In the Shadow of the Wall (8 page)

“The boy comes with me. You can keep the bull.”

“Oengus will not forget this,” Fothair said.

“I hope not. If we meet again I hope he has more sense than to try to kill me.” He turned to the boy and beckoned him over. The lad approached warily, his face shining with excitement. Brude lifted his tied hands and easily cut away the bonds with the sharp blade of his sword. “Are you all right?” he asked the boy.

Castatin nodded. “That was amazing. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“
Rome
.”

“That’s a Roman sword, isn’t it? My father told me about them. Are you a Roman?”

“No,” Brude told him. “No, I’m not a Roman. I’m from Broch Tava.”

Castatin was full of questions, most of which Brude answered sparingly or not at all. The boy was tired but excited and talked incessantly. Brude let him ride on the mule, unloading one large pack which he strapped over his own shoulders. They headed for the track for it was the fastest way to get to Broch Tava and Brude now wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and Peart. “You should have brought the bull,” Castatin chided. “It was my father’s stud bull. I was supposed to be watching him but they caught me last night.”

“I’m sure your father can get another bull. It’s not so easy to replace a son.”

Castatin looked doubtful. “It’s his favourite bull,” he said. “He’ll be very angry.”

“Then he can be angry at me. Has he still got a temper?”

Castatin looked at him, puzzled. “Do you really know him?”

“A long time ago. Before you were born.” He hesitated, unsure whether to ask the question he had to ask. hat is your mother’s name? Maybe I know her as well.”

“She’s called Mairead. I’ll be head man when I’m older because of her.”

“I remember,” said Brude softly as his dreams evaporated.

They reached the track and headed east towards a low line of hills. He knew that when they reached the top they would be able to see the last hills before Broch Tava, including the flat-topped Law. He knew now that the Law had once been a volcano, which gave it its peculiar shape. Why, he wondered, had he had to travel so far to learn about something so close to home? In the lore of the Boresti it was a holy place, possessed by spirits and fire demons and was shunned by mortals.

Castatin suddenly yelled in delight and pointed up the track. Brude saw a group of riders galloping down the slope towards them, raising a small cloud of dust as they came. They were riding horses, not the small war ponies he remembered. He had rarely seen so many Pritani horsemen together at one time. There must have been nearly twenty of them. “It’s my father!” Castatin squealed with glee.

Brude stopped and waited as the riders reined in a few paces from him. There was Colm, still tall, still dark-haired and handsome, swirling blue designs painted on either cheek, dressed in fine linen with a bronze breastplate on his chest and a long sword at his hip. He glared at Castatin then at Brude and Brude saw that Castatin’s joy had turned to concern. He had expected the boy to run to his father, but he stayed seated on the mule, biting his lips nervously. From behind Colm the riders, all armed for war, fanned out to surround them.

Colm nudged his horse forward, approaching slowly. He looked at his son. “Are you harmed? Who was it who took you?”

“I am fine, Father. It was Oengus of Peart who stole your bull and took me. This is Brude. He rescued me.”

Colm’s gaze snapped to Brude who smiled back at him. “Hello, Colm. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

There was a moment’s puzzlement in his eyes, then Colm’s jaw dropped and the blood drained from his face. “Brude?” he whispered. “You can’t be Brude. Brude is dead!”

Brude laughed, rolling up his right sleeve to reveal the tattoo on his forearm. It was a swirling design signifying his coming of age, the only tattoo he had ever had. “I got this the same day you got yours.”

Colm sat there on his horse, his eyes darting from the tattoo to Brude’s face, his mouth open, unable to speak. At last he composed himself. Brude was ready for a warm greeting, a clasping of hands, a brotherly hug. Instead Colm just said, “You are alive, then? After all these years?”

“It’s taken me a long time to get home,” Brude said. “You have done well while I was away, I hear. You have a fine son and people tell me you are head man now.”

Colm nodded. He did not seem to know how to respond to Brude’s sudden reappearance. Realising his men were looking at the two of them curiously, he remembered his manners. “I’m sorry, this is quite a shock. You obviously have a story to tell us. I’ll have some men escort you to my… to our village. I’m sure your mother will be pleased you have returned to us.” Without giving Brude time to respond or ask any questions, he then looked at Castatin. “Where’s my bull?”

“Oengus still has him,” the boy replied nervously. “They’re not far away, though. They’re going through the woods toward Peart. Only three of them. I can take you to where we left them.”

Colm shook his head. “You are going home.” To Brude he said, “I will leave four men to escort you. I have some cattle thieves to catch.”

“If you find them, do me a favour.”

“What?”

“Don’t harm the man called Fothair. The tall one.”

“What is he to you?” Colm demanded.

“Nothing. But he seems a good man.”

“I’ll bring them all back in chains,” Colm snarled. He quickly told four riders to stay with Brude and Castatin, then jabbed his heels to his mount’s flanks and led the rest of his men along the track. Brude watched him go, bemused by the reception Colm had given him. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t that coldness.

“He doesn’t seem very pleased to see you,” Castatin said.

“It will take him time to get used to it,” Brude replied. “After all, I’ve been dead a long time.”

 
<

A.D. 196

Brude was being crushed. He tried to open his eyes but only his right eye responded and all he could see was darkness because his face was pressed against the ground. His left eye was caked shut. He made an attempt to move his arms, to push himself up but he felt weak and dizzy and there was something heavy lying across him. His throat was parched and his lips were dry and cracked. He had to get up. He groaned with the effort as he managed, at last, to free his left arm. He reached up to feel his face. There was a crust of what he knew must be dried blood all down the left side, clogging his eye shut. He ran his fingers up to his forehead, feeling a damp stickiness.

Then he heard voices. He could not make out the words but there were people nearby. Or were they far away? His befuddled brain could make no sense of his surroundings but he tried to call for help, to wave his arm, to let them see he was still alive.

The pressure weighing down on his back was suddenly eased. He knew that whatever was on top of him was being lifted off. Then it was gone altogether, allowing him to roll to his side, to let his right eye see daylight. He immediately wished that he was blind again. The weight that had been on him was that of his father’s corpse. Anndra of the Boresti now lay on his back, his unseeing eyes staring skywards, just like the dead Roman sentry they had seen in the watchtower. Brude lay there, staring at his father, feeling numb all over. His father had worn a fine breastplate of bronze, which was battered and bashed, but what had killed him was a stab to his throat where the flies now gathered round a raw, open wound.

Brude was hauled to his feet, staggered, nearly fell, and got a slap on his face for his trouble. Strong arms dragged him away and he was dimly aware that he was passing more bodies lying scattered across the grass. Then he was unceremoniously thrown to the ground where he lay still, unable to move.

“Get up!” a voice hissed in warning. “Get up or they’ll just kill you.” Hands reached for him, supporting him until he managed at last to sit up. “Here. Drink!” Someone held a clay beaker to his lips. He swallowed, desperate to quench his thirst. The water was tepid and unpleasant but he drank it all. Then he looked up and saw a man he recognised but whose name would not come to him. “You’ll be all right,” the man told him. “I think you took a nasty blow to the head, but you’ll survive.”

Gradually Brude’s senses recovered. He felt better when more water came, brought by a Roman soldier, allowing him to wash the dried berate to qrom his face. After some cautious rubbing, his left eye was freed from the congealed blood and he was able to see reasonably well.

What he saw dismayed him.

There were thirty-four of them, all men, most of them wounded, although none too seriously. Four Roman soldiers stood guarding them while other Romans wandered the battlefield, checking for survivors. Brude saw that any fallen tribesman who was too badly wounded was simply despatched by a thrust of the short Roman swords. One more tribesman, his right hand mutilated by the loss of three fingers and limping badly, was brought to join the prisoners. The rest were either dead or gone. There was a cluster of bodies where the two battle lines had met but most had obviously been killed when they turned to flee. The corpses, both men and women, were scattered in a long line, heading back over the rise and, he supposed, beyond that. It had been more a slaughter than a battle, for the actual fighting must have lasted only a few moments while the Romans had thrown their javelins and then marched forwards, swords stabbing in those terrifying, short, brutally efficient killing thrusts.

He tried to count the corpses but he had such a headache that he had to give up. All he was able to count was the number of Roman dead because they were laid out on the grass only a few paces from where the prisoners sat. There were only four of them, lying on their backs still wearing their armour. He looked at his companion, a man from Broch Tava whose name suddenly came back to him. He was Frual, one of the village’s best fishermen. Brude recalled that he had two children, with a third on the way. He was a quiet man, strong yet gentle and not given to too much boasting. “What happened?” Brude asked him.

Frual shrugged. “We lost. We couldn’t break their line and they just killed us. Most of the men ran when you and your father went down. We thought you were dead.”

“Colm! Did you see what happened to Colm?”

Frual shook his head. “He’s not with us and I don’t think he’s among the dead here, but the Romans chased us all the way back to where we crossed the wall. The horses got a lot of men as we ran and when we got to the tower there wasn’t enough space for us all to get out. Nechtan got away, and so did Gartnait, but a lot of us were stuck on this side of the wall. Then the Romans caught up with us and we laid down our weapons.” He looked apologetically at Brude. “It was either that or be killed.”

“Maybe Colm got away then,” said Brude.

“Forget him,” Frual told him roughly. “We have to look after ourselves now.”

A wagon arrived, pulled by two large horses. The Romans gathered all the weapons and armour they coul and began piling them on to it. The prisoners, though, were prodded to their feet and marched westwards along the road. Brude felt weak and dizzy but Frual helped him and it turned out that they did not have far to go. Beyond the next rise was a large Roman fort, enclosed within a massive stone wall. Brude realised that this was where the sentries had been signalling. No wonder, he thought, that the Romans had found them so quickly. He suspected the Selgovae must have known how close the fort was, which was why they had headed in the opposite direction, leaving the Boresti to bear the brunt of the Roman attack. He felt he should be angry about that, but all he felt was numb and empty.

They were herded into a large building made with walls of brick with small, high windows and only one door. There was little talking. They sat or lay on the bare floor, tired, hurt and lost. Brude tried to sleep but Frual kept him awake. “Not good to sleep after that bang on the head,” he told him. “You might not wake up.” Brude must have dozed off anyway and when he awoke he saw by the change in the angle of the sunlight coming through the high windows that it must be afternoon.