The Forever Man: Clan War Read online

  ‘Because in your way lies madness,’ he said. ‘Your way is suicide. The suicide of a nation. Of an entire people. You cannot beat the Romans. It’s impossible. Your inflated ego will be the death of our people.’

  ‘So you did a deal with the devil,’ answered Nathaniel. ‘What did you promise?’

  Gillanders took a deep breath and then looked away.

  ‘Talk, Gillanders,’ prompted the marine. ‘Tell me or I shall let the druid question you.’

  The chief went pale as the blood drained from his face. ‘No, my lord. Have mercy.’

  ‘Then talk.’

  ‘I promised your head, lord. Delivered to the Romans on a plate.’

  Nathaniel laughed. ‘Ironic, isn’t it?’

  ‘What, my lord?’ Asked Gillanders.

  ‘That, instead of my head on a plate they shall be getting their envoy’s head in a bag.’ The marine laughed again, but the sound was devoid of humor.

  Chief Gillanders allowed himself a small, sick looking smile.

  ‘Oh,’ continued Nathaniel. ‘And, of course, they also get a bonus head. Yours.’

  The axe sang. Gillanders’ head tumbled to the floor and his body followed, slumping silently to its knees and then pitching forward in a gout of blood.

  ‘The Roman envoy will have come with guards,’ said Nathaniel to Padan. ‘Find them. Give them the two heads and a message. Tell them, there will be blood for blood. Tell them that The Forever Man waits for them. Druid, come with me. We need to wake Gillanders’ private guards and explain things to them. If they’re lucky, then I won’t kill them. But first, I need to know who else is involved in this scheme.’

  Torkill led Nathaniel from the room while Padan wrapped the two severed heads in a blanket and threw them over his shoulder to make carrying easier.

  Chapter 14

  Nathaniel observed the Romans from afar, using the trees as cover. Emperor Severus had taken a dim view of Nathaniel’s presentation of the head of the Roman envoy. He had been even more insulted by Nathaniel’s threats.

  It had taken him a while but, finally, he had sent his vaunted Ninth legion far beyond Hadrian’s Wall to administer chastisement. He had told them to find the nearest large settlement of Picts and destroy them utterly. Then they were to sow the land with salt and burn every forest that they came upon. The Picts were to remember the might of the Roman Empire for years to come.

  However, Nathaniel had preempted this strike and he had commanded the evacuation and withdrawal of all Picts within a hundred miles of the wall. As a result, the Romans had to march much deeper into enemy territory that they would normally have considered prurient.

  The Ninth legion stood 6000 strong and, even at distance, the marine could see that these were tough men. Men who had fought, unbeaten, across Hispania, hence their nickname, the Hispanica legion.

  Carrying sword and shield and finely pointed javelin, along with full kit, weighing perhaps 40 or 50lb per man, the legion marched all day at the steady military pace of 20 miles in five hours. Every night, march complete, they would then set down their kit and build a full camp, including ditches and palisades and gateways, in exactly the same plan as any legionary fortress.

  Then, every morning at around the same time, about an hour before sunrise, they would awaken, eat breakfast and form up to march again.

  It was at this time that they were at their most vulnerable. For it was in the early morning that the highland mists shrouded all in an impenetrable white out. And in the mist was death.

  Under the cover of the mist, the Picts would sneak in and kill as many as they could. Swiftly and silently. Then they would behead them and bring the heads back to their camp. Later in the day these heads would be discovered by the Romans on top of stakes hammered into the ground.

  The losses were not many. Ten, maybe fifteen legionnaires a day. Not enough to warrant staying in the camp until mid morning every day. But still enough to affect morale.

  As well as this, the legion was now starting to run out of supplies, apart from the ubiquitous barley that was universally hated by the Roman soldiers and was referred to as animal feed. But there was no way that they could supplement their diet with either game nor wheat as Nathaniel’s men had cleared the land of all and any sustenance, from edible roots to the smallest of game.

  Now, after two full weeks, the ninth was into the hills and mountains of the Highlands.

  This was Nathaniel’s chosen killing ground. It was here that he had decided to end, forever, the myth of Roman invincibility. And he aimed to do this by destroying the venerated Ninth Legion. Emperor Servius’s favorite legion and the most feared and successful of all of the Roman fighting units.

  The foothills of the Highland mountains formed many folds and vales in the land. Coarse heather and piles of scree made footing all the more treacherous and, for Nathaniel and his warriors, this was a perfect area for an ambush.

  The Romans had just forged the Derry Burn River and were marching into the Cairngorms, their marching order strung out as they were forced into the narrow valleys and folds of the foothills.

  Nathaniel had led the Romans into this specific valley by allowing them to catch glimpses of his warriors running before them as well as releasing small deer that he had captured so that attention was drawn forward into the twisting valley. The Romans were so confident of their military superiority that they had the bare minimum of scouts in front of the main column. However, even if they had scouted in force it would have done them little good. Nathaniel’s men were Highland born. To them the heather and gorse was their birthright and they could conceal themselves better than the wild animals that roved the hills.

  The column of 6000 legionnaires marched five abreast and stretched back for almost a mile. Along the hills on each side of the valley, Nathaniel had placed 10 000 of his warriors, 5000 on each side. Aside from their usual broadsword and shield, he had equipped each of these warriors with a sling and a pouch full of lead shot. Every Pict had used the sling since early childhood and they were capable of bringing down small game such as hare or even deer at almost four hundred yards. He had also issued them with a bundle of five light javelins as well as one long, twelve-foot, broad bladed heavy spear.

  Across a pinch in the valley he had dug deep trenches with sharpened spikes at the base. Her had then covered them with a latticework of light branches and grass so as to conceal them from all but the minutest scrutiny.

  Finally, around the back of one of the small hills, he had two thousand cavalry. Five hundred of these riders each carried a large leather bag of steel caltrops. Perhaps one hundred thousand of them all told.

  They waited.

  As the first row of the Roman column reached the trenches the leading legionnaires fell in and caused the entire column to stop. The rest of the column bunched up and lost their footing, cursing and shouting as the command to halt rippled down the line.

  Nathaniel raised his hand and the horn blower next to him blew two long notes.

  Immediately the caltrop carrying cavalry galloped around the hill and into the valley behind the ninth legion. They galloped up as close as they could to the back of the column and then turned and bolted back, scattering the caltrops liberally as they did so.

  The Ninth was now trapped between the spike-laden pits and the caltrop-strewn ground.

  The horn blew again and the Picts rose as one and started to unleash their lead missiles, working quickly until they were all expended. Hundreds of Romans lay wounded on the ground, heads, arms and legs shattered by the vast quantities of lead shot that had rained down on them.

  The horn bayed again and the Pictish warriors jogged down the hill towards the column.

  But the Roman discipline was incredible as the legionnaires formed up again, locking together to form two shield walls, one facing each side of the valley. When the Picts were a mere sixty yards away the horn blew again.

  The warriors stopped and threw their javelins. One, two, three, four
, five. A veritable storm of sharpened steel and wood fell on the Roman shield wall.

  The horn bayed for the final time and the Highlanders picked up their heavy spears and charged, ululating and screaming as they came, 10 000 strong.

  At the same time, the cavalry were charging as close as they could without reaching the caltrops, unleashing their throwing lances, launching them high into the air to come plunging down on the Roman soldiers.

  On the other side of the trenches another thousand warriors unleashed their slingshots, raining lead down on the legionnaires.

  The ten thousand Picts struck the Roman shield wall with a sound like thunder as the heavy spears slammed through shield and armor alike.

  The Roman shield wall collapsed and, instead of a disciplined Roman formation there was now a group of individual soldiers with short swords, facing a superior number of the most deadly hand-to-hand combatants in the known world. The Highland warrior with a broadsword.

  The slaughter continued late into the evening. Not one Roman survived. The cavalry cut down the last legionnaire by torchlight, some two miles away from the original battle.

  The Ninth legion, the pride of Rome, was no more – and their standard now flew above Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo Hogan – The Forever Man.

  Chapter 15

  The clan chiefs were gathered about the huge round table in the keep of castle MacDonell. Vast quantities of uisge spirits, mead and ale flowed like water. Servants carried platters of roast meats, vegetables and bread.

  In a dark corner of the room sat a pair of harpists, playing and singing heroic odes.

  Padan stood up from the table and threw a half eaten leg of mutton at the harpists.

  ‘Shut it,’ he shouted. ‘Bloody fairy music. Play some bleeding pipes.’

  The other chiefs joined in, banging their flagons on the table and throwing food at the harpers.

  One of the musicians stood up, turned his back on the chiefs and pulled up his kilt, flashed his hairy ass at them and farted loudly.

  ‘There’s some ass music for you, you red bearded git,’ he replied.

  There was a round of good-natured laughter.

  ‘By the gods,’ shouted Padan. ‘That’s gruesome and all.’

  The two musicians laid down their harps. One picked up a bag and pipes and started to prime them, blowing air into the bag. The other musician took out a bohdran frame drum and started to hammer out a savage beat. Rolling and thumping. A primal cadence that mimicked a speeding heartbeat.

  Then the pipes started to lament. The spirit of the highlands issued forth, a low drone counter-pointed by the flute-like pipe chorus. It lilted and waxed and waned, changing from dirge to celebration, from poem to prose. Joy to woe.

  And, in the valley around the castle, over forty thousand Highland men, women and children celebrated the destruction of the Ninth and the prowess of their new king, The Forever Man.

  ***

  Janiver lay naked on the bed and stared at Nathaniel. The firelight bathed her body in a warm, elemental glow that matched her inner ardor.

  The marine sat at a desk. In front of him were sheets of fine vellum and he was writing a list of commands and queries. Structures and plans, because he knew that the destruction of the Ninth would not go unpunished. And, unless he did something soon, the full might of Rome would fall upon the Picts and then, Forever Man or not, there was no way that the Picts could survive an assault from over a hundred thousand legionnaires.

  ‘Come to bed, my lord.’

  Nathaniel shook his head.

  ‘Soon, my sweet,’ he said. ‘I have to plan our next steps. The following weeks will be crucial to our survival. Rest. I won’t be long.’

  The marine worked hard, writing, consulting maps and sketching out battle plans. Eventually the candle started to gutter in its holder and he stopped.

  But when he got to the bed it was empty.

  Janiver had dressed and left and he had not even noticed.

  He felt guilty and he promised himself that, as soon as he had solved the Roman problem, he would put aside time for her.

  After all, she was to be his queen.

  Chapter 16

  Padraig ran hard. Wearing only his kilt and a pair of sandals and carrying his throwing lance he sprinted through the heather. Up hill and down dale. Every now and then he would halt, pick a distant target, such as a mound of gorse or a tree stump, throw the lance at it and then sprint to recover it.

  He had been doing this since early morning. Punishing his body. Training far beyond what even the most rabid of perfectionists would consider enough. He had thrown up twice already and his breath was a constant burning in his lungs.

  But still he pushed harder.

  Eventually he came across a small stream and he threw himself into the frigid mountain water, gulping it down and splashing it over his overheated body. His stomach immediately went into a cramp as the cold water caused a vicious stitch. But he welcomed it. He welcomed the pain. The punishment. The self-chastisement.

  Nathaniel Arnthor Degeo Hogan was his lord. And more. He was the leader of his people. He had taken him in when he was close to death. He had raised him to the position of Lance Lord and sat him at his right hand.

  And in return Padraig had betrayed him.

  Utterly and completely.

  She had come to him late last night. As she had many times before. And, as he had many times before, he had resisted. He had turned her away.

  But his need for her was a physical pain. His desire a primal urge that he could not deny. Every waking moment was filled with visions of her face, her smell, her voice. Which meant that, every waking moment was another moment spent betraying his lord.

  He threw his head back and screamed in anger and frustration.

  And shame.

  Then he ran back to the castle. He had made a decision. He knew that more battles were coming and, in the next one, he would put himself in the very vanguard of the fight. He would wear no armor, merely his kilt and sandals. If the gods spared him then he would consider his next punishment. If the gods decided to take his life then he would accept their decision with open arms.

  He felt better for his decision but continued to run as hard as he could. Still punishing himself.

  ***

  Nathaniel knew that they had to strike now. Sooner rather than later.

  Emperor Severus had started to mass troops in and around the fort of Sehedunum and already the 2nd, 6th and 20th legions were in base and battle ready. Almost twenty thousand crack Roman legionnaires. If any more arrived then Nathaniel doubted his ability to defeat them. Even twenty thousand was touch and go. For if he put every man that he could into the field, he would have no more than thirty thousand warriors. And that was not enough of a numerical cushion to provide any source of comfort.

  Also, the marine knew that he needed to draw the Romans out of the fort in order to engage them successfully. He was pretty sure that he would be able to do this. He was fairly sure that he could defeat them, as long as he did so before their numbers grew.

  Because Nathaniel had a plan.

  ‘Bat shit,’ repeated Torkill with an incredulous look on his face.

  Nathaniel nodded. ‘Bat shit. Tons of it. Wagonloads of bat shit.’

  ‘And to what end?’ Enquired the druid.

  ‘We wash it,’ answered Nathaniel. ‘Then we sieve the water through cotton cloth and put it into large tubs. Then we allow the sun to evaporate the water off and what we get left with is a small white crystal, looks like salt. That’s what I need.’

  ‘Why?’

  The marine thought for a while before he answered. He knew that the white crystals were Potassium Nitrate or Salt Peter. He also knew that, combining 100 parts to 23 parts with finely crushed charcoal would create a basic black powder similar to gunpowder. Most people think that sulfur is necessary to make gunpowder but the marine had learned that the sulfur merely increased the burn rate of the black powder. The simple combin
ation of Salt Peter and charcoal would work almost as well.

  ‘It’s magic,’ he said. ‘Magic crystals. Trust me.’

  Torkill nodded. ‘I do trust you, my lord and, if it’s wagon loads of bat shit my lord wants, then it is wagon loads of bat shit my lord shall get. I shall send men to the caves forthwith.’

  ‘And quickly,’ urged Nathaniel. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  ***

  It took a full ten days to harvest the Salt Peter from the bat guano. When it was ready, Nathaniel had the corresponding amount of charcoal finely ground and then he mixed the correct quantities together.

  Next he put the black powder through a process called “Corning”. Essentially, the powder was wetted with just enough water to form a dough-like consistency and then roiled into small balls and left to dry. When thoroughly dry, the balls were, once more, carefully ground into a powder. This simple process more than doubled the efficacy of the black powder, creating a super-fast burning explosive mix.

  During the time that the black powder was being made, Nathaniel gathered his warriors and drilled them. He had personally scouted the land in front of the Roman fort and knew that there was only one way to win the forthcoming engagement.

  He was not worried about drawing the enemy out. Simply massing his forces in front of the Romans would be the quintessential Red Rag to a bull. They would attack. However, the battleground in front of the fort was perfect for the Roman killing machine. Flat and large with no natural impediments it would allow the legions to perform with parade ground precision. Their formations and attack forms would be an exercise in perfection. Nathaniel had to break the formations up so that his highlanders could confront them in single combat.

  He had planned and re-planned and then, finally, he had put his ultimate plan to his chiefs. He did not discuss it, nor did he broke any argument.