In the Shadow of the Wall (5 page)

“Didn’t you see that fire signal?” Brude asked him, keeping his voice low. “Look, you can see another watchtower away along there. The guards were signalling to somebody.”

“Well if there are any Romans, we’ll soon see them off,” Colm said confidently. “If you’re afraid you can always stay here,” he added mockingly.

“I’m not afraid,” Brude snapped back, “I just think going this way is a bad idea. We should at least send some scouts ahead”

“Nechtan knows what he’s doing,” Colm asserted.

Brude wasn’t so sure.

They set off at last. Brude had to concede that walking along the road meant that they made much better time than going across country. It ran dead straight, taking them up a long, gentle rise, always around five hundred paces from the Wall to their right. They soon reached the next watchtower where, seeing several figures on its summit watching them, Gartnait of Peart led some of his men to try to attack it. They soon hurried back. The solid oak door had been barred and the Romans were throwing javelins and dropping rocks from the top of the tower. With no way of breaking down the door, the men of Peart were forced to make an ignominious retreat. Worse still, Gartnait himself was injured, a dropped rock having smashed through his shield, breaking his arm, then falling onto his foot and crushing his toes. He bore the pain stoically but could not continue the march. Nechtan sent him back to where they had crossed the Wall with instructions to guard the tower to make sure that they all had a way back. Gartnait was not happy, but Nechtan promised him an equal share of whatever plunder they took so he hobbled off, supported and half carried by four of his men.

The rest of the Boresti went on, cresting the small rise only to see that the road dipped slightly before rising again a few hundred paces away. They had barely started on the gentle downward slope when the leading men came to an abrupt stop, causing the straggling column to bunch up, cursing, as men stopped suddenly. The warriors quickly dispersed to either side of the paved road, peering ahead to see a group of horsemen on the road, just where it reached the top of the next rise. The horsemen reined in, stopping to watch the assembled Boresti. More appeared until Brude counted twenty of them, all on large horses, much bigger than the small horse Nechtan had ridden on the long march.

Nechtan waved his sword in the air, bellowing an incoherent war cry which was soon taken up by the whole tribe. They stepped purposefully forwards, shields held in front of them, spears at the ready. The horsemen did not wait to meet them but turned and rode off quickly, vanishing almost immediately over the crest of the low hill. The Boresti laughed and cheered, boasting of what they would have done to the horsemen if they had caught them. Even Brude was caught up in the excitement. The Romans had not bothered trying to fight although he could scarcely blame them; twenty against over a hundred and fifty was hardly a fair contest, even if the twenty were on horseback.

Nechtan led them on again but this time they marched in a line rather than a column, the men of Broch Tava on the right flank near the Wall, tramping over the tough, tussocky grass, while Nechtan was near the left, on the road. All of them were watching ahead keenly for more signs of the Romans. Nechtan, much to Brude’s satisfaction, at last sent a handful of men running ahead as scouts. These warriors jogged along the road, down into the small depression then climbed the far slope. They came to a sudden halt when they reached the crest, thenly turned and ran back, moving much more quickly and urgently. Nechtan called a halt, waiting for the men to return. Standing on the grass some thirty paces from the road, Brude could not hear what they said but he did not need to for Colm nudged his arm and pointed to the road ahead. “Look! More of them,” he said excitedly.

The Boresti watched silently as a column of marching Romans came into view at the top of the rise. Marching two abreast, each man carried a large rectangular shield that covered practically his whole body and each had a long javelin over his right shoulder. Brude saw that they were indeed all wearing the incredibly tough yet flexible segmented armour. Their legs were bare but the sound of their marching feet tramping on the cobbles of the roadway could be heard even from a distance of two hundred paces. At a shouted command, the column halted with every man stamping his foot at the same time. Another shout and they all turned in unison to face the Wall. Then they began marching, but this time the men on the road nearest to the Boresti stayed practically still, marking time while the whole column swung around them, wheeling on to the grass between the road and the Wall to form two ranks of men facing the tribesmen.

Brude tried to count how many men were in each row but lost count and had to start again. Like many of the tribesmen he was almost mesmerised by the smooth efficiency of their manoeuvring. The Romans acted as though the Boresti were of no account. Now they moved their arms, revealing that they were each carrying two javelins, not one as Brude had thought. Each man now held one javelin in his left hand, which also supported the huge red and yellow shield, while the one in his right hand was clearly ready for use. They stopped, standing still watching the tribesmen.

Then the horsemen reappeared, this time on the other side of the ditch. They rode past at a swift canter, soon disappearing behind the high turf wall, which hid the ditch from view. Brude wondered what Nechtan would do. The Roman infantrymen were blocking the road ahead while the horsemen were obviously aiming to get round behind the Boresti. They could cross the ditch at the watchtower where Gartnait had been hurt, then come up behind the tribesmen. It was as Brude had feared. The Boresti were trapped between the Wall and the ditch.

There were really only two choices; attack or retreat. To Brude, there was only one choice. To go back now would be a disgrace.

Nechtan obviously agreed. He raised his voice so that all could hear him. “There are only one hundred of them! We have half as many again! And we are Boresti!” The Boresti cheered, waving their spears aggressively. One of the women, bare-breasted, her upper body almost entirely blue with war dye, ran forwards, shaking her spear at the Romans. Nechtan yelled, “Belatucadros is with us, so let us show these Romans what it is to fight real warriors. They have the high ground, but we shall soon take it from them!”

Brude, despite his misgivings, was caught up in the excitement. He felt no fear, for his friends were with him. He saw Colm’s eyes shining, heard his cheering and knew that he was doing the same himself. Nechtan was right. No matter how impressively the Romans might march, they were outnumbered and could not hope to stop the Boresti.

Then the cheering subsided as it became clear that the Romans had other ideas.

There was another shouted order from the neat ranks. The first Roman line began marching down towards the Boresti, moving in unison at a slow, steady pace, forsaking the slight advantage afforded by the shallow slope. The second rank followed a few paces behind. Brude suddenly felt doubt grip him. Why were they attacking? They were outnumbered and had the advantage of the high ground yet they were marching down to meet the Boresti. They made no sound. There were no war cries, no waving of spears, no yells or taunts. The silence of their steady advance was unnerving.

Nechtan bellowed his war-cry and the tribesmen answered it, yelling at the top of their voices, banging spears against their shields, letting the Romans know they were ready. The Romans paid no attention, simply marching on, not a sound coming from them in reply.

Deciding to seize back the initiative, Nechtan yelled the order to charge. The tribesmen responded eagerly, cheering as they ran towards the enemy, racing to be the first to kill a Roman. Brude, although he was fast and knew he could have outstripped most of his neighbours, obeyed his father’s shouted reminder to stay close to him on his left side. Colm was to Brude’s left, screaming like a madman while others ran ahead, jostling and barging each other in their eagerness. Mairead’s father Fionnlagh, normally a placid man who tended the village’s sheep, was just ahead of Brude, yelling as fiercely as any of them.

They got to within fifty paces of the Roman front rank when the Romans stopped, drew back their right arms and hurled their javelins. In the time it took them to do that, the first tribesmen had closed the gap to within forty paces. The javelins struck home with awesome power. Men fell, screaming, or tried to catch the javelins on their shields, only to find that the long iron spikes pierced the wicker and hide with frightening ease to strike at the unprotected flesh beneath. Still running, Brude watched in horror as any men who had escaped injury when they managed to catch the spears on their shields, found they had no choice but to drop their shields to the ground because the Roman javelins had bent on impact, the long iron tip protruding through the shield while the wooden haft bent at a right angle, dragging the shield down, rendering it useless. With discarded shields, the men had no protection against the next volley of javelins hurled by the second rank of Romans while the first rank crouched to give them room to throw. Brude saw Fionnlagh go down, a javelin taking him in the chest, showering blood. Brude yelled to cover his fear as he ran past the stricken warrior, knowing he was dead and that Mairead now had no father.

Then the first Roman rank rose to their feet to fling their second volley. By this time, Brude, leaping over fallen men, dropped spears and discarded shields, was barely twenty paces from the Romans. He saw a javelin hurtling straight at him. He dodged to his right, flinging out his left arm to knock the javelin aside, somehow catching its flight so that the point did not actually hit his shield. Colm yelled in pain as the javelin crashed into his arm, side on. Brude ignored him and kept running.

The final volley of javelins from the second rank of Romans flew over his head but he knew that the awful weapons had done terrible damage to the charging tribesmen. Their attack was disjointed, broken apart by the volleys. Ahead of him, a few men reached the Roman ranks only to find a wall of shields with the sharp, shining blades of short swords gleaming in the spaces between the soldiers. The Romans, still eerily silent, stepped forwards in unison, working together to meet the charging tribesmen head on.

And the carnage began.

Using their enormous shields to batter the tribesmen down, the short swords stabbed repeatedly forwards. While the Boresti flailed and jabbed extravagantly with their spears, trying vainly to breach the Roman line, the Romans were economical with their thrusts, the sword blades biting home then withdrawing. Men fell, their blood covering the grass. Women as well, for the Romans treated them no differently. Then Brude saw his father swinging his own sword uselessly against the shield of the soldier in front of him. Brude, scarcely aware of anything apart from the men on either side and in front of him, flung himself to his own right, aiming for the narrow gap between the shield of his direct opponent and the man facing his father. Jabbing his spear overhand, he yelled in triumph as the wickedly sharp point caught the Roman in the neck, releasing a fountain of bright red blood.

Time seemed to slow. Brude’s father leaped into the gap as the Roman soldier fell. He swept his sword in a wide arc to knock over the man to his right. Brude heard the sound of his iron sword ringing on the man’s armour, cutting through the din of battle. He made to follow his father into the gap but was battered by the huge shield of the Roman to his left. He lost his footing as he was thumped again with incredible force, the metal rim of the shield catching him just above his left eye. He stumbled, felt his knees go weak and fell to the ground. As he dropped, he saw that his father was now confronted by the entire second rank of Roman soldiers. He tried to call out, to tell his father to run, but could only manage a strangled croak. He landed on the fallen Roman soldier, rolled helplessly, his vision obscured by blood streaming into his eyes. He hit the ground, lying awkwardly face down on the grass, his legs twisted and entangled with the limbs of the Roman he had killed. Without warning, a huge blow hit him as someone crashed down on top of him, then something hard struck the back of his already battered head.

Everything went black.

A.D. 209

Peart looked more prosperous than he remembered. From the height of the hills overlooking the wide valley of the Tava, he gazed down and saw the village nestled beside the river, surrounded by a strong wooden palisade. Smoke curled up into the afternoon sky from the large roundhouses. Cattle, sheep and goats dotted the lush fields and people were everywhere, going about their daily lives. By the standards of the empire, it was a poor place but it compared favourably to other Pritani villages Brude had passed on the long walk north from the Wall.

He wondered how much it would have changed. He had discovered that the Selgovae, once a proud people, were virtually gone, their lands and the people themselves now ruled by the Votadini who were ever friends to the Romans. The leaders of the Votadini used Roman goods, drank Roman wine from Roman glasses and some of them even had Roman-style houses with walls of brick topped by clay roof tiles. They were not part of the empire but they were friends of the empire. The rich men of the Votadini became richer while, as was ever the Roman way, the poor became poorer. The Wall, Brude thought, cast a long shadow.