THE MISSING LINKS 2

Here's another chapter that didn't quite make the final cut of The Wall, and I have a bit more regret about losing this one, because I think it gives a fairly reliable insight into the lives of the tribes north of Hadrian's Wall. It also put a bit more flesh on the bones of poor unlucky Drosten the Pict who falls foul of Marcuis Flavius Victor in the opening scenes of the book. Let me know what you think.

They crouched round the communal pot dipping wooden bowls into the thin barley soup and waiting for it to cool before they supped a little of the liquid at a time. Every drop must be savoured for this was their first and last proper meal of the day.

Ciniath, the father, grey-bearded and grim, his back twisted by some long-ago injury that kept him from the fields. Mother Eslin, lank silver hair hanging across wrinkled cheeks, lips smacking noisily as she sucked the soup into her toothless mouth. Two sons. Breth, whose careworn features looked as aged as his father, but with the hard muscles of a farmer and a fighter. Nechtan, the younger, barely out of his teens and his unsmiling face already with the lines of a maturity borne of necessity. Three wives, all young and dark. Each had been a beauty in her own way, but caked dirt, soot from the fire and the habitual dejection that went hand in hand with making a life in this unforgiving land had dulled the glow of youth. One held a babe of less than a year at her breast.

In the shadows on the fringes of the glow from the embers, five more children, two girls and three boys, jostled for the places of greatest warmth. They made little animal mewing noises as they waited their turn at the pot. Beyond them a long-limbed hunting dog gnawed at a deer bone long since stripped of meat or any other form of sustenance.

All but the youngest children and the babe had a hand in building the house that sheltered them. The men staked out a circle ten paces across and dug the holes for timbers they harvested from the hillside. The women cut thin willow branches to weave into a lattice between the uprights and gathered reeds from the river bank and tied them in tight bunches to thatch the roof. The older children mixed earth and manure from the dungheap with water then slapped the thick mud onto the wattle inside and out where it dried to make the walls wind and waterproof.

They ate from an iron pot that, along with the ancient sword hanging from a peg jammed into one of the uprights, was the extended family’s most treasured possession. Everything else could be replaced through industry and a craftsmanship passed down the generations: the cots, one for each family, that lined the walls, separated for a semblance of privacy by wooden partitions; the bowls and spoons; the shelves and the chest.; the tunics and skirts of thick plaid cloth they wore; the matted furs they slept beneath. Only the land from which they eked a living, the single cow and two pigs in the nearby byre, and the house they occupied were more precious than iron. A second sword had once hung beside the first, but that had been lost. Two silver arm rings, a fine jeweled brooch, and a small figure of a Roman god, had been bartered for the food they needed to see them through winter after the catastrophe.

‘Am I to starve to death?’ The sullen voice came from the bed closest to the door. ‘Not that it would be a bad thing.’

This was a well-worn refrain and only the girl with the baby at her breast looked up.

‘See to your husband, Duna,’ the old woman ordered. ‘You should have done it long since.’

‘Drosten was sleeping, ma, and I had the baby to look after.’ Duna handed the baby to her neighbour. She scooped a bowl of soup from the pot and took it to where her husband had levered himself up to sit on the edge of the cot.

‘Must you make it so obvious that you cannot stand the sight of me?’ Drosten hissed. Dark, sunken eyes glared out from a face the colour of day-old ashes. He stank because he was too proud to let anyone else clean him and only unconsciousness or delirium provided the opportunity for her to wash his body. She raised the bowl towards his lips and in an act of pure instinct he reached out for it only to freeze at the look of horror on his wife’s face. The blackened stumps of his forearms began to shake and the tremor spread to his whole body. Tears poured down his bearded cheeks and he sobbed convulsively.

‘Hush, husband.’ Duna laid down the soup and took him in her arms. ‘You will feel better once you’ve eaten.’

‘Hush?’ Drosten snarled, self-pity replaced by anger like the lightning rise of a summer storm. ‘Why should I hush?’ He waved the truncated arms in her face. ‘Do I not have reason to weep? I am nothing. What use is a man who cannot even wipe his own arse? I would cut my own throat if I had the means, but my family will not even provide me with that release.’ He made their mercy sound like a curse.

“Next year will be better.’ His father stoked the fire, producing a burst of sparks that danced for a fleeting moment within the smoke. ‘Hasn’t Oengus the smith said he’ll fashion you a socket fitted with a spoon so you will be able to feed yourself?’

‘Will he fashion fingers to hold a sword or a spear?’ Drosten demanded. ‘A spade? A mattock? Anything that would make a life worth living?’

‘They say Keother has made sacrifices to Taranis to place a curse on sgriosadair beatha.’ The suggestion came from Nechtan, the younger brother. Sgriosadair beatha– the words meant the destroyer of lives. ‘A priest has foretold that the beast will be delivered up to Keother. Those who suffered his cruelty will witness as he is blinded, muted and castrated, before he is made to crawl back to the Wall minus his hands and his feet.’

‘You are a fool if you believe the Lord of the Wall will place himself at Keother’s mercy,’ Drosten rasped. ‘Clever Keother who sent fifty of his best warriors to death or mutilation, and for what profit? A few bushels of grain and a handful of bronze coins paid for in blood that are still safe behind Alona’s walls.’

Ciniath shuffled uncomfortably at his place by the fire. He owed what little he had to his chieftain, but what his son said was undeniable. The decision to raid Alona had been a disaster and not Keother’s first.

Keother and his small sub-tribe of Caledonian Picts had farmed a broad strip of fertile land between the hills and the coast north of the Bodotria. Plentiful streams brought fresh, crystal clear water tumbling from the heights of the Graupius mountains to irrigate dark, rich earth that produced a fine crop even in times of drought. A land of plenty, yet his arrogance and ambition betrayed them all. Keother attempted to undermine a neighbouring Pictish lord, a man with a much more devious mind and a direct blood link to King Lucti. Clever Lucti saw the ruse for what it was, a preliminary move towards a direct challenge to his authority. A less decisive man might have focussed his ire on Keother alone, but he rightly concluded Keother would not have dared act without the encouragement of allies among his warriors. Fortunately, Lucti had a surfeit of warriors of his own and no other threats to counter. He drove Keother and his entire tribe south and watched as they stumbled through the marshy kerseland and crossed the Bodotria by the ford at the Wolf’s Crag. To exile.

Keother lingered for a month in the disputed lands between the Four Kingdoms before heading south, picking up more of the discontented and the banished along the way. He ensured their passage took them well clear of the main centres of the Votadini and Selgovae. In any case, the force he led then was powerful enough that they need not fear any but the strongest of warrior bands.

His route was not entirely aimless. Keother’s father had followed his king south of the Wall in the great loot-taking of thirty years earlier. The old man spoke of a hidden valley a day’s march in length that ran between the western limits of the Selgovae and the easternmost settlements of the Novantae. Here, after a season of hardship, Keother settled his people on the flat, often boggy ground by the river. Their presence irritated Corvus and his Novantae counterpart, but the land was of little value and, for the moment, each was happy to leave any retribution to the other.

Naturally, Keother’s closest allies, men who owed him for their ponies and swords, had been given the prime territory, and it was with a pang of conscience that Drosten’s father remembered how he had encouraged his son to join the raiders of Alona to gain favour with his chieftain

Ciniath shook his head at the memory. ‘Keother believed he needed the silver to secure a place at Briga’s side, they say she covets nothing more. A successful raid would have raised him in her eyes and provided grain enough for the winter.’

‘If he wished to prove his courage perhaps he should have led it himself?’ Duna’s voice broke the thoughtful silence that followed. ‘But what does Keother need of grain when he already has meat and ample soft bread at his command? Keother who lives behind walls and ditches protected by bodyguards instead of on a rocky platform so deep in the valley it barely feels the touch of the sun. Keother’s couches are not covered in flea-ridden furs. His walls have plaid coverings to keep out the wind and his arms are heavy with torcs of gold, not silver.’

‘Soon we will have wall coverings of the finest cloth and your fingers will shine with rings of gold, Duna.’ Nechtan’s words brought a bark of bitter laughter from Drosten, but the younger brother ignored him. ‘Yours too,’ his eyes shone as he placed an arm round his wife’s shoulders. ‘And a golden brooch to wear at your breast. We will have stone lamps and the oil to fill them, and fine bowls and plates of red clay.’

‘Clay pots break,’ his father muttered. ‘What do we need of clay pots. And where is this bounty to come from?’

But no-one in the hut had any doubt of the answer. Drosten collapsed back on his bed with a groan and covered his face with his arms. ‘What have you heard, brother?’ Duna asked quietly.

‘Briga will lead the tribes south in the spring,’ Nechtan rose from beside the fire and stood next to the hanging sword. Seona, his eldest brother’s wife let out a soft gasp as her husband went to join Nechtan beside the blade. Now she understood their absence two days earlier and the thoughtful silence since. A pact had been made. A pact which sent a chill through her heart and that was made all the icier by Nechtan’s next words. ‘Keother has sent word pledging his warriors to fight at her side. We have been promised horses ...’

‘And a second sword,’ Breth interrupted. ‘A sword forged for the hand of Keother himself.’

‘And not just the Caledonian Picts,’ his brother continued. ‘Picts from the far north and the far west. A thousand Scotti are ready to set sail from Hibernia and Dalriada to march with us.’

‘And what of the tribes who will stand in your way,’ Ciniath said. ‘What of the Selgovae, the Votadini and the Novantae? The thieving Damnonii who will no doubt swoop across the Bodotria to take everything that is left behind?’

‘The Damnonii are pledged,’ Nechtan insisted. ‘Briga has persuaded them there is plunder for all and easy passage to the Wall. Keother does not know the detail, but he believes there is a pact and one or more of the others will join us.’

‘And the Romans on the Wall?’ Drosten spat from his bed. ‘Do you think they will just stand back and allow you free passage. Or those at Eboracum? A legion awaits you there. Will they stay behind their walls while you raid and plunder and burn?’

‘A legion in name only,’ Ciniath felt the need to assert his authority. ‘Not a legion of old like those who scorched the earth of our lands and butchered all they found, man, woman and child.’

‘What do you know of a legion of old,’ Drosten sneered at his father. ‘The legions of old had been ghosts for a dozen generations in your own grandfather’s time. You told me that yourself.’

‘And I told you that tales of their might had been passed down through the ages in song and lore. Merciless killers who marched together as one, fought together as one and slaughtered together as one. They sheltered behind their big shields and meted out death with a sword barely as long as the dagger in my belt. Not even the bravest warrior could stand against them. Their mercy did not extend even to the beasts in the fields. Now only a single legion remains at Eboracum, and that a mere shadow of its forebears.’

‘Weakened or not they drove Lucti and his army from south of the Wall like hunted deer not three summers ago,’ Duna said. ‘What has changed that Queen Briga is prepared to risk all again?’

‘Lucti was driven out by an army sent by Rome, as was Gartnait before him,’ an unexpected intervention from the taciturn Breth. ‘Rome is no longer capable of sending armies to help Britannia. She has her own troubles in Italia and Gaul.’

‘Ah, Breth the great strategist talks as if he knows the actual locations of Italia and Gaul rather than they just being names to him,’ Drosten mocked his brother. ‘Did this great revelation come in a dream or did you see it in the clouds? More likely it is another secret from the mouth of the great Keother.’

‘I know that we live on an island, brother, and that Italia and Gaul lie on the far side of a great sea. And yes, the information came from Keother, but Queen Briga was its source. She and her council greeted an emissary from Saxonia at Pennfahel where the turf wall meets the Bodotria. This Saxon assured her that Rome is assailed on every hand by war bands. In the spring they will combine with their brothers from Germania to destroy what remains of Rome’s legions. They urged her to act when the ground softens and the rowans are in bud. There will be no saviours from across the sea for Britannia this time.’

Ciniath struggled up from his seat and limped to take his place beside his able-bodied sons. With difficulty he reached up to lift the sword from its peg. ‘This blade was placed in my hands by Talorc, son of Gartnait. I can no longer wield it, but my eldest son will carry it in my stead.’ He handed the sword to Breth, who accepted with a short bow of the head. ‘May he bring honour to this family and avenge his brother for the injuries he suffered.’

‘Will your vengeance bring me back my hands,’ Drosten’s voice rose a shout. ‘I can still feel the blade cutting through my flesh and smashing my bones. The very blade I carried to Alona,’ he spat, ‘to bring honour to my family. Three blows it took and I howled like a dog as each was struck.’ Duna pushed him back on the bed, but he would not be silenced. ‘Rome may be weak, but sgriosadair beatha is anything but. Outnumbered or not he will bring his horse soldiers against Briga’s army. What then?’

Breth drew the sword from its scabbard with rasping hiss. ‘It has been foretold,’ he said quietly. ‘One way or another the Lord of the Wall will be dead by the time Briga’s army reaches the Wall.’

He froze as a low growl rose from deep in the hunting dog’s chest. She rose to her feet, eyes fixed on the covered doorway. ‘Down Tuiren,’ Ciniath snapped, but there was a breathlessness in his chest. When his eyes met those of his sons he saw the same message there. ‘Duna? You know what to do,’ Duna was already gathering cloaks and furs and the other women collected the children. ‘Up the gully and onto the crag. You’ll have a cold night, but you’ll be safe there. Drosten ...’

‘I stay.’

In the distance they could hear the unmistakeable drum of hoofbeats.

‘Hurry girl!’ Ciniath struggled to hide the panic in his voice.

And, of course, if you like The Wall, you're going to love The Barbarian, out on June 8.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Barbarian-Douglas-Jackson/dp/1787634825/