even a couple of the ludicrous oval-shaped, leather-skinned vessels the barbarians used for fishing, sitting out in the river. Nobody had yet seen the approaching ships, he thought, though he knew they would soon enough. Decimus scampered back. “All done, sir,” he said in his young, eager voice.
“Very good. Fetch my armour.” Wearing armour aboard ship was only countenanced when the men were about to go into action. Falling overboard was bad enough if you could swim and were wearing ordinary clothes. In full armour a man would sink like a stone. Philo was experienced enough to know not to take any unnecessary chances, even when the seas were calm, as now.
He looked again at the village. A quick in and out raid with little opposition was what this called for, he thought. He saw the small shapes of three people running along the grassland towards the village. They, at least, had seen the galleys but he was not concerned about that. At best all they could do was warn people to run.
According to the maps he had studied, there was a fortress tower on the hill above the village. He searched for it, eventually spotting the tip of a bony finger of stone appearing beyond the wooded ridge at the top of the long hill that towered over the village. He clucked his tongue. A fortified tower meant warriors but all the reports said there were not many people living here and the tower was a fair way from the village. He knew he would not be able to storm a fortified position because his marines had no siege weapons, but they were more than capable of taking on anyone who came out of the tower to challenge them.
Dismissing the tower as inconsequential, his eyes scoured the shoreline for a landing point. There was a long, sandy beach ahead of him, lying to the east of the village. It looked open and inviting but he thought he could make out swirling patterns in the waves near the north shore, which suggested there might be shallow shoals or rocks. Where the sand stopped, there was a small piece of land jutting into the estuary. Beyond that, where the houses and the boat were, the shore was pebbles and stones rather than sand. The sand would be easier, he thought, but the houses were near the stony beach so that meant there were probably no hidden rocks or sandbanks for his galleys to founder on. Even barbarians were not stupid enough to sail out from a beach that had hidden dangers. He would go straight for the village, he decided.
With the eyes of experience, he made his plans as the ships surged towards their target, the oars biting into the waves to the beat of the drums. A line of sixty men would suffice to stop anyone coming down from the tower, he decided. The rest of his men could get in to the village, take whatever they could find by way of loot or prisoners, burn the houses and especially the half built boat, then be back on board in less than half an hour. Simple and efficient, the way Philo liked it. The Roman way.
With many of the men away, Castatin had been bored so he had gone down to the lower village where he had met Seoc’s sisters. Barabal was nice, he thought, but a couple of years older than he was. Still, her figure was developing and he was starting to take an interest in such things so he offered to go with the girls to the rock pools out on the sandy beach. The tide would be heading out soon so they would be able to collect small crabs and shellfish which would be trapped in the pools. Seasaidh, who normally scared him with her forthright manner and teasing words, seemed friendlier than usual, even speaking politely without the mocking laugh she usually used when she spoke to any boy. For Castatin, it seemed a morning full of promise.
The tide was just starting to turn so the rocks were not visible yet. They would probably have at least an hour or so to wait so they climbed down the grass bank on to the sand. They quickly found a sheltered spot under the edge of the grass where they could pass the time. Seasaidh asked Castatin if he knew why his father and all the men had gone away to Dun Nechtan. Castatin was busy explaining that he had no idea when Barabal suddenly pointed out to sea. “Look!” she said. “There are some ships.”
There were four galleys, their square white sails catching the thin breeze, ranks of oars splashing in rhythm. Castatin thought he heard the distant sound of a drum beat rolling over the water. Eyes painted on the prows gave the ships a demonic look. When Castatin saw the men standing on the flat decks, the sunlight reflecting from their armour, he knew who they were.
“Romans!” he shouted. “Come on, we have to get back to the broch.” Seoc had told him about Brude’s warning. If the Romans came by sea, they were to take shelter in the broch.
They scrambled up the bank onto the flat grassland strip, where the village’s sheep and goats were allowed to wander and graze. It was a fairly long walk back to the village from here, but they set off at a run. Castatin knew that the safest path to get to the broch would be to cut inland, between the low, lumpy hills so that they could approach the broch from the north east. But he also knew that the watchmen on the broch would not be able to see the ships because of the narrow wooded ridge which blocked the view to the south east. If they ran along the shore, he thought, they would get back in time to warn everyone.
They dashed along the rough, tussocky flatland, arms pumping, their breath rasping in their throats. Castatin had to slow to allow the girls to keep up with him. Anxiously, he watched the ships as they entered the broad estuary. He half hoped that they would head for the apparently smooth landing on the sandy beach, which he knew would probably mean they would either run into one of the sandbanks that lurked just below the surface of the receding tide or they would grind onto the rock shoals which lay just off the beach. He cursed in frustration when he saw that the Romans were heading further west, straight for the village.
Seasaidh suddenly fell with a scream of pain. Castatin ran back to help her. He tried to lift her up. “My ankle!” she sobbed, tears of pain and fright streaming down her cheeks. “I hurt my ankle!” She tried to put some weight on it but she could not stand. Castatin looked anxio
usly out at the ships. They were moving far faster than he thought possible, the banks of oars powering them through the waves with incredible speed. Seasaidh was crying, both from her ankle and from the fear of the Romans while Barabal was biting her lips nervously, watching the ships’ inexorable approach to the village. The steady beat of the drums was clearly audible now and they could easily make out the individual men standing on the flat deck. Castatin could hardly believe how many oars the ships had. The galleys were so big they made Gruoch’s half-built vessel look puny and insignificant. He looked towards the village where people were now streaming up towards the hill, heading for the sanctuary of the broch. Then he realised the warning horn was blowing from the top of the tall tower of the broch where the watchmen had, at last, seen the Roman galleys. Watchmen had stood atop the great tower for many years without ever having to sound the horn, but it was blowing now, urging the villagers to safety. Castatin and the girls were still several hundred paces from the nearest roundhouse and the boy, with a terrible feeling of despair, knew he had made the wrong choice of where to go. To get to the broch now, they either had to head towards the village and up the track, try to climb the hill at its steepest, most densely wooded slope or turn back eastwards, retracing their steps before circling round the hill to approach the broch from the other side.
He had to make a decision. Seasaidh could hardly walk so climbing the steep slope was out of the question. Going back was a long walk and she would slow them down. It would take them away from the Romans but, if chased, they would be out in the open with no chance of escape. Which left the shortest and most dangerous route. The Roman ships were perilously close now so they would have to hurry. He turned to Seasaidh, ordering her to climb onto his back. “I’ll carry you,” he told her. To Barabal he said, “You run for it. Go up the hill through the trees, if you can. It will be safer if you keep out of sight.”
Barabal, her face strained and pale with fear, shook her head. “We should stay together.”
He did not have time to argue. With Seasaidh clinging to his back, her arms wrapped around him, almost throttling him, he set off in a lurching run for the trackway. The ground was relatively flat but the grass was long, with many tussocks and dips, lumps and bumps to impede him. Without the weight of Seasaidh on his back, he would hav thought nothing of covering the short distance to the village but, slowed down by his burden, his breath was soon coming in great gasps and his legs and arms were growing incredibly tired.
The Roman ships crunched onto the gentle slope of the beach, the prows grinding on to the pebbles. Men leapt from the decks, splashing into the water and running ashore, shields and swords at the ready. As he saw them fanning out quickly in small groups, Castatin knew with a dreadful certainty that he was not going to reach the trackway before the Romans cut them off. He had almost reached Brude’s new roundhouse, the nearest home to the foot of the hill, but the trackway was still two hundred paces away and the armoured soldiers were far closer. “Into the trees,” he gasped. He swerved, almost falling as his legs betrayed him. Seasaidh squealed in fright and he heard Barabal almost sobbing as she ran for the nearby trees. Behind them he heard a shout but he kept running. He staggered to the trees, twigs scraping at his face as he ducked into the shade but he soon had to stop for the hill was steep and impossible to climb unless he let Seasaidh go. Barabal turned, her face ashen and her eyes wide with fear. There was a crash of someone charging into the trees behind them. Castatin turned to see three heavily armed Roman soldiers burst into the wood. The first one shouted, triumphantly as he ran straight at Castatin. He saw the deadly sharp blade of the man’s gladius, just like the sword Brude used to carry. He tried to step away but he was hemmed in by the trees and Seasaidh was screaming in his ear, weighing him down. He tried to dodge the sword but, instead of thrusting, the soldier suddenly rammed his large shield forwards. The metal rim hit him hard, knocking him to the ground. He twisted in a desperate effort to save falling on top of Seasaidh. He felt her release her grip on him, but in doing so he crashed into the trunk of a tree, hitting it hard with his head. Everything went black.
Cruithne saved the villagers that day. At the first sound of the warning horn, he was calling up to the watchmen to find out what was wrong. When he heard that four Roman war galleys were approaching, he did not hesitate. He wore his heavy mail coat all day, which at first had been an affectation, a device to show everyone how strong he was, but now he was glad of it. He strapped on his sword, grabbing his shield and spear as he yelled for the warriors to assemble outside the broch. He saw Seoc running to join them. Urgently, he pointed, jabbing his spear towards the man. He knew he could rely on Seoc to follow orders. “Get everyone up here inside the broch. Everyone! Have five men hold the door and you hold the stockade gates with ten more. You do not come down. If the rest of us have to retreat, you hold the gates to cover us. If the Romans get here first, get inside the broch and hold it. Understand?”
Seoc nodded. Without wasting time, he counted off fifteen warriors, sending them to their posts while Cruithne gathered the remaining men around him. “We’re going down the hill,” he told them. “I don’t know how many of them there are, so we stick together. All we need to do is hold the path long enough for everyone from the lower village to get up here.” He saw their faces, tense and excited at the same time. Some, he knew, had been involved in the fight against Gartnait’s men the previous year but, if what Brude had told him about the Romans was true, s wromised to be a different affair.
Mairead ran up to him. “Castatin is down there!” she told him. “Please! You must get him back.”
Cruithne nodded. “I’m on my way.” A year ago, he knew, Mairead would not have sought his help. A year ago he was just Colm’s enforcer, a man everybody feared. But things had changed a lot for Cruithne since then. He had been born into the tribe of the Caledonii but he had been thrown out by his father for his constant fighting. He had wandered the lands of the Pritani, seeking employment as a mercenary wherever he could find it. But in the close-knit tribal groups of the Pritani, a mercenary was an outsider, a man not to be wholly trusted. When he had heard how Colm of Broch Tava was seeking men who could fight, he had come to the village where the young chieftain had given him a position in his warrior band. Cruithne was not a clever man. He knew that. But he did have a talent for fighting. Because he was so big, people were naturally wary around him and Colm had encouraged him to use his strength to bully people into doing what Colm wanted. Cruithne, for so long an outsider, had felt wanted at last, at least by Colm. He had been happy.
Then Brude had arrived. Colm had made it clear that he did not like the man and even Cruithne could sense there was an old rivalry there over Mairead. But when Brude had beaten him so easily and then, to Cruithne’s astonishment, had treated his injuries and spoken to him like a friend, Cruithne had lain awake at nights re-evaluating his life. He watched Brude, saw how he acted among the villagers and saw how they responded to him. Cruithne compared that with how people reacted to Colm. He realised that people obeyed Colm because they were afraid of what he might do to them. But they did as Brude told them, or more usually what Brude merely suggested to them, because they respected him, because they liked him and because what he said usually made sense. It was hard for Cruithne to change who he was, but he decided that he would try to be more like Brude. Now Mairead had turned to him for help.
He would have helped anyway. His task was to protect the village and the village was under attack. This was what he was good at. For a moment he wondered whether to fetch Colm’s hunting dogs but he dismissed the idea; the hounds were trained to attack deer, not men. So he gave the command; fifteen of the warriors of Broch Tava followed him as he hurried out of the gate where Seoc stood with the men who would defend the stockade. Seoc’s home was in the lower village as well, Cruithne remembered, and he had those two pretty sisters. He could see the anxiety on the young man’s face but Seoc, he knew, was better here, where a cool head wa
s needed, rather than down in the village where things could get nasty. Cruithne had grown to like Seoc and he knew that there was a chance that any of them going down to face the Romans might not survive. Better to let the young man have a chance of life, he thought.
Cruithne led his men down the hill, running in a crazy, dangerous charge where the slightest slip would lead to a horrible fall. Already the first villagers were passing them, making for the broch. Cruithne shouted at them to move as fast as they could. He saw Lulach and his son carrying old Caitlin, the Brude tot woman in the village. She was berating Lulach for a fool because she could manage well enough without his help. Lulach ignored her and trudged on.
By the time the warriors reached the foot of the hill, most of the villagers had passed them on their way up. Brude’s mother and old Seoras were there, moving slowly but at least on the way. Gruoch the carpenter followed, carrying his precious tools even though they slowed him down. But Cruithne had seen no sign of Castatin or Seoc’s sisters.
Their headlong charge carried them further than Cruithne intended, bringing them almost to the houses by the time he pulled them into battle line. He forced them back to form a wall of shields at the foot of the hill. He barely had time to get them organised when he saw that the Romans were prepared for them. He had been watching as he ran down the hill, seeing the armoured men scurrying all through the village, entering houses and ransacking them before setting light to the thatch. He had hoped to catch them spread out but someone down there knew what they were doing for the Romans had stopped their running around and withdrawn to form up. Now they marched out in good order through the houses to meet the Pritani.
Cruithne heard one of the warriors muttering a prayer to Belatucadros. He felt a sudden, unfamiliar pang of uncertainty. Even though he was still only twenty-three years old, he had fought many times before, but mostly in one-on-one combat. This was warfare and he had heard Brude speak of the Romans’ deadly prowess in battle. He wanted to charge at them, screaming like a devil and swinging his mighty sword but he knew he had to buy time for the villagers to climb the long road to the broch. “Hold the line,” he shouted, surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “We need to give people time to reach the broch. Hold the line.”
In the Shadow of the Wall Page 30