To the Waters and the Wild

by S C McGrath

  When the delegation reached Agricola’s tent, one of the centurions waited outside with the men while the other entered the tent to announce Fionn’s arrival. Within moments, Agricola emerged and faced Fionn. Though a much smaller man, Agricola exuded the authority and confidence of one long accustomed to giving orders and leading men into battle. “I see there was no need to send couriers to find you and request a dialogue. You have found us,” said Agricola politely. He then glanced briefly at Fearghus before his eyes swept over the Fianna. “You are undoubtedly Fionn Mac Mathúna, are you not?”

  Fearghus effortlessly translated Agricola’s words into Gaelic, and Agricola looked sharply at the priest, surprised.

  Fionn nodded and replied in Latin, “Indeed I am. And you are Gnaeus Julius Agricola. My esteemed companion, the high priest Fearghus Ó Néill, has accompanied me to aid us in our dialogue. Though I speak your language, my understanding is rudimentary at best. Fearghus will ensure that any subtlety of meaning or thought will not be lost on either of us.”

  Agricola was momentarily taken aback. Then his eyes swept over Fionn’s warriors and he smiled slightly. “You need not have brought armed warriors with you, their number being too many for mere ceremony and too few to defend you should I not be an honorable man. I assure you I am, and would not, at least this evening, cause any harm to befall you. So please, join me inside so we may begin our conversation.” Agricola gestured courteously toward the large tent, the hide flaps of its door held open at each side by Romhanach guards.

  Fionn nodded in assent and he and Fearghus entered, the general following a step behind, the hide flaps released when the men passed the threshold. Inside, the tent was sparsely furnished with table and chairs at its center and a simple cot in the far corner. None of the opulence one would have expected from a general of Agricola’s stature was present. Two of Agricola’s senior officers stood at attention, and once the formality of introductions was complete and refreshments had been offered and refused, the men sat down. Agricola and Fionn faced each other across the heavy table. Agricola’s officers sat on either side of him and Fearghus sat to Fionn’s right.

  Agricola took the lead. “Although your island is remote, far removed from the influence of our civilization, I have no doubt that you are well aware of the purpose of this landing.” Agricola paused and, when Fionn did not readily respond, he continued. “It is to secure Hibernia as a territory of the Roman Empire. Tonight, you are in the position to negotiate the terms with which your country joins our empire. Tonight, you are in a position to choose peace and prosperity rather than war.”

  “I am well aware of your motives, Agricola,” responded Fionn. “Your ships have sailed into Eire’s waters and your soldiers have landed on her shores to make war. Of that I am certain. The peace and prosperity of Eire’s people be damned. It is unworthy of you to feign a sympathy you do not feel. Let us speak frankly or not at all. It is Eire’s rich soil and gold you covet.”

  Agricola nodded. “Very well. I will speak with more openness, though my message remains unchanged. Tonight you can save your country from destruction. Many nations far stronger than yours have succumbed to the might of my legions. Negotiate a surrender, the terms of which need not be harsh. Our rule will bring order and civilization to your country and an end to the dangers of your clan warfare.”

  “I will never negotiate the terms of my people’s enslavement,” said Fionn with deadly calm. “Only if you abandon your campaign and set sail will there be no war. You were ill-advised if you were led to believe I would ever forsake freedom and honor for a peace that comes with chains.”

  Agricola smiled wryly, though his eyes were hard. “You are in no position to speak of freedom and honor. That is a conversation reserved solely for equals. Instead, you must accept the inevitable and take what concessions I am willing to give you. Surrender and avoid a war that will lay waste to your land, spell death to your men, and slavery for your women and children.”

  “Now at last you speak openly,” exclaimed Fionn, an insolent glint in his pale eyes. “To utter such threats you must be supremely confident of victory. I would remind you that the battle has not been fought. Your soldiers have yet to prove themselves as mighty as your words. They have never fought Eire’s warriors, men whose deadly skills are without equal.”

  Agricola stared at Fionn with disdain. “I admire your pride even as I scorn your folly. The Fianna warriors who accompanied you tonight look formidable, but how many such men will take the field of battle tomorrow? How many of your warring clans will come to your aid? Very few I suspect. You will be vastly outnumbered, both in men and materiel, and for all of your warriors’ size and strength, they are still made of but flesh and bone and will die just as readily from sword and spear as men half their size. Now it is time for you to speak openly with me.”

  “It matters little whether you believe our numbers are adequate to take the field, we shall do battle nonetheless,” countered Fionn. “My Fianna are prepared to die, as are the warriors of the clans who chose to follow me. For it is not the prospect of death we fear but the loss of our honor and freedom.”

  “I warn you a final time, said Agricola, his dark eyes merciless, “if it is not surrender tonight, it is death tomorrow.”

  “Then we agree.” Fionn spoke with maniacal pleasure, looking quite mad. “Tomorrow the bloodletting will begin.”

  

  Meanwhile, having assumed the disguise of an officer’s attendant and taking advantage of the distraction caused by Eire’s delegation, Déaglán slipped easily into the encampment, identifying the key centurions of each cohort and the colors of their standards. Well acquainted with the duties of an attendant, Déaglán, keeping his head lowered and his eyes and ears sharp, blended seamlessly into the bustling activity of the camp. Long after Fionn and his men had departed, Déaglán listened to the soldiers and overhead a few chance remarks from their officers, noting with satisfaction that Fionn’s visit had been successful on all counts. Before any Romhanach was the wiser, Déaglán, armed with the intelligence he had sought, melted into the shadows and disappeared.

  

  CHAPTER twenty-eight

  

  ust before dawn, Keelin walked through the makeshift infirmary, noting all was ready to receive Eire’s wounded once the battle began. It mattered little that there were three other healers of The Dagda and a half dozen physician’s attendants present, Keelin personally and meticulously inspected everything for readiness. The infirmary had been set up in a temporary field camp several miles northwest of the bay where the Romhanach had landed. The camp, one of three such camps providing food, shelter, and medical aid to Eire’s warriors, was situated in a wooded glen, hidden from the field of battle by low hills. Even in the dim light of predawn, the women of the camp were busy, folding bandages, preparing food, tending to the livestock, and milking the cows. Old men and young boys were working at the forge, sharpening weapons. There was little talk, everyone intent on their duties with thoughts of what was to come foremost on their minds.

  After one more inspection of the infirmary reassured her that everything was as it should be, Keelin went in search of Deirdre, who could usually be found supervising the cooks or preparing some delectable stew that seemed to feed far more men than the size of the pots would indicate. Initially, the women of the camp had looked with suspicion at the young priestess with her beautiful dresses and exquisite jewels. Now they all loved her, not only because of Deirdre’s warmth and charm, but also because she enthusiastically shared all of her delectable recipes with them. As always, Deirdre had a calming influence on those around her, and she helped still the frayed nerves of the wives, mothers, and daughters of Eire.

  Keelin was greeted with smiles and nods as she walked through the camp, several women stopping what they were doing to exchange a few words. Only a fortnight ago these women had been strangers; now they were comrades, united in a common purpose. As Keelin approached the cooking area she
caught the mingling aromas of freshly baked bread and savory stew. Perhaps she would try to eat something, even though she was not in the least hungry. Keelin’s stomach was in knots and she feared losing whatever she attempted to eat. She decided to take some bread and cheese back to the infirmary and eat it later, once the battle had begun. It was the waiting that was most disturbing to Keelin, the helpless anticipation. She was disgusted with herself, for even her hands trembled. Conjuring up the most frightful scenarios, she would not be freed of their torment until she could be active, fighting to save lives. She knew that only then would her hands become steady and her mind calm.

  Where was Brian at this very moment? Where were her father and Séamus? Keelin had seen her father and Séamus occasionally in the camp but had been unable to exchange more than a brief word and hug with either of them. Brian was with the Fianna and had not been in her camp at all. Only once, late at night, Keelin had searched for him, traveling through the Otherworld. She found him asleep and had an overwhelming desire to brush errant locks of his dark hair from his forehead and kiss it. Instead, she remained hidden, murmuring words of love and then departing, an ache in her heart. Keelin knew she would see none of her loved ones until after the battle, and she dared not think what the end might bring.

  

  Fionn surveyed Eire’s warriors, who had assembled a final time before taking up their battlefield positions. Conall and Niall, both mounted, were at the front of their battalions, their officers flanking them. Those Fianna not attached to either Conall or Niall’s warriors formed a small contingent of both cavalry and infantry, and stood to Fionn’s right. It was shortly past dawn and the fighting would soon commence. Eire’s warriors are ready and the battle is coming none too soon, thought Fionn grimly. The men had become restless and irritable over the past weeks, unaccustomed to the discipline and order necessary to field a force of such unprecedented magnitude. Fights were becoming ever more frequent as clan rivalries and deep-seeded antipathies surfaced. Still, even as tempers flared, the majority of the men stifled their individual sentiments for Eire’s cause.

  Fionn raised his right arm. A drumroll sounded then abruptly halted.

  “Men of Eire!” shouted Fionn, his voice booming in the early-morning air. “The enemy is on our soil. They have come to conquer and destroy, to murder and enslave. Instead, at our hands they will falter and die!” A deafening roar erupted from the men, and Fionn waited a moment before continuing.

  “Their soldiers fight not for country and honor but for gold. We battle as free men, in defense of Eire and our people! The enemy believes our warriors no match for their legion of mercenaries and presumes we lack the resolve to mount a united resistance. We, the men of Eire, know better!” Again, a roar erupted and many raised their spears in salute. Fionn saluted in kind.

  “The fateful day is upon us and the battle is now. I will not deceive you. The peril is great. The sovereignty of Eire and the lives of our women and children are mightily threatened. Today, men will die and blood will flow. But we will triumph! The blood of Eire’s warriors will dampen the earth, but it will be the lifeblood of the enemy that flows in rivers to the sea. It will be the enemy who turn from battle and flee for their lives!”

  Over the shouts and war cries of Eire’s warriors, the martial beat of drums and the call of pipes and horns resounded, the fearful tumult carrying through the air for miles. In the Romhanach encampment, Agricola’s soldiers hesitated at their duties, listening to the ominous din, which seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, an unearthly portent. Centurions quickly barked orders at their men and work resumed, yet the dreadful sounds continued and the soldiers’ edginess increased. However, neither fear nor foreboding slowed the formation of the Romhanach battle lines. Column after column of infantrymen marched out of camp grouped in their respective cohorts. The cavalry led the columns, positioned on the wings to protect the legion’s flanks. The strict discipline of the centurions and the unquestioning duty of the soldiers was the strength of the Romhanach legion, and nowhere was it more apparent than on that cold and damp morning in Eire.

  

  The warriors of Eire and Agricola’s soldiers faced one another, a span of lush farmland separating the vanguard of each force. A Romhanach horseman braved the lonely expanse, furiously galloping halfway across and halting, waiting for his enemy counterpart to reach him. Once the message was delivered, the intrepid messenger waited alone for a response. Eire’s courier delivered Agricola’s curt demand to Fionn: Surrender now. Lay down your weapons or face certain death and defeat. Fionn’s reply was no less terse: Surrender is foreign to the warriors of Eire.

  Upon receiving Fionn’s response, Agricola cursed silently, thinking once again that Fionn was not only a fool but mad, a man willing to sacrifice his warriors and condemn his women and children to slavery, all in the name of freedom and honor. Fionn must realize, thought Agricola, that I will grant no quarter or clemency, that I will not hesitate in my ruthless retribution. Agricola’s own code of honor extended only to the conduct of war and the empire’s order of law. He was first and foremost a soldier and believed that compassion and mercy equaled weakness, dangerous luxuries in the brutal game of war and conquest. Swift and terrible vengeance and the fear it elicited was a necessary aspect of conquering a recalcitrant people.

  Agricola was not troubled by such simple notions as the sovereignty of nations or freedom. The strong conquered and the weak submitted. Agricola knew that only when all those of a rebellious and independent nature were dead or enslaved would a vanquished territory be truly safe for exploitation and rule. Even as Agricola was merciless, however, he took no fiendish delight in the destruction and death meted out at his orders. Rather, he had acquired a cold and fatalistic acceptance of its necessity, a detached executioner and arbiter of fate. Sighing, Agricola gave the command to engage the enemy.

  Once the order was given, the legion’s light infantry advanced. The cavalry was on the wings, hiding the main body of heavy infantry that marched a short distance behind. The light infantry’s advance was methodical, the men maintaining a strict checkered formation, their shields protecting their bodies and their spears at the ready. Eire’s warriors advanced in kind—with less precision but with infinitely more outward menace. Their vanguard was terrifying, the warriors being imposing and powerfully built, every aspect of their countenance fierce. Mounted on a bay stallion Niall rode at their lead, a small contingent of cavalry at the wings. The gap between the combatants quickly closed and, upon a shouted command, the Romhanach front line halted. Lead centurions judged that the enemy was now within range of their pila, deadly throwing spears intended to thin the ranks of Eire’s vanguard.

  Before the Romhanach soldiers cast their pila, Niall gave the order to attack. With deafening shouts and war cries, Eire’s warriors charged forward, brandishing their swords and running easily, in spite of their size and the weaponry they carried. When the hail of pila reached them, some warriors staggered and fell, mortally wounded. Others, ignoring their wounds, continued their wild charge. Still others lost the use of their shields, the iron point of the pilum piercing the shield’s thin layer of bronze and firmly embedding in the thick hide of its core. Unable to quickly loosen these murderous spears, the warriors disdainfully cast their shields aside. Defying prebattle orders to fall back between the ranks if their shields were rendered useless by the pila, most warriors charged forward, heedless of their vulnerability, their rage and bloodlust banishing all caution.

  The collision of the two armies was horrific. The clash of metal, the roar of the men and screams of the horses reverberated through the air. The much smaller force of Eire’s warriors fought with far greater skill and ferocity, pushing the Romhanach line back. The warriors who fought without their shields parried blow after blow, feinting, dodging sword thrusts, smiting their opponents again and again. Finally, however, as fatigue slowed their movements, the warriors were cut down, their thin, finely woven coat of mail
being no match for the Romhanach double edged sword. Eire’s front line wavered and the forward push slowed as the murderous fighting continued. The ground became slippery with blood; those men who lost their balance and fell were quickly run through with sword or spear. It was then, as Eire’s warriors faltered, that the second line of the Romhanach legion hurled their pila over the heads of their front-line soldiers and onto fresh columns of enemy warriors advancing to relieve their exhausted comrades.

  

  In the early stages of the battle, Agricola had been in the thick of the fighting, much to his senior officers’ dismay. Mounted on his gray stallion, he led the right wing of the cavalry charge and then dropped back, returning to the second line of infantry who waited for their orders to engage the enemy. From there he directed the battle, always on the move, receiving front-line updates, shouting orders to centurions, and assessing when best to launch the legion’s second line, the powerful heavy infantry. The order to advance the second line must be given before the legion’s front line was completely spent and threatened to break, but ideally not until the enemy weakened or hesitated. Agricola knew from years of experience that a legion’s heavy infantry could easily overwhelm a tiring enemy, even an enemy as formidable as the Hibernians. Not until he gave the order for the second line to advance did Agricola finally leave the field of battle and gallop his horse to safety.

  Still mounted, Agricola positioned himself and his aids on a hilltop just southeast of the battlefield from which he had a clear view of the fighting. He noted with satisfaction that the legion’s heavy infantry had pushed the barbarians back, reversing the enemy’s initial gains. Agricola admitted to himself that he had not been completely prepared for the extraordinary skill and strength of Hibernia’s warriors. This was in spite of a report from his spies the previous summer that included warnings of both the might and bloodthirsty nature of these barbarians. Of course, the report also detailed their complete lack of order and discipline and their penchant for killing each other, clan battles being a way of life. Still, with a much smaller force, the Hibernians had pushed back his legion’s front line and had threatened to break it for a time. The enemy had also demonstrated a rudimentary understanding of tactics, holding back several columns of their warriors, advancing them only when their front line tired and wavered. However, such simple tactics would be of no avail to Fionn’s warriors or his cause of freedom. It will all be over very soon, thought Agricola grimly. The enemy’s line was weakening and would soon crumble. In spite of Fionn’s confident posturing, he had been unable to unite Hibernia’s warriors and field a force large enough to challenge a Roman legion. Granted, the force was larger than Agricola had expected but still wholly inadequate.