When the Eagle Hunts

'Silence!' Vespasian roared. 'The next man to speak will be flogged! Centurion, make sure you get their names!'

'Yes, sir.'

Beyond the wall, Maxentius was calling out to them again, his voice strained and thin, deadened by the snow lying on the ground. 'I have been told to speak for the Druids of the Dark Moon… My ship was wrecked on the coast, and the survivors, a woman, her children and myself, were taken by a Durotrigan raiding party… They handed us over to the Druids. In exchange for the release of these prisoners, the Druids want some of their comrades returned to them. Five Druids of the first ring were taken by the general last summer… This man, the High Priest of the Dark Moon, is their leader. He gives you until the Feast of the First Budding – thirty days from now – to respond to his demand… If the Druids are not released by the time of the feast, he will burn his prisoners alive as a sacrifice to Cruach.'

Vespasian recalled the words of Centurion Albinus and shuddered. The thought of his own wife and son screaming amid crackling flames filled his mind's eye and his fingers gripped the palisade tightly as he fought off the terrible image.

The rider leaned down, close to Maxentius's head, and appeared to be saying something to him. Then he stepped back and parted his black cloak. Maxentius called out to them once more.

'The Druid wishes you to have a… token of his determination in this matter!' Behind him, something flashed in the sunlight. The Druid had pulled a huge, broad-bladed sickle from the folds of his cloak. He gripped it with both hands, braced his feet widely, and swung the sickle back.

At the last moment, Maxentius sensed the terrible fate the Druid intended for him, and started to twist round. The sickle flashed through the air, into and through the side of the prefect's neck. It was so quickly done that for a moment some of those watching from the ramparts thought the Druid must have missed. Then the prefect's head rolled to one side and fell into the snow. An arterial spray gushed from the stump of his neck and splattered the white ground. The Druid wiped his bloodied blade in the snow. Then, sheathing it beneath his cloak, he kicked the prefect's torso over, casually mounted his horse, and spurred it back towards his comrades waiting at the edge of the forest.

Chapter Eight

Vespasian swung round, hands cupping his mouth as he bellowed, 'Send out the scouts! Get me those Druids!'

The legion's mounted men had not seen the beheading and were more alert than their stu

Vespasian did not linger to observe the pursuit; he ran to the gate and out across the softly crunching snow towards the body of the navy prefect. Behind him followed the men of the Sixth Century, urged on by Macro, who feared for the safety of his commander. But some way short of the body the legionaries hung back, disgust and superstition making them uneasy, for the Druids were held in awe and dread. Many of the folk tales heard at the knees of their fathers had featured the dark and sinister powers of the Celtic magicians, and the legionaries were loath to approach too closely. They stood in silence, their breath swirling mistily in the cold air; the only sound was the distant thrum of hooves and crash of undergrowth as the cavalry scouts chased after the Druids.

Vespasian stood over the torso, lying twisted on its side. Blood still oozed from the severed blood vessels of the neck. Maxentius had worn only a belted tunic, the tattered remnants of which were now drenched and dark. A large leather pouch had been tied to his belt. Biting back the nausea that was filling his throat from the pit of his stomach, Vespasian leaned down and fumbled with the knot that held the pouch. His fingers trembled as he tried to work the cord free. He was desperate to get away from the blood glistening on the snow, and the awful presence of the prefect's head, scarcely six feet away. Mercifully, the head had rolled in such a way that it faced away from the legate and all he was aware of at the periphery of his vision was the dark, matted hair.

At last the knot slipped free. Vespasian stood up and stepped back several paces before he examined the pouch. A drawstring held the end closed and in the soft folds only a few lumps indicated that it contained anything at all. He tried not to imagine what the Druids might have left in the pouch, and forced himself to loosen the drawstring. In the dark interior of the pouch he saw a dull gleam of gold and reached inside. His fingers closed on a scrap of cloth and a pair of rings, which he drew out into the sunlight. One was quite small and plain, but broad. Inscribed on the inside, in neat block capitals, was the legend 'Filius Plautii'. The other ring was far more ornate, and bore a large onyx stone on which lay a cameo of an elephant, bone white against the polished background of dark brown. The cloth was finely spun wool, maybe from the hem of a toga. Along one edge ran a thin line of purple dye, the ancient sign that the wearer came from a senatorial family.

Vespasian suddenly felt very cold, far more so than the late winter morning warranted. Cold and sick, as the co

'Centurion!'

'Yes, sir!'

'Have the body taken back to camp. Take it to the hospital tent. I want it prepared for cremation as soon as possible. And make sure that it… he, is treated with respect.'

'Of course, sir.'

The legate walked towards the gate, head down in silent contemplation as he thought through the awful implications of what he had discovered in the pouch. The general's family were now in the hands of the Druids. The same Druids who were spreading such terror through the border villages and trading settlements of the Atrebates. How had they been taken? The Britons boasted no ships that could overwhelm those of the imperial navy. In any case, Maxentius and his passengers would have been making the crossing from Gesoriacum to Rutupiae, well over a hundred miles from the land of the Durotriges and their Druid allies. A storm must have blown the ship far off course. But why hadn't the prefect made an attempt to reach the shores of the Atrebates, rather than let himself be swept so far down the coast to territory ruled by enemies of Rome? For an instant Vespasian cursed the prefect for his folly, before such unworthy feelings for a man who had died so terribly made him feel guilty. Perhaps Maxentius had tried to beach his ship on friendly soil after all, but had been prevented from doing so by the wildness of the storm.

The faint noises of pursuit from the forest abruptly took on a new note. Distant shouts and screams were accompanied by the sharp ring of clashing weapons. Vespasian, and the legionaries of the Sixth Century, turned towards the forest. The sounds of fighting quickly intensified and then died away.

'Form square!' Macro bellowed. 'Close order.' The men reacted at once, and hurried into formation around the body of the prefect. Vespasian pushed his way into the centre and drew his sword. He caught Macro's eye and motioned towards the body and head still lying on the snow. The centurion turned to his men.