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 white.

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.”

The gathered crowd began to talk amongst themselves, the fever of impending action countering their respect for the dhruid. Quen’tan raised his hand to call silence.

“I need only say one thing more! Do not argue amongst yourselves on this venture. When you meet with the other clans, let old scores remain buried with the dead who disputed them. You fight for the Norlands. Not for the Meatae!”

A huge cheer of ‘The Norlands’ rang around the battlements of Barton and the silence afterwards was broken only by the sounds of horses being saddled and the rattle of weapons.

For speed, only mounted men were to accompany Finlass. Ma’damar’s fear of warriors on foot being caught in the open by Roman cavalry was one they had thought better to avoid. Around a hundred had come forward willingly to ride with Finlass, mostly young unmarried warriors who had yet to settle with another skill, or lesser chiefs from the outlying Meatae lands who thought to ingratiate themselves with Finlass and Ma’damar. Whatever their reasons for going, they were ready for war on a grand scale, and Finlass hoped that as they crossed the lowlands to meet at the stone circle of Ston’lin that others would swell their number further.

The two brothers mounted their horses side by side, a firm shake of hands and a deep and meaningful look between them conveyed more than words could have.

“Men of the Meatae!” Finlass shouted, receiving instant silence. “You know where we’re going. If anything should happen, and we get separated, we meet at the stones of Ston’lin. You should know the way; the older ones amongst us have raided there enough.”

There was a spontaneous burst of laughter from all through the warrior ranks.

“If we meet any from the flatlands that dispute that we have leave to pass, we go round them, or you leave the talking to me.” Finlass looked at his brother. “Alright?”

A chorus of ‘Aye’s’ and ‘To Shiels’ and ‘Norlands’ filled the air. Finlass turned his horse towards the gates and kicked it into a trot. He saluted to Ma’damar with his shield as he rode through the gates. The other warriors did likewise to the old chief standing on the ramparts, who secretly wished he could ride with them.

~ ~ ~

No matter how hard he tried, Calach could not rid himself of the feeling that they were making too much noise. He looked back at the column stretched through the trees behind him. There were over a hundred clan Caledon in all, swollen by a contingent of Taexal, under a man called Lintty, whom they had met the evening before. Behind Calach now rode almost a hundred and fifty warriors, mounted and bristling with weapons of all descriptions, swords, spears, lances and bows.

They were riding south at a steady pace away from the fringes of Caledon lands towards their rendezvous point with the Venicone, but as they had entered the long defile and began the descent towards the plains of the ‘flatlands’ Calach had been appalled at the clamor of horses hooves, armor, and weapons, not to mention the ribald speech between the excited warriors. Out in the moorland, where the slightest wind carried all noise away from Calach, he had not realized the cacophony of such a group of fighting men. In the steep, narrow valley, with as yet no stream to provide any background sounds, the clamor of sound was reflected from the gorge’s walls back to the riders.

He could not believe that he was the only one to notice.

At the bottom of the hill, as the slope began to lessen, the group advanced slowly into the woodlands which covered most of the lowlands.

Calach ordered three of the warriors to ride ahead, to scout the area. “Remember. We’re not in Caledonii lands anymore. We’ve got permission to cross; that’s a’.”

The scouts nodded acknowledgement and rode off.

That evening they halted by the side of a wide, deep river, much wider than the Tayme which they had rode across a day before. There was only one way to cross this one, and that was to swim with the horses. Realizing that they would be riding on with wet clothes, Calach decided to cross first and camp on the other side, drying their clothes by their night fires. The crossing was without incident, but a few items not strapped properly to the horses were swept away in the strong tidal current.

As they pulled themselves out to the sandy marshland on the southern side, Calach pondered that they were now firmly out of Caledon lands, and onto the fertile plain disputed by three clans at different times.

They were stopped early the next morning by a band of traders, who asked their purpose, and were dismayed at what they were told. They could not believe that the Romans were actually invading. The leader of the traders asked Calach’s protection, but his request was firmly denied. Leaving the traders looking bemused behind them, the warrior band carried on southwards at a quick pace.

The rest of the morning passed without incident and Calach was taken by surprise when one of the scouts rode headlong into the front of their column.

“Gregor?” Calach asked.

“Lud Calach! Strangers up ahead. They’re waiting at a fork in the trail.” He paused for breath, pulling on the horse’s reins. “There’s about ten I think, they’ve got horses wi’ them, but they’re all dismounted. Kitted for war just like us.”

“Are they Roman?”

“No, they’re Norlands, probably flat...... lowlanders by their clothes.”

“Where’s the other two scouts?”

“They’re waiting for us just before the fork.” Gregor replied.

Calach turned in his saddle to face the rest of his force.

“I take it you heard what Gregor just said.” Calach’s serious face was reflected by the rest of the men. “Weapons at the ready. We don’t know what’s ahead.”

Calach’s nervousness was alleviated somewhat when he saw the strangers properly. They were just standing or sitting around, some attending to their horses. There seemed to be no threat posed to the Caledons at all. Calach counted only five figures as they rode nearer. They were dressed in a variety of shades of brown, but all had a blue and green pattern as some part of their garb. He could not place it properly, but he knew that he had seen the pattern before. As Calach and the first Caledons approached, the group made no effort to adopt any kind of defensive strategy, so he simply rode his warriors to within easy bowshot range.

One of the strangers detached himself from the party and began to approach.

“It’s you Calach!” He said. “We didn’t know who to expect, but we knew someone would be coming along this way.”

“You’ve got the advantage on me.” Calach replied, still remaining mounted.

“The name’s Griffin.” He held his hand out, which Calach gripped lightly. If Griffin was going to haul him from his horse, he was going to get a mouthful of sword for his pains. “We’re the only men you’re going to get from Votadin lands I’m afraid. Well, men and two women,”

At last Calach was beginning to put the picture together.

Votadini! I hadn’t even considered the possibility!

“We’re glad of a’ who can join, Griffin.” Calach said. “I’m sorry, I still don’t recognize you.”

“That’s a’right lad, it’s hardly surprising. You were unconscious at the time!” Griffin grinned broadly.

“Thanks for reminding me!”

The look of embarrassment on Calach’s face prompted Griffin to continue.

“I watched when Kat’lana an’ Winnie lifted you from Kheltine’s hut. But you wouldn’t remember.”

The mention of her name caused his heart to pause. He looked over the Votadini’s head.

“How many are you, Griffin?”

“Seven.”

Calach looked at the band of Votadini, who were paying more attention to their weapons and horses than this exchange.

“You’ve travelled a’ the way from Tra’pan to meet us.”

“Aye, our dhruid told us you’d be here. He’s no’ often wrong.”

“Is Kat’lana with you?” Calach continued, trying to hide his growing anxiety.

“Aye, she is, lad.”

Calach couldn’t help his face turn into a smile from ear to ear.

“Out scouting just now, she’ll be back soon.” Griffin continued as Calach’s eyes wandered all around the Votadin warriors. “Call your men in Calach, an’ we’ll have something to eat before we’re on our way. We were told the Stones of Ston’lin’ was to be the meeting place, but we knew you’d pass by here on the way.”

Griffin took hold of the reins of the first two horses and began to lead them into their temporary camp.

Then a thought crept unbidden into Calach’s head.

What happens if she’s married someone else? It has been four years!

~ ~ ~

“Don’t expect any more help from the Votadin, Calach.” Griffin said at the end of a long conversation. “There’s nobody else coming.”

“Chief Pe’weric thinks he can reason with the Romans?” Calach replied.

“Oh, it’s probably more than that.” Griffin drank from his goatskin. “A lot o’ us are actually o’ the opinion that he’s already done it. There’s more Roman money in Tra’pan than anywhere else I’ve been.”

“But we have no proof.” Another Votadini countered, “Have they Griffin?”

“No Tranter. They haven’t.”

“You see Calach,” Griffin pointed in Tranter’s direction. “Even here, Pe’weric has his stalwarts. Tranter here thinks there may be more to Pe’weric than meets the eye.”

“I am his cousin Griffin!”

“Some would call Pe’weric a traitor; selling his clan for Roman gold.” Calach took a swig of the ale offered. “If that’s what he’s done.”

“Aye. An’ some would call him a realist. It depends on your point of view.” Tranter’s voice raised slightly.

“Aye, an’ some would call him a coward, Griff!” Interrupted a female voice, the volume just above what would have been considered protocol.

“Kat’lana!” Calach jumped to his feet. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine, my Caledon.” Her lips mashed on his, smiling at him. “Missing you, but fine none the less.”

They held each other at arm’s length, the whole of the assembled company looking on with amused expressions. It took a few moments for the two to realize that they were the centre of attention.

“Shall we go somewhere a little more private, Kat?” Calach offered, temporarily embarrassed.

“I think that it would be best, Calach.” She replied, and arm in arm they walked off into the surrounding woods.

“I’m just going to find the best places for our sentries, Aysar.” Calach said to his friend.

“Aye, I’ve heard it called that before, Calach.” Aysar and a few others laughed.

~ ~ ~

“I thought that you could have married, you know.” Calach lay beside her, his head cradled in her armpit. “Maybe found someone else, forgot about me altogether.”

“I couldn’t do that to you, Calach.” Kat’lana smiled down at him and adjusted his hair from his forehead. “There’s been many that have tried to make me forget, but somehow I always knew that we’d meet again.”

“I’m glad you did.” He raised himself on one elbow, looking at her.

“Me too.” And they kissed again.

Calach broke the embrace reluctantly. “We’ll have to go back to the camp you know.”

“I know. We’re not safe out here on our own.”

“But I’ll tell you one thing lass.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll sleep wi’ me tonight.”

“Oh I will, will I?” Her mischievous grin wiped away any malice in the remark.

“Aye, you will.” He kissed her again. “I need someone to keep me warm.”

“Aye. That’ll be my job from now on.”

~ ~ ~

Their camp was interrupted early next morning by another detachment of riders from the east. More than twenty Venicones under Eorith’s brother Er’gin arrived, tired from their ride through the night and wet from the river crossing. By the time they compared tales of the journey south, and shared a cooked breakfast, the sun was getting high in the sky. As he signaled them to mount, Calach’s column now numbered almost two hundred.

The ‘Stones of Ston’lin’ were just a half day away.

They broke camp and rode in column again, Calach and Kat’lana near the front. One of the scouts rode in from the south.

“Riders coming from the west! A lot o’ them.”

“It must be Finlass.” Calach said. “Will they meet us?”

“Aye, probably.”

The terrain was moor, with a few trees. Calach rode to the nearest high ground and looked west.

“They’re in column, riding straight for us.”

Aysar turned to Calach. “It’ll be Finlass, it can’t be anyone else.”

“Lintty, Er’gin, Griffin!” Calach shouted over his shoulder. “Men from the west arriving. Stay here.” Without a backward glance, the two galloped off to meet their allies from Bar’ton.

Lintty. Er’gin. Griffin. Already the command structure is getting clumsy, and I’ve still got the Meatae to come!

Calach and Finlass shook hands as the warriors came to a halt. “Well met.”

Conrack sidled his horse closer, offering his hand to Calach. “We saw your fires this morning, and decided to intercept.”

Finlass nodded. “Any time saved might save lives later.”

In good humor the friends chatted to each other, then the columns were joined and they resumed their ride southeast. Calach and Finlass rode in front, with the clansmen riding behind in a haphazard three-four abreast arrangement, most from the same clan sticking together, but most chatting quietly as they travelled. Calach slipped back to spend some of the journey with Kat’lana, but the trip was never going to be a convenient time to talk. They resolved to leave the talking to the evenings.

Conrack had taken charge of the ten man scouting group; all of them Meatae. He came back at regular intervals to check the main column’s progress.

“We’d be better off wi’ more scouts in front, Finlass!” Conrack said, just back from another sweep. “The trees get denser farther on, we’re spread too thin!”

“What do you think, Calach?” Finlass asked. “We’ve already got ten up front, do we need more?”

“What are you asking him for?” Conrack snapped, showing his old ways. “He’s not in charge! You are!”

“Conrack, let’s not start anything!” Finlass tried to soothe his brother’s fiery temper. “No one person has seniority here. We all know that.”

“No we don’t ‘know’ that at all!” Conrack persisted. “Come on Finlass! You’re older an’ more experienced than he is.” Conrack cut in again before Calach could begin to defend himself.

“Listen Conrack.” Calach said quietly. “The only person we need in charge right now is you! You’re in charge of the scouts. If you need more, go down the column an’ ask for two from each clan. That should be enough for you.”

The friends watched Conrack open his mouth as if to start to speak, then wheel his horse around and rode off, shouting for additions to his scout numbers.

Calach recalled Kheltine’s words, and without the accompanying pain, wondered how he would broach the delicate subject of command.

“He’s going to prove trouble later on.” Calach said, quiet enough for only Finlass to hear.

“Aye, but he’s only voicing the question that’ll be asked by everyone soon.” Finlass stared ahead.

“The leadership?” Calach’s eyes lifted to the sky.

“The Leadership.”

“Aye well Finlass; you’re older right enough, but there’s more Caledonii here than anybody else”

An’ we’ll only win wi’ me in charge! Why wasn’t life easy?

~ ~ ~

Sewell sat back on his heels. “There was not as much time to prepare as we had hoped.” He squinted over at Quen’tan, who’s features flinched as Pell’s question came through.

But you have done your duty? The riders are on their way?

“Yes Arch-dhruid Pell, they ride even as we speak. They should be close to Shiels.”

Good, we shall see if the omens are accurate on this important occasion.

Quen’tan moved his lips slightly as he sent his thought.

“We have done all we can, Arch-dhruid, they ride with speed, but we must watch their safety. They would fare better if we watched over them.”

These men are not your babes! They are but tools of Lugh, to be used as he sees fit!

Both sitting dhruids flinched this time.

The omens are enough! We need care for them no more.

Sewell’s brows came together. “But Arch-dhruid, without our aid, surely.......”

They are gone from us! They will need us no more!

“Yes Arch-dhruid.” Sewell’s and Quentan’s voices together.

We have much more to do.

“Yes Arch-dhruid.”

Join with me now, we must urge all our dhruid brethren in the Selgove clan to move away from the towns and villages. They must hasten to the hills; to safety. If the Romans attack, they must be away from all fighting. If the Romans are successful, they must be available to guide the survivors northwards.

Sewell bowed his head, feeling the familiar mental touch of the other brothers as they joined the group. Together they sent the messages to as many of the Selgove dhruids as they could find.

For all Sewell had cut the entrails, and cast the white stones, he could not help wondering how Calach and his friends were.