In the Shadow of the Wall (48 page)

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
.”

The Romans were surprised and the officer’s eyebrows shot up questioningly. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a travelling merchant,” said Brude. “I have sold my goods and am on my way back. And you are?”

The officer growled. “Tiberius Servilius Cato, Decurion Speculatorum.” That confirmed Brude’s guess. A Decurion was normally in charge of one Turma, a cavalry unit with a nominal strength of thirty-two men. The
Speculatores
were scouts, the eyes of the army. Each man carried a lance and a long, heavy sword, a
spatha
, although their main job was not to fight, merely to find the enemy.

“The rumours are true then?” Brude asked, trying to chat pleasantly so as to keep the man at ease. “The emperor really has come north?”

Cato nodded. “He has three legions and as many auxiliaries. He is determined to crush the rebellious tribes and his army is not far behind us.”

Brude smiled. “Then perhaps I can help. I have travelled a fair bit around these parts and I have a fair idea of what is going on.”

Cato wasn’t convinced. He indicated Brude’s companions. “Who are they?”

“My slaves.”

Cato grunted noncommittally. “So what can you tell me of the locals round here? That’s our job. To find out what’s ahead. I was told there is a hostile village to the east.”

“Then it is just as well that you have met me,” Brude told him, “for I can tell you that you are wasting your time going that way. A lot has happened there in the recent days and things are very much changed.”

“Like what?” Cato demanded. He was listening to Brude but his eyes were constantly watching the surrounding area, wary, expecting a trap of some sort.

“Perhaps we should ride back and speak to whoever commands the troops who are following you. I can give him the full story.”

“Perhaps you can tell me now so I know I would not be wasting my time.” Cato’s voice was harsh and the threat of violence was clear in his stance.

Brude realised he would not talk his way past this man so he told him how the imperial navy had raided the village, killed many warriors and burned the houses. He explained that the rest of the villagers had fought among themselves, losing more men when the head man was challenged and killed. Now the few who were left were mostly frightened old men and women who wanted nothing but peace with their neighbours and with
Rome
.

“They have one of those stone towers there?” Cato asked.

The Romans had done their intelligence work well, thought Brude. There was no point in lying. If he did, he would be found out. Cato already knew about the broch. What else did he know? Keeping his face calm and trying to appear as much like the friendly trader he claimed to be, Brude said, “Yes, there is a tower but it is a bit of a ruin. The peasants will probably hide inside it if you approach. If you have some ballistae you could knock it down in a few days but I doubt it is worth the bother. If you ask them to come out and assure them you won’t harm them, they’ll probably hand it over to you without a fight. They just want to be left in peace.”

“You seem to know a lot about it,” said Cato, suspicion etched in his expression.

“I arrived there a few hours after your navy had raided the place. I spent yesterday evening, and this morning, speaking to them.”

Cato chewed his lips thoughtfully. He clearly wasn’t sure whether to believe Brude or not. Brude had hoped that the officer he met would be a young, inexperienced nobleman he could persuade easily but this gnarled veteran was a hard nut to crack. Turning to the interpreter at his side, Cato snapped, “Speak to the others. See if they tell the same story.”

The man nodded, tugging his horse’s reins. Brude said to him, in Latin, “Best speak to the woman. The man’s an idiot. Doesn’t know his arse from his elbow.” The man ignored him and he began asking both of Brude’s companions questions about events in Broch Tava. Brude’s heart was racing but he forced himself to remain outwardly calm. He had been over the story several times with Mairead and Fothair. He had to hope they would remember enough to back up what he had said.

After a short while, the interpreter came back. He told Cato, “Pretty much the same story, sir. It seems the navy did a right good job on the place. They killed all their best warriors.”

“The words of slaves shuld not be taken unless they are tortured first,” Cato mused, his dark eyes watching Brude as he spoke.

“This is hardly a court of law,” Brude replied. “I don’t think torture is necessary. I don’t want to lose my slaves.”