The next day brought more rain in scattered showers, interspersed with bouts of warm sunshine. The same pattern continued for the next few days. Many of the prisoners began coughing, sneezing and feeling unwell. Castatin was one of those who was affected. His head felt hot and his body was wracked with shivers. He wanted to stop, to lie down and rest, but he saw the guards beating anyone who did that, forcing them to stand and press on, so he held on to Barabal and she helped him trudge on for mile after mile, his bones aching and his head throbbing. Yet, in one way he was almost happy because Barabal began speaking to him again. He thought she was, at last, coming out of the depression that had gripped her for so many days. Even if it was only because he was now unwell, he was pleased to hear her encourage him, to see her eyes free of the numb blankness that had engulfed her. There was hope for her yet.
They lost count of the days but eventually they reached a great city with massive walls, large buildings of brick and stone, temples with columns and brightly painted statues, and wide open spaces surrounded by colonnades. The place was crowded with people who stopped to point and stare at them. They were taken to a large wooden structure, which Castatin, even through his fever, recognised when they went inside. It was an amphitheatre. He had listened to Brude’s tales of what went on in the arena and he felt his legs turn weak when the soldiers marched them in at spear point before releasing them from the coffles. Castatin thought they were going to be made to fight each other or, worse, be eaten by wild animals. He clung to Barabal’s hand, waiting for the end, feeling the tears spring to his eyes. He was in no condition to fight anyone and felt too ill even to walk any further, let alone run from wild beasts.
The soldiers finished unshackling them then left through the same gateway, closing the huge doors behineight="0/font>
And nothing happened.
Castatin looked around. He saw that the rows of seats around the amphitheatre were empty except for a handful of soldiers who were slowly patrolling the tiers, watching the slaves in the arena. There were other captives already in the arena. They were sitting or lying down on the earth floor with no danger threatening them. Relief washed over him and he almost laughed aloud.
“What is it?” Barabal asked.
“This is the place where they make people fight, but I think they are just using it to hold us here because there are so many of us.”
“Is that good?” Barabal asked, puzzled.
“Well it means we are still alive, so I think that’s pretty good.”
“We should try to escape,” she said.
He smiled weakly when he saw the spirit in her eyes once more. He was glad, but his thumping headache and the hot flushes coursing through his body meant that he could muster little enthusiasm. “You are right, but I need to rest. I feel awful.” He slumped to the ground and lay down. The earth was hard-packed and damp but he did not care. The afternoon sun was warm and all he wanted to do was sleep. From far away he heard Barabal calling his name but he was too tired to answer.
In the early morning, Brude climbed to the top of the broch with Mairead. The view from the narrow parapet was incredible. They could see for miles inland, as well as southwards and westwards along the river. The sky was clear, with only light clouds, bringing the promise of another fine day.
Down below, people were already stirring but Brude’s eyes were fixed westwards, surveying the river valley. The low hills and the volcanic plug of the Law blocked a lot of the view but away in the distance, where the river faded to the horizon, he saw what he had feared.
Thin tendrils of smoke were rising skywards, twisting and dissipating in the light breeze. They were a long way away, over twenty miles, but they were clearly visible, grey streaks against the blue sky.
He pointed them out to Mairead. “What is it?” she asked.
“I think it is Peart. The Romans are coming.”
Brude called the villagers together. They gathered on the green outside the broch, where he had confronted Lutrin and his men the day before. They stood or sat on the grass as he faced them, Mairead at his side. Fothair gave them a knowing look and grinned.
Brude felt uncertain. All of them were watching him, nearly two hundred men, women and children waiting for him to speak but he had no words of encouragement to give them. He felt Mairead’s hand gently resting on his arm, offering support. He coughed before saying what he had to say. “We do not have much time, because I believe the Romans are coming. There is smoke from the direction of Peart. Homes are burning. They will be here soon.”
There were murmurs of concern from the crowd. Caroc asked, “What will they do when they get here?”
“They seem to be coming intent on conquest. I cannot say for sure, but I expect they intend to kill or enslave anyone they find.” This was his greatest fear, a fear he now saw reflected in the faces of the villagers. The raid from the sea had shown what the Romans were like. He held up a hand to quieten them. “I am happy to listen to whatever plan anyone else can offer, but my belief is that we have only one chance. We need to make them think we are already defeated. I will have to talk to them, to try to persuade them there is nothing here for them. We must show them we are beaten already.”
“And how do we do that?” asked old Seoras.
“We knock down the gates to the stockade, burn a couple more houses near the main gate, and empty the broch. They will certainly want it destroyed.”
There were cries of protest at this. He let them talk for a while but it soon became clear that nobody had any other suggestions. Brude went on. “It would be best if the young men and women were able to hide somewhere out of sight in the woodlands. In fact, it would be best if everyone could hide until I can learn what the Romans intend. So you should gather up what you can carry and head into the woods.”
“Why don’t we go to Dun Nechtan?” Seoras asked.
Brude shook his head sadly. “Because that is where the Romans will go next. If they are intent on destruction, Dun Nechtan will not save us.”
“So you are saying we should hide in the forests until they are gone, or just sit here hoping that they think we areign="justith killing or taking as slaves?” It was Oengus, Gartnait’s son, freed from his shackles only the previous evening yet already challenging Brude’s authority. Brude had an insight into how Colm must have felt when he himself had returned to the village so unexpectedly.
Staring back at Oengus, he replied, “That is exactly what I am saying. You are free to do what you want. Anyone who wants to try to get to Dun Nechtan should go now, for the Romans could be here in a few hours. Those who want to stay have two choices. Either to gather as much as they can and head inland, to hide in the forests, or to wait here and hope I can persuade the Romans that the village is harmless. I will assure them that there will be no resistance. If they want the broch and the rest of the village burned, we will not protest. When they have gone everyone can come back and try to rebuild, or build somewhere else. But as soon as I can, I must go to try to find Castatin and Barabal.”
Seoc nodded. That last part was what he wanted to hear. Oengus, though, was not satisfied. “But you will be safe because you are a Roman yourself. You can just walk away and leave us here to suffer whatever the Romans want to do to us.” Whatever else a year in slavery had done to Oengus, it had not made him any less hostile to Brude. The young man spat on the ground. “If Peart is truly destroyed then I am going to Dun Nechtan. There are warriors there who will fight, not cowards who want to run and hide.”
“Do as you wish, and take anyone else who wants to go,” Brude told him bluntly. He did not think it was worth telling Oengus that Nechtan intended to submit to Rome if he could. The young man would discover that soon enough.
There was more discussion, more questions but there was nothing else Brude could tell them. In the end, Oengus, who clearly had no intention of going back to Peart to see what had become of his family, decided to go north to Dun Nechtan. Many of the warriors, together with some of th
eir women and children, went with him. Fothair urged Brude to stop them but Brude said that everyone should make their own decision about what they wanted to do. “I don’t know what is for the best,” he admitted. “Perhaps they are right.”
Caroc was appointed to lead the bulk of the remaining villagers into the woodland to the east. He began organising work parties to gather as many supplies as they could. They ransacked the broch where they found a great store of Roman coins, which Caroc gave to Brude. “You should have these,” the burly smith told him. “We won’t need them.”
Seoras announced that he would stay in the village. Quite a few of the older men and women said they would stay, too. “We’re too old to go traipsing around in the forests,” Seoras said. “And I doubt the Romans will want us as slaves.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Brude, “but that is not all they can do.”
“You mean they might kill us? Well, we will take that chance. You can use your magic on them and persuade them to leave us in peace.”
Brude was appalled at the faith the villagers had in him. He was not at all sure that he would be able to persuade the Romans to leave the villagers unharmed. “I have no real rank among the Romans,” he told Seoras. “I was a slave. Even after I was freed, I was still at the bottom of their society. They are just as likely to kill me as to listen to me.”
“You underestimate yourself,” Seoras told him, which made Brude feel simultaneously better and yet more worried.
Brude turned to Fothair. “Could you go and look for a horse for me, before Oengus and his men take them all? I have a couple of things to do but then I’d better go and try to find out where the Romans are.”
“I’ll get two,” said Fothair. “I thought I’d tag along with you for a while. I’d like to see Rome.”
Brude was relieved. He had wanted to ask Fothair to come with him but he was reluctant to, in case the tall man took it as an order. Better that he came of his own accord. “Thank you. But I have no intention of going all the way to Rome. Come to think of it, we’ll need three horses, one each plus a spare to carry food and act as a replacement if one should go lame. If we can get past the army, we will be pushing our mounts hard.”
“I’ll see to it,” Fothair said with a decisive nod.
“We’ll not have many horses left at this rate,” Caroc pointed out.
“And we’ll need four,” said Mairead.
Brude stiffened. He twisted his head to look at her. “Why?”
“If you think I’m letting you go away without me, after I’ve only just found you, you have another think coming. We will find our son together.”
Fothair laughed. He looked at Brude questioningly.
Seoras laughed too. “Don’t bother arguing, boy. You’ll never win.”
“Four horses then,” said Brude. He decided it would be best to argue with Mairead later, when they were alone. Seoc and Caroc had obviously picked up on Mairead’s comment about who Castatin’s parents were, but they said nothing. Seoras would explain it to them or, more likely, his mother would. She had probably told everyone else by now anyway.
While Fothair was fetching the horses and gathering supplies, Brude asked Mairead to cut his hair short. He sat patiently while she trimmed away the growth of the past year. She was far from expert but he looked at himself in a small mirror and reckoned the shorter hair made him look less like a Pritani. Fothair was back by the time Mairead had finished. The two men went down to the lower village. The carcass of Brude’s mule had been carted away to be butchered and skinned. It was no good for feeding people but the dogs would eat it and the skin and bones could serve a whole range of uses.
With Fothair’s help, Brude cleared away the blackened timbers of the ruins of his house. He found the spot where his bed had been and began digging with an antler pick. “What’s down there?” Fothair asked him.
“Some things I hoped I’d never need.”
The earth was hard, baked by the flames, but he soon reached the clay jar which was undamaged. He tugged off the sealskin cover and retrieved the contents. He looped the sword over his shoulder then shoved the money and his papers into a pack, which he slung on his back. Fothair raised an eyebrow. “You’re a rich man what with that buried treasure and the stuff from the broch.”
“Where we are going, we may need a lot of money,” Brude replied. “And it’s not much use here, is it? It’s only important men who use Roman coins.”
“You are intending to buy back Castatin and Barabal?”
“Better than trying to fight the whole empire on our own.”
“Aye, you have a point there.”
Brude lost his argument with Mairead. She was ready and waiting for him, wearing riding breeches and a leather shirt with a woollen jerkin, her hair tied back and her expression full of determination. Fothair beamed when he saw her, complimenting her on how lovely she was. Brude shot him a look that spoke volumes.
Fothair had found four horses, three saddled with Roman-style saddles, high at the front and back, with four pommels, providing a solid seat that allod the riders to move their arms freely while still being able to stay on the horse. The fourth horse had bundles of baggage strapped to it.
Fothair had also found a long sword from somewhere and had strapped it at his side. Brude told him to get rid of it. “You can’t wear that,” he told him irritably.
Fothair, who realised Brude’s bad temper was because Mairead was coming with them, smiled innocently. “Why not?” he asked. “You’ve got a sword.”
“I am a Roman citizen and I can prove it. The two of you are never going to convince anyone you are citizens. You’ll have to be my slaves. Slaves don’t carry swords, especially not bloody great things like that.”
Fothair pulled a face. “As Erecura is my witness, you are a hard man to follow. You only freed me yesterday but now you want me to be a slave again.” Mairead laughed. Fothair grinned at her. “What about you, my lady? Are you his slave too?”
“Only when I want to be, Fothair,” she smiled. “Apparently you are my brother if anyone asks.”
“Well I’m glad to hear it, my lady. Why?”
Brude said, “It will explain why she sleeps with me and not you.”
Fothair had the good grace to look embarrassed. “Master’s privilege?”
“That’s right. And just you thank the gods I am not a Greek or you’d find yourself on the receiving end of the same privilege.”
Fothair got the message and shut up, unstrapping his sword. Reluctantly, he handed it to Caroc who, with Seoras, Mor and Seoc, had come to see them off. Brude helped Mairead climb onto her horse, then he and Fothair mounted as well. He looked down at his friends. “Good luck to you all.”
“And to you,” nodded Seoras.
To Caroc, Brude said, “Keep the people safe if you can.”
Caroc nodded. He had already sent most of the villagers on the march eastwards, following the shoreline but cutting inland, keeping to the shelter of the woodlands. They had some cattle, sheep and goats and as much as they could carry. “We’ll keep out of sight,” the burly smith assured him. Neither of them mentioned what would happen if they could not return before the harvest time. They could scrape a living in the forests during the summer but the winter would be hard without supplies of wheat, oats and barley. There was no need to talk about that, for they all understood the danger of going hungry.
With a nod to Seoc, his promise to find Barabal already made, Brude nudged his horse into motion and the three of them set off, out through the broken gates of the stockade, which had fallen to Caroc’s axe. They rode westwards to find the Romans.
They skirted the volcanic plug of the Law, riding at a slow trot, Brude’s eyes constantly searching ahead. When possible, he kept to the high ground to get the best views of the river valley and the broad plain. Much of the land was forested but, here and there, were gaps where small farms carved a living from the land. Most of the inhabitants of these farms sent their surplus
produce to Broch Tava as tribute in return for Colm’s protection. There was no protection to be offered now.
They did not have long to wait before they saw what they had been looking for. Barely two hours out from Broch Tava, as they reached the edge of a low ridge and looked west, a line of horsemen appeared, still a few miles away but heading slowly and steadily eastwards. They were in a long column but with outriders on either side, keeping a watchful eye as they rode. The early afternoon sun glinted off armour, letting Brude know who they were. “Scouting party,” he said.
“There are a lot of them,” Fothair pointed out nervously.
“I guess around thirty. Probably one Turma. Come on, let’s go and meet them.”
They went down into a dip, then up another low rise. When they crested it, they could see the Roman horsemen cantering up the other side. The leader wore a red cloak, which hung across his horse’s rump. Brude stopped at the crest of the ridge where he waited, telling the others to be sure to make no threatening move. He nudged his horse forwards so that he was a few paces ahead of his companions, then held his arms out wide to either side, showing he was not holding a weapon.
The Romans slowed as they approached then stopped a few hundred paces from him. The leader gestured with his hands and the column split, riders moving to left and right in a practised manoeuvre to form a line facing the ridge. The man in the cloak, with six others, rode on. He came up the slope to meet Brude who called out in Latin, “Hail, Caesar!” He thumped his fist against his chest then lifted his arm in salute.
The Romans reached him in an extended line, the leader stopping close to him. He was a middle-aged, veteran soldier, with cynical eyes that surveyed Brude and his companions warily. The man next to him was not in uniform but wore a plain tunic and breeches and a thick leather jerkin. He spoke to Brude, talking in his own tongue but Brude stopped him. “I speak Latin,” he said, looking at the officer rather than his interpreter. “I am Marcus Septimius Brutus, citizen of Rome.”
In the Shadow of the Wall Page 34