Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

All that day they marched west along the shore of the estuary. Everywhere the ground rose and knotted into the traces of old fortifications, the marks of Rome. All of it lost in a wilderness now, fallen and forgotten. It was awe-inspiring, and somehow deadening. Castus remembered what Strabo had said in the camp beneath the three peaks: all this great work, all this effort, counting for nothing. By late afternoon they had turned north again, and towards the day’s end they crossed a massive ditch and earth rampart, still clearly visible as it stretched away to the west.

‘Do you know what this is?’ Marcellinus called, sitting on his horse at the rampart’s crest. ‘This is the wall of Antoninus, or what’s left of it. The furthest limit of Roman power, about a century and a half ago. Beyond this we’re into Pictland!’

That evening they camped in the open, and the scouts brought in an ox and a pair of rams they had caught wandering near the old wall. Castus formed the men up at sunset, and they built a rough altar and gave sacrifice to Mars, Jupiter and Sol. Marcellinus took the priestly role, despatching the victim animals with careful dignity, then Castus led the men in the shouted acclamations as the smoke of the altar swirled the smell of fresh blood and cooking meat around them.

Strabo had not been present for the ceremony; Castus saw him shortly afterwards, wandering back into camp with a grave expression. He was angered by the man’s attitude: whatever his private beliefs, surely he could see the need for unity at a time like this? But the ceremony had done what he wanted. They had asked the gods’ permission to proceed, and no ill omens had been detected. The men’s spirits were better, with the end of the road in sight.

‘Roman friends!’ the Votadini chief cried the next morning in his terrible Latin. ‘You come! We go now. We meet Picti! Come – follow!’

With a wide sweeping gesture he turned his horse northwards. It was misty, and the pack mules stamped and shivered as the slaves secured the tents and kit on their backs. To the east the first rays of the sun were breaking the grey line of the horizon.

‘Fall in – prepare to march,’ Castus called. Then the horn sounded and the last stage of their journey began.

For six miles they followed a straight track across level country, water meadows and patches of forest. This was land long uncultivated, a true border. To the north and east the river looped and shone in the low sunlight, while to the west there were hills and high moorlands dark on the horizon. The Romans marched in close formation, weapons ready; even the Votadini had closed ranks, growing less boisterously confident now they had left their own territories and moved into the land of the Picts. Marcellinus was riding on ahead, tall and straight-backed on his black horse, with the Votadini chief riding at his side and his two slaves coming on behind with thick green branches raised over their heads. At Castus’s back, every soldier’s spear was tipped with a sprig of green leaves, the mark of peaceful intent.

‘We’ve got company,’ Timotheus said quietly as they approached a ford across the river.

‘I’ve seen them,’ Castus replied. For the last mile he had been noticing the figures among the trees lining the road: men in short tunics carrying spears, running. One of them dashed out onto the verge; for a moment Castus thought the man’s face was heavily scarred, then he saw that the marks were deliberate, dark lines scored into his cheeks and forehead. The effect was alien, even inhuman. Castus fought down a shiver of superstitious dread. They’re only men , he told himself. Nothing we can’t handle.

The envoy splashed through the ford and rode up onto the track on the far side. A larger group of the tattooed men gathered on the road before him, parting as he approached. Where was Strabo? Castus wanted to look behind him, but feared that his men would notice his anxiety. Already they had begun bunching together, stumbling into each other.

‘Order your ranks!’ he called over his shoulder as they gained the dry ground on the other side of the river. ‘Keep formation back there!’

The ground rose to the north-east, and a line of huge craggy hills sealed the horizon, brown and purple in the afternoon sun. From the woods to one side of the road dashed a small flimsy-looking two-wheeled cart of bent wood and wicker, drawn by a pair of shaggy ponies. A warrior stood upright in the back, brandishing a spear, his face fiercely scarred. There were more and more of these warriors now, lining the road, swirling around the marching column.

‘This is looking bad,’ Timotheus said through tight lips. Up ahead, Marcellinus was still riding forward, apparently unmoved by the Picts on all sides. Castus had assumed, back in Eboracum, that the tribal meeting would be a small gathering, a group of chieftains in a hut, or around some standing stone. Now things were beginning to look very different. The hills and woods to either side thronged with barbarians.

They crested a rise, and a wide valley opened before them, below the craggy hills. A river lined with trees rushed along the valley floor, with open slopes to either side. And the valley was full of men.

‘Jupiter’s cock and balls!’ said Timotheus quietly. ‘There are thousands of them!’

‘Looks that way.’

The column had drawn to a halt on the road, the legionaries shuffling together, muttering and exclaiming. Before them, the encampments of the Pictish chiefs appeared to cover the far side of the valley, knots of warriors everywhere across the hills and waiting beside the road.

‘We’ve got to stop Marcellinus,’ Castus said quickly, ‘before he leads us right into the middle of that lot… Culchianus! Jog on up to the envoy and tell him to wait. I need to speak to him.’

Culchianus saluted and ran down the slope after Marcellinus.

‘Where’s Strabo got to?’ Castus demanded.

‘Back with the mules, centurion, walking beside his horse. Reckon he wants to keep his head down!’

Up ahead, Castus saw the soldier catch up with Marcellinus. The envoy reined in his horse and looked back up the road.

‘Vincentius, run back to Strabo and request his pony off him. If he won’t ride, I will.’ Castus called over the two nearest mounted scouts. He remembered their names now, Buccus and Brigonius. ‘You two, stay with me. We’re going down to survey that valley. Timotheus, keep the men moving, but slowly as you can.’

Vincentius came back with Strabo’s pony, and Castus swung himself up into the saddle. Like all legionaries, he had been trained to ride, but had never been much good at it. Heavy and clumsy, his toes dangling, he jogged the animal into motion. It was an effort to stay upright in the saddle – don’t slip now, he told himself, clinging grimly to the reins. Falling off his horse in full view of hundreds of barbarians would not be a good start.

‘Centurion, why have you halted your men?’ Marcellinus looked annoyed – Castus guessed that the delay did not suit his notion of diplomatic dignity.

‘We need to find a secure defensive position on this side of the Pictish camp.’ He was sweating heavily, struggling to stay on the pony as the animal tossed its head and tugged at the reins.

‘The Picts have already assigned us a camping ground, over there on the far slope. We risk giving offence if we refuse it. Order your men on.’

Castus gritted his teeth, tried to keep his voice level. ‘Dominus, with respect, that isn’t a good idea. My responsibility is to the safety of my men. We need to keep them clear of the Picts and make sure we can hold our line of retreat.’

Marcellinus gazed down at him from his high horse, his expression darkening. Clearly he was not used to taking directions from his subordinates. The Votadini chief was watching with a look of veiled amusement.