The Pict
The last breaths of morning mist crawled across the deserted countryside of Northern Britannia, a land of dense woods, wild meadows and heather-freckled vales. Across it all ran a grey-green ridge – the forgotten wall of Emperor Antoninus Pius, stretching from horizon to horizon. Autumnal sunlight examined every fissure in the tumbling ruin that had once been the high stockade. Down in the deep ditch that ran before the wall, the mist lay thick, as if hiding from the new day. On one unremarkable stretch of the crumbled defences, a gnarled oak had grown, stretching up from the high ridge like a parody of the watchtowers that had once stood here. A crow perched on its branches, cawing relentlessly. But when the mist in the ditch swirled, the bird fell swiftly silent. Its head twitched to look down at the disturbance, its black eyes wide. Suddenly, it took flight, sending a shower of brown leaves groundward.
A stooped man emerged from the mist and halted, craning his head up to watch the bird go, his hewn grey locks sliding back to reveal a face scored with a quarry of crags and scars. Dressed only in plaid breeches, his knotted arms were entwined with tattoos from wrist to shoulder. A bronze torc clung to his neck and his chest was hidden under jangling animal-tooth necklaces. When the crow faded from sight, he continued his ascent. His gnarled staff quivered and his wheezing grew laboured as he inched up the banking towards the oak. Planting a hand on the trunk, his lungs rattling in protest, the sinews of his arm trembled as he turned, slumping back into a nook in the oak’s base.
His breath settling into a gentle pant, his shoulders sagged and his head drooped. A long walk for an old man, he thought. The heroics of Urcal had faded with his youth and vigour. Now I am just another old Pict wandering this mongrel country, he mused. He raised his head to catch the high breeze, so fresh his nostrils stung. He traced his gaze slowly across the landscape, remembering how it had once been. The hazel of his eyes swallowed up his pupils and his face fell expressionless.
So different, he thought.
The wall had dominated his childhood, yet now he barely recognised the place. The wilds had taken back what had once been a defiant bulwark of man. Moss-clumped stone and stumps of timber poked from the wall ridge at regular intervals like rotten teeth. The soldiers who had patrolled the stockade like colonies of ants were probably long-dead now – if not by the sword then time itself would surely have claimed them.
How many seasons had passed, Urcal wondered? Yet he saw it all still, clear as the morning sunshine, as if it was right in front of him, today. Life had been good once, before the darkness of that night so long ago. He looked to the south of the wall ridge, beyond the weed-infested stripe that had once been a Roman road, to a bare and bumpy meadow of wild barley. Once, it had been so much more. Once, that empty spot had been his home. The breeze whispered again, bringing with it the scent of changing seasons; a blend of sweet life inevitably losing the battle against the crisp autumnal chill.
Suddenly, he winced, clutching his side. The fleshy mass that grew under his ribs flared in a searing agony as if reminding him why he had come back to the wall.
‘Aye, it is almost time,’ he whispered. The realisation seemed to open floodgates within his mind, setting free long-supressed memories. He closed his eyes, falling into the halls of the past.
***
The summer air was laced with the sweet scent of pine and threaded with the chop, chop, chop of woodcutters who fed a train of mule carts with hewn timber. Spades thudded softly into the earth as teams of men cut turves from the ground and heaped them in piles. Saws buzzed, hammers tapped and ropes strained. So much going on in every direction; the Roman military machine together with Pictish tribesmen sweating through every moment of daylight to complete this last section of the new wall. The wall had been built in two great initiatives from the east coast and the west, and now the two parts were but a stone’s throw apart, like outstretched hands eager to meet. So close to completion and the safety that the defences would bring.
An ancient village lay just south of the gap. The home of the Verturiones tribe. As a column of Roman legionaries snaked through the settlement, young Urcal ran alongside them, enchanted by their other-worldly appearance: shining vests of segmented armour over wine-red tunics, faces half-hidden behind those vividly decorated shields. He craned his neck and stretched his legs as he tried to keep stride – even though he was still barely waist high to the shortest one. The trailing soldier cast a flinty glance down upon him. Urcal puffed his chest out and tried his best to copy the man’s cold expression – but was jolted out of his stride when the centurion barked to his charges in the jagged Latin tongue. The column veered off towards the temporary barracks erected beside the village and Urcal slowed to watch them in awe, his mind turning over as he tried to recall what the Latin words meant.
‘Urcal, your supper is ready,’ a light voice broke his chain of thought. ‘It’s roast mutton. Mother says you must come home!’
He smiled as he turned to the voice; fiery little Isla was a year younger than him yet she behaved more like his mother than his sister at times. Mutton was always a tasty offering though. His mouth watered as he weighed up his options. ‘Say it in Latin and I might,’ he grinned, squeezing her hand but still eyeing the column of soldiers. In today’s class, each child had been given a Roman name by Vibius, the wily old Roman teacher with the snow-white beard. Urcal squared his shoulders as he remembered his own new moniker. ‘And call me Habitus!’
‘That was just a game, Urcal, now come home! Mother’s been busy all day cooking; Father is exhausted. He’ll beat you if you’re late to eat again.’
‘It’s more than a game, Isla. Old Vibius has seen it before; tribes like ours always take up the Roman ways in the end.’ He sighed, ruffling his sister’s curls. ‘I promise I’ll be in before dark.’ He turned from her and scrambled up the ridge to the young oak sprouting near the peak, ignoring his sister’s frustrated groan as he did so.
He shinned up onto a branch where he could see it all. The wall stretched off to the horizons, a border between two different worlds. The south side was clear and ordered, with a military road running behind the defences in a clean grey stripe. Many other roads and tracks cut across the southlands, dotted with supply caravans and trade wagons, studded with waystations. It was a land of order and law. The tribal village, hemmed with Roman fortifications and watchtowers, was now part of that land. On the north side of the wall, the dark peaty scar of the wall ditch marked the end of this organisation and the start of the wilds – a hilly patchwork of forest and ferns and choppy white streams. Legionaries strolled the wall’s battlements, gazing into this wilderness. Urcal dreamt of standing with them, the first line of defence against the northern unknown. The tribes there roamed in the woods and the dells, painted blue – a custom his people had once practiced. Sons of the war god Nudons, his father said of them, good only for killing one another. They chose their path and we chose ours, he insisted. A shiver of fear and excitement wriggled up his spine as he wondered how many of those northmen watched from the trees in silence like wolves, seeing the construction of this last section of the wall. What might they feel, he wondered – dismay, envy?
Seeing how close to completion the works were, the Roman legate had two days ago issued double rations to his soldiers, and granted many amphorae of wine and barrels of dates to Urcal’s tribe, relieving them of taxes for the next moon to boot. That evening, a great celebration had taken place. Urcal and Isla had danced and played, while Mother and Father sat around the fire with the tribespeople and the soldiers to eat, drink and laugh, the air filled with Roman songs and tribal poems. They were like one people that night, and Urcal had fallen asleep with a broad smile on his face and a warmth in his heart.
Now, he thought, bouncing a little on the oak branch, if only he could walk the wall with those iron soldiers. His eyes misted over as he dreamt of the day he could join the Roman ranks – Habitus the legionary!
***
Urcal’s face creased into a smile. A thick lock of grey whipped round and across his glassed eyes as the wind picked up. He sighed as the memories swirled; the short spell when life had been sweet. Then a cracking of twigs jolted him back to reality; someone else was near, on the overgrown remains of the southern road. He craned his neck to look. There, a wagon was swaying along… slowing.
The driver was swarthy and pointed. There was no doubt that he was Roman, Urcal mused, spotting his faded red tunic and legionary sword belt. Then he noted the gleaming helmet nestled atop a pile of armour by the man’s side; this was no low ranking soldier, he realised, eyeing the plumage on the helmet. His eyes narrowed as the wagon slowed to a crawl. The Roman looked around suspiciously too.
‘It’s time to eat and play!’ a voice split the air. Urcal jolted as a young, fair-haired boy sprung from the covered rear of the wagon before it had fully stopped. His mother, alighted a few moments later, stepping down from the wagon clutching satchels and an amphora with one hand, while a tiny baby wriggled on the other, grabbing at the mother’s long amber locks. ‘Slow down Minucius,’ she chuckled.
‘He’ll slow down when he’s old,’ the man said, the suspicious look fading from his face, replaced by one of fatherly affection.
Urcal watched, wide-eyed, as the family unpacked a spread of cheese, bread and honey onto a brown woollen blanket by the roadside. When the boy scrambled towards the turf of the wall base, Urcal shrank back from his hidden vantage point, his heart pounding. Why, he thought, why after all I have seen and done, am I afraid of a boy?
‘Minucius, don’t go up there!’ the father barked.
‘But father,’ he tried to protest, pointing to the peak. ‘You said the emperor is coming to rebuild the wall, to make it part of the empire again.’
The boy’s words stilled the breath in Urcal’s lungs and turned his blood to ice.
‘Don’t question your father,’ the boy’s mother chided, pouring wine into a mixing bowl, adding water then decanting the drink into a set of pewter cups. ‘We’re only stopping for a little while and it’s not safe to wander around, especially up there.’
‘But why?’ the boy moaned, trudging back down the slope, head hanging in disappointment.
Urcal’s face lengthened; why? His heart leadened at the innocence of the young Roman. His eyes fell to his staff, finely carved and polished along its length, but mottled and gouged at the handle where an eagle’s head had once been.
Surely the boy was wrong. Surely, he prayed. He bowed his head, his thoughts swam.
A bell pealed rhythmically through the mists of memory.
***
‘Tell us a story!’ Urcal yelled over the hubbub and the dying peal of the bell. But the rest of the class were less enthusiastic: all around him, the tribe’s other children rolled in the grass, a sea of fighting and laughter in the summer haze.
Old Vibius looked on, bemused, his arms folded and his lips sealed behind his white beard. Urcal gripped the edge of his log bench, brow furrowed, feet tapping, frowning. Only a precious short while each day was allowed for the teachings of the old Roman, and they were being wasted. Wasted!
Vibius noticed his angst. The old teacher’s lips quirked at one edge and he winked, then strode across to stand behind a tree stump – a table of sorts he used to lay out his teaching materials. He crouched, rummaging in the large canvas sack resting beside it. The tutor’s face lit up as he slid out a shield, a full legionary shield sparkling with ruby and gold images of an eagle and bolts of lightning. Exasperated, Urcal glanced around at his friends: they were all completely oblivious, still absorbed in their horseplay.
Vibius met his gaze again and shrugged, curling his bottom lip… then pulled a Roman sword from the satchel, took it by the hilt and rapped it against the iron boss in the centre of the shield front. Immediately, the children’s’ heads snapped round, agog. Silence fell like a stone.
‘The gladius,’ Vibius spoke gently, lofting the sword above his head, squinting as the blade caught the sun’s rays. ‘The weapon of the legions.’
‘With this, the legionaries . . . attack!’ he hissed, lunging forward suddenly. A fit of screams and then giggles swelled and died as the children parted like water from the sword thrust. He paced backwards, sweeping his wispy white locks back behind his ears, eyeing the sea of engrossed faces. ‘But without . . . this,’ he pulled the shield snugly around his body. Only the gladius in his right hand and his darting eyes showed from behind the bulk of the shield. ‘The great wars could not have been won . . . nor could the empire have been formed.’
The children were rapt. Not a breath pierced the air – only the distant clinking of the nearby smithy was to be heard. At this, Vibius lowered the shield and sword to the ground.
‘And now that I have your attention,’ he grinned, ‘let us proceed with today’s class.’
The tutor rummaged again in his satchel.
‘Who would like to practice with Roman weapons?’ He held up a set of miniature shields and wooden swords. Like a field of corn, every hand in the class shot up and the silence exploded with the cries of thirty children.
‘Very well, two at a time,’ he sighed, ushering the beanpole Talorc and relatively squat Alpin forward. The mismatched boys danced around each other, immediately clashing their wooden swords, the shields hanging loosely by their sides.
Vibius shook his head and muttered at their crazed fighting technique, then looked around and clicked his fingers. ‘Okay, who can tell me how big the Roman Empire is?’ he asked, circling the play-fight while addressing his class.
‘It stretches as far as the eye can see!’ a voice called.
‘That’s big, but think bigger. Much bigger!’ Vibius enthused, stooping and spreading his arms wide like an eagle.
‘All the way to Rome?’ another voice cried.
‘Indeed it does reach all the way to Rome. But it does not end there.’ Vibius nodded and then raised an eyebrow, looking for more.
‘All the way to Rome,’ Urcal ventured, his mouth shrivelling like parchment as he spoke, ‘and then as far away again.’ He shrunk and his skin burned as all eyes of his classmates fell upon him. The silence was only disturbed by the tap-tapping of the wooden swordplay. He stared intently at his feet.
‘Good, Urcal. And very close.’ Vibius picked up his staff and flicked it in between the clashing of the swords, stopping the fight dead. ‘Gather round, children,’ he beckoned, crouching to a patch of bare, dusty ground.
Urcal panted in relief as the attention moved away from him, then moved with the others to see what Vibius was doing. The old tutor tapped the ground with his staff – a finely carved piece of wood with a beautiful eagle’s head handle – making a dot in the dust.
‘This spot in the earth,’ he pointed, ‘is everything.’ The children’s faces fell blank. ‘Everything you see here, around you, above you. From the steep valley to the south and the hills which meet the sky, to the white-tipped mountains in the north.’ The children glanced to one another, bemused. Vibius strode five long paces away. 'And here,' he beckoned, stabbing another dot in the dust, ‘is Rome!’
Urcal's eyes remained fixed on the tip of the staff as Vibius' map took shape. The tutor shuffled carefully around Rome, tracing out the shoreline of Italy, then hobbled off to outline lands Urcal could only wonder of.
‘And, the Middle Sea,’ he grunted, drawing waves in the central section. ‘So, how did my ancestors get from Rome, all the way over here,’ he cried dramatically, taking exaggerated steps back to the first dot, ‘to this green land?’
Urcal’s eyes darted across the possible routes from Rome to the tribe. It seemed like too far for anyone to travel, surely - like chasing the horizon. And then there was a huge stretch of water between them too.
‘The Legions swept from the heartland of Rome hundreds of years ago, pushing the boundaries of Rome outwards in all directions. First the Etruscans, then the Samnites, then the Greeks of southern Italy came under her sway. Soon after, the jewel of Carthage, the wilds of Gaul and the parched lands of the Egyptians followed,’ the children’s heads followed Vibius’ cane as he dotted the map with each location.
‘And long ago, more generations than you can count on your hands...’ Vibius raised an eyebrow and nodded in satisfaction to see the children mouthing the numbers of each of their fingers, ‘we came here. Beautiful Caledonia!’
‘What happened to the armies of these people, did they not resist?’ Urcal ventured, knowing the answer.
‘Indeed, young Urcal,’ Vibius nodded, his face growing longer. ‘Rome has spilled much blood in the name of empire. Too much blood.’ The children settled down, sensing the mood dampen. ‘Perhaps, had Rome peaceably offered to neighbouring lands the ideals of Roman life, and shown a tolerance for the ways of others, the empire might still have grown. But surely not as swiftly or to be as vast as some would have liked. Unfortunately, expediency and empire do not sit well with patience and virtue.’
Urcal’s brow furrowed at this. He was not sure he understood, but he could see from the troubled and distant look in Vibius’ eyes that the old tutor certainly knew what he was talking about.
‘But look around you, children,’ Vibius’ tone lightened and he swept an arm over the works going on at the wall. ‘A fine initiative that has come together only because our peoples have managed to put their differences to one side and work together for the greater good. We have order, we have law, we have trade and we enjoy a shared wealth.’
Urcal heard Vibius’ words, but could not shake the question that tingled on his lips. ‘What about us?’ he croaked, his throat dried again to dust. ‘Back in those early days, did the Verturiones fight Rome’s legions?’
Muffled whispers and gasps escaped from the lips of the other young students.
‘Now, now, children,’ Vibius pushed his palms down rhythmically, ‘Urcal asks the natural question that I am sure many of you had in mind. The Verturiones were and are a proud people – multitudinous and composed of many tribes. Some of those tribes chose to stand against Rome. Yes, regrettably there was blood spilled in those early days. But the elders of your tribe soon chose a path of peace with the empire, one which flourishes with every passing season.’
Urcal felt his brow knitting again. He had heard about the squabbles which plagued the meetings of the elders: this tribe had broken from the main body of the Verturiones and submitted to peace. Some said it was the only choice, given an alternative of bloodshed and slavery. But their northern kin remained in great number, prowling and painted and in defiant opposition to Rome with the rest of the Pictish peoples.
‘Sadly, we remain at an unstable juncture in our relationship,’ Vibius sighed, gazing into Urcal’s eyes. ‘Your cousins who remain in the northern wilderness, they chose to…’ he stopped, his eyes swung to the watchtower overlooking the works and the remaining wall gap. There, the legionaries pointed to the north and cried out, and one lifted a bronze instrument to his lips and blew. The buccina sang and the Roman troops scrambled to the defensive ramparts.
***
The keening of the Roman war horns faded with the memory. Urcal gazed at the Roman family eating and talking quietly by their wagon. Innocent, he thought, and unaware of the long-buried bones they sit upon.
The growth in his side flared intolerably. He clasped his hand over the solid mass once more, grimacing at the bitter tang of blood in his mouth from its latest eruption. He made to lift his satchel instinctively and then withdrew, swallowing in agony as he remembered it was empty. He had been called a fool for refusing the soothing, chalky paste offered by the shaman. But, he thought, surely only a fool would deny that every man’s time must come?
Wincing as he waited for the pain to ebb, Urcal sensed something odd, something from the corner of his eye. His eyes narrowed to slits and turned to the northern horizon. The land was deserted no more. Dark shapes moved, pouring over the hills in their hundreds. The tribes were on the move, raiding, bounding towards the wall like preying wolves. The wind whistled in his ears as he watched. His eyes stared straight through the Pictish mass. Countless seasons had come and gone since he last ran with the warbands. Back in those days bitterness had flowed like acid in his veins and his many sins were lauded as heroism.
Four Pictish scouts broke ahead of the warband, sprinting towards the wall ridge. They were bare-chested, faces smeared with woad, hair braided or limed. Each of them grasped spears, axes or swords. The gentle chatter of the roman family carried on unabated from behind him – the family sheltered from the sight of this approaching threat, ironically by the decaying wall ridge, the once-great, protective shield of Rome.
Urcal ducked down behind the gnarled roots of the oak. The four Picts were slowing to a stalking pace. The one in the lead gestured over the ridge, putting a finger to his lips for silence. He was the leader, no doubt, given his shock of limed hair and proliferation of tattoos. A young man, Urcal thought. He would have much still to prove to his kinsmen – the more blood he could spill, the better his prospects and the more he would ink his skin. Urcal eyed the myriad blue etchings covering his own arms, and then returned a harder gaze on the raiders. They were scaling the wall banking now, just as he had done a short time ago. They were but paces from the ridge crest and spotting the Roman family.
He grimaced as another lance of fiery agony ripped through his midriff. He sank back into the hollow of the tree, his teeth chattering violently through the steely wash of blood in his mouth. Not long to go now. His eyes glassed over as the Picts stalked up to the rubble of the wall on the tip of the ridge and then squatted behind the tumbled foundations of a watchtower. Their leader raised his head to scan the grounds on the southern side of the wall. Just then, the Roman boy – oblivious – emitted a piercing, playful scream that broke down into laughter. Urcal closed his eyes as the sound stoked another long-buried memory.
A different kind of screaming. In the dead of night.
***
The ground rumbled and a chorus of screaming echoed outside the hut. Urcal sat bolt upright in his straw bed, rubbed his eyes and gaped into the dimness of his home. Another chorus of muffled cries and hurried footsteps stumbled past the doorway.
This was no nightmare.
‘Mother, Father?’ he called. Nothing. His eyes darted over the three empty beds around him, blankets folded neatly. His heart hammered and panic twisted his thoughts: he had fallen asleep alone, hoping his parents would be pleased with him for settling down for the night when they returned from the wall works. How long ago had that been? And surely Isla should be inside now, regardless?
He snatched shallow breaths. His skin burned and panic sunk its claws deep inside him. Have to find someone, anyone. Scrabbling for the doorway across the packed earth floor, he kicked over the neat stack of his mother’s best clay pots. They shattered against the hearth. This would be the deadliest of sins at any other time, but he hopped over the destruction and stumbled to the doorway, pulling at the thick layers of hide curtain there. Outside, the gentle chill of the summer night’s air bathed him. A strong reek of woodsmoke spiced the breeze. Coming from the wall, he realised. He stood up to face the wind, eyeing the ghostly band of orange hanging in the air over the wall zone. Then he heard it. Quietly at first, so quiet he was not sure. But then it sounded again.
Screaming, crying, pleading.
The gentle wind died like a dropping stone. Urcal strained his eyes in the instant of silence – longing to see his family strolling back to their home safely. Then an animal roar from the blackness behind him cast an icy fear across his skin. Ducking back into his doorway he saw it: the figure of a man being bundled forward across the open hearth of the village centre, stumbling through the ashes and onto his knees, his hands bound. It was Drostan the farmer. Two Roman legionaries appeared behind him, one carrying a torch. They grappled at Drostan’s arms and heaved him to standing once more. His muffled pleas went unheeded. In the torchlight, Drostan’s swollen face sparkled with sweat, one eye was closed over and blackened, his teeth were shattered and his tongue swollen. Urcal bit into his forearm to stifle a cry as they passed.
‘Trista...’ Drostan croaked, spluttering dust from his throat, twisting to look back over his shoulder. ‘Trista!’ He cried this time, seeking out his wife.
‘Shut up, you animal,’ one Roman soldier hissed, cracking his sword hilt across Drostan’s jaw. His body crumpled, his head dangled limply and his legs trailed as the soldiers heaved him on towards the wall.
Urcal shrank back into the hut. In the shadows within, his heart skipped and his stomach heaved as their footsteps thudded past. But then, right outside, they halted.
The breath froze in Urcal’s lungs.
‘This one’s out cold, he’ll be no trouble now. Get another,’ one voice called. Urcal recognised the lilting accent – it was one of the Syrian recruits who had arrived at the wall at the new moon. ‘Saves another trip back down here. We need all the swords we can get up front.’
Urcal felt around the dirt floor of the hut, his fist clasped around a long shard of clay. Fragile but rapier-like at the shattered end, he clasped the smooth end tightly.
‘This isn't right,’ the voice of the other legionary muttered.
‘I didn't ask you whether it was right; just do it and keep your mouth shut!’ the Syrian snapped. ‘That hut there; search it!’
Urcal felt his way backwards in the darkness of his home, his legs buckling in fear as he backed into the dirt wall. Nowhere to run. A hand grappled at the hide curtain and whipped it back. A silhouetted giant filled the doorway, crouching to enter. At once the hut flooded with the brilliant light of the crackling torch the legionary carried, shadows dancing across the soldier’s rocky features. Urcal slid around the wall, chest heaving in panic. Pure instinct took control as he raised his makeshift weapon towards the blurry figure of the Roman, his hands trembling.
The light hung in the inky black pupils of the legionary, dilated in shock. ‘I...’ The soldier stammered.
Urcal felt tears burn his cheeks. ‘What’s happening? Where are my parents?’ he sobbed, his chest shuddering.
The soldier gazed at him, frozen in the doorway, his hands bloody.
Urcal felt his fear boil into rage, his teeth ground together and a wolf-like growl rose from within him. Like a murky nightmare, he leapt for the Roman, his clay shard extended to strike, and the Roman’s eyes widened in alarm.
The legionary swiped out, grappling Urcal’s wrist. Urcal winced at the sharp pain that shot up his arm as the shard fell to the dirt.
‘In the name of Mars, lad! Do you want to get yourself hurt?’ The soldier frowned as his words tailed off.
Urcal cocked his head to the doorway and the hearth outside, Drostan’s blood still staining the ashes. ‘Do I have a choice?’
The legionary dropped his gaze to the ground in shame and then began raking his craggy features with his fingers. ‘This is madness,’ he murmured.
Urcal eyed the doorway, but as he steadied himself to make a break, the legionary shook his head and stood in Urcal’s way, his face reddened with irritation. ‘Come on,’ he barked, wrenching Urcal up by the neck of his tunic to drag him out into the night.
Through the tears, Urcal again saw the glow hovering above the wall area – bigger now, eating into the night sky. As he was bundled along, the screaming grew louder. Then he heard a gruff howling and pained screaming. And a noise like that Vibius had made when he hashed sword against shield. The unmistakable song of war.
‘Picts?’ he yelped. ‘Our cousins from the north are attacking the wall?’
‘Not just any Picts. It’s your kind, lad. Verturiones. Wiped out the fort to the north they have, killed every one of my brothers. And don’t play innocent – your lot have clearly been in league with them,’ he growled, shoving Urcal forward again.
‘Why? Why would we? You’ve got it wrong, you have to believe that,’ Urcal gasped, spinning around to face the giant. ‘Ask my father, ask the elders!’
The soldier grunted, shaking his head, his shoulders sagging.
Urcal stopped ‘My parents; where are they?’
‘They’re at the wall. It’s too late for them.’ The soldier said, softer this time, slowing as he spoke.
‘Too late?’ Urcal whimpered, his words trailing off and his mind racing.
The soldier looked around carefully, searching the blackness. Then he frowned, crouching to be level with Urcal. The man’s pupils were an inky sea of conflict. For an eternity, his lips twitched, as if he wanted to speak but could not.
‘This is all wrong,’ the legionary spoke at last. He raised a meaty hand and pointed into the darkness, eastwards. ‘Go east,’ he said.
Urcal glanced in that direction but then stared north once more at the battle on the walls.
‘Listen to me, lad,’ he growled, shaking Urcal by the shoulders. ‘Go east. Run as fast as you can and don’t stop. The wall garrison is thin about a half day from here,’ he stopped, raising an eyebrow as he scanned Urcal’s tiny form. ‘Make that a full day. You’ll be able to slip over into the north from there.’
‘But my mother, my father,’ Urcal whimpered, shooting a glance towards the glow of the wall.
‘Don’t go up there, lad, or you will die,’ the soldier cut him off, his voice flat. ‘I’m giving you this chance. You won’t get another.’ With that, he turned and strode into the blackness.
Urcal’s stomach swam. An insidious chill bit at him as he contemplated the battle chaos at the wall and then the darkness and chance of safety to the east. Only one choice, he knew instantly.
***
Urcal’s knees cracked in protest as he stood on the ridge of the ruined wall, the wind lifting his grey locks. His heart thumped, awakened like an animal crawling from hibernation. He reached down to his scabbard – unused for many seasons now – as he watched the Pictish scouts drop over the wall without a sound. His fingers flexed on the sword hilt, but his legs remained rooted to the spot.
He closed his eyes, tried to shut out the reality unfolding before him. Then the silence exploded with a chorus of Pictish war cries, met by the screaming of the Roman woman.
‘Run, Minucius, run!’ she cried.
‘My sword,’ the Roman father cried, ‘where is my sword?’
The fleshy tumour flared and agony ripped through his veins. In his mind he felt the panic of that dark night. He had run that night too. Not from danger, but towards it.
***
Young Urcal’s legs leadened and his sprint had slowed to a stumble. Each burning breath now came with the tang of battle smoke. All around him, in the darkness of night, legionaries rallied to the ramparts, while tribesmen scrambled in confusion. Some appeared to be helping douse fires on the watchtowers, only to be seized and dragged to the wall by the legionaries; others who understood the full horror of the situation swiped at the Roman troops with clubs and tools.
Urcal approached the southern ridge of the wall, when a pounding rhythm of hooves burst from the blackness behind him. He threw himself into the brush, clear of the trail just as a Roman cavalry detachment raced past and straight into a rabble of resisting Verturiones. The screams tore at him; his ears ached at the hacking which followed, the singing of blades and the tearing of flesh. His mind numbed as his kinsmen dropped to the earth, faces lifeless and soaked in blood, heads and bodies cleaved. He ran to the wall scarp, scrambled up and then clambered up to the branch. Cloaked by a thatch of leaves, he panted as the anarchic scene assaulted his senses all at once.
To the north, the land was ablaze with torchlight, woad and iron – a sea of Picts swelled in the northern ditch, surging at the wall gap. From the upcast on the north side of the ditch, tribal slingers rained slingshot on the thin band of Roman legionaries atop the battlements either side of the gap and the thin dam of them blockading the opening.
An officer roared back over his shoulder: ‘More – bring more of them!’
Them? Urcal frowned at this. Then his heart froze when he saw the train of villagers being herded to the battlements. There they were bustled into the wall breach and lined up like shields, the terrible rain of slingshot and spears hammering down on them. Screaming and gurgling, the villagers fell, and the hail slowed as the attacking Picts realised they were killing their own kind. Then the Romans simply ushered up another batch of villagers like cattle to fill the gaps of the fallen. He turned his eyes away, his stomach heaving.
There was no respite in looking south, for all across the village, the Romans herded and fought with the Verturiones villagers. Bloodied bodies of tribesmen and women who had resisted too fiercely lay strewn, glistening in the pallid moonlight.
Then a shrill and familiar voice rang out above the others. ‘By the Gods, stop!’
It was old Vibius, pushing his way between the villagers and the maddened legionaries surrounding them with their swords drawn. Urcal gulped as he watched the tutor: white robes spattered crimson, arms and staff raised, shielding the villagers.
‘Have you lost your minds?’ Vibius croaked.
‘Orders, you old fool,’ the centurion barked. ‘They’ve aided their kinsmen to come at us from the north. Use your eyes, there are thousands of them! We use them as a shield until reinforcements arrive from the south. Or we die. It’s as simple as that. Now move aside or you will not be spared.’
Vibius’ face stiffened and he thrust out his white beard.
‘Have it your way,’ the centurion spoke, ‘Take them!’
As one, the thick circle of villagers crushed together. A wail poured from them as the legionaries coiled around their prey like a hungry snake, swords levelled. Old Vibius was pushed to the ground and trampled over as the legionaries stalked towards them.
‘No!’ Urcal heard himself sob.
Only then did he see the faces of Mother and Isla, gripping each other in the centre of the rabble, their eyes shut tight in acceptance of their fate. His fists clenched like rocks and his sobbing stopped dead. The fear in his heart dissolved.
He slid down the tree and sped down the ridge towards them.
At that moment, the legionaries fell upon the villagers, bundling them to the ground, smashing sword hilts into their backs and slicing at those who resisted.
‘Make haste!’ the centurion barked, urging his men forward. ‘Kill any we can’t take to the wall, don’t leave anyone at our backs!’
Hearing these words, Urcal’s heart thundered. He rushed for the legionaries, fury carrying him on. Balling his fists, he crouched to spring at the back of the centurion. Then something smacked against his shins and brought him crashing into the dirt only paces from the Romans.
‘You must not...’ Vibius croaked, lying dazed beside him where he had been trampled, his eagle-headed staff outstretched. ‘Don’t throw your life away. Run!’ he pleaded, scrabbling shakily to his knees and then standing to block Urcal’s path, pushing him back from the fray. Just then, Urcal heard a familiar voice screaming from the beset villagers.
‘Mother?’ Urcal wailed, seeing the legionaries dragging off those still alive towards the wall. He jinked past Vibius, then fell to his knees by the bloody carpet of those the Romans had slain. ‘Mother?’ he whispered, shaking, staring at her corpse. She lay on her side, still cradling the lifeless form of his sister, but a Roman spear had run through them both. ‘Mother… Isla…’ Urcal wept.
The centurion, marching off towards the wall with the others, halted, his ears pricking up. Slowly, he turned, his eyes latching onto Urcal. For a moment his expression was blank, then he smiled the most unsettling of smiles. ‘What is this?’ he said, stepping slowly back to the scene.
‘Urcal,’ Vibius called warily, stepping before Urcal again and placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Honour your people by staying alive.’
‘But my father – he may still live?’ Urcal trembled, glancing over Vibius’ shoulder, past the approaching centurion and to the chaos on the wall.
‘Your father lives on in you,’ Vibius croaked. Urcal gazed up into the old man’s eyes, welling and glassy. ‘There is no time. You must go. Now.’ The tutor’s gaze hardened. Urcal felt his limbs hang limp and his soul crumble. He looked up slowly to the approaching centurion.
Vibius thrust his staff into Urcal’s hands, shooting glances over his shoulder at the approaching centurion. ‘Take my staff to defend yourself. Strike anyone who tries to stop you . . . go!’
‘Nice catch, old man,’ the centurion sneered, stepping round to stand over Urcal. ‘We’ve got a job for you, lad.’
Urcal saw straight through the hulk of a man to the bloodied heap of Mother and Isla on the ground. The throbbing of blood filled his ears. He took the staff from Vibius’ hands. Then, like a striking cobra, he sprang up and smashed the eagle head handle into the centurion’s neck.
Blinking, the centurion touched where the finely carved point of the beak rested in his flesh, then raised his fingertips to examine the dark blood soaking them and his entire forearm. Confusion rippled across his features, clearly greying in the flickering torchlight. Then Urcal ripped the staff free, bringing with it a thick spray of arterial lifeblood. The centurion sank to his knees, staring madly around, and then collapsed.
Face stained red and devoid of fear, Urcal stepped backwards.
Vibius gaped at his pupil, his eyes saucer-like.
‘Your people should leave our land,’ Urcal trembled, stepping back out of the light, towards the east, ‘For your own sakes. What happened tonight will never be forgotten.’
***
The earth jostled in front of Urcal as his ailing body pitched across the gnarled turf. He could not remember breaking into this run; he only knew that he would not stop now. Not for anything. He clutched his staff in one hand and his sword out with the other as bitter memory and the tumour tore at him from within. With a single vault he cleared the stumpy foundations of the wall, his limbs innervated with a last burst of youth-like elasticity. Thudding onto the other side, he crouched, scanning the scene below like a preying hawk.
The Roman officer danced an impossible defence around his wife and daughter; both huddled together in a pile of robes and fiery hair. Three Picts jabbed and hacked at his weakening parries, and his limbs ran red with blood. Isolated on the other side of the cart, the son had taken up a staff and swished its weight around him clumsily as the fourth Pict danced around the blows, taunting, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
The screaming gouged at Urcal’s mind he bounded down the scarp towards the conflict. Yes, the Romans had paid dearly over the years for their treatment of his kith and kin, he thought. Families just like this he had slain in a rage; families just like his own but for their culture. The salty tang of tears stung his lips and his vision blurred. Enough blood? he asked himself. And whose blood here would cleanse his soul?
He glanced at his sword pommel’s ornate tribal etchings and then at the barely recognisable beak of the imperial eagle on the tip of his staff. He hoisted both high and raced downhill. A war cry exploded from his chest, drowning out the agony from his tumour, and clearing his mind for the first time in so, so long. Seeing him, the four Picts stumbled backwards in alarm – mouths agape. The Roman threw up his arms to shield his family, eyes wide in terror. The Picts thrust up their sword flats in panic.
Urcal unleashed his rage.
A stooped man emerged from the mist and halted, craning his head up to watch the bird go, his hewn grey locks sliding back to reveal a face scored with a quarry of crags and scars. Dressed only in plaid breeches, his knotted arms were entwined with tattoos from wrist to shoulder. A bronze torc clung to his neck and his chest was hidden under jangling animal-tooth necklaces. When the crow faded from sight, he continued his ascent. His gnarled staff quivered and his wheezing grew laboured as he inched up the banking towards the oak. Planting a hand on the trunk, his lungs rattling in protest, the sinews of his arm trembled as he turned, slumping back into a nook in the oak’s base.
His breath settling into a gentle pant, his shoulders sagged and his head drooped. A long walk for an old man, he thought. The heroics of Urcal had faded with his youth and vigour. Now I am just another old Pict wandering this mongrel country, he mused. He raised his head to catch the high breeze, so fresh his nostrils stung. He traced his gaze slowly across the landscape, remembering how it had once been. The hazel of his eyes swallowed up his pupils and his face fell expressionless.
So different, he thought.
The wall had dominated his childhood, yet now he barely recognised the place. The wilds had taken back what had once been a defiant bulwark of man. Moss-clumped stone and stumps of timber poked from the wall ridge at regular intervals like rotten teeth. The soldiers who had patrolled the stockade like colonies of ants were probably long-dead now – if not by the sword then time itself would surely have claimed them.
How many seasons had passed, Urcal wondered? Yet he saw it all still, clear as the morning sunshine, as if it was right in front of him, today. Life had been good once, before the darkness of that night so long ago. He looked to the south of the wall ridge, beyond the weed-infested stripe that had once been a Roman road, to a bare and bumpy meadow of wild barley. Once, it had been so much more. Once, that empty spot had been his home. The breeze whispered again, bringing with it the scent of changing seasons; a blend of sweet life inevitably losing the battle against the crisp autumnal chill.
Suddenly, he winced, clutching his side. The fleshy mass that grew under his ribs flared in a searing agony as if reminding him why he had come back to the wall.
‘Aye, it is almost time,’ he whispered. The realisation seemed to open floodgates within his mind, setting free long-supressed memories. He closed his eyes, falling into the halls of the past.
***
The summer air was laced with the sweet scent of pine and threaded with the chop, chop, chop of woodcutters who fed a train of mule carts with hewn timber. Spades thudded softly into the earth as teams of men cut turves from the ground and heaped them in piles. Saws buzzed, hammers tapped and ropes strained. So much going on in every direction; the Roman military machine together with Pictish tribesmen sweating through every moment of daylight to complete this last section of the new wall. The wall had been built in two great initiatives from the east coast and the west, and now the two parts were but a stone’s throw apart, like outstretched hands eager to meet. So close to completion and the safety that the defences would bring.
An ancient village lay just south of the gap. The home of the Verturiones tribe. As a column of Roman legionaries snaked through the settlement, young Urcal ran alongside them, enchanted by their other-worldly appearance: shining vests of segmented armour over wine-red tunics, faces half-hidden behind those vividly decorated shields. He craned his neck and stretched his legs as he tried to keep stride – even though he was still barely waist high to the shortest one. The trailing soldier cast a flinty glance down upon him. Urcal puffed his chest out and tried his best to copy the man’s cold expression – but was jolted out of his stride when the centurion barked to his charges in the jagged Latin tongue. The column veered off towards the temporary barracks erected beside the village and Urcal slowed to watch them in awe, his mind turning over as he tried to recall what the Latin words meant.
‘Urcal, your supper is ready,’ a light voice broke his chain of thought. ‘It’s roast mutton. Mother says you must come home!’
He smiled as he turned to the voice; fiery little Isla was a year younger than him yet she behaved more like his mother than his sister at times. Mutton was always a tasty offering though. His mouth watered as he weighed up his options. ‘Say it in Latin and I might,’ he grinned, squeezing her hand but still eyeing the column of soldiers. In today’s class, each child had been given a Roman name by Vibius, the wily old Roman teacher with the snow-white beard. Urcal squared his shoulders as he remembered his own new moniker. ‘And call me Habitus!’
‘That was just a game, Urcal, now come home! Mother’s been busy all day cooking; Father is exhausted. He’ll beat you if you’re late to eat again.’
‘It’s more than a game, Isla. Old Vibius has seen it before; tribes like ours always take up the Roman ways in the end.’ He sighed, ruffling his sister’s curls. ‘I promise I’ll be in before dark.’ He turned from her and scrambled up the ridge to the young oak sprouting near the peak, ignoring his sister’s frustrated groan as he did so.
He shinned up onto a branch where he could see it all. The wall stretched off to the horizons, a border between two different worlds. The south side was clear and ordered, with a military road running behind the defences in a clean grey stripe. Many other roads and tracks cut across the southlands, dotted with supply caravans and trade wagons, studded with waystations. It was a land of order and law. The tribal village, hemmed with Roman fortifications and watchtowers, was now part of that land. On the north side of the wall, the dark peaty scar of the wall ditch marked the end of this organisation and the start of the wilds – a hilly patchwork of forest and ferns and choppy white streams. Legionaries strolled the wall’s battlements, gazing into this wilderness. Urcal dreamt of standing with them, the first line of defence against the northern unknown. The tribes there roamed in the woods and the dells, painted blue – a custom his people had once practiced. Sons of the war god Nudons, his father said of them, good only for killing one another. They chose their path and we chose ours, he insisted. A shiver of fear and excitement wriggled up his spine as he wondered how many of those northmen watched from the trees in silence like wolves, seeing the construction of this last section of the wall. What might they feel, he wondered – dismay, envy?
Seeing how close to completion the works were, the Roman legate had two days ago issued double rations to his soldiers, and granted many amphorae of wine and barrels of dates to Urcal’s tribe, relieving them of taxes for the next moon to boot. That evening, a great celebration had taken place. Urcal and Isla had danced and played, while Mother and Father sat around the fire with the tribespeople and the soldiers to eat, drink and laugh, the air filled with Roman songs and tribal poems. They were like one people that night, and Urcal had fallen asleep with a broad smile on his face and a warmth in his heart.
Now, he thought, bouncing a little on the oak branch, if only he could walk the wall with those iron soldiers. His eyes misted over as he dreamt of the day he could join the Roman ranks – Habitus the legionary!
***
Urcal’s face creased into a smile. A thick lock of grey whipped round and across his glassed eyes as the wind picked up. He sighed as the memories swirled; the short spell when life had been sweet. Then a cracking of twigs jolted him back to reality; someone else was near, on the overgrown remains of the southern road. He craned his neck to look. There, a wagon was swaying along… slowing.
The driver was swarthy and pointed. There was no doubt that he was Roman, Urcal mused, spotting his faded red tunic and legionary sword belt. Then he noted the gleaming helmet nestled atop a pile of armour by the man’s side; this was no low ranking soldier, he realised, eyeing the plumage on the helmet. His eyes narrowed as the wagon slowed to a crawl. The Roman looked around suspiciously too.
‘It’s time to eat and play!’ a voice split the air. Urcal jolted as a young, fair-haired boy sprung from the covered rear of the wagon before it had fully stopped. His mother, alighted a few moments later, stepping down from the wagon clutching satchels and an amphora with one hand, while a tiny baby wriggled on the other, grabbing at the mother’s long amber locks. ‘Slow down Minucius,’ she chuckled.
‘He’ll slow down when he’s old,’ the man said, the suspicious look fading from his face, replaced by one of fatherly affection.
Urcal watched, wide-eyed, as the family unpacked a spread of cheese, bread and honey onto a brown woollen blanket by the roadside. When the boy scrambled towards the turf of the wall base, Urcal shrank back from his hidden vantage point, his heart pounding. Why, he thought, why after all I have seen and done, am I afraid of a boy?
‘Minucius, don’t go up there!’ the father barked.
‘But father,’ he tried to protest, pointing to the peak. ‘You said the emperor is coming to rebuild the wall, to make it part of the empire again.’
The boy’s words stilled the breath in Urcal’s lungs and turned his blood to ice.
‘Don’t question your father,’ the boy’s mother chided, pouring wine into a mixing bowl, adding water then decanting the drink into a set of pewter cups. ‘We’re only stopping for a little while and it’s not safe to wander around, especially up there.’
‘But why?’ the boy moaned, trudging back down the slope, head hanging in disappointment.
Urcal’s face lengthened; why? His heart leadened at the innocence of the young Roman. His eyes fell to his staff, finely carved and polished along its length, but mottled and gouged at the handle where an eagle’s head had once been.
Surely the boy was wrong. Surely, he prayed. He bowed his head, his thoughts swam.
A bell pealed rhythmically through the mists of memory.
***
‘Tell us a story!’ Urcal yelled over the hubbub and the dying peal of the bell. But the rest of the class were less enthusiastic: all around him, the tribe’s other children rolled in the grass, a sea of fighting and laughter in the summer haze.
Old Vibius looked on, bemused, his arms folded and his lips sealed behind his white beard. Urcal gripped the edge of his log bench, brow furrowed, feet tapping, frowning. Only a precious short while each day was allowed for the teachings of the old Roman, and they were being wasted. Wasted!
Vibius noticed his angst. The old teacher’s lips quirked at one edge and he winked, then strode across to stand behind a tree stump – a table of sorts he used to lay out his teaching materials. He crouched, rummaging in the large canvas sack resting beside it. The tutor’s face lit up as he slid out a shield, a full legionary shield sparkling with ruby and gold images of an eagle and bolts of lightning. Exasperated, Urcal glanced around at his friends: they were all completely oblivious, still absorbed in their horseplay.
Vibius met his gaze again and shrugged, curling his bottom lip… then pulled a Roman sword from the satchel, took it by the hilt and rapped it against the iron boss in the centre of the shield front. Immediately, the children’s’ heads snapped round, agog. Silence fell like a stone.
‘The gladius,’ Vibius spoke gently, lofting the sword above his head, squinting as the blade caught the sun’s rays. ‘The weapon of the legions.’
‘With this, the legionaries . . . attack!’ he hissed, lunging forward suddenly. A fit of screams and then giggles swelled and died as the children parted like water from the sword thrust. He paced backwards, sweeping his wispy white locks back behind his ears, eyeing the sea of engrossed faces. ‘But without . . . this,’ he pulled the shield snugly around his body. Only the gladius in his right hand and his darting eyes showed from behind the bulk of the shield. ‘The great wars could not have been won . . . nor could the empire have been formed.’
The children were rapt. Not a breath pierced the air – only the distant clinking of the nearby smithy was to be heard. At this, Vibius lowered the shield and sword to the ground.
‘And now that I have your attention,’ he grinned, ‘let us proceed with today’s class.’
The tutor rummaged again in his satchel.
‘Who would like to practice with Roman weapons?’ He held up a set of miniature shields and wooden swords. Like a field of corn, every hand in the class shot up and the silence exploded with the cries of thirty children.
‘Very well, two at a time,’ he sighed, ushering the beanpole Talorc and relatively squat Alpin forward. The mismatched boys danced around each other, immediately clashing their wooden swords, the shields hanging loosely by their sides.
Vibius shook his head and muttered at their crazed fighting technique, then looked around and clicked his fingers. ‘Okay, who can tell me how big the Roman Empire is?’ he asked, circling the play-fight while addressing his class.
‘It stretches as far as the eye can see!’ a voice called.
‘That’s big, but think bigger. Much bigger!’ Vibius enthused, stooping and spreading his arms wide like an eagle.
‘All the way to Rome?’ another voice cried.
‘Indeed it does reach all the way to Rome. But it does not end there.’ Vibius nodded and then raised an eyebrow, looking for more.
‘All the way to Rome,’ Urcal ventured, his mouth shrivelling like parchment as he spoke, ‘and then as far away again.’ He shrunk and his skin burned as all eyes of his classmates fell upon him. The silence was only disturbed by the tap-tapping of the wooden swordplay. He stared intently at his feet.
‘Good, Urcal. And very close.’ Vibius picked up his staff and flicked it in between the clashing of the swords, stopping the fight dead. ‘Gather round, children,’ he beckoned, crouching to a patch of bare, dusty ground.
Urcal panted in relief as the attention moved away from him, then moved with the others to see what Vibius was doing. The old tutor tapped the ground with his staff – a finely carved piece of wood with a beautiful eagle’s head handle – making a dot in the dust.
‘This spot in the earth,’ he pointed, ‘is everything.’ The children’s faces fell blank. ‘Everything you see here, around you, above you. From the steep valley to the south and the hills which meet the sky, to the white-tipped mountains in the north.’ The children glanced to one another, bemused. Vibius strode five long paces away. 'And here,' he beckoned, stabbing another dot in the dust, ‘is Rome!’
Urcal's eyes remained fixed on the tip of the staff as Vibius' map took shape. The tutor shuffled carefully around Rome, tracing out the shoreline of Italy, then hobbled off to outline lands Urcal could only wonder of.
‘And, the Middle Sea,’ he grunted, drawing waves in the central section. ‘So, how did my ancestors get from Rome, all the way over here,’ he cried dramatically, taking exaggerated steps back to the first dot, ‘to this green land?’
Urcal’s eyes darted across the possible routes from Rome to the tribe. It seemed like too far for anyone to travel, surely - like chasing the horizon. And then there was a huge stretch of water between them too.
‘The Legions swept from the heartland of Rome hundreds of years ago, pushing the boundaries of Rome outwards in all directions. First the Etruscans, then the Samnites, then the Greeks of southern Italy came under her sway. Soon after, the jewel of Carthage, the wilds of Gaul and the parched lands of the Egyptians followed,’ the children’s heads followed Vibius’ cane as he dotted the map with each location.
‘And long ago, more generations than you can count on your hands...’ Vibius raised an eyebrow and nodded in satisfaction to see the children mouthing the numbers of each of their fingers, ‘we came here. Beautiful Caledonia!’
‘What happened to the armies of these people, did they not resist?’ Urcal ventured, knowing the answer.
‘Indeed, young Urcal,’ Vibius nodded, his face growing longer. ‘Rome has spilled much blood in the name of empire. Too much blood.’ The children settled down, sensing the mood dampen. ‘Perhaps, had Rome peaceably offered to neighbouring lands the ideals of Roman life, and shown a tolerance for the ways of others, the empire might still have grown. But surely not as swiftly or to be as vast as some would have liked. Unfortunately, expediency and empire do not sit well with patience and virtue.’
Urcal’s brow furrowed at this. He was not sure he understood, but he could see from the troubled and distant look in Vibius’ eyes that the old tutor certainly knew what he was talking about.
‘But look around you, children,’ Vibius’ tone lightened and he swept an arm over the works going on at the wall. ‘A fine initiative that has come together only because our peoples have managed to put their differences to one side and work together for the greater good. We have order, we have law, we have trade and we enjoy a shared wealth.’
Urcal heard Vibius’ words, but could not shake the question that tingled on his lips. ‘What about us?’ he croaked, his throat dried again to dust. ‘Back in those early days, did the Verturiones fight Rome’s legions?’
Muffled whispers and gasps escaped from the lips of the other young students.
‘Now, now, children,’ Vibius pushed his palms down rhythmically, ‘Urcal asks the natural question that I am sure many of you had in mind. The Verturiones were and are a proud people – multitudinous and composed of many tribes. Some of those tribes chose to stand against Rome. Yes, regrettably there was blood spilled in those early days. But the elders of your tribe soon chose a path of peace with the empire, one which flourishes with every passing season.’
Urcal felt his brow knitting again. He had heard about the squabbles which plagued the meetings of the elders: this tribe had broken from the main body of the Verturiones and submitted to peace. Some said it was the only choice, given an alternative of bloodshed and slavery. But their northern kin remained in great number, prowling and painted and in defiant opposition to Rome with the rest of the Pictish peoples.
‘Sadly, we remain at an unstable juncture in our relationship,’ Vibius sighed, gazing into Urcal’s eyes. ‘Your cousins who remain in the northern wilderness, they chose to…’ he stopped, his eyes swung to the watchtower overlooking the works and the remaining wall gap. There, the legionaries pointed to the north and cried out, and one lifted a bronze instrument to his lips and blew. The buccina sang and the Roman troops scrambled to the defensive ramparts.
***
The keening of the Roman war horns faded with the memory. Urcal gazed at the Roman family eating and talking quietly by their wagon. Innocent, he thought, and unaware of the long-buried bones they sit upon.
The growth in his side flared intolerably. He clasped his hand over the solid mass once more, grimacing at the bitter tang of blood in his mouth from its latest eruption. He made to lift his satchel instinctively and then withdrew, swallowing in agony as he remembered it was empty. He had been called a fool for refusing the soothing, chalky paste offered by the shaman. But, he thought, surely only a fool would deny that every man’s time must come?
Wincing as he waited for the pain to ebb, Urcal sensed something odd, something from the corner of his eye. His eyes narrowed to slits and turned to the northern horizon. The land was deserted no more. Dark shapes moved, pouring over the hills in their hundreds. The tribes were on the move, raiding, bounding towards the wall like preying wolves. The wind whistled in his ears as he watched. His eyes stared straight through the Pictish mass. Countless seasons had come and gone since he last ran with the warbands. Back in those days bitterness had flowed like acid in his veins and his many sins were lauded as heroism.
Four Pictish scouts broke ahead of the warband, sprinting towards the wall ridge. They were bare-chested, faces smeared with woad, hair braided or limed. Each of them grasped spears, axes or swords. The gentle chatter of the roman family carried on unabated from behind him – the family sheltered from the sight of this approaching threat, ironically by the decaying wall ridge, the once-great, protective shield of Rome.
Urcal ducked down behind the gnarled roots of the oak. The four Picts were slowing to a stalking pace. The one in the lead gestured over the ridge, putting a finger to his lips for silence. He was the leader, no doubt, given his shock of limed hair and proliferation of tattoos. A young man, Urcal thought. He would have much still to prove to his kinsmen – the more blood he could spill, the better his prospects and the more he would ink his skin. Urcal eyed the myriad blue etchings covering his own arms, and then returned a harder gaze on the raiders. They were scaling the wall banking now, just as he had done a short time ago. They were but paces from the ridge crest and spotting the Roman family.
He grimaced as another lance of fiery agony ripped through his midriff. He sank back into the hollow of the tree, his teeth chattering violently through the steely wash of blood in his mouth. Not long to go now. His eyes glassed over as the Picts stalked up to the rubble of the wall on the tip of the ridge and then squatted behind the tumbled foundations of a watchtower. Their leader raised his head to scan the grounds on the southern side of the wall. Just then, the Roman boy – oblivious – emitted a piercing, playful scream that broke down into laughter. Urcal closed his eyes as the sound stoked another long-buried memory.
A different kind of screaming. In the dead of night.
***
The ground rumbled and a chorus of screaming echoed outside the hut. Urcal sat bolt upright in his straw bed, rubbed his eyes and gaped into the dimness of his home. Another chorus of muffled cries and hurried footsteps stumbled past the doorway.
This was no nightmare.
‘Mother, Father?’ he called. Nothing. His eyes darted over the three empty beds around him, blankets folded neatly. His heart hammered and panic twisted his thoughts: he had fallen asleep alone, hoping his parents would be pleased with him for settling down for the night when they returned from the wall works. How long ago had that been? And surely Isla should be inside now, regardless?
He snatched shallow breaths. His skin burned and panic sunk its claws deep inside him. Have to find someone, anyone. Scrabbling for the doorway across the packed earth floor, he kicked over the neat stack of his mother’s best clay pots. They shattered against the hearth. This would be the deadliest of sins at any other time, but he hopped over the destruction and stumbled to the doorway, pulling at the thick layers of hide curtain there. Outside, the gentle chill of the summer night’s air bathed him. A strong reek of woodsmoke spiced the breeze. Coming from the wall, he realised. He stood up to face the wind, eyeing the ghostly band of orange hanging in the air over the wall zone. Then he heard it. Quietly at first, so quiet he was not sure. But then it sounded again.
Screaming, crying, pleading.
The gentle wind died like a dropping stone. Urcal strained his eyes in the instant of silence – longing to see his family strolling back to their home safely. Then an animal roar from the blackness behind him cast an icy fear across his skin. Ducking back into his doorway he saw it: the figure of a man being bundled forward across the open hearth of the village centre, stumbling through the ashes and onto his knees, his hands bound. It was Drostan the farmer. Two Roman legionaries appeared behind him, one carrying a torch. They grappled at Drostan’s arms and heaved him to standing once more. His muffled pleas went unheeded. In the torchlight, Drostan’s swollen face sparkled with sweat, one eye was closed over and blackened, his teeth were shattered and his tongue swollen. Urcal bit into his forearm to stifle a cry as they passed.
‘Trista...’ Drostan croaked, spluttering dust from his throat, twisting to look back over his shoulder. ‘Trista!’ He cried this time, seeking out his wife.
‘Shut up, you animal,’ one Roman soldier hissed, cracking his sword hilt across Drostan’s jaw. His body crumpled, his head dangled limply and his legs trailed as the soldiers heaved him on towards the wall.
Urcal shrank back into the hut. In the shadows within, his heart skipped and his stomach heaved as their footsteps thudded past. But then, right outside, they halted.
The breath froze in Urcal’s lungs.
‘This one’s out cold, he’ll be no trouble now. Get another,’ one voice called. Urcal recognised the lilting accent – it was one of the Syrian recruits who had arrived at the wall at the new moon. ‘Saves another trip back down here. We need all the swords we can get up front.’
Urcal felt around the dirt floor of the hut, his fist clasped around a long shard of clay. Fragile but rapier-like at the shattered end, he clasped the smooth end tightly.
‘This isn't right,’ the voice of the other legionary muttered.
‘I didn't ask you whether it was right; just do it and keep your mouth shut!’ the Syrian snapped. ‘That hut there; search it!’
Urcal felt his way backwards in the darkness of his home, his legs buckling in fear as he backed into the dirt wall. Nowhere to run. A hand grappled at the hide curtain and whipped it back. A silhouetted giant filled the doorway, crouching to enter. At once the hut flooded with the brilliant light of the crackling torch the legionary carried, shadows dancing across the soldier’s rocky features. Urcal slid around the wall, chest heaving in panic. Pure instinct took control as he raised his makeshift weapon towards the blurry figure of the Roman, his hands trembling.
The light hung in the inky black pupils of the legionary, dilated in shock. ‘I...’ The soldier stammered.
Urcal felt tears burn his cheeks. ‘What’s happening? Where are my parents?’ he sobbed, his chest shuddering.
The soldier gazed at him, frozen in the doorway, his hands bloody.
Urcal felt his fear boil into rage, his teeth ground together and a wolf-like growl rose from within him. Like a murky nightmare, he leapt for the Roman, his clay shard extended to strike, and the Roman’s eyes widened in alarm.
The legionary swiped out, grappling Urcal’s wrist. Urcal winced at the sharp pain that shot up his arm as the shard fell to the dirt.
‘In the name of Mars, lad! Do you want to get yourself hurt?’ The soldier frowned as his words tailed off.
Urcal cocked his head to the doorway and the hearth outside, Drostan’s blood still staining the ashes. ‘Do I have a choice?’
The legionary dropped his gaze to the ground in shame and then began raking his craggy features with his fingers. ‘This is madness,’ he murmured.
Urcal eyed the doorway, but as he steadied himself to make a break, the legionary shook his head and stood in Urcal’s way, his face reddened with irritation. ‘Come on,’ he barked, wrenching Urcal up by the neck of his tunic to drag him out into the night.
Through the tears, Urcal again saw the glow hovering above the wall area – bigger now, eating into the night sky. As he was bundled along, the screaming grew louder. Then he heard a gruff howling and pained screaming. And a noise like that Vibius had made when he hashed sword against shield. The unmistakable song of war.
‘Picts?’ he yelped. ‘Our cousins from the north are attacking the wall?’
‘Not just any Picts. It’s your kind, lad. Verturiones. Wiped out the fort to the north they have, killed every one of my brothers. And don’t play innocent – your lot have clearly been in league with them,’ he growled, shoving Urcal forward again.
‘Why? Why would we? You’ve got it wrong, you have to believe that,’ Urcal gasped, spinning around to face the giant. ‘Ask my father, ask the elders!’
The soldier grunted, shaking his head, his shoulders sagging.
Urcal stopped ‘My parents; where are they?’
‘They’re at the wall. It’s too late for them.’ The soldier said, softer this time, slowing as he spoke.
‘Too late?’ Urcal whimpered, his words trailing off and his mind racing.
The soldier looked around carefully, searching the blackness. Then he frowned, crouching to be level with Urcal. The man’s pupils were an inky sea of conflict. For an eternity, his lips twitched, as if he wanted to speak but could not.
‘This is all wrong,’ the legionary spoke at last. He raised a meaty hand and pointed into the darkness, eastwards. ‘Go east,’ he said.
Urcal glanced in that direction but then stared north once more at the battle on the walls.
‘Listen to me, lad,’ he growled, shaking Urcal by the shoulders. ‘Go east. Run as fast as you can and don’t stop. The wall garrison is thin about a half day from here,’ he stopped, raising an eyebrow as he scanned Urcal’s tiny form. ‘Make that a full day. You’ll be able to slip over into the north from there.’
‘But my mother, my father,’ Urcal whimpered, shooting a glance towards the glow of the wall.
‘Don’t go up there, lad, or you will die,’ the soldier cut him off, his voice flat. ‘I’m giving you this chance. You won’t get another.’ With that, he turned and strode into the blackness.
Urcal’s stomach swam. An insidious chill bit at him as he contemplated the battle chaos at the wall and then the darkness and chance of safety to the east. Only one choice, he knew instantly.
***
Urcal’s knees cracked in protest as he stood on the ridge of the ruined wall, the wind lifting his grey locks. His heart thumped, awakened like an animal crawling from hibernation. He reached down to his scabbard – unused for many seasons now – as he watched the Pictish scouts drop over the wall without a sound. His fingers flexed on the sword hilt, but his legs remained rooted to the spot.
He closed his eyes, tried to shut out the reality unfolding before him. Then the silence exploded with a chorus of Pictish war cries, met by the screaming of the Roman woman.
‘Run, Minucius, run!’ she cried.
‘My sword,’ the Roman father cried, ‘where is my sword?’
The fleshy tumour flared and agony ripped through his veins. In his mind he felt the panic of that dark night. He had run that night too. Not from danger, but towards it.
***
Young Urcal’s legs leadened and his sprint had slowed to a stumble. Each burning breath now came with the tang of battle smoke. All around him, in the darkness of night, legionaries rallied to the ramparts, while tribesmen scrambled in confusion. Some appeared to be helping douse fires on the watchtowers, only to be seized and dragged to the wall by the legionaries; others who understood the full horror of the situation swiped at the Roman troops with clubs and tools.
Urcal approached the southern ridge of the wall, when a pounding rhythm of hooves burst from the blackness behind him. He threw himself into the brush, clear of the trail just as a Roman cavalry detachment raced past and straight into a rabble of resisting Verturiones. The screams tore at him; his ears ached at the hacking which followed, the singing of blades and the tearing of flesh. His mind numbed as his kinsmen dropped to the earth, faces lifeless and soaked in blood, heads and bodies cleaved. He ran to the wall scarp, scrambled up and then clambered up to the branch. Cloaked by a thatch of leaves, he panted as the anarchic scene assaulted his senses all at once.
To the north, the land was ablaze with torchlight, woad and iron – a sea of Picts swelled in the northern ditch, surging at the wall gap. From the upcast on the north side of the ditch, tribal slingers rained slingshot on the thin band of Roman legionaries atop the battlements either side of the gap and the thin dam of them blockading the opening.
An officer roared back over his shoulder: ‘More – bring more of them!’
Them? Urcal frowned at this. Then his heart froze when he saw the train of villagers being herded to the battlements. There they were bustled into the wall breach and lined up like shields, the terrible rain of slingshot and spears hammering down on them. Screaming and gurgling, the villagers fell, and the hail slowed as the attacking Picts realised they were killing their own kind. Then the Romans simply ushered up another batch of villagers like cattle to fill the gaps of the fallen. He turned his eyes away, his stomach heaving.
There was no respite in looking south, for all across the village, the Romans herded and fought with the Verturiones villagers. Bloodied bodies of tribesmen and women who had resisted too fiercely lay strewn, glistening in the pallid moonlight.
Then a shrill and familiar voice rang out above the others. ‘By the Gods, stop!’
It was old Vibius, pushing his way between the villagers and the maddened legionaries surrounding them with their swords drawn. Urcal gulped as he watched the tutor: white robes spattered crimson, arms and staff raised, shielding the villagers.
‘Have you lost your minds?’ Vibius croaked.
‘Orders, you old fool,’ the centurion barked. ‘They’ve aided their kinsmen to come at us from the north. Use your eyes, there are thousands of them! We use them as a shield until reinforcements arrive from the south. Or we die. It’s as simple as that. Now move aside or you will not be spared.’
Vibius’ face stiffened and he thrust out his white beard.
‘Have it your way,’ the centurion spoke, ‘Take them!’
As one, the thick circle of villagers crushed together. A wail poured from them as the legionaries coiled around their prey like a hungry snake, swords levelled. Old Vibius was pushed to the ground and trampled over as the legionaries stalked towards them.
‘No!’ Urcal heard himself sob.
Only then did he see the faces of Mother and Isla, gripping each other in the centre of the rabble, their eyes shut tight in acceptance of their fate. His fists clenched like rocks and his sobbing stopped dead. The fear in his heart dissolved.
He slid down the tree and sped down the ridge towards them.
At that moment, the legionaries fell upon the villagers, bundling them to the ground, smashing sword hilts into their backs and slicing at those who resisted.
‘Make haste!’ the centurion barked, urging his men forward. ‘Kill any we can’t take to the wall, don’t leave anyone at our backs!’
Hearing these words, Urcal’s heart thundered. He rushed for the legionaries, fury carrying him on. Balling his fists, he crouched to spring at the back of the centurion. Then something smacked against his shins and brought him crashing into the dirt only paces from the Romans.
‘You must not...’ Vibius croaked, lying dazed beside him where he had been trampled, his eagle-headed staff outstretched. ‘Don’t throw your life away. Run!’ he pleaded, scrabbling shakily to his knees and then standing to block Urcal’s path, pushing him back from the fray. Just then, Urcal heard a familiar voice screaming from the beset villagers.
‘Mother?’ Urcal wailed, seeing the legionaries dragging off those still alive towards the wall. He jinked past Vibius, then fell to his knees by the bloody carpet of those the Romans had slain. ‘Mother?’ he whispered, shaking, staring at her corpse. She lay on her side, still cradling the lifeless form of his sister, but a Roman spear had run through them both. ‘Mother… Isla…’ Urcal wept.
The centurion, marching off towards the wall with the others, halted, his ears pricking up. Slowly, he turned, his eyes latching onto Urcal. For a moment his expression was blank, then he smiled the most unsettling of smiles. ‘What is this?’ he said, stepping slowly back to the scene.
‘Urcal,’ Vibius called warily, stepping before Urcal again and placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Honour your people by staying alive.’
‘But my father – he may still live?’ Urcal trembled, glancing over Vibius’ shoulder, past the approaching centurion and to the chaos on the wall.
‘Your father lives on in you,’ Vibius croaked. Urcal gazed up into the old man’s eyes, welling and glassy. ‘There is no time. You must go. Now.’ The tutor’s gaze hardened. Urcal felt his limbs hang limp and his soul crumble. He looked up slowly to the approaching centurion.
Vibius thrust his staff into Urcal’s hands, shooting glances over his shoulder at the approaching centurion. ‘Take my staff to defend yourself. Strike anyone who tries to stop you . . . go!’
‘Nice catch, old man,’ the centurion sneered, stepping round to stand over Urcal. ‘We’ve got a job for you, lad.’
Urcal saw straight through the hulk of a man to the bloodied heap of Mother and Isla on the ground. The throbbing of blood filled his ears. He took the staff from Vibius’ hands. Then, like a striking cobra, he sprang up and smashed the eagle head handle into the centurion’s neck.
Blinking, the centurion touched where the finely carved point of the beak rested in his flesh, then raised his fingertips to examine the dark blood soaking them and his entire forearm. Confusion rippled across his features, clearly greying in the flickering torchlight. Then Urcal ripped the staff free, bringing with it a thick spray of arterial lifeblood. The centurion sank to his knees, staring madly around, and then collapsed.
Face stained red and devoid of fear, Urcal stepped backwards.
Vibius gaped at his pupil, his eyes saucer-like.
‘Your people should leave our land,’ Urcal trembled, stepping back out of the light, towards the east, ‘For your own sakes. What happened tonight will never be forgotten.’
***
The earth jostled in front of Urcal as his ailing body pitched across the gnarled turf. He could not remember breaking into this run; he only knew that he would not stop now. Not for anything. He clutched his staff in one hand and his sword out with the other as bitter memory and the tumour tore at him from within. With a single vault he cleared the stumpy foundations of the wall, his limbs innervated with a last burst of youth-like elasticity. Thudding onto the other side, he crouched, scanning the scene below like a preying hawk.
The Roman officer danced an impossible defence around his wife and daughter; both huddled together in a pile of robes and fiery hair. Three Picts jabbed and hacked at his weakening parries, and his limbs ran red with blood. Isolated on the other side of the cart, the son had taken up a staff and swished its weight around him clumsily as the fourth Pict danced around the blows, taunting, waiting for the opportunity to strike.
The screaming gouged at Urcal’s mind he bounded down the scarp towards the conflict. Yes, the Romans had paid dearly over the years for their treatment of his kith and kin, he thought. Families just like this he had slain in a rage; families just like his own but for their culture. The salty tang of tears stung his lips and his vision blurred. Enough blood? he asked himself. And whose blood here would cleanse his soul?
He glanced at his sword pommel’s ornate tribal etchings and then at the barely recognisable beak of the imperial eagle on the tip of his staff. He hoisted both high and raced downhill. A war cry exploded from his chest, drowning out the agony from his tumour, and clearing his mind for the first time in so, so long. Seeing him, the four Picts stumbled backwards in alarm – mouths agape. The Roman threw up his arms to shield his family, eyes wide in terror. The Picts thrust up their sword flats in panic.
Urcal unleashed his rage.