To the Waters and the Wild

by S C McGrath

  There were only two aspects of the battle that troubled Agricola at this point and gave him pause. First, where were Fionn and his Fianna? Fionn had not led Hibernia’s charge nor had he been seen on the battlefield. After the fighting had begun, Agricola sent scouts to reconnoiter both the hills to the east and west, certain Fionn and his Fianna were secreted somewhere close by, waiting to attack one or the other of the legion’s flanks. Agricola was not overly concerned, yet he wanted to know from which direction Fionn would attack so his centurions on the targeted flank could redouble their forces.

  Scanning the terrain, Agricola guessed that Fionn would attack from the east, using the rising sun to his benefit. However, the scouts reconnoitering the eastern hills had found nothing. Looking down from a particularly high summit, the scouts noted scattered oak groves on the reverse slopes of the hills but saw and heard nothing. Not satisfied, they ventured down to the closest grove, bravely entering its shadowy depths to find only a frightened doe and her fawn. The scouts reconnoitering the western hills were met by a dense forest not far beyond the base of the hills. Even though his scouts had reported no obvious threat, Agricola’s instincts told him Fionn would attack soon. Agricola felt a vague sense of unease even as he reasoned that any such attack by Fionn and his Fianna would be both fruitless and suicidal.

  More disturbing to Agricola, however, was not Fionn’s absence or the threat from the Fianna, but reports that many of the legion’s highest ranking centurions had been mortally wounded. In every battle, centurions were lost. Sometimes their ranks suffered heavy casualties. But the deaths of so many of his finest centurions could not be simply fate or coincidence. Agricola had the utmost respect and admiration for these courageous men, Roma’s most indispensable soldiers. Battle-hardened and experienced, centurions inspired both loyalty and fear in their men and always led from the front. Now they were dying at an alarming rate and, if the reports were accurate, their deaths were at the hand of towering Hibernian warriors whose skills and strength even the mightiest centurions could not match.

  Well, thought Agricola angrily, that explains where at least some of the Fianna are, and the devils are targeting my centurions! It was well that his legionnaires were now advancing and that the battle was almost over. With a vengeful passion Agricola rarely felt, he sent the order to press the enemy harder and to expect an attack on the right flank. He also gave the order to spare no one, neither women nor children, once the enemy was in retreat and the battle won.

  

  As Agricola’s orders were delivered, Ruaidhrí, with several other Fianna, had found his target, the highest ranking centurion in the legion, the primus pilus. While his comrades kept all other Romhanach soldiers at bay, fending off even the bravest defenders of their centurion, Ruaidhrí, with a nod of his head, challenged his foe to mortal combat. The powerfully built centurion, a man of no ordinary courage, was ready and nodded in kind. At first the men parried sword thrusts and blows with equal skill and power, Ruaidhrí demonstrating uncharacteristic patience. He fought with measured and deliberate precision, judging his opponent’s lethal range and movements, waiting for the opening to strike. Ruaidhrí knew he must not fail and could not afford to be careless. The course of the battle was desperate and he had been given the supreme mission of slaying the mightiest of the centurions.

  When his opening came, Ruaidhrí struck with lightning speed, his sword hitting the base of the centurion’s neck where it met the shoulder. For a split second the centurion remained standing, then his knees buckled and he pitched forward, blood spurting from his neck. The fatal blow was struck with such force that it would have cleaved the centurion in two had it not been for his chest armor. Ruaidhrí quickly pulled his sword from the dead man’s body and turned to join the other Fianna battling around him.

  At that moment, horns sounded and cries of alarm were heard over the deadly commotion of battle. Looking to the east, Ruaidhrí shouted in triumph as he watched Fionn and a small band of Fianna galloping their horses down from the hills and toward the battlefield. Turning to the west in anticipation, Ruaidhrí spotted Conall and his battalion of warriors just as they crested the western summit. The warriors hesitated only a moment before spurring their horses forward, charging recklessly down the steep slopes to join the fray. When Conall’s warriors reached the battlefield, the infantrymen amongst them leapt from their horses with their swords at the ready. Conall, remaining on Rua with his horsemen, protected his infantry from being cut down by the Romhanach cavalry.

  The right flank of the legion had been prepared for an attack, but the Romhanach soldiers protecting the left flank were taken by complete surprise. In the confusion, lower ranking centurions tried to restore control and order. The simultaneous attacks badly rattled the Romhanach ranks, and during their hesitation and disarray, the warriors of Eire pressed forward. Though still outnumbered, Eire’s warriors nonetheless had the advantage. They were more mobile and independent and were not limited to fighting within strict formations. With many of their leaders dead and their battle line already firmly entrenched, the Romhanach heavy infantry could not quickly change tactics and shift positions. Instead, the order was sounded for the legion’s third line and most experienced infantrymen, their triarii, to engage the enemy and help defend the legion’s left flank in a desperate attempt to avert disaster.

  

  Rua reared up and sprang forward, airborne, as Conall delivered a lethal blow to his opponent’s head, knocking the soldier off his horse. Conall then reined Rua back and settled the stallion before turning to join Brian and Séamus who battled nearby. The Romhanach line was weakening but had not yet broken and the battle continued, relentlessly taking its toll in blood. Conall had seen Pádraig fall, had seen so many others wounded and dying. With a rage he had not felt since his brother Eirnín’s death, Conall had fought savagely, his conscience banished, his mind focused only on killing the cursed invaders. Now the end was close at hand. The Romhanach could not hold their line much longer.

  Conall allowed himself a brief respite before joining his men as they pushed forward. He stroked Rua’s neck, noting with pride that the great stallion was hardly damp and that he trembled impatiently, wishing to be off. It was then that the arrow hit Conall, high on the right side of his chest, driving through his coat of mail and piercing his lung. Conall fell from the saddle and Rua screamed and reared, his hooves pawing the air as a Romhanach horseman advanced upon the stallion’s fallen master. Out of nowhere Brian and Séamus appeared, charging the Romhanach. Brian knocked him to the ground, then leapt from the saddle and ran the fallen Romhanach through with his sword before turning to Conall. Séamus was already at his side and had managed to help Conall into a sitting position.

  “Knocked out of my saddle by a cursed archer,” said Conall haltingly. He tried to smile but coughed instead and tasted blood in his mouth. “You killed the bastard, I hope.”

  “I did, sir.” Brian glanced quickly around, worried about another attack. “Conall, we have to move you, get you from harm’s way. Do you think you can ride if we help you onto Rua?”

  “I can try,” responded Conall.

  “Should we not try to pull the arrow out first?” asked Séamus, his arm around Conall’s back, supporting him.

  “No, the arrow has pierced his lung,” said Brian frowning, noting the blood on Conall’s lips. If you can stand the pain, Conall, I would leave it be for now. Pulling it out could cause you to lose more blood.”

  “The pain is tolerable,” responded Conall. Séamus helped Conall to his feet and Brian led Rua to Conall’s side. Conall hesitated, looking at Rónán who stood nearby, his head hanging low, his neck and flanks drenched with sweat.

  “Help me on Rónán instead,” ordered Conall. “The old horse looks as spent as I feel. Brian, you take Rua. He is fresh and ready for more.”

  Brian nodded, whistling to his brave old stallion. Despite his fatigue, Rónán trotted over and stood quietly while Brian and Séamus h
elped Conall onto his back. The three men rode slowly from the battlefield, stopping only when they had reached the summit of a small western hill.

  “Go, now!” ordered Conall with as much vehemence as he could muster. He watched as Brian and Séamus galloped away, back to the bloody melee. There is something gloriously terrible about war, thought Conall. Yes, war was ghastly and brutal, yet at this moment he would not have wished to be anywhere else. He was no longer afraid to die. He would stay on this hilltop and watch Eire’s warriors triumph. The cold fingers of fear that had clinched at his gut just before battle had been quickly banished by predatory rage and aggression. Now, even the rage was gone. He coughed involuntarily and grimaced with pain, bloody foam at his lips. Well, pain was a good thing, he supposed, smiling wryly. It meant he was still alive and would live to see his men victorious.

  

  By the time Brian and Séamus reached the battlefield, the Romhanach line was crumbling. Shocked by the surprise attacks on both fronts and demoralized by the deaths of their centurions, many of the Romhanach soldiers lost heart. The legion’s strength, its discipline and cohesiveness, had been irreparably broken and with it the soldiers’ will to fight. It mattered little that the legion’s numbers were still far superior. The tide of the battle had turned. Now the remaining centurions’ only goal was to effect an orderly retreat.

  From his hilltop vantage point, Agricola watched the disaster—at first with incredulity and then self-recrimination. He had been too confident. His legion was facing an ignominious defeat. Fionn and his warriors would triumph this day. Retreat and entrenchment were all that was left, and Agricola’s only hope was to protect what remained of his legion. Already Agricola’s aids were urging him to abandon the hilltop and gallop to safety. He gazed upon the battlefield a final time—his heart full of bitter regret—and then reined his horse toward the sea.

  Commands to withdraw were shouted and horns sounded, and yet the vicious fighting continued. As infantrymen fell back, Eire’s warriors mercilessly pushed forward, and some of the legion’s soldiers panicked, dropping their weapons in their mad flight, only to be cut down by their vengeful pursuers. Still, most Romhanach managed an orderly retreat, many escaping slaughter. Eire’s horsemen gave chase, their infantrymen no longer needing protection. It was then, over the din of battle, that everyone, warrior and soldier alike, heard the horns sound once again, followed by the Romhanach command for repellere equites, the formation to resist the enemies’ cavalry. Responding to the command, the triarii began to close ranks and form the deadly wall of spears and shields that would prevent Eire’s horsemen from pursuing the legion’s retreating soldiers.

  Hearing the repellere command, Brian spurred Rua on, knowing that the Romhanach must not be allowed to escape, must be pursued to the sea.

  As loud as he could, Brian commanded, “Charge, Repel!”

  Nearby, Séamus shouted the same and the command spread like fire from one horseman to another. They knew they must reach the wall before the triarii managed to form the second line, before the wall became too wide and too high for the horses to jump it, before the spears were poised to impale. But had not the warriors and their mounts practiced jumping over such obstacles for months? Had they not prepared for a moment such as this?

  Brian felt Rua lengthen his stride and urged him still faster. The great stallion dug in, the sounds of his breathing and the pounding of his hooves being all that Brian heard. Séamus had charged forward with Rosie now at Rua’s flank, her ears flat back, her long stride effortless. Both young men knew they were racing against the building of the wall, racing against the triarii who had as yet only formed the line of kneeling infantrymen, their spears angled upward. From all directions Eire’s horsemen galloped, riding recklessly, leaping over the dead, racing past the living, following Brian and Séamus’s lead, heedless of everything except this final challenge and their fate.

  Brian was no more than ten strides out when the triarii attempted to position their second line of standing infantrymen—their spears pointing directly at the charging horses. Brian let out a blood-curdling yell and Rua surged forward, covering the distance to the wall of spears in an instant. The stallion bunched his muscles and, without breaking stride, soared through the air as if with wings, far above the deadly spears. Séamus was next, and then horseman after horseman jumped the cursed wall as the stunned and disbelieving triarii looked on, their resolve broken and the formation collapsing. The breach made, Eire’s infantrymen charged through. The triarii quickly abandoned their wall and attempted to rally the retreating soldiers and make a final stand. But when the wall gave way, the Romhanach soldiers lost any remaining sense of order and discipline and fled, panic-stricken. Eire’s warriors gave chase and mercilessly pursued the retreating enemy to the sea.

  

  Keelin felt the sweat trickle down her temples and off the tip of her nose, and she hurriedly wiped her face with a dry rag. In spite of the damp chilliness of the day, Keelin was perspiring both from her exertions and the sense of urgency that pervaded the infirmary. Not long after the battle had begun, the infirmary received its first casualty, a warrior whose wound from a pila proved fatal. Since then, a steady stream of battlefield casualties had arrived, and Keelin and the other healers had worked unceasingly to save lives. Everyone in camp was enlisted to help. The women boiled bloodied and soiled rags to be used again and readied new cots. Others held the hands of dying men, listening to halting reminiscences or pitiful moans. The old men and boys worked in relays, driving carts to designated rest stations to recover the wounded and take them back to the infirmary. And still the wounded and maimed, the dead and the dying, kept arriving, the blood and gore unspeakable. There were so few who could be saved, their wounds being horrific. The loss of blood and the subsequent shock killed many before they even arrived at the field camp.

  When news of Eire’s victory reached the camp, there was no wild jubilation or celebration. Instead, there was immense relief and a pride that would prove enduring. Everyone had seen what price Eire’s warriors paid for victory, had seen firsthand the suffering and death. Many of the women in camp waited anxiously, not knowing whether their men had survived, becoming ever more frantic as time passed without word. When Keelin saw her father ride up alongside a wagon filled with the wounded, an arrow protruding from his chest, a host of emotions swept over her. She felt relief, but that was followed quickly by alarm and fear. She saw in an instant that her father’s condition was critical, that the arrow had pierced his lung. Despite this, he had ridden all the way to camp, refusing a place in the wagon.

  “The cursed wagon would have rattled me to death,” growled Conall as he was helped down from the saddle. He coughed and staggered once on the ground, and he would have fallen had a wiry old man not been holding him tight about the shoulders.

  Noticing Rónán for the first time, Keelin panicked, a new fear grabbing at her gut. “Brian . . .” she said, unable to continue.

  “Brian is riding Rua. Rónán and I were spent.” With these words, Conall finally gave way and lost consciousness and was quickly carried into the infirmary. Keelin was not allowed to operate on her father but nonetheless assisted a priest, who with sure hands and a calm, steady manner, removed the arrow and cleaned and cauterized the wound. With luck, and if no infection set in, her father would live. Recovery would be slow and painful as with all sucking chest wounds. But still, there was hope. It was not until after the surgery and her father had been bandaged and taken to the recovery area of the infirmary that Keelin felt a vague disquiet. Images of a long-forgotten dream resurfaced, images of Brian riding Rua away to battle. Keelin also remembered the fearful foreboding of the dream, how she had been powerless to prevent Brian and Rua from leaving her.

  Distracted and lost in her disturbing recollections, Keelin was startled when a young woman rushed up and grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the surgery.

  “My husband, Diarmuid, has just been brought in. He is gr
ievously wounded and needs you. Please, Keelin, hurry,” she beseeched, tears streaming down her freckled cheeks.

  Keelin did not hesitate and ran back to the surgery, thoughts of the dream banished from her mind. After that, Keelin lost all track of time. Diarmuid would live but so many others would not. With the battle over, warriors arrived at the camp in droves. Once, when using a procedure she had learned from watching a Romhanach surgery, Keelin was struck by the irony of it all, that she would save this man’s life because and in spite of the enemy. She had just finished stitching up and bandaging the arm of a young warrior who had suffered severe lacerations when Nuala suddenly appeared at her side. The priestess was responsible for the infirmary in the eastern field camp and Keelin was surprised to see her.