In the Shadow of the Wall (7 page)

He took his time, enjoying the peace of the springtime countryside. Bees were buzzing from flower to flower and the blossom filled the apple trees. It had taken him so long to get here that he wanted to savour every moment. The thought of reaching Broch Tava still brought some trepidation but he remembered the words of Cleon, his friend from the home of
Aquila
in
Rome
. Cleon was a Greek, an ex-slave and a follower of the teachings of Epicurus. Whenever Brude was worried about something, Cleon would smile his friendly smile and tell him he should not concern himself about things he could not affect. “What is, is,” Cleon would say. “Deal with things when you meet them but don’t worry about what might or might not happen.” Brude would always reply that it was easier to say that than to do it and Cleon would always agree. “But it helps to try,” he would say with a happy smile.

Brude wondered what Cleon was doing right at that moment. He imagined his friend eating his hearty breakfast before dragging out his scrolls and tallies, ready for another day of recording the household’s business affairs. He smiled at the thought. Cleon was always happy and at ease with the world. The only time Brude had seen him sad was the day they had said goodbye, nearly three years ago, when tears had run down Cleon’s cheeks as they clasped hands for the last time. Of all the things and people he had encountered in the empire, Brude missed Cleon the most. He wondered whether the old Greek would be happy if he was here now, in the lands of the Boresti, far away from all the comforts of
Rome
and living among the savages he had heard so much about. Brude laughed to himself at the thought. Cleon would claim to be content anywhere, he knew, but would admit to preferring to be content in comfortable surroundings.

Brude walked along the wide plain, the hills away to his left, the Tava, much wider and deeper now, off to his t, hidden behind the trees. By the time he reached Broch Tava the river would be about two miles wide and merging with the open sea. He mentally kicked himself. A mile was a Roman measure, one thousand paces, not a term the Pritani would use at all. He was no longer a Roman, he told himself. He did not feel Roman. All the time he had been there, he had known he was Brude, son of Anndra of the Boresti, a Pritani warrior. Yet the closer he got to home, the more Roman he felt. The feeling had come to him again last night, sitting with Gartnait and the men of Peart, one of them by birth yet not one of them. It was an uncomfortable feeling.

He went back to studying his surroundings. There was a trackway of sorts but he decided to avoid that. The plain was very fertile, good farm land, with several farmsteads and isolated houses scattered across it, all the way from Peart to the hills west of Broch Tava. He was not in the mood to meet any of the locals because he wanted peace to savour his journey home, so he led his laden mule through the scattered woodland, leaving the trackway to the south. Knowing the dangers for any lone traveller, whether following a track or not, he unwrapped his gladius and looped the strap over his left shoulder so that the sword hung at his right hip. It felt comfortable and reassuring.

He stopped at mid-day, making a cold camp in a wide clearing beside a shallow stream, which burbled its way cheerily through the trees. He left the mule to graze, knowing it was unlikely to wander off, and sat down, leaning against a birch tree to eat some of the bread and honey. The sun was warm now so he took off his cloak, laying it on the ground beside him. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the woodland surrounding him. Soon, he drifted off to sleep.

He woke with a start, unsure what had roused him. The sun had not moved far; it was still early afternoon so he must have only dozed for a short time. The mule was still nearby, stripping some leaves from a small bush. Rising to his feet, he went to fetch it, looping the halter rope round a branch to make sure it did not run off. He looked around carefully, eyes and ears straining for signs of what had woken him, some sound that was out of place. It could have been a passing deer or fox, he thought, or even a wolf though that was unlikely. He was not bothered by that, for wolves rarely attacked people, especially in the springtime when other food was plentiful. A bear would be a different matter entirely. If it was a bear, he would have no option but to flee. He glanced at the mule. Whatever it was had not spooked it. He checked the wind, little more than a slight breeze wafting from the west. So if there was something approaching he guessed it was coming from the east otherwise the mule would have been more concerned.

He decided to fetch his cloak and staff and set off again, chiding himself for being scared of shadows but he had barely taken two steps when he saw movement as some men came out of the trees on the far side of the stream. He stopped and looked at them. There were three of them, long-haired and painted with blue dye, dressed in wool and leather. They were carrying spears and the leading man also had a sword, a symbol of high status, strapped to his waist, but they wore no helmets and carried no shields. They had seen him, so came out of the trees cautiously, checking to see whether he was alone. As they walked into the sunlight, he saw that one of them, a short, dark-haired man, was leading a bull, a magnificent long-haired beast with wide, sweeping horns and a ring through its nose. The third man was also leading a rope. At the end of it, hands tied together, was a young boy of around ten or twelve years of age.

He knew them now. They had been on a cattle raid and had stolen someone’s prime bull. And, for some reason, they had taken the boy as well.

Satisfied that he was alone, the three men splashed across the shallow stream. The leader, a man in his early twenties, stopped a few paces away and looked sneeringly at Brude. “What have we here? A stranger in the lands of the Boresti?”

Brude smiled as pleasantly as he could. “My name is Brude.”

“And where are you from, stranger?” Brude saw that the man was eyeing the sword that hung at Brude’s right hip, greed clear in his expression.

“Many places,” Brude replied cautiously. He had no desire to get involved in a fight, especially against three armed men, but the young man’s arrogance annoyed him and he felt his own anger rising. He masked it with his practised blank expression. He looked at the other two men. The short one leading the bull was young as well, probably under twenty, and had the look of a born follower. The other man was taller, well muscled with strong arms bearing many painted designs, his long hair braided, his eyes sharp and watching carefully. He, Brude thought, was probably the most dangerous of the three if it came to a fight though he seemed willing to take his lead from the man with the sword who was probably his lord. Brude looked back at the swordsman. “And who are you?”

The man glared at him as if Brude should have known him. “I am Oengus, son of Gartnait,” he replied. “I expect you have heard of me.” His eyes blazed a challenge.

“Not until yesterday,” Brude said. “Your father said you were out hunting.” He looked pointedly at the bull and the young boy. “Successfully, it seems. Who’s the boy?”

“Nobody,” snapped Oengus but the boy lifted his gaze to look at Brude. Defiantly, he said, “I am Castatin, son of Colm of Broch Tava.”

Oengus rounded on the boy, snapping at him to be silent. To the tall man holding the boy’s tether, he said, “Fothair, if he speaks again, hit him. Hard.”

The man named Fothair nodded in acknowledgement but without enthusiasm. He turned to glare at the boy, jerking the rope to make the lad stumble and nearly fall.

Brude stared at the boy as he struggled to regain his balance. Castatin, son of Colm. The son of his friend. The son of the head man of Broch Tava. He tore his gaze away and looked Oengus in the eyes. “Let the boy go,” he said firmly.

Oengus laughed at him. “Are you mad? He is a hostage for his father’s behaviour. And I do not take orders from wanderers like you.”

Brude held his arms at his side, his palms open and facing Oengus. “Then let us trade. You can take the mule and all that is on him except my personal gear. You can even keep the bull. Give the boy to me.”

Oengus did not even consider the offer. “I have a better idea,” he said. “You give me the mule and your sword and I’ll let you live.” He hefted his spear, holding it in two hands, the point an arm’s length from Brude’s chest.

Brude glanced at the others. The short man was grinning in anticipation, the tall Fothair was watching carefully, his face expressionless but his eyes alert, while the boy Castatin was staring, eyes wide, at Oengus. Brude looked at Oengus again, his arms still at his side, ignoring the threat of the spear. “I do not want to fight you,” he said.

The short man laughed while Oengus grinned mockingly. “If you are afraid, then give me your sword and I will let you go.”

Brude looked at him calmly. “I am afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid of breaking my oath.”

Oengus frowned. “Oath? What oath?”

“I made a promise not to kill any more. So release the boy and we’ll all go our separate ways.”

Fothair said, “Oengus, we have no time for this. Leave him and let us go home.”

“Do you think I am afraid of this wandering merchant?” Oengus snapped, his eyes never leaving Brude’s face.

“No,” Fothair said, “but he does not seem afraid of you either. Come, we have what we wanted.”

“I want his sword,” Oengus hissed between gritted teeth. “Last chance, merchant.”

“You are a fool,” spat Brude. “Your friend has more sense than you.”

Without warning, Oengus roared a challenge and lunged with his spear, aiming for a quick killing blow that would drive the point of the blade into Brude’s chest. Brude, ready for the attack, swayed back, twisting his body and moving lightly on his feet. With his left hand, he grabbed the shaft of the spear just behind the blade as it shot past where his chest had been only a moment before. He pulled, dragging Oengus towards him and crashed his own right shoulder into Oengus’ chest. Oengus gasped as the blow took all the air from his lungs. He let go of the spear as he fought for breath but Brude’s fist thumped into his stomach and he doubled over only to meet the shaft of the spear as it swung viciously upwards. It caught him on the face with a loud smack, breaking his nose and jerking his head back, blood spraying in the air. Brude’s fist caught him again, smashing into the side of his head to send him sprawling to the ground.

Brude span, facing the other two men who were looking at him in awe, unable to comprehend how Oengus had been felled so quickly. The man called Fothair released the rope holding the boy and gripped his spear with both hands. Brude saw that he was afraid, yet determined to support his lord. “We’ll get him together, Cet,” Fothair shouted to his companion. The short man, eyes wide with fear, also readied his spear. He circled to Brude’s left, leaving the bull, which, alarmed by the smell of blood, bellowed in protest as it trotted off to the stream.

Brude said nothing. The time for talking was past. Oengus had been caught by surprise but these two were ready for him. He dismissed Cet, concentrating on Fothair who jabbed his spear forwards, aiming for Brude’s eyes but not over-committing himself as Oengus had done. Brude smiled the smile of a wolf. He hefted the spear he had taken from Oengus into his left hand, holding it two-thirds of the way down its length, clamping the lower part against his left thigh. With his right hand he deftly pulled his short sword from its sheath, twirling it to hold it underhand, the point towards Fothair.

The tall man watched the blade as Brude waved it gently, keeping the tip moving. Then he stepped forwards, whipping his left arm so that his spear crashed against Fothair’s own spear, knocking it wide to expose his left side to Brude’s sword. The blade lunged forwards, aiming for Fothair’s neck. The tall man let go of his spear, staggering backwards to evade the deadly thrust. Brude saw the boy Castatin dive forwards, crouching on the ground behind Fothair so that the tall man fell over him, arms flailing as he crashed to the earth.

Brude turned again, looking for the man Cet, who was trying to get behind him. The young man stopped when he saw Brude face him, fear etched in every part of his face. “Drop your spear,” Brude told him. Cet did so immediately. “Now go help your friend in case he chokes on his own tongue.”

The man called Fothair was struggling to his feet, groping for his spear but Brude quickly sprang to stand over him. He jabbed his own spear downwards, letting the blade strike the ground barely two fingers’ breadth from Fothair’s nose. “Don’t be stupid,” Brude told him.

Fothair exhaled in defeat. He lay on his back, looking up at Brude standing over him. “What now?” he asked.