In the Shadow of the Wall (2 page)

“My papers of manumission.”

The centurion nodded. “All right, lads. Pack it all up again.” He handed the case and the wooden sword to Brude. “I expect you won’t bother too much about any warnings of how the Picti treat strangers?”

“I can take care of myself,” Brude assured him. He picked up his blanket, carefully wrapping the wooden sword and leather case in it. These were the symbols of his freedom, the proof that he was no longer a slave but a free man, a Roman citizen.

It took the soldiers a few minutes to re-pack the mule. Brude fastened his bedroll onto the beast, grabbed the halter rope and gave the centurion a questioning look. The soldier nodded. “Follow me. I’ll see you through.” He led Brude to a small building just inside the gate where a scribe etched out details of who Brude was and what he was carrying. “There’s a tax of six sesterces on the goods,” he said in a disinterested tone.

The centurion counted out the coins from Brude’s small bag then handed the rest back to Brude who counted out another twenty sesterces which he gave back to the centurion. That left only a few coppers but he doubted he would have much need for them where he was going. “For your trouble,” he told the soldier.

The centurion nodded his thanks then led Brude through the fort, one of the guards falling in behind. Brude did not pay much attention to his surroundings; he had seen army camps before and could probably find his way round this one blindfolded. All of his attention was on the northern gate. He found his heart was beating fast at the thought of getting through. He knew he was the subject of some curious looks from the soldiers he was passing but he ignored them.

The centurion said softly, “You’ll need the tribune to agree to open the gate.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade him,” Brude replied.

“You’ve still got time to change your mind. They’re a troublesome lot, the Picti. Been raiding down here for years, ever since that fool Albinus took the legions off to fight the emperor.” Brude nodded. Decimus Clodius Albinus had been governor of Britannia when Brude was a boy. He had stripped the province of most of its soldiers to support his attempt to become emperor. He had lost the war and sby definition, was a fool. Ever since, the fractious British tribes had been rising in sporadic revolt, with the Picts and tribes from
Hibernia
raiding the coasts and sallying across the Wall while the outnumbered Roman troops marched from one part of the country to another, quashing resistance where they found it. The Romans were still in control, but only just, and whenever they stamped on the locals in one part of the province, trouble broke out somewhere else. Brude listened with interest as the centurion went on, “Still it’ll all be sorted now the emperor is on his way here.”

That nearly stopped Brude in his tracks. He had deliberately kept away from the main roads and settlements on his way north. It had made the journey longer but it meant he had been able to avoid trouble. By cutting across country, he had avoided confrontations with any tribesmen seeking to liberate his possessions and do away with another Roman. But it also meant he had heard little news of what was going on. “The emperor is here?”

“Not yet, but he will be soon,” the soldier told him with grim satisfaction. “He came over with three legions at the end of last year. Going to sort the locals out and make sure they stay sorted. About bloody time, if you ask me. Bloody Brigantes have always been uppity.” The Brigantes, Brude knew, were the major tribe in this part of the province, holding sway over the mountainous country south of the Wall, all the way to Eboracum. While the tribes in the far south of Britannia were almost thoroughly Romanised, the Brigantes, along with the fierce tribes of the western fringes of the province, were constantly causing trouble. In the years since the province had been stripped of much of its army, they had become bolder, raiding Roman settlements, burning homes, stealing cattle, goods and women, and ambushing any Roman traders who dared to travel without a sizeable armed guard. Despite Britannia having been a province of the empire for a hundred and fifty years, some of the locals seemed determined not to become civilised. But if the emperor was really coming here, the Brigantes were likely to find themselves well and truly under the Roman heel before long. Britannia, a tiny and relatively poor province on the fringes of the empire, had always needed at least three legions to keep the populace in order. Brude took a perverse pride in that.
Rome
only had around thirty legions to control its entire empire and no fewer than three of them were needed to keep this province in line. The Britons had had it easy for the past thirteen years but now that the soldiers were back in force, the emperor would no doubt make a show of imposing order again. It made Brude even more determined to escape the confines of the empire.

They reached the gate at last. The centurion told Brude to wait while he went to speak to the tribune. Brude stood beneath the immense gateway, its two square towers flanking the huge oak doors, which were barred firmly shut. Behind him, the guard shuffled idly while on the towers another guard, javelin resting on his shoulder, looked down with interest to see what was going on.

The tribune, a young man, barely into his twenties, walked down to meet Brude, the centurion accompanying him a pace behind. The tribune, Brude knew, would br provincon of a wealthy family doing a stint of military service as a prelude to a life in politics. Technically the centurion’s superior officer, he would be inexperienced and would almost always look to the more experienced man for guidance. With his sculpted breastplate and crested helmet, he looked every inch the martial hero until Brude looked at his face and saw how young he was. “You want to go north?” the tribune asked him in a puzzled tone.

“That’s right, sir. Trading trip, sir. I’ve paid the toll.” Brude tried to sound as if he expected to be allowed through with no arguments.

“The northern tribes are really not very friendly,” the tribune said. “For a Roman citizen to go there is very dangerous. Especially just now.”

“Cut your balls off as soon as look at you,” the centurion added cheerily, bringing stifled laughs from the nearby soldiers.

“I can take care of myself,” Brude said evenly, trying to stare the young tribune down.

“The centurion says you won the rudis?”

“Four summers past,” Brude confirmed.

“Then I expect you
can
take care of yourself,” the tribune conceded.

Brude just gazed at him calmly, daring him to refuse permission. After a moment the tribune backed down. He signalled to the soldiers manning the gate. “Let him through!”

Brude exchanged a nod of mutual respect with the centurion, tugged on the halter rope and walked steadily forwards as one of the huge wooden gates was pulled inwards. He passed through the shadows of the gateway. Heart pounding, half expecting the tribune to change his mind, he made his way out to the other side.

He had made it. He was going home.

A.D. 196

Colm and Brude were going to war. They were sixteen years old and felt invincible. Like all the men, theyhad painted their faces and bodies with the blue war dye, daubing each other with swirling lines and circles, tracing images of bears, horses and eagles across their chests. They admired each other, laughing as they painted themselves. For the march, Brude was wearing a linen shirt but he left the front untied so that his painted chest and belly could be seen. When the time came for fighting he would discard it so that he could face the enemy with his upper body bare. To complete his battle gear he was carrying a large, round shield and a long spear with a wickedly sharp iron blade fixed to the tip. He had worked on its edge for days, rubbing and oiling until it was so sharp he could have shaved with it. If he had been old enough to have any beard worth shaving.

He stood among the crowd of warriors savouring the applause from the assembled villagers, trying to see whether Mairead was watching him, but at the same time trying not to appear as if he was looking for her. Instead he saw his mother kissing his father farewell and he joined in the chorus of cheers that greeted the gesture. Brude’s father was the head man of the village, a wealthy man who owned nearly twenty head of cattle. Now, dressed in his bronze breastplate which gleamed like gold in the summer sun and carrying a mighty sword at his waist, he was about to lead his twenty-eight warriors on the greatest adventure of their lifetime.

Nechtan himself had come all the way from his fortress in the hills, bringing a huge army of over ninety warriors. Nechtan, acknowledged among the Boresti as the mightiest warlord of the tribe, had called the leaders of all the villages to set aside their squabbles and join him in the march south. For the news had reached them that the Romans had sailed away, across the sea, leaving only a handful of soldiers to guard their province. The time was ripe for the tribes of the Pritani to go south to plunder the wealth of the undefended towns. Nechtan, sitting astride his horse, had told them that the men of the Venicones, the Damnonii and the Selgovae would join them in the greatest army the Pritani had mustered in nearly twenty years.

Brude felt proud to be a part of such a great adventure. He and Colm had talked of little else in the past days. They had practised with their spears and shields, copying the older warriors, the battle-scarred men who plastered their hair with lime to shape it like the mane of an angry horse. The two boys had dreamed of the deeds they would accomplish and the Romans they would kill.

Now Colm stood beside Brude, grinning broadly as he waved to someone in the crowd. Brude followed his gaze and saw Mairead, standing in the shadow of the great broch, a garland of flowers in her long hair. She gave them a smile and Brude smiled back. Colm frowned when he saw Mairead was looking more at Brude than at him.

Mairead was a couple of years younger than the two boys but they had grown up together. Colm was two months older than Brude and liked to take the lead in most things that they did together, which was just about everything. Though they were like brothers, Brude, as the younger, usually let Colm have his own way. He knew that Colm, who had lost his parents when he was quite young, liked to prove he was better than everyone else. He always wanted to win at rything he did. Most of the time Brude did not mind that. Colm was taller than he was by half a head but Brude was stockier and stronger. Despite that, he usually let Colm win when they wrestled. Usually, but not always.

Mairead, by common consent, was the most beautiful girl in the village. She had reached the age where she should marry. Everyone seemed to take it for granted that she would marry Colm before long which meant he would be the next head man, for Mairead was the daughter of Brude’s grandmother’s cousin. The Boresti, like all the Pritani, inherited through the female line. Only men could rule, of course, but even though Brude was the son of a head man, his mother was not of a noble line, so he would not follow his father in that position. It did not bother him. He was young, strong and happy, and he was off to war to become a hero. What more was there to wish for?

They gathered on the wide, open space north of the broch. Its mighty tower, the height of twelve grown men, dwarfed them all, casting a long shadow in the morning sunlight. It was the wonder of the coast, built by Brude’s great-great-grandfather after the Romans had come and gone many years before, built to offer protection for the villagers should the Romans ever return. They never had, so the broch had never been needed as a defence. Its two concentric walls, each as thick as a man is tall, formed an impregnable fortress, providing a safe haven for people and animals alike. With only one small entrance and a platform at the high summit from which defenders could hurl rocks and spears at any enemy, the broch was a symbol of the power of the Boresti. The
village
of
Broch Tava
had grown and flourished in recent years. Brude’s father was accounted a good leader, for the people prospered under his rule. He was not the mightiest lord of the Boresti but he was the only one who had a broch to defend his people and the whole village took pride in that fact.

Now Nechtan, the mighty warrior, lord of lords, led them in a prayer to Belatucadros, god of war, seeking his blessing on their venture. Then he drank from a horn full of ale, tossing it loftily aside when he had drained it. They all cheered as he waved his arm, urging his horse to turn and set off westwards.

The army followed, accompanied for some way by the villagers. Colm ran to Mairead and gave her a kiss, waving happily to her as he rejoined Brude in the marching troop. “I’m going to marry her when we get back,” Colm told him. Mairead’s father, Fionnlagh, who was marching a few paces ahead of them, turned to give Colm a studied look before glancing at Brude.