Journey took the troop five days
through lands dunked in disarray;
calm resolution cause of all delay.
Until the Wall rose up to meet them,
perma-damp crags surmounting.
Unmaintained faded imperial glory;
white washed frontage texture
mottling slowly back to nature.
Track led them toward ridge gap,
where gateway fortress nestled.
Sudden spray of moss, plant, mud –
another horse materialised amongst them
to appreciative whinnie chorus.
Cunedda didn’t flinch a muscle:
‘You’re getting very good at that.’
The horse nodded, ‘Why, thank you,
General, it’s the way I train my rider.’
Gwair scratched horses mane, ‘Cheers,
Ieu, hope that I have pleased you.’
‘Ah, you’re getting there; another
few weeks, I reckon. Sorry, now,
General, we’re not here for your
formal greeting.’
Gwair jerked thumb behind, Cunedda
crane neck followed; distant rider galloped
full tilt toward the Wall. Horse Ieuan turned:
‘We’re here to do the traditional
welcome through the Wall type ritual.
Trained my rider, special.’
Troop paused at foot of slope to fortlet.
Cunedda shrugged, derisive snort:
‘We’re still doing that, then, are we?
We’ll be seeing you lads later, then…
…If she doesn’t kill you.’
Cunedda nodded his party on.
Grin gone, Gwair’s brow got furrowed:
‘What did he mean by that then, Ieu?
‘Wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.
Be nice and calm, there’s my lovely rider.’
Cunneda ascended slope, passed
into abandoned fortlet entrance,
gate timbers long ago recycled.
Ducked heads, spears subdued;
dripping dank dark passageway,
emerged on ridge line facing overgrown
double ditch earth bank of the Vallum.
‘Look lively lads, up the pace,
I want to get a word in first.’
Cantered quickly onto Vallum top;
Vindolanda lay in valley below,
stone and wood work structures.
Sound washed over; vocal blur;
choir song competed against
distinct camp-clinks of preparation.
A rider called during descent:
‘Didn’t know the Church was present…’
Cunedda grunted, non-committal:
‘Since Coel marched north to get himself killed
along with the last of the field army.
The Church is doing backfill.’
Hailed through open gate, Cunedda
rapid dismounted, strode toward
new built hall, saluted by sentries.
Inside, benches bustled, weapons
armourers made ready, fosterlings
attended tutor lessons.
Fireside, figure stared into flames.
Silver haired, fur swaddled, stern faced;
tough, experienced, Palmyran born, last
original Roman garrison officer left standing;
veteran lead warlord of the Wall;
Guardian General of the North.
Cunedda approached, nodded:
‘Good to see you, Palmyredes.’