In the Shadow of the Wall (15 page)

Fothair groaned. Brude took a pinof some dried herbs from one of the pouches and told his mother to mix it into some hot water as a drink.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Something to make him sleep. Mix it well, please.”

While he waited for the drink, Brude fetched some cloth from the one remaining bolt he had and asked Seoras to cut some long strips for bandages, then he began mixing together some more herbs from other pouches with warm water to make a paste to which he added a dab of the honey he had brought from Peart.

“What’s all that?” Seoras asked as the smell of the herbs wafted through the cottage.

“Juniper and mint to help keep the wounds free of infection. Some comfrey to help heal the cuts and a balm to stop the bleeding.” He worked as he spoke, making sure the paste was mixed to the consistency he needed.

His mother helped him lift Fothair’s head and make him drink the bitter potion she had brewed. Fothair grimaced, trying to resist but Brude pinched his nose to make him swallow and the medicine went down eventually. Brude waited for a while to let it take effect, then went back to cleaning the wounds. The one on Fothair’s side looked bad but was actually of less concern than the deep one on his thigh, which was still oozing blood. Satisfied that they were as clean as he could get them, Brude applied the paste he had mixed to each one then tightly wrapped them in the bandages Seoras had cut. “His bandages are better quality than my clothes,” Seoras observed, trying to brighten the mood.

Fothair’s breathing was steadier now. Brude checked him over and found that two fingers of his right hand were broken. He reset them, which made Fothair jump and cry out, then he attached some small twigs which he bound up as splints.

He knelt back, satisfied he had done all that he could. “We’ll give him another drink in a few hours to keep him asleep. That’s the best cure for him at the moment.”

“Where did you learn all that?” Seoras asked him, impressed at Brude’s competence.

“
Rome
,” Brude replied. “I saw a lot of injured men and I watched the healers working. I even had to get some treatment myself a few times.”

“I saw the scars when you were washing,” his mother said. “How did you get all them?” Concern was evident in her voice.

He watched Fothair throughout the day, checking for signs of fever and was grateful when there were none. He mixed another sleeping draught around
midday
, forcing Fothair to drink it to keep him asleep. By late afternoon the big man was stirring again and opened his eyes. He tried to speak but Brude made him be quiet until he had fed him some fish soup his mother had made, followed by some oatmeal cakes.

Fothair’s eyes were brighter and more alert by the time he had finished but he was still sleepy from the drinks Brude had mixed and weak from losing blood. “Why are you doing this?” he managed to ask.

“You’re my slave now,” Brude told him. “I don’t want you to die otherwise you’d be a waste of what I spent on you.”

“The others? Oengus? Cet?”

“I couldn’t afford them.”

Fothair studied him for a moment, “Why me?”

“Because you’re bigger, tougher and smarter than the other two. And because it annoyed Colm.” Brude was a little disappointed in himself at how true that last bit was.

Fothair tried to laugh but gasped in pain when he did. “I suppose if I live it will annoy him even more,” he managed to say.

“I’m sure it will.”

“Then I’ll try to live. But I don’t think I’ll make a very good slave.”

Brude smiled and said, “I don’t know whether I’ll make a good master. I’ve never had a slave before.”

“You won’t have one for long either,” Fothair told him. “I’ll run as soon as I can.”

“Wait until you’re better before you try that. You won’t run far in the state you’re in just now.”

Brude made him drink another potion and waited until the big man fell asleep, his chest rising and falling evenly.

“Will he live?” his mother asked him.

“If the wounds stay free of infection, I think he will. I’ve seen men survive worse.” He had also seen men die from lesser wounds that had become infected, but he thought it best not to mention that.

“What is he to you anyway?” asked Seoras. “Do you know him?”

“I only met him yesterday,” Brude said. “But I like him. And this is partly my fault. Colm did this because I asked him not to hurt him if he caught him.”

“That sounds like Colm,” Seoras agreed, his voice grim.

The feast was held outdoors in the wide space in front of the broch where the ground was relatively flat and even. Wooden tables had been set up on trestles around a massive cooking pit over which two freshly slaughtered lambs and a calf were roasting. Stools and chairs had been hauled from the houses and jugs of ale and
uisge beatha
were brought out. Colm sat at a long table, Mairead on his left, with Brude in the position of honour on his right. The hostility of the morning was gone and Colm was in expansive mood, especially after he had toasted Brude’s return with a tumbler of uisge.

Brude was wary of drinking too much. He had been young when he left and had only rarely been drunk. During his years as a slave strong drink was a luxury usually denied him although he had in the later years tried some of the Roman wines. Still, he knew he was not used to alcohol, and certainly not to the potent uisge, so he decided to restrict himself to only sipping at some ale.

Practically the whole village was there, both the upper and lower parts of it. Excuses for feasting were always welcome and everyone wanted to take part. A group of young men began playing some music, beating on drums while two played wild, intricate melodies on small flutes. Brude saw Caroc, the smith, still frowning at everything, drinking from an enormous mug. Seoc was there and the giant Cruithne too. There were others he recognised now, mostly the older women. His mother reminded him of their names and who they were related to. She was sitting beside Brude with Seoras to her right but young Castatin wormed his way into a seat to sit next to Brude. The boy spluttered when he tried some uisge, tears coming to his eyes, much to everyone’s amusement. “It does that to me too,” Brude whispered to him.

The drink flowed as the sun slowly dipped t the horizon, turning the sky a glorious red. Torches were lit and candles were set out on the tables. The meat was carved and passed round, then more drink was poured. The music became more fragmented as the musicians grew more and more drunk and the evening air filled with laughter and the growling and yapping of dogs that prowled beneath the tables, fighting over dropped scraps.

Brude was happy. Not drunk, but happy and relaxed. Then Mairead leaned forwards and said, “Brude, you must tell everyone what happened to you. We are all dying to know and you will have to tell the tale a hundred times unless you tell us all now.”

Brude looked across at her, saw that she really did want to know. Colm was not pleased but played the part of a magnanimous host and made no objection, especially when others joined in the demands for Brude’s story.

Realising there was no escape, Brude skipped straight to the moment they had joined the Romans in battle. He told how he had attacked the Roman line, killed his man, then been hit on the head and seen his father fall.

“I saw you both fall,” said Colm. “When Anndra went down, everyone panicked and the battle was lost. We thought you were both dead.”

“And when I woke up it was over,” said Brude. He told them that others had survived but he could not remember many names. He explained that he had been hit hard on the head but the truth was that his memory failed him after thirteen years. He remembered Frual and when he mentioned his name young Seoc spoke up, saying, “My father lives?”

Brude looked at him, saw the eagerness in his face. He remembered now. Frual had had two children, a boy and a younger daughter with a third child on the way. He saw that Seoc was harbouring thoughts that his father might yet return and wondered how he could tell him to give up any hope he had of his seeing him again. “He was alive after the battle,” he said after a moment’s pause. “But we were all separated shortly afterwards and I have not seen him since then. I’m sorry.”

Seoc’s face fell and he nodded sadly. Brude’s mother leaned close to his ear. She whispered, “Seoc’s mother died two winters past. He has two young sisters to care for now.” Brude saw that there were indeed two young girls, aged about fourteen and twelve, both with long dark hair and flashing eyes. Seeing them, he was suddenly reminded of Frual.

Mairead prompted him to go on with his story so he gave them an abbreviated version of his time as a field slave, omitting any mention of Julia. Then he recounted the long march to Hispania and the building of the aqueduct. “It took a long time,” he told them, “but it is quick to tell for each day was the same as every other. Then, when the aqueduct was nearly done, I was sold again and taken to
Rome
font color="black"> itself, a city like no other in the world.”

“Is that where you learned to fight?” Castatin interrupted.

“My son tells me you are a great warrior,” Colm said, his tone suggesting that he did not believe it. “He says you defeated all three of the men who took him.”

Brude felt uncomfortable but could not avoid the question. Speaking softly, he said, “Yes, I was taught to fight in a special school where slaves were trained to give shows and to die for the entertainment of the people of
Rome
.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Colm said happily. “Any man of the Boresti can fight a Roman any day!” That brought some laughter but Brude wondered how Colm could so easily forget the slaughter that had happened on the one occasion he had met the Romans in battle and how he had turned tail and fled in fear. But Colm went on, “Cruithne there would love that life.” The giant’s hairy face broke into a toothy grin.

“Well, between the fights it was easier,” Brude admitted. “We trained hard but we ate well and got plenty of rest.” He paused, staring into the clay mug in his hand, swirling the ale thoughtfully. “But every time you entered the arena could be the last time and your opponent was also trained and wanted to win. So that is why, when I was given my freedom after one particular show that pleased the people, I made myself a promise.”

A hush had fallen over the table. All eyes were on him. Even some of those further away were straining to hear what he was saying. “What promise did you make, Brude?” Mairead asked gently.

“I promised myself I would not kill again unless I had no other choice. That I would not even fight unless there was no alternative.”

“You fought Oengus and his men!” Castatin piped up excitedly. “Whipped them in a heartbeat!”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Brude told him. “But I did not kill them. I didn’t even hurt them that much.”

The giant Cruithne stood up slowly, waving his beaker extravagantly. “I could beat you!” he roared.

Brude sat still, looking up at him. “Yes, you probably could,” he said. “But I am done with fighting now anyway.”

Cruithne frwned. Normally when a man was challenged he was honour bound to accept and if any man accepted Cruithne’s challenge it gave the big man the opportunity to show how strong he was. But Brude just sat there, watching him. Confused by Brude’s immediate acknowledgement of his inevitable victory, Cruithne glanced at Colm who gestured for him to sit down.

Brude watched him carefully. The giant warrior had had a lot to drink but there was something in his eyes, which suggested that he was not just the big oaf he made out. He was a typical, boastful Pritani warrior and his size made him formidable but, even though he sat down at Colm’s gestured command, Brude thought the big man was perhaps no fool.