In the Shadow of the Wall by Gordon Anthony

from the ordinary villagers, farmers, herdsmen and fishermen who swapped their ploughs and nets for spears to follow the warriors into battle. To have seventy warriors was unusual to say the least. That was an extra seventy mouths to be fed by the rest of the village.
    Gartnait shook his head sadly then brightened up. “But let us talk of better things than Colm of Broch Tava. Tell me of the women of Rome . Are they beautiful?”
    Brude span some more stories until it grew dark, then he was given a space beside the wall, a mattress stuffed with old straw and a blanket. He lay awake, unable to sleep, while the rain pounded down. He thought about Colm. And Mairead.
     
    The morning dawned bright and chill with light clouds floating high in a pale blue sky. The air was filled with the smell of the damp earth after the overnight downpour but it promised to be a good day for travelling. After a breakfast of porridge, Brude packed his goods onto his mule. Some women gathered round and he traded a few trinkets for some dried meat, bread, honey and a small bag of salt. Then he threw on his new cloak, fastened it with one of the many brooches he had left and said his farewells to Gartnait and his family.
    A small crowd of children accompanied him to the bridge, scampering round his feet, pestering him with questions about where he was from and what he had seen. He laughed them off and crossed the long wooden bridge to the north bank of the Tava, turning east, out past the high cliffs and onto the river plain.
    He took his time, enjoying the peace of the springtime countryside. Bees were buzzing from flower to flower and the blossom filled the apple trees. It had taken him so long to get here that he wanted to savour every moment. The thought of reaching Broch Tava still brought some trepidation but he remembered the words of Cleon, his friend from the home of Aquila in Rome . Cleon was a Greek, an ex-slave and a follower of the teachings of Epicurus. Whenever Brude was worried about something, Cleon would smile his friendly smile and tell him he should not concern himself about things he could not affect. “What is, is,” Cleon would say. “Deal with things when you meet them but don’t worry about what might or might not happen.” Brude would always reply that it was easier to say that than to do it and Cleon would always agree. “But it helps to try,” he would say with a happy smile.
    Brude wondered what Cleon was doing right at that moment. He imagined his friend eating his hearty breakfast before dragging out his scrolls and tallies, ready for another day of recording the household’s business affairs. He smiled at the thought. Cleon was always happy and at ease with the world. The only time Brude had seen him sad was the day they had said goodbye, nearly three years ago, when tears had run down Cleon’s cheeks as they clasped hands for the last time. Of all the things and people he had encountered in the empire, Brude missed Cleon the most. He wondered whether the old Greek would be happy if he was here now, in the lands of the Boresti, far away from all the comforts of Rome and living among the savages he had heard so much about. Brude laughed to himself at the thought. Cleon would claim to be content anywhere, he knew, but would admit to preferring to be content in comfortable surroundings.
    Brude walked along the wide plain, the hills away to his left, the Tava, much wider and deeper now, off to his t, hidden behind the trees. By the time he reached Broch Tava the river would be about two miles wide and merging with the open sea. He mentally kicked himself. A mile was a Roman measure, one thousand paces, not a term the Pritani would use at all. He was no longer a Roman, he told himself. He did not feel Roman. All the time he had been there, he had known he was Brude, son of Anndra of the Boresti, a Pritani warrior. Yet the closer he got to home, the more Roman he felt. The feeling had come to him again last night,