In the Shadow of the Wall (41 page)

“Gartnait too?” Fothair asked.

“And the others who came back,” Veleda confirmed. “In Peart and Dun Nechtan, the survivors of that raid are all important men now, sworn to secrecy, a vow they keep to hide their shame. But the pain of the memory haunts Nechtan to this day.”

“What about Broch Tava?” Brude asked her. “Who are the other men who came back home rich?”

Veleda bared her teeth in a humourless grin. “Only five men, apart from Colm, returned alive to Broch Tava, for the men of your village bore the brunt of the fight against the Romans. So twenty-eight men left and six returned. Yet now, only one survives apart from you, Brude.”

Brude’s eyes widened in surprise. “Colm is the only one left? What happened to the others?”

“They died,” Veleda shot back. “Mostly in accidents. It seems Broch Tava is a dangerous place to live.”

“Colm,” breathed Fothair. “He killed them. But why?”

“I did not say he killed them,” said Veleda. “I said they died. Perhaps they were all accidents. The sea, the woods and the hills can be dangerous. But Broch Tava was not lucky after the men marched away on that raid.” She studied Brude, looking for a clue to what he was thinking. “What will you do now that you know all this?”

Brude stared back at her. He knew she must have a purpose in telling him this but he did not want to play her games. “Nothing. I made a promise. I have to keep it.”

“It is dangerous to break oaths,” Veleda agreed. “To whom did you give your word?”

“you iread. And to myself.”

“To yourself? The hardest kind of oath to keep. And the hardest to bear if you break them.” Brude thought she would try to persuade him to take some action but instead the old woman sighed, “You must do as your heart tells you. Just beware of Colm.”

“I think he has enough troubles of his own without worrying about me,” said Brude.

“Probably so,” Veleda agreed. “Colm’s problem is that he thinks he has big dreams but, in truth, they are the dreams of a small man. Nechtan, for all his faults, has a wider vision as well as greater cares.”

“What do you mean?” asked Brude.

“I mean that there are changes afoot in the lands of the Pritani. Already the Caledonii have absorbed the Creones who live in the far lands by the western sea. The Damnonii are scarcely independent of them either. The Caledonii are building a nation, not a scattering of people where every village names itself a different tribe. To the north of us, the Vacomagi and the Taexali now call themselves the Maeatae and are united. They make war on
Rome
, sailing south in their ships while, at the same time, they take Roman silver as the Romans attempt to buy peace. The Boresti are a small tribe, as you know, stuck between the might of the Maeatae and the greater might of
Rome
. Nechtan fears being trapped between the Caledonii and the Maeatae, on the one hand, and crushed by the Romans on the other. Colm thinks only of himself. He makes war on his own people, thinking himself a man the Romans consider a friend when, in truth, he is of little consequence in the great scheme of things. That is why Nechtan wanted an excuse to marry his daughter off to someone else.”

“To a nobleman of the Caledonii or the Maeatae, I presume?” said Brude.

“To the Maeatae,” Veleda confirmed. “It is all arranged. Perhaps some day her son will rule over the Maeatae and the Boresti. Perhaps we will become part of a larger nation, speaking with one voice, powerful enough to withstand even the Romans.”

“It’s a nice dream,” said Brude. “One day it may become real.”

They slept after that, even though Brude’s mind was full of dark thoughts and troubled dreams. They woke late and the sun was high in the sky when they rose. Veleda gave them a breakfast of porridge and bread then walked with them to the gate, which the guards opened for them without a word of protest. Veleda wished them well, then surprised them by sending for two horses for them to ride home. “It will be dark before you get back, if you try to walk,” she told them.

“We cannot accept such gifts,” Brude protested. “We have done nothing to deserve such kindness.”

“Then look on it as a loan. You can return them when you are able,” Veleda told him. “But Nechtan will not miss them. He has more than he needs anyway.”

Two warriors arrived, each leading a small Pritani horse. Brude and Fothair mounted the uncomfortable wooden saddles, wishing Veleda good health. She nodded in farewell and her look showed Brude that she did not need to speak to remind him of the things they had talked about the previous night.

They set off down the hillside trackway. Brude still felt uncomfortable on a horse but Fothair loved it, although there was more than just the joy of being on horseback to bring a smile to his face. “We got out alive,” he said with feeling. “Yesterday I didn’t think we would have managed that.”

“So now all we have to do is get home and survive whatever Colm has in store for us,” Brude told him. “If we survive that, I have to think of a way to kill the emperor and escape with my life.”

“If anyone can do it, you can,” Fothair told him airily.

“Trust me. Nobody can do it. If I do get close enough to strike him, I am a dead man.”

“Then let’s hope the Romans are in a mood to let us all live,” Fothair replied.

Brude just grunted.

Down below, the camp site where the men of Broch Tava had stayed overnight was now deserted, Colm and his men having long gone. Even on horseback Brude doubted whether they would catch up with them much before they reached home. What would happen when they did reach home was more uncertain than ever.

Appius Flaminius Philo stood on the deck of the war galley savouring the tang of the sea spray and the rhythmic splash of the oars. He checked that the three other ships under his command were all maintaining position. Satisfied, he turned back to survey the land. He had looked over the maps the evening before when they had beached the ships in a wide, shallow bay and he knew that they should be reaching a broad estuary when they rounded the next headland. They were now north of the emperor’s army so, as he had told his men that morning as they boarded the ships, anyone they came across was to be considered hostile.

They reached the estuary where he saw the narrow plain and the line of low, steep hills that ran down to the shore. He also saw what he was looking for. There was a huddle of roundhouses near the shore at the foot of one of the hills. There were even the bare spars of a small boat under construction. He turned to his assistant Decimus. “Tell the ship masters to pick up the pace. All marines to don armour and prepare for action.” Decimus ran lightly back to the stern to relay the message. Soon, Philo heard the beat of the hortator’s drum pick up, the slaves manning the oars reacting to the increased rhythm and pushing the galley on faster. Signals would be flying to the other galleys, he knew. He could trust his men to obey his commands, so he turned back to examine the northern shore of the wide river. He thought he could make out people moving around in the village and there were even a couple of the ludicrous oval-shaped, leather-skinned vessels the barbarians used for fishing, sitting out in the river. Nobody had yet seen the approaching ships, he thought, though he knew they would soon enough. Decimus scampered back. “All done, sir,” he said in his young, eager voice.

“Very good. Fetch my armour.” Wearing armour aboard ship was only countenanced when the men were about to go into action. Falling overboard was bad enough if you could swim and were wearing ordinary clothes. In full armour a man would sink like a stone. Philo was experienced enough to know not to take any unnecessary chances, even when the seas were calm, as now.

He looked again at the village. A quick in and out raid with little opposition was what this called for, he thought. He saw the small shapes of three people running along the grassland towards the village. They, at least, had seen the galleys but he was not concerned about that. At best all they could do was warn people to run.

According to the maps he had studied, there was a fortress tower on the hill above the village. He searched for it, eventually spotting the tip of a bony finger of stone appearing beyond the wooded ridge at the top of the long hill that towered over the village. He clucked his tongue. A fortified tower meant warriors but all the reports said there were not many people living here and the tower was a fair way from the village. He knew he would not be able to storm a fortified position because his marines had no siege weapons, but they were more than capable of taking on anyone who came out of the tower to challenge them.

Dismissing the tower as inconsequential, his eyes scoured the shoreline for a landing point. There was a long, sandy beach ahead of him, lying to the east of the village. It looked open and inviting but he thought he could make out swirling patterns in the waves near the north shore, which suggested there might be shallow shoals or rocks. Where the sand stopped, there was a small piece of land jutting into the estuary. Beyond that, where the houses and the boat were, the shore was pebbles and stones rather than sand. The sand would be easier, he thought, but the houses were near the stony beach so that meant there were probably no hidden rocks or sandbanks for his galleys to founder on. Even barbarians were not stupid enough to sail out from a beach that had hidden dangers. He would go straight for the village, he decided.

With the eyes of experience, he made his plans as the ships surged towards their target, the oars biting into the waves to the beat of the drums. A line of sixty men would suffice to stop anyone coming down from the tower, he decided. The rest of his men could get in to the village, take whatever they could find by way of loot or prisoners, burn the houses and especially the half built boat, then be back on board in less than half an hour. Simple and efficient, the way Philo liked it. The Roman way.

With many of the men away, Castatin had been bored so he had gone down to the lower village where he had met Seoc’s sisters. Barabal was nice, he thought, but a couple of years older than he was. Still, her figure was developing and he was starting to take an interest in such things so he offered to go with the girls to the rock pools out on the sandy beach. The tide would be heading out soon so they would be able to collect small crabs and shellfish which would be trapped in the pools. Seasaidh, who normally scared him with her forthright manner and teasing words, seemed friendlier than usual, even speaking politely without the mocking laugh she usually used when she spoke to any boy. For Castatin, it seemed a morning full of promise.

The tide was just starting to turn so the rocks were not visible yet. They would probably have at least an hour or so to wait so they climbed down the grass bank on to the sand. They quickly found a sheltered spot under the edge of the grass where they could pass the time. Seasaidh asked Castatin if he knew why his father and all the men had gone away to Dun Nechtan. Castatin was busy explaining that he had no idea when Barabal suddenly pointed out to sea. “Look!” she said. “There are some ships.”

There were four galleys, their square white sails catching the thin breeze, ranks of oars splashing in rhythm. Castatin thought he heard the distant sound of a drum beat rolling over the water. Eyes painted on the prows gave the ships a demonic look. When Castatin saw the men standing on the flat decks, the sunlight reflecting from their armour, he knew who they were.

“Romans!” he shouted. “Come on, we have to get back to the broch.” Seoc had told him about Brude’s warning. If the Romans came by sea, they were to take shelter in the broch.

They scrambled up the bank onto the flat grassland strip, where the village’s sheep and goats were allowed to wander and graze. It was a fairly long walk back to the village from here, but they set off at a run. Castatin knew that the safest path to get to the broch would be to cut inland, between the low, lumpy hills so that they could approach the broch from the north east. But he also knew that the watchmen on the broch would not be able to see the ships because of the narrow wooded ridge which blocked the view to the south east. If they ran along the shore, he thought, they would get back in time to warn everyone.

They dashed along the rough, tussocky flatland, arms pumping, their breath rasping in their throats. Castatin had to slow to allow the girls to keep up with him. Anxiously, he watched the ships as they entered the broad estuary. He half hoped that they would head for the apparently smooth landing on the sandy beach, which he knew would probably mean they would either run into one of the sandbanks that lurked just below the surface of the receding tide or they would grind onto the rock shoals which lay just off the beach. He cursed in frustration when he saw that the Romans were heading further west, straight for the village.