Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part Four: The Romans Invade) Read online

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Ian Hall. Hallanish Publishing, thru Smashwords Inc.

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  Also in the “Caledonii” series (On Smashwords Inc);

  Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. Part One: The Great Gather.

  Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. Part Two: The Druids Plan.

  Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. Part Three: The Coming of Age.

  Caledonii: Birth of a Nation.

  Part Four: The Romans Invade.

  Table of Contents.

  Chapter 13. Spring, 80 AD. The Romans March.

  Chapter 14. Spring, 80AD. Ambush.

  Chapter 15. Summer, 80AD. A New Kind of War.

  Chapter 16. Autumn AD 80. The Recall.

  The Story so far…..

  The Romans invaded England in 43AD, colonized for thirty years, and have turned their heads northward.

  In 74 AD They begun building two long roads north, ready for invasion.

  The Norlands dhruids tried to unite the separate clans, but the ‘great gather’ broke down due to petty tribal squabbles.

  In secret, the chief’s sons have allied together, determined to unite the clans against the oncoming Roman threat. Calach of the largest clan, Caledonii, and Finlass of the Meatae are the principle conspirators.

  Kheltine, (the old arch-druid) in his dying words has told Calach that he has a vision that only through Calach’s leadership can the clans be victorious.

  Meanwhile, the chief’s sons Calach and Finlass meet regularly to push the plot home.

  The time has come when the Clan chiefs have to decide whether to support the plan, or withdraw.

  Chapter 13

  80 AD

  The Romans March.

  Uwan lay high on the hillside to the north of Luguualium, and watched the groups of hide tents stretching north as far as his eyes could see. He pulled his dhruids cloak tighter to his chin and shivered in the chill of the damp spring morning.

  From his subtle forays into the town, he knew the tents belonged to the ninth legion, and was called Hispana.

  At the gates of the town, the hide tents held the men from Gaul and Hispania; the main cohorts of the legion.

  Camped the farthest north, arrayed almost a mile out of the town were the auxiliary troops from Batavia and Gaul, warriors from Tungria and Usippi, strengthened by Britons from the south.

  Uwan had studied the men in the town for months.

  With a certain foreboding, the confidence of the men and weaponry of the Ninth Legion unsettled him.

  For days the men had seeped north from the town; column after column. Each reached their position in the army’s order of march, and made camp. Every day the column of hide tents was longer, stretching in only one direction; north.

  Uwan had lost count so many times, but he went back to the gates, and counted again. He knew the men slept ten to a tent, it made it easier. Counting and notching on his staff, he had reached almost sixteen thousand, so he decided upon that figure.

  Uwan wanted to send his message now, but he knew he had to wait.

  Each part of the army camped in a particular order, each in their own peculiar marching formation; whatever could be said about the Romans, Uwan thought, they were extremely well organized.

  The Roman legion was spreading into the open farmland, north of the fortified town of Luguualium, trampling the now untended farmland to a muddy morass. Uwan’s watchful eyes had taken in every detail, his ears listening to every rumor, logging every command.

  The uniforms of the different units colored an otherwise drab landscape, the bright greens, the yellows, blues and reds seeming to Uwan’s eyes to be unnatural addition to the scene before him. The sunlight glinted from a hundred thousand polished surfaces; from helmets, shields, armor, banners and standards.

  The dark undulating hills to the north looked oppressive and cold, dark in comparison to the sunlit valley.

  That morning, more trumpets bellowed earlier than usual. Dawn had only begun to show, and the Romans were breaking camp. Hundreds of tents packed efficiently away, seemingly in mere moments.

  The Caledonii dhruid watched as, in the distance, the auxiliaries organized the vanguard; the skirmishing front runners. The main body and the support groups which would follow seemed impatient to move.

  Uwan knew in his heart, that this was the day. The Romans were invading the Norlands.

  But there was a chill in his heart. The men who would invade his homeland looked formidable compared to the youths he had watched training in Lochery.

  Even though he was a distance from the assembly, the clamor of shouted orders, the noise of horses and men, in their thousands rang over the valley to Uwan’s position.

  This time is different.

  Then the cheering began.

  From the gates of the town came a string of riders, calmly making their way along the mass of legionaries; their purple and gold immediately distinguishable within even such an already gaudy conglomeration. As the riders in gold passed each unit, they troops cheered; a crescendo of sound, until at last, when they had reached the main infantry group it died completely.

  Silence across the whole army. It was unnatural and cold.

  Uwan watched as one of the men clad in gold and white raised his hand and the trumpets sounded. Not one or two, but tens, hundreds. The sound echoed around the wide valley floor; Uwan had heard nothing like it. As abruptly as the fanfare had started, the trumpets fell silent. Uwan listened as the final orders were given, and the legion slowly began to move. Like a shambling, stuttering, caterpillar.

  Uwan looked no more. He rose to his feet and began the short journey to their prepared place. Deep within the nearby forest, he met with another two dhruids, who had also been watching the Roman column prepare.

  “We are agreed?” Uwan asked.

  “Yes Uwan, we must send the message.”

  They sank to their knees, bowed their heads and began the rehearsed litany.

  ~ ~ ~

  Gnaeus Julius Agricola rode slowly through the rows of collapsing tents. His Purple robes were newly laundered. Every ounce of metal on his armor shone golden and polished in the bright, warm morning sunshine.

  As he passed each cohort, the soldiers dropped what they were doing and took formation, the Cornicen of each century stood to the front, readied his huge spiral trumpet, and loud peals rang out along the valley.

  Gold standards were raised, and brought quickly to the fore. Cheers and trumpets were all Agricola could hear.

  The legion had three years of victories under Agricola’s command, and no reason to believe any differently now.

  “They are magnificent!” Agricola shouted over his shoulder to the Legate riding behind him. “We will chase these savages into the sea!”

  The retinue grinned. Following Agricola were his sub-commanders in robes of purple, and his lieutenants, in startling w
hite.

  Through groups of cavalry, through the legions themselves, then through the auxiliaries he rode. The cheering seemed to echo forever. Then suddenly, the path ahead was clear. He chose a slight rise, and rode to it.

  “This will do nicely.” He looked around.

  As soon as he dismounted, someone grabbed the reins of his horse. Within moments of deciding his position, a gaudy wooden chair was placed onto the grass. “I will watch from here.”

  Agricola considered that he had been born for this moment. A son of a senator, Governor of Britain, he was poised to bring the whole island to Rome’s bidding. In Rome, his friend and former partner in arms, Emperor Titus ruled, giving Agricola the purest of commands.

  He sat in the chair all morning and watched as the ninth legion passed.

  Strengthened by fresh replacements, the Legion was at full strength. Baulked by huge victories against the Ordovices and Brigantes, his men were at the peak of their confidence.

  As the ranks marched, their huge circular horns pierced the morning.

  It was spellbinding.

  ~ ~ ~

  “The Romans are on the march!” The guard on the gate shrieked, running into the fort.

  “Who told you?” Finlass shook the man by the shoulders.

  “Quen’tan!” The clansman’s eyes glazed in excitement. “He’s coming up the road now!”

  The path to the town of Bar’ton ran in a series of twists and turns up the steep side of the hill before reaching the main gates. News could travel faster by word of mouth than on horseback, so when Finlass reached the ramparts and looked over, he was not surprised to see Quen’tan only half way up the hill. The dhruid was urging his horse to gallop up the slope; an effort beyond the poor beast’s capabilities.

  Finlass barked out orders to the others who were looking over the battlements; all ran to do his bidding without second thought. He realized that he had time to rouse the others before Quen’tan would present himself before Ma’damar.

  Running down the earth slope into the settlement, he saw Conrack at full pelt towards the main gate.

  “Conrack!” He shouted at once. His brother changed direction mid-stride and met Finlass at the bottom of the steps to the ramparts.

  “The Romans are on the move. Quen’tan’s coming up the hill wi’ the news.”

  “I know. I just heard.” Conrack came to a halt, holding his sides, panting with pain. “I’ve been at the training. I came as soon as I could.”

  “I think we’ve got a wee while afore Quen’tan gets to faither. Change first, then meet me in the hall.”

  “Alright.” He looked at his brother’s eager eyes. “This is it isn’t it?”

  “Aye Conrack. This is it. We’ll be off afore mid-day.”

  Finlass watched as his brother’s face spread into a huge grin. “Aye. We’ll get a chance now to put our training to the test!” He turned and jogged back into the town, in the direction of their sleeping quarters.

  Uncomfortable though it was on occasion, Conrack was turning into a helpful ally.

  Finlass had not allowed his younger brother full access to his plans, but he realized that Conrack was no fool. Generally Finlass found that the younger Meatae was becoming more and more involved with the practical side of running their plan, without the need for the inside information.

  He had also been pleased when Conrack had found his own allegiances in various clans, and proven agreeable to any of the romantic associations which had grown up from these visitations. Finlass had encouraged his brother to dally with the daughters of the various clan chiefs in the hope that he too could enter the conspiracy.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sewell’s voice was level and quiet. “He must go, Ranald.”

  “But you’ve not said why!” Ranald’s voice was raised in protest. “You’ve never told me why!”

  Sewell looked at the chief of the Caledonii; sitting slouched in his chair, his wife behind him, and silently wished that it was Calach he addressed. Calach would not hesitate to show the clan’s strength.

  You will let him go.

  “Chief Ranald.” Sewell began. “The omens are clear, the Gods themselves look for this sign from you and your people.”

  You will let him go.

  “But he’s my oldest son!” Ranald moaned.

  Mawrin looked up from her clutched hands and stared at Sewell. The tears had been flowing down her cheeks since Sewell had brought them word. Sewell knew that she wanted to speak; to add some measure to one side of the argument, but both she and the dhruid knew that she could not interfere here. This was Ranald’s domain; only he could sanction the release of the warriors.

  You will let him go!

  “Chief Ranald. I need your words.”

  “I can’t send my son to his death.”

  “You are not sending him to his death.” Sewell took a few steps closer to the chief. “As we speak, men of the Venicone ready themselves.”

  “How.....?”

  Sewell ignored him and continued. “Men from the Taexal are riding south.”

  You will let him go.

  “How will you feel in times to come, chief Ranald, Lud Ranald? How will you feel in times to come when the bards sing of these days, when the storytellers tell of the small group of men who rode so their country could be free?”

  “You can’t bend me with that Sewell.”

  The dhruid took the final steps to the chief and grabbed him by the neck of his tunic.

  You will let him go.

  Sewell put every fiber of his power behind the words. “I cannot bend you? Listen to me, chief Ranald, if I wanted to bend you I could! And if I wanted to break you, I could!”

  As if he was startled by his own outburst, Sewell smoothed Ranald’s tunic and retreated two steps from him again.

  “I apologize to you, and to you Mawrin.” He bowed. “I will say this. When the Roman army comes to your borders, to our borders, which one of your neighbors will come to your aid, if you do not show some form of strength and unity here?”

  Ranald swallowed, obviously startled by the dhruid’s outburst. “An’ I should sacrifice my eldest son for this?”

  “He will not die in this Ranald. He is not for dying yet. The omens say it.”

  “You can promise it?”

  “I can tell you that the omens say it!”

  Ranald slouched further in the chair. Mawrin stood behind him, her hands were on his shoulders, massaging.

  The chief exhaled slowly. “I will tell him.”

  Sewell smiled, and as he did so, he watched Mawrin’s face mirror his own.

  She was for it too? I knew I felt someone else with me!

  Ranald straightened himself. “Wife?” He bellowed. “Tell my son I wish to speak to him!”

  ~ ~ ~

  Ma’damar was not pleased, but he dared not show it. He had planned for this eventuality in a different way, and now Finlass was in charge, and there was nothing he could do to stop his sons leaving.

  The news should have come through runners.

  Ma’damar felt that he should have been given more time to organize the band of warriors. But here he was; two days after the news had arrived and saying goodbye to his sons.

  The news should have come to me directly, that would have given me more time.

  Finlass had been too organized; too quick to readiness. Ma’damar would watch him in future; he would not underestimate his son again.

  Then there was Conrack; his loyal, devious son. Conrack was usually so receptive to Finlass’s plots, usually so quick to whisper in his father’s ear, but now he was so blinded by lust for action that he was useless to Ma’damar.

  Perhaps they will be too late to help anyway.

  “Lugh be with you, ma’ sons.” His arms went round both of their heads, crushing their faces into the fur round his neck. He released his hold slightly; no one else in the room could hear what was being said. “I canna’ stop you, an’ I wouldna’ try. If I didn’t let you go,
you’d run away anyway. I know that you’ve trained for years, an’ I’m not going to let that be for nothin’.” Ma’damar paused, the tears came freely to his eyes, and both sons found it impossible not to do likewise. “I’m against both o’ you going, that I’m no’ hiding from anybody here!” Ma’damar wiped his eyes with his sleeve. “But I want you to promise me one thing before you go. You’ll promise me, or you’re no’ going!”

  Finlass nodded. “Anything.”

  “Aye Da’?” said Conrack

  “I’ll tell you this; some things aren’t worth dying for, some are. If you’re going to throw your life away in this, make sure it’s worth dying for. If it’s not, come away from the fight. You can always find yourself a fight worth dying in later.”

  “I promise, Da’.” Finlass slipped from his father’s grip, and went down on one knee.

  Conrack repeated the gesture. “We’ll come back Da’. We’ll either beat them, or we’ll come back here an’ fight them here.”

  “Hear this!” Ma’damar raised himself so that all in the hall could heed his words. “I hereby give leave for a’ who want to travel wi’ my sons. You’ll be as welcome when you come back as you are free to go.”

  He placed a hand on top of each of his kneeling sons. “May Lugh be with you a’.” He turned his head and spat onto the earthen floor.

  ~ ~ ~

  “The Stones of Ston’lin; that is where the others will meet you.” Quen’tan’s voice was slow and sure. “You can take your time in getting there. The clans from the north will take longer than you by about two days. You must wait for them. You need their numbers for safety.”

  “And after they come, Quen’tan?” Conrack asked.

  “You will head for the main settlement of Shiels. The Selgove chief, Torthor, will be waiting for you. He knows that we are rallying men to support him.”

  “Can we all not meet at Shiels then?” One of the clansmen asked.

  “Definitely not.” Quen’tan’s tart response took Finlass by surprise. “No one really knows how fast the Romans will advance, and we also don’t know where the Selgove will stand. It is better that we approach the area in strength. That is the whole idea behind sending a united force.”