My spirits always rise with the hill. As I crest the brow, I am constantly surprised by
the beauty of this place. In winter, the knoll wears a diadem of white crystal, barbed, ebony
black against the leaden sky. In springtime, the summit is crowned with clouds of May
blossom, while in summer, waves of soft, green grass flow to the valley below, rippling in
the upland breeze. But the hill is never as beautiful as it is in autumn. The ridge, a gold-edged
saucer brims with milk-warm mists; the hedgerows stand bauble-bright with haws,
hips, sloes and blackberries; the lane is laid with a carpet of leaf-leather. From the silken
lining of a spiked horse chestnut shell, a glossy conker is birthed. Thorns on a bed of silk,
a reminder of the contrasts of a season caught between summer and winter, between life
and death.
The prayer book mustiness of mushrooms and wood fires fills the air. A prayer of
remembrance for lost seasons, written on the rustling pages of fallen leaves. Apple-rosy
men working in the fields turn their collars against the chilly air, foretelling the icy blasts
that will soon cut adrift the last lingering leaves and shake the slumbering poppy seeds
from their pepper pots. Migrant birds chatter on the wire, exchanging travelers’ tales
before taking flight. And I, a wanderer, return time and time again.
That autumn, the winds were mighty enough to uproot trees and scatter the dust of
centuries. Roots twisted and turned in the earth and revealed the secrets of the soil, while
I waited and watched. Eventually, they sent two of them: a seasoned man in his fifties,
experienced, but not wise, and a woman of about thirty, an old soul. She was twice my
age, but I liked her gentle manner and I knew that she would tell my story well.
“Please, don’t say ‘votive’!” she teased. He smiled with a secret knowledge. It was the
archaeologist’s code for the unexplained. An offering to the gods indeed! Did they think
we were obsessed with the gods? We were too busy trying to stay alive – or at least trying
to die well.
He made notes and sketches; she took measurements and mused, deliberating from every
aspect. For hours, she stood motionless at the edge of the trench, searching for answers,
searching for clues.

.................

I had not slept for three nights. The beat of leather on stone set a steady rhythm.
We had grown accustomed to the legions passing along Dere Street on their way to the
Wall. The soldiers would call out cheerfully to my sister and we would run through the
fields at the edge of the road, cheering them on their journey. Sometimes they stopped for
water or food. A grumble about the northern weather and the dips and ridges of the road,
and they would be gone. Now they migrated silently southwards. No words of greeting or
an exchange of stories. My father said that the troops had been recalled, because of
trouble in the Empire. I crept into the courtyard and listened to the old men at night. They
could not sleep either, but it was not the sound of marching that interrupted their rest.
They whispered, fearfully about another rhythm, a drum beat heard from a black ship off
Segedunum. “A Barbarian Conspiracy," one of them said. “They coax our men from the
wall and then …” He drew his finger across his throat. My mother silenced him with a look.
I saw him at sunset the next day. His throat slit in death’s obscene parody of a grin.
They had come upon us silently, as if unaware of the existence of the farmstead in the fold
of the hill. Their accidental stealth still caught us unprepared. My father knew that we were
defenceless and stepped forward to treat for peace. At the gate, he was felled by a single
blow from the chieftain’s sword, a signal for the carnage to begin. Every man and boy was
slaughtered where they stood. The women were herded into the byre at the edge of the
settlement. The oak bar slid across the door, sealing our fate with a hollow finality. At first,
a few of the women pressed close to the slatted shutter, anxious for husbands, brothers
and sons, but they soon sickened of the sight of slaughter and retreated to the darker
corners of the barn. My mother drew us close.
“We do not have much time, so you must listen and mark my words well.”
As she spoke, she lifted her unbraided hair and undid the clasp at the back of her
necklace. She turned to my sister. “The time is past for trinkets,“ she said. “ Keep this
close. Use it only to bargain for your life.” Even in the dying light of the day, I saw the
brilliance of the sea jet. It had been my father’s first gift to her. He had gone to Whitby,
where the men harvested the strange black stones from the sea. It possessed the heat of
coal, sending magic sparks flying without burning. It came from deep in the earth, washed
smooth by primordial seas. It spoke of a time before birth, a time after death.
Although my parents’ marriage had been made in Rome, it had been blessed by the gods.
My father was proud of his pure Roman wife. In this harsh northern clime, perpetually cold
and damp, she shone like the sparks that sometimes flew from her magical necklace. With
her noble blood, her olive skin and lustrous dark hair she stood like a queen in this
desolate land. He loved her beauty and she loved his wisdom. Our home was filled to the
brim with their love.
Now she turned to me. “Fix this inside your tunic.” She unfastened the silver pin at
her shoulder. “It is an ancient brooch, and knows the secrets of survival. Let it teach them
to you. Let it remind you of your noble birth. All things will pass if you bear them well.” She
bent and kissed my hair. I traced the intertwined filigree on the face of the brooch, just as I
had done when, as a child, my mother had hoisted me on her hip. The spirals, triskels and
palms flowed one into another, weaving an intricate and antique pattern. I held it to the
shutter, where the amber stone at its centre caught the last low rays of red sunlight, cutting
the closeness of the barn. The stone held a million sunsets suspended in one primeval
autumn.
Outside, all was silent. Then, we heard the bar being lifted, and there in the
doorway, a dark figure against the red sky, stood the leader.
“Remember!” my mother whispered, as the chieftain’s massive arm pulled her to her feet.
Without the clasp at her shoulder, the cloak fell away, but she stood tall and proud, pushed
away his hand, and walked out before him. I never saw her again, although I sometimes
fancy that I caught sight of her black hair flowing in the breeze, as she was led over the
wall with part of the raiding party, returning home with their spoils. I like to think that she
became a queen in their land, teaching them how to improve their manners and to read
poetry. My heart tells me this, but sometimes in the darkness, I hear the earth sigh where
the wild dogs scattered her bones nearby.
I held the cloak to my face until the warmth of my mother’s body had left it. My sister
had already forgotten her words, for she lay and sobbed without check. I tried to soothe
her, but she pushed me away, engulfed by her misery. An hour passed and the door was
opened again. This time, two men came in. They had obviously found the wine store, for
they lurched unsteadily into the room and roughly searched the faces of the women. One
selected a slave and, as he was turning to leave, the second saw my sister. I heard her
cries and screams. They ring in my ears even now, but not as much as the silence that
followed. I listened so hard, scanning the stillness for the smallest sound, that it hurt my
ears. I pressed close to the shutter, narrowing my eyes to match the restriction of the laths,
but could not see any trace of her. Passing through the courtyard, next day, I saw the man
who had taken her, slumped in a drunken stupor, at his belt, a sea-jet necklace. My sister
had paid too little, or too late.
In the darkness, one of our slaves crept close to me. I remembered her as a good
woman who had done me many small kindnesses. She whispered to me, “Be brave! They
are drinking now and will leave us alone. They have bloodied the Romans and taken their
prizes. That’s what they set out to do. They’ll be back over the Wall, tomorrow.”
“Who are they? Why have they done this to us? I have never harmed them,” I cried out in
anger.
“You stand for Rome. They see Rome as two things – a fat purse and a fat oppressor.
Two good reasons to attack, don’t you think? I know speak something of their Gaelic
tongue. They are Irish Scots. I overheard one say that the Roman commander-in-chief
Fullofaudes has been captured and taken beyond the Wall. To the South, Nectaridus,
count of the Saxon Shore, has been killed. All around here, deserters and runaway slaves
roam the countryside.”
I remembered the soldiers proudly marching to the wall. I could not believe that they would
desert Rome and leave the Empire at the mercy of the barbarians. As if the slave had
read my thoughts, she continued, “It is rumoured that the soldiers haven’t been paid for
months. When the order came to retreat, many chose to stay. Some feel more British than
the Britons. They have wives and families here. They had no choice but to stay.” I was
suddenly overwhelmed by a profound sense of defeat and grieved for a world that had
been lost forever. Perhaps it was a world that had never existed, except in my mind.
I do not know how much time passed, because I fell into a fitful sleep, but it was still
dark when I heard the oak bar being lifted from its rests. Some of the women began to
whimper and cowered in the darkest corners of the barn. The chieftain stood in the
doorway once more. A torch carried by a young companion, sent monstrous shadows
across his face. I sat silently, scarcely daring to breathe. An eternity seemed to pass
before he lurched forward, grasped my arm and pulled me to my feet. I smelled the sour,
stale stench of old wine, as he hauled my face close to his. Perhaps I reminded his
companion of his own daughter, or perhaps even he had a conscience, because the
younger man shouted in protest. He pulled so hard on my assailant’s arm, that he spun
him round. I could not understand what they said, but I recognised anger in their voices.
The chieftain’s hand went to his belt, where a small axe was tied. This action was enough
to remind the younger man of his place, and he moved back to the doorway. With a low,
triumphant laugh, the chieftain scooped me up over his shoulder and made his way to the
farmstead. I felt the brooch, pressing into my flesh, but it was beyond my reach. I
remembered my mother’s words. “Never cry out or struggle. All things will pass if you bear
them well.”
Oh, I bore it well, as he tore into my body! I bit my lip hard, so that I would not cry
out. The wine had taken its toll, and the passion with which he started, soon left him.
Suddenly, he slumped across me and I realised that he had fallen into a stupor. “All things
will pass,” I whispered to the wall. This had been my parents’ room. I knew that from
here, I could slip out of the side door and onto the hill without being seen. I started to
move cautiously to the edge of the bed, slowly sliding from under the bulk of his body. As
my feet touched the floor, I was suddenly aware of another figure in the shadows. It was
the chieftain’s companion. He placed a finger on his lips to signal silence and beckoned for
me to follow him, and led me in darkness, to the far end of the house. His few words of my
language, he used to indicate his intentions.
“Safe!” He indicated the bed in one of the smaller rooms. I smiled as I realised that
he had brought me to my own room. Exhausted, I sank willingly onto my bed, secure in my
own private sanctuary. I was pulled back to reality, as the young man lit a rush light and lay
alongside me on the narrow bed, tenderly brushing a blood-matted lock of hair from my
cheek. I had bitten my lip so hard, that a slow rivulet of blood had trickled from it. At the
side of the bed stood a burnished wine flagon, from which he filled a small samian cup.
Dipping the corner of my mother’s cloak into the cup, he gently cleansed my wound, then,
lifted my head and put the cup to my lips.
“Drink!” he commanded. I quickly drained the cup and soon found the soothing
effects of the wine overcame the pain in my body and mind. He refilled the cup and I drank
again. The low light caught the fire of his hair. Beneath the veneer of grime, his skin was
smooth and I realised that he could not have a daughter of my age, as he was probably no
more than two or three years older than me. My eyelids became heavy and I lay back and
dreamt of his ship, billowing white sails, scudding across a midnight sea. I was rocked to
and fro on the ebb tide, until a storm blew up and I awoke as the first light of dawn was
creeping into the room.
“Safe," he said, pulling me from the bed. And again, with more urgency, “Hide!”
He led me through the courtyard, towards the open gate. Bodies, slaughtered and
slumbering lay close together. The contents of the farmstead had been tipped out into the
courtyard and pulled this way and that, as men bargained and fought over the best spoils.
At the gateway, I paused. My father, a crumpled pile of rags, slumped where he had been
murdered. Suddenly, the grief, which I had suspended washed over me like a tidal wave
and I sank to my knees. I cradled his head in my arms and rocked him gently.
“Father!” I cried and cursed the gods for their carelessness.
“Safe!” the young man cried out with greater urgency and tried to pull me to my feet. Small
as I was, I could not be moved. A sudden noise in the farmstead. The raiders were awake.
His eyes filled with fear. Quickly, he lifted my father across his shoulders, picked up a small
winnowing shovel abandoned in haste, and set off up the hill knowing that I would follow.
At the summit, the copse afforded shelter and sanctuary. With his axe, he cleared a
pathway to the thickest part of the wood. The knot of brambles gave way, but vengefully
tore at his tunic. He laboured until he had dug a shallow pit, and then placed my father in
it. We stood in silence at the edge of the trench. Slowly, he reached out and touched my
fingertips, the universal language of death binding us.
He had shown me a kind of compassion in a world which, in less than a single course of
the sun, had turned from one of gentleness to one of unspeakable brutality. Life, which
had been a precious commodity, now had its value set at less than the price of a jet
necklace. I took the pin from my brooch and skewered the torn fabric of his tunic. A rough
repair. He smiled and kissed my forehead. I turned back to the grave. In Rome, the lowest
burial would have been in puticuli, huge trenches, into which the bodies of slaves and
paupers were dumped. I looked at this shallow pit and felt the sting of shame. But what did
it matter to him now? Men fight to possess the whole world, but each ends his days in the
same small plot, and even that is eventually reclaimed by the earth. I looked at my brooch.
It no longer had its pin, but it was my only possession. And its beauty would remind him of
my mother. I bent over the grave to place the silver disc on my father’s chest. It was still
in my hand when the axe fell. At least I was unaware of my executioner’s approach. From
my place alongside my father, I saw the flash of a small axe, a red beard; I heard the
triumphant laugh, the protests of the young man, another sickening thud of the axe, and
closed my eyes ….

.................

He spoke as he made notes: “Three skeletons, almost intact. Young female on top of older
male and a third, younger male on top. Possible sacrifice?”
“And where do you get that idea from?” the young woman muttered to herself. She took a
small brush and traced carefully around my fingers. “There’s something under the female’s
hand,” she said. Later that day she recorded, “La Tène brooch. Pin missing.”
Tonight, I might steal into her dreams and tell my story. Or then again, I might wait until
she finds the pin in his cloak and see if her cleverness can work it out.

​

Published under the name of Hilary Orme in Twisted Tales, A Collection

ISBN 13 9781536844764