Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part Four: The Romans Invade)

By Ian Hall

The year is 80 AD. The druid’s attempt to unite the clans failed. Calach has promised aid to the south if the Romans ever invade the Norlands. When the Roman Legion marches, he knows the clans must act together, and strike fast.
They ride south, but the reality of war catches them all by surprise. Calach must fight for his life amidst the fractional leadership.
This marks the beginning of the northern Pict resistance against the powerful Roman threat.

This is Part Four of a series, to be released in Novella length pieces.
Part Four is over 110 pages, and runs over 31,000 words.
Comments by readers are welcome.
Ian Hall, the author, spent his childhood 10 miles south of Edinburgh, Scotland, and played in a 2000 year old Roman encampment as a boy.
The Roman story is in his blood.

Part One is entitled; Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part one; The Great Gather), available on Kindle.
Part Two is entitled; Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part Two; The Druid’s Plan), available on Kindle
Part Three is entitled; Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. (Part Three: The Coming of Age) available on Kindle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ian Hall
• Release date: Jan 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465906267

Ian Hall

Ian Hall is a former Commander Officer of No. 31 Squadron (1992-4), as well as being the editor and writer of the Squadron Association's three-times-a-year 32-page newsletter. He is the author of Upwards, an aviation-themed novel currently available as a Kindle download. This is his first full-length historical study, having previously penned a 80-page history of No 31 Squadron's early Tornado years.

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Ian Hall. Hallanish Publishing, thru Smashwords Inc.

All rights reserved, and the author reserves the right to re-produce this book, or parts thereof, in any way whatsoever.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Also in the Caledonii series (On Smashwords Inc);

Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. Part One: The Great Gather.

Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. Part Two: The Druids Plan.

Caledonii: Birth of a Nation. Part Three: The Coming of Age.

Caledonii: Birth of a Nation.

Part Four: The Romans Invade.

Table of Contents.

Chapter 13. Spring, 80 AD. The Romans March.

Chapter 14. Spring, 80AD. Ambush.

Chapter 15. Summer, 80AD. A New Kind of War.

Chapter 16. Autumn AD 80. The Recall.

The Story so far…..

The Romans invaded England in 43AD, colonized for thirty years, and have turned their heads northward.

In 74 AD They begun building two long roads north, ready for invasion.

The Norlands dhruids tried to unite the separate clans, but the ‘great gather’ broke down due to petty tribal squabbles.

In secret, the chief’s sons have allied together, determined to unite the clans against the oncoming Roman threat. Calach of the largest clan, Caledonii, and Finlass of the Meatae are the principle conspirators.

Kheltine, (the old arch-druid) in his dying words has told Calach that he has a vision that only through Calach’s leadership can the clans be victorious.

Meanwhile, the chief’s sons Calach and Finlass meet regularly to push the plot home.

The time has come when the Clan chiefs have to decide whether to support the plan, or withdraw.

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