“We should go,” he said to the others. “You do not want to see this.”
“We must see it,” Mairead insisted. “It is the least we can do to honour their sacrifice.”
Nechtan, Eairsidh and Veleda were forced to their knees. There was a fanfare of trumpets. Brude could make out the shapes of people watching from the ramparts of Dun Nechtan. Three Praetorian Guards stood ready, one behind each of the kneeling prisoners. They drew their swords and Brude recognised the preparations for the death blows. It was over quickly. The swords flashed and three corpses tumbled to the ground. The guards withdrew, leaving their victims where they lay.
Tears ran down Mairead’s cheeks but the worst was yet to come. Caracalla ordered another trumpet blast and the Roman siege artillery began its work. Huge stones were flung skywards, arcing towards the top of the hill. The first shots did little damage, falling short, but the artillerymen soon judged the range and stones began to hammer at the gateway, smashing into the wooden rampart and gates. Some ballistas hurled flaming bundles of oil-soaked hides, which dropped over the walls, intended to set fire to the houses inside. Large crossbows on wooden stands were dragged to the foot of the hill. They began firing long, iron-tipped spikes which flew with astonishing speed towards the gateway, forcing the tribesmen inside to keep under cover. The awful bombardment continued until the third hour, when the gates collapsed as the battering took its toll. The infantry were immediately ordered forwards. The Twentieth Legion was in the van, marching inexorably closer to the hill. They formed into columns and began to climb the pathway towards the gate. Roman cavalry rode round either side of the long hill, to cut off anyone who tried to escape from other gates. Some stones were hurled down, over the ramparts but few of them did much harm.
“May the gods help them,” Fothair whispered as a group of Boresti warriors charged out of the shattered gateway. They had suffered the hell of the bombardment and had survived. Now they wanted to strike some blows of their own. It was a forlorn hope. A flurry of catapult bolts scythed into them, sending men tumbling, punching them from their feet. Then the Roman infantry bunched their shields as they pressed upwards to meet the charge. On the tight and treacherous slope, the fighting was confined to a narrow front where numbers could make little difference. The clash of arms and the yells and screams could be heard drifting on the wind. Watching in horror, Brude remembered his own first taste of battle and how it had ended.
This fight ended the same way. The tribesmen were no match for the disciplined and heavily armoured Romans who slowly edged their way up the slope. After only a brief resistance, the tribesmen were turning, running for the gates and the Romans were after them, swords eager to continue the killing>
Brude had seen it before, in Germania. He did not want to see it again but the death of Dun Nechtan held him, fascinated. Inside the hill fort were people he knew. All the Boresti were his kinsmen, even if he did not know them personally. Now they were dying. He thought of Oengus, Irb, and the other villagers from Broch Tava who had sought refuge in Dun Nechtan. Few of them would survive this ferocious assault.
The sack of the hill fort took until mid-day. Flames and smoke rose into the summer sky. Those few who survived the slaughter and rape were led down the hill to be shackled as slaves. There were less than one hundred of them, and most of those were women. Only a handful of the men and the children were spared.
Mairead wept and Fothair’s face was an ashen mask as they watched the bedraggled survivors being chained. Brude felt numb and empty. The Boresti were all but destroyed and he had simply watched while it had happened. Guilt ate at his heart. He had to clench his teeth to prevent a sob of anguish escaping his throat. Then he saw a group of Roman officers striding back towards the camp. Caracalla and his aides were returning.
“Wait here,” he told Mairead. “We need to get away. I will have to speak to Caesar.”
He made his way towards the gate to intercept Caracalla’s party. Technically, any citizen could petition Caesar. In the past, some emperors had even been accosted in the streets of Rome by private citizens, although it was a rare opportunity in these days. He was taking a risk, especially when the Praetorians were in close attendance, and even more especially with someone as volatile as Caracalla. Brude forced the horror of the sack of Dun Nechtan from his mind, fought down the fury of his helpless rage as he put on his slave’s face. He knew he had to make yet another compromise for the sake of his missing son.
Brude need not have worried about gaining a hearing. As soon as Caracalla saw him, he beckoned him over. “Brutus!” he exclaimed, “Was that not magnificent? Another triumph for Rome.”
“I congratulate you, Caesar,” Brude replied. “Your army is very impressive.”
“Yet another tribe falls before us. They may have wanted peace but we have learned in the past that they would turn on us as soon as our backs are turned. This way they will never get that opportunity again.” He looked at Brude, his expression mirroring his expansive mood. “Was there something you wanted?”
“Yes, Caesar, if I may aska favour?” That earned him a glare from Priscus, the stern legate, but Brude ignored him. He went on, “I would like to return south, to Britannia and eventually to Rome.”
Caracalla was surprised. “Really? I had hoped you would remain here to help guide us in our march north.”
“I regret I would be of little use to you, Caesar. My knowledge of the tribe north of here is no greater than yours. I only know they are called the Maeatae, which you know already.” Brude could see that Caracalla was in good humour so he played his final card. “I really need to return to repay my patron his share of the profits from my trading venture.”
Caracalla raised an eyebrow. “Your patron?”
“Lucius Vipsanius Festus. He was kind enough to provide me with some funds for my trip. I promised him a share in what profits I made.”
“A man should always repay his patron,” Caracalla nodded. “Very well, you have leave to depart. Priscus will have someone prepare a letter of safe conduct for you.”
Brude had to concentrate hard not to let a broad smile break out on his face. “My thanks, Caesar.”
“And twenty gold aurii for your services.”
“You are too generous, Caesar,” Brude protested. This time he was genuine; the sum was enormous.
“Nonsense! Priscus will see to it. Now, I am off to get something to eat.” He moved on, his officers and guards trailing after him, leaving Brude wondering whether he would remember what he had just promised.
Caracalla, though, was as good as his word. Brude and Fothair dismantled their tent while Mairead packed their horses. As they were finishing, the tribune Porcius found them. He handed Brude a letter bearing the imperial seal together with a small bag of coins. “With Caesar’s compliments,” Porcius told him.
Brude took the letter, stuffing the bag of coins, unopened, into his pack. “Thank you.”
“You are going south?”
“Yes. To Eboracum first. That is where the slaves are taken, you said?”
“That’s right,” Porcius confirmed.
“After that, I will probably go to Londinium, and eventually to Rome,” Brude lied.
“Then I wish you well.”
“And you.” They clasped hands. Brude realised that he rather liked Porcius even though the young man was part of the army that had just destroyed the Boresti. It was a confusing emotion.
Brude helped Mairead climb into her saddle then he and Fothair leapt onto their horses. With a wave of farewell to Porcius, they rode out of the camp without a backward glance.
They had to go through Peart, where they found the town not as badly damaged as they had expected. There was a strong Roman garrison manning a camp at the bridge but Caracalla’s letter allowed them to pass. They rode across the bridge into the village. Fothair’s expression grew grim as they passed his former home. Around half of the houses had been burned to the ground but there were still some villag
ers there, looking sullen and downtrodden. The three of them rode slowly, not wishing to draw attention to themselves, but Brude remained anxious until they climbed the steep hills to the south of Peart. From the summit they looked eastwards to where the dark finger of the broch could sometimes be seen outlined against the sky. They could not make it out, even though it was a clear day. The Roman engineers had probably done their work by now. The broad expanse of the Tava valley was laid out below them. “Let’s hope we see home and friends again soon,” Brude said.
Mairead was sore from the hours of riding, as was Brude, but now that they had escaped the Roman army they knew that they had a difficult task ahead of them. Somehow they had to find Castatin and Barabal. The two young people were already six days ahead of them, so the three of them pushed on as quickly as their aching bodies would allow. “How far is this place they are being taken?” Mairead asked that evening as they lay in their blankets trying to ignore the protests of pain from their muscles.
“I’m not sure. I’ve never been there, but it will take us several days at least.”
“What if they are not there?”
That was the question Brude dreaded. If Porcius’ information was wrong, the search would be almost impossible. “I don’t know. Britannia is a large place, but the Romans are usually pretty methodical about things like that. It makes sense for them to go there. It’s one of the main cities. If they are walking, we should get there before them. If they are taken by ship, they could be there already.”
“I am so worried about Castatin. I miss him so much,” Mairead whispered. He held her close, trying to reassure her but the most comfort he could give was that they were in this together, sharing the burden.
The Antonine Wall was manned and patrolled, teeming with Roman troops. Brude thought he caught a glimpse of some wearing the uniform of the Praetorian Guard, which almost certainly meant that the emperor himself was nearby. Again, though, Caracalla’s letter let them through without question. Crossing the wall, they rode southwards, climbing steep hills, ploughing through valleys, fording rivers and streams until they reached the great Wall where yet more soldiers were stationed. Fothair whistled in amazement when he saw the Wall snaking across the countryside for as far as he could see in either direction. “I wasn’t sure whether to believe what everyone said about it, but it’s incredible.”
“You’ll see more things to amaze you, the further south we go,” Brude assured him.
Now inside the borders of the empire, Brude reminded them to act like slaves. He had taught them how to say, “I am the slave of Marcus Septimius Brutus.” Slaves did not usually ride horses, but there was no alternative to them playing the part. They spoke no Latin and their dress marked them as obviously from north of the Wall. Because they needed to hurry, they had to ride; walking would take far too long. They pressed on, trusting to Caracalla’s letter to keep them out of difficulty.
The roads were busy with wagons carrying supplies northwards for the army, while injured men and captives travelled south. Messengers galloped in both directions, usually with an escort of mounted troopers. Nobody paid much attention to three more travellers.
It took them another six exhausting days to reach Eboracum. The scale of the city was another astonishment for Mairead and Fothair. To Brude, who had seen Rome itself, Eboracum was a small place but, as the headquarters of a legion and the base for the government of all of northern Britannia, it was a busy, bustling town. The walls and gates of the fortress were strong and impressive, the streets of the neighbouring town laid out in the regular pattern of most Roman settlements, with an added jumble of traditional Pritani homes clustering round the edges of the Roman buildings. The town had the usual collection of temples and other public buildings round the edges of a forum. Throughout the town were public bathhouses, a theatre and even a wooden amphitheatre. It also had a wide variety of homes, ranging from the opulent residences of the wealthy to the three or four-storey tenements of the poor.
They arrived in a heavy downpour, rain plastering their hair and soaking through their clothes. They found an ostler near the city gates where Brude paid for the horses to be kept for them. He also obtained directions to somewhere they could rent rooms so they set off in the rain to find the landlord. Fothair and Mairead carried most of their baggage because Brude told them that was what slaves did. “You’re enjoying this,” said Mairead accusingly.
“I’m just playing the part,” chuckled Brude. “And you should call me Master. There will be plenty of people around here who speak a language close to ours.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. “Yes, Master.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Fothair muttered.
Despite the pouring rain and having to carry a heavy load, Mairead was almost enjoying herself. She looked at the brick and plaster buildings with their red tiled roofs, pointing out different things as they passed. She walked along the paved road, splashing in the puddles and saying, “This is wonderful. It’s raining and there’s no mud.” Brude remembered how he had felt when he first walked through the streets of Rome. Despite the rain, he enjoyed telling her what the various signs outside the shops signified.
They found the place the ostler had told them about. It was a four-storey building, the upper two floors with wooden walls because the structure would not support the weight of brick any higher than two storeys. Brude had seen many similar buildings in Rome and knew they were notorious for collapsing, or for catching fire as the occupants tried to cook on open fires in rooms built of wood. Still, they needed shelter so they went inside to find the landlord.
The man was a former soldier, named Niger, which Brude assumed was a soldier’s joke since his hair was as white as any he had ever seen rather than the black that his name suggested. From behind the small counter where he was sitting, he gave them a sour look as they entered his tiny front office, apparently annoyed that they had interrupted him, even though he was doing nothing more onerous than cleaning a pair of old boots. “What is it?” he asked in a surly tone.
“You have rooms to rent,” Brude replied in an equally gruff voice, deciding he could play the hard man as well.
Niger eyed Mairead and Fothair with disdain. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who wants them and why.”
Brude decided to put the man in his place. He stepped forwards, lowering his head to put his face close to the old soldier. “I am Marcus Septimius Brutus. I was a gladiator, freed by the emperor himself. I have served under Quintus Aemilius Tertius, legate of the legions of Germania, and I have just come from campaign under the emperor’s son himself. These two are my slaves. I have silver to pay for rooms and no more questions. Is that good enough?”
Niger, taken aback by Brude’s refusal to be intimidated and by the knowledge that, as a former gladiator, Brude could easily overpower him if the fancy took him, licked his lips. He said softly, “I’ve got two rooms on the first floor. Ten sesterces a week, per room. You provide your own fuel for heating.”
The price was outrageous and they both knew it. Brude opened a small money pouch, counting out four silver denarii, equivalent to sixteen sesterces. He placed two of them on the counter then put the others back in the pouch. “We’ll take the biggest room. You provide the fuel and get some clean bedding and blankets for us. You’ll get the other two denarii at the end of the week.”
Niger did not take long to think about it. “Deal!”
They climbed the wooden stairs to find that the room was actually quite good. There were four small beds and a stone fireplace for heating and cooking. There was a small wooden table with four stools, an oil lamp, a tin bowl for washing and a small selection of clay dishes and plates. The solitary window had no glass but two sets of wooden shutters; a solid pair on the inside edge, which could be closed at night, with a slatted outer pair to let light in. The wooden floor was strong enough and the brick walls had been recently plastered so the room had a fresh, airy feel t
o it. Even the bedding was not too bad though Brude insisted on it being replaced. Niger, persuaded by the silver, had some fresh mattresses and blankets brought in by two slaves.
Fothair lit the fire and they all changed out of their wet clothes. The room soon began to fill with the smell of damp wool and linen drying out as they huddled near the fire for warmth. After an hour or so the rain stopped drumming against the shutters. Brude looked outside. The sky was clearing and there were still a few hours of daylight. “Let’s go and see if we can find some food,” he said, “and some information about where the Romans are keeping the prisoners.”
In exchange for another denarius, Niger gave them the locations of a few tavernas where they could buy hot food. He also told them that the captives were usually held in slave pens at the outskirts of the city. “But I hear they’re using the amphitheatre to hold them now, seeing as they have so many,” he said.
The city was alive with people now that the rain had stopped. In addition to Latin, many of them were speaking a Brythonic language, which was similar to the Boresti tongue. Mairead and Fothair found it hard to move through the crowded streets without staring at everything and everyone they passed. They, in turn, received some curious looks thanks to their rather wild dress and hair.
In the Shadow of the Wall Page 37