Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

‘Very well,’ the envoy said. ‘You see to your men, and I will proceed into the camp and present myself to the chiefs of the assembly. I will rejoin you at your selected position before sundown.’

He jerked the reins and kicked his horse forward into a trot. Castus motioned for one of the scouts to go with him, then jogged the pony after them, cursing under his breath.

The track descended the flank of the hill and crossed the level ground before dipping again to a ford over the stream. Between the ford and the track there was a low steep-sided hillock, and Castus could make out what appeared to be a stone wall along the crest. Swinging his arm to the scout behind him, he urged his unwilling mount up the slope. At the top he slipped from the saddle and dropped heavily onto the springy turf.

‘This looks like it,’ he said as the scout cantered easily up behind him. The top of the hillock was dry and level, ringed with a knee-high oval of piled stones enclosing an area of about sixty paces by forty. A sheepfold, Castus guessed, but it had not been used for a long time. The wall had collapsed in places, and the ground inside the circuit was littered with stray stones and lumps of dried sheep droppings. He scanned the surroundings, assessing: level ground to the west and south, and a steep drop down to the bend of the stream and the ford to the north and east. No trees along the stream to provide cover for an attacking enemy. The ground on the far side of the valley rose higher, but it was well out of range of the longest bowshot.

Castus wiped his brow. He could make out the column of legionaries coming slowly down the flank of the hill to the south-west, the leaves on their spears giving them the look of a small copse on the move, and ordered the scout to ride back and tell Timotheus where to lead them. Then he stood in the centre of the stone enclosure, gazing at the surrounding land. From the top of the hillock he could clearly see the main Pictish camp on the far side of the stream, a few large huts surrounded by a mass of crude temporary shelters, fogged by the smoke of cooking fires. The little carts – chariots, he guessed – dashed out and back.

Now he had the chance, he was able to study the appearance of the Picts more closely. Many of them resembled their Votadini brethren, or the Britons from further south. But there were some among them who were clearly the elite warriors, the nobles and their retinues, and they looked quite different. They wore the same short tunics and heavy cloaks as the commoners, leaving their arms and legs bare, and carried small square shields, short swords and leaf-bladed spears with a round brass ball instead of a butt-spike. But their faces, and the exposed flesh of their bodies, were covered in scar-pictures, curling shapes and animal patterns, some picked out in bright colours dyed onto the skin. The older men wore spade-shaped beards and thick moustaches, and with their cheeks shaved they had the look of goats. The sides of their heads were shaved too, and the long hair at the top matted together with greyish clay into a stiff comb, which hung down at the nape of the neck.

Already Castus was assessing them with a soldier’s eye, weighing up their strength and numbers. About two or three thousand in the valley, that he could see. Probably more in the surrounding woods and hills. They had no missile weapons that he could make out, aside from light javelins, and the little carts seemed to be designed more for transport than as effective fighting machines. For all their bold display, there was no apparent discipline amongst them; they had the numbers to be a formidable threat, but against even a cohort of trained soldiers the odds might be evened. He didn’t have a cohort, but the thought was some comfort.

By the time his men had climbed the slope and crossed the low wall into the enclosure, Castus had recovered from the unfamiliar exertion of his ride. He stood with feet firmly planted, fists on hips, gripping his staff.

‘Optio, form the men into fatigue parties,’ he called. ‘I want twenty men on sentry-watch around the position, the rest clearing this space of stones and sheep shit and piling the rocks back around the perimeter wall. Then six men down to the river to draw water and collect firewood, tent-lines and horse paddock marked out and fires lit. Have the slaves dig latrine pits on the south-east slope, downstream from our watering place. And get that shrubbery off the spears too. Watchword is Securitas .’

As Timotheus saluted and gave the orders, Castus turned to survey the Pictish encampment opposite. Whatever threat might come, whether these barbarians were peaceful or hostile, he was determined to be ready.

Marcellinus returned an hour later, as the evening shadows stretched long across the turf. The big leather tents were already erected, the fires smoked and spat, and the men of the Sixth Legion not on guard duty were busy cleaning their weapons and kit. Castus met the envoy outside his own tent, raised in the centre of the enclosure.

‘An effective little fortress you have here,’ Marcellinus said, swinging down from his horse. ‘I’m sure the Picts are most impressed.’

They should be , Castus thought. Most of the barbarians have surely never seen Roman legionaries in the field . But he kept his views to himself.

‘I’ve presented my greetings to the assembly of chiefs. We’re just in time, actually – the first meeting is to be held tonight, an hour after sundown. There’ll be a feast, and an initial discussion. I’ll attend, of course, with Strabo. I’d like you and two of your men to come with me, centurion.’

Castus nodded, curt. This was Marcellinus’s field, of course, and not his. Whatever his own views might be on the wisdom of walking into the heart of a barbarian gathering – especially one so filled with tension and grief – he knew he should keep them to himself. Marcellinus was the diplomat, after all.

‘Vincentius and Culchianus,’ he called, pacing across the camp enclosure, ‘you’re taking escort duty with me. No need for mail, but get the rest of your kit shined up nice.’

Back in his tent, he stripped off his sweat-stained red-brown tunic and changed to one of clean white wool. He cleaned and waxed his boots and belt, oiled and polished his sword and helmet. He fixed the tall crest of red horsehair to the helmet’s ridge.

As the twilight gathered in the valley below the camp, and the last strokes of evening sun lay on the brown hillsides, Castus stood at the gate of his little fortification, flanked by his two men. Tension was massing in his shoulders, and his guts felt hard and tight. He eased the sword in his scabbard, raising the pommel and dropping it back. He flexed the muscles of his arms, stretched and breathed deeply.

Marcellinus strode towards him, followed by Strabo and the slaves.

‘So, then,’ the envoy announced. ‘Let us go and present ourselves to the Picts!’

In his years with the legions Castus had seen barbarians of many kinds: the long-haired howling Goths and the Carpi of the grasslands north of the Danube; the sinewy horse-archers that rode for the Persians; the Dacians and Iazyges he had seen as a boy in the muddy streets of Taurunum. But none of them had appeared as savage as the Picts, none so obviously glorying in their own barbarism.

Now, as the Roman party climbed the slope from the stream in the gathering darkness, the Picts were all around them. The encampment had no wall or obvious boundary; the gathering of men just grew thicker, until they walked along an avenue of warriors, some of them standing in carts, lit by the flames of fires and torches. Dogs snarled and circled between men’s legs. Castus glanced back at his two legionaries and saw Vincentius staring at the barbarians in fearful wonderment.