Marcus is hidden in a rocky dip on the hillside, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a yew tree, waiting for his friend Rhun. He gazes across the landscape to the northern mountains, their outlines glowing in the evening sun. Rhun will know where to find him, safely out of sight of Vallum’s fort. They have met here many times before to talk.
Marcus has an ear for languages. Between leaving home and arriving in Caledonia, he picked up ten - one for each year he marched from the most eastern to the most northern reach of the Roman Empire. Within a month of arriving at the windy Vallum Antonini, he could speak the local tongue. It was a Brittonic language, similar to others he had learnt in Cornouia and Gaul. This meant Marcus was given a little more freedom than others of his rank, and he was permitted to venture from the station to find and form trading relationships with the locals. And this is how he met his local Caledonian friend Rhun.
At the thought of Rhun, an uneasy feeling creeps in, which he’d been trying to ignore. There had been rumours for a while that all legions would be withdrawn south to the Vallum Hadriani. They had just been rumours, and it wasn’t worth bringing up or disturbing anything with Rhun. But, today, Commander Silvanus finally gave the orders - Marcus would be leaving. The commanders believed that no more progress could be made here; in their eyes, the earth was not fruitful, the rock was too hard to form into roads and break up into building materials, and the culture was too primitive (he won’t mention that bit to Rhun). Marcus also learned that he was in line for furlough, meaning he could return home. He can’t quite believe it; Assyria seems so long ago and so far away from his station on the Antonine wall.
He shakes off thoughts of home and begins gathering firewood. Tonight, they will eat salmon, and as usual, as Marcus prepares the food, Rhun will use the burnt end of a stick to draw symbols and animals on flat stones, telling his friend stories about the land around them. Rhun speaks of the land as if it’s alive, he says it was sculpted by a giant goddess who rides across the sky on the North Wind, casting ice from her fingertips and battling with the sun at the end of every winter.
When Marcus first arrived here, the Legionnaires who built the wall told him this land was entirely empty. But they were so wrong. The weather fills the landscape, always shifting like a living thing with moods; the towering white clouds roll across the sky one moment, and fierce hailstorms or calm mists come down the next. And the rain - such rain! It would sweep in marching lines across the land like an army. Then there are evenings like this, still, perfect, everything honey kissed.
Every part of Caledonia is different from Marcus’s bustling home city of Antiochia, where the sun rules uninterrupted. In Antiochia there is a cacophony; roads, carts, buildings, and markets - stalls overflowing with nuts, spices, and oranges - what he would give for an orange again!
Marcus crouches to light the fire with flint and metal.
He tried to explain to Rhun once what an orange tasted like, which was harder than he thought. He settled on: the sweet tang of a ripe berry, like a raspberry plucked fresh from the bush, combined with the refreshing coolness of spring water but with added sunshine. After that day, Marcus secretly set to work hunting down an orange. It took him nearly a year of asking and bartering with the messengers who came and went along the wall, but eventually, a hard, dry, brown ball was presented to Rhun. “Is this it?” is all he said, until Marcus scratched the shrivelled skin, and the oils released an echo of their scent, and Rhun’s eyes widened. Something passed between them that day, which has been growing ever since.
“Oi!”
Marcus jumps. Rhun’s voice is unusually and brutally angry.
“So, you’re leaving then?” He has dismounted from his horse and is storming forward, metal in his eyes and his chest heaving.
“How do you know? I’ve only just received orders,” Marcus stammers. “And keep your voice down. Silvanus is inspecting the castrum.”
Rhun is still moving in on Marcus, a murderous look in his eye.
“You were just going to leave, were you, after your legionnaires have destroyed everything?” His rage is building, and Marcus can see he is near to attack. Marcus’s training and duty come back to him, his muscles tense.
“You forget who you are talking to, Pict!” he spits.
Rhun stops in his tracks, shocked by Marcus’s sharp tongue. He lifts his arm and throws down a burnt branch.
“They came to my village recruiting for legionnaires, and when I told them I wouldn’t leave, they took my animals and burnt my orchard. I will have to start over. There’s nothing left.”
Rhun throws a punch at Marcus, then loses his balance and falls to the ground. A moment later, he grasps Marcus’s ankle, and he too falls heavily. They tumble down the rocky hillside, swiping and grasping until a loud crack sounds from somewhere on the hill above them. The pair freeze and look up, as one. On the crest of the hill, two stags are watching them wrestling at the foot of the yew tree, their antlers gleaming in the fading light, a crescent moon hanging low in the deepening purple sky behind them. Their presence is a symbol of grace and blessing from the gods of both their lands.
In the quiet of the night, Marcus and Rhun sit together, their thoughts turning to the future.
“You could come with us,” Marcus utters.
“Or you could stay here with me.” Rhun takes Marcus’s hand. “Or maybe we could go north together. Couldn’t we?”
The answer to the question remains unspoken, hanging in the air like a secret waiting to be revealed. Only time will tell what the dawn will bring. But for now, they sit together in the warmth of the fire, content in each other's company, looking to the north.
