Free In the Shadow of the Wall by Gordon Anthony

despatched by a thrust of the short Roman swords. One more tribesman, his right hand mutilated by the loss of three fingers and limping badly, was brought to join the prisoners. The rest were either dead or gone. There was a cluster of bodies where the two battle lines had met but most had obviously been killed when they turned to flee. The corpses, both men and women, were scattered in a long line, heading back over the rise and, he supposed, beyond that. It had been more a slaughter than a battle, for the actual fighting must have lasted only a few moments while the Romans had thrown their javelins and then marched forwards, swords stabbing in those terrifying, short, brutally efficient killing thrusts.
    He tried to count the corpses but he had such a headache that he had to give up. All he was able to count was the number of Roman dead because they were laid out on the grass only a few paces from where the prisoners sat. There were only four of them, lying on their backs still wearing their armour. He looked at his companion, a man from Broch Tava whose name suddenly came back to him. He was Frual, one of the village’s best fishermen. Brude recalled that he had two children, with a third on the way. He was a quiet man, strong yet gentle and not given to too much boasting. “What happened?” Brude asked him.
    Frual shrugged. “We lost. We couldn’t break their line and they just killed us. Most of the men ran when you and your father went down. We thought you were dead.”
    “Colm! Did you see what happened to Colm?”
    Frual shook his head. “He’s not with us and I don’t think he’s among the dead here, but the Romans chased us all the way back to where we crossed the wall. The horses got a lot of men as we ran and when we got to the tower there wasn’t enough space for us all to get out. Nechtan got away, and so did Gartnait, but a lot of us were stuck on this side of the wall. Then the Romans caught up with us and we laid down our weapons.” He looked apologetically at Brude. “It was either that or be killed.”
    “Maybe Colm got away then,” said Brude.
    “Forget him,” Frual told him roughly. “We have to look after ourselves now.”
    A wagon arrived, pulled by two large horses. The Romans gathered all the weapons and armour they coul and began piling them on to it. The prisoners, though, were prodded to their feet and marched westwards along the road. Brude felt weak and dizzy but Frual helped him and it turned out that they did not have far to go. Beyond the next rise was a large Roman fort, enclosed within a massive stone wall. Brude realised that this was where the sentries had been signalling. No wonder, he thought, that the Romans had found them so quickly. He suspected the Selgovae must have known how close the fort was, which was why they had headed in the opposite direction, leaving the Boresti to bear the brunt of the Roman attack. He felt he should be angry about that, but all he felt was numb and empty.
    They were herded into a large building made with walls of brick with small, high windows and only one door. There was little talking. They sat or lay on the bare floor, tired, hurt and lost. Brude tried to sleep but Frual kept him awake. “Not good to sleep after that bang on the head,” he told him. “You might not wake up.” Brude must have dozed off anyway and when he awoke he saw by the change in the angle of the sunlight coming through the high windows that it must be afternoon.
    They were brought some food and water. A little while later a young soldier came in and spoke to them in a language they could make out though his accent was strange and some words were unfamiliar. He told them that he was called Carallus and they were now slaves of imperial Rome . Then he told them all they had to strip, bathe and have their hair shaved. “You may bring disease here,” he explained. So they were marched out, forced to strip naked and pile their clothes onto a fire which had been lit