Under The Eagle

Prologue

'It's no good, sir, the bastard's well and truly stuck.'

The centurion leaned back against the wagon and paused for breath. Around him a score of bone-weary legionaries stood up to their waists in the foul-smelling ooze of the marsh. From the edge of the track, the general followed their efforts in growing frustration. He had been embarking on to one of the evacuation ships when news arrived that the wagon had run off the narrow path. He had immediately taken one of the few remaining horses and galloped it back through the marsh to investigate the situation at first hand. Weighed down by the heavy chest resting on its bed, the wagon resisted every effort to wrestle it free. There was no further help available now since the rearguard had finished loading and put to sea. Only the general, these men and a thin screen of the last remaining cavalry scouts stood between the wagon and the army of Caswollan snapping at the heels of the erstwhile Roman invaders.

The general let slip an oath and his horse raised its head in alarm from the nearby copse where it had been tethered. The wagon was lost then, that much was evident, and the chest itself was too heavy to carry back to the last ship waiting at anchor. For security's sake the key to the chest had remained with the quartermaster, now well out to sea, and the chest was so constructed as to make it impossible to open without the right tools.

'What now, sir?' the centurion asked.

The general looked long and hard at the chest, in silence. There was nothing he could do – nothing at all. Wagon, chest and contents were not going to move. For a moment he dared not contemplate that, since the loss of the chest would set his political plans back by a year at least. In that agonising moment of indecision a war horn blew close at hand. With terrified expressions, the legionaries started to wade back towards their weapons lying on the track.

'Stay where you bloody are!' the general roared. 'I haven't ordered you to move!'

The legionaries paused, even with the enemy close at hand, such was the depth of their awe and respect for their commander. With a last look at the chest, the general nodded as he made his decision.

'Centurion, get rid of the wagon.'

'Sir?'

'It'll have to stay here until we return next summer. Drag it a little further in so it sinks, mark the spot and then get back to the beach as fast as you can. I'll have them hold a tender ready for you.'

'Yes, sir.'

The general slapped his thigh angrily, then turned to mount his horse and set off back through the marsh towards the beach. Behind him came another burst from the war horn and the sound of swords clashing as the cavalry scouts fought it out with the vanguard of Caswollan's army. From the moment the Romans had landed, to their present flight back to Gaul, Caswollan's men had dogged them every step of the way, harrying stragglers and foragers day and night, and showing no mercy to the invaders.

'Right, lads!' the centurion bellowed. 'One last heave… Get your shoulders to the wagon. Ready now… Heave!'

Slowly the wagon sank further into the mire; dark brown marsh water flowing up through the seams in the bed of the wagon and rising up the sides of the chest.

'Come on! Heave!'

With a last combined thrust the men eased the wagon further into the marsh and, with a soft gurgling plop, the wagon disappeared beneath the dark water leaving a faint swirl rippling across the oily surface, broken only by the long wagon shaft.

'That's it, lads. Back to the ship. Smartly does it.'

The legionaries waded ashore and snatched up their shields and spears while the centurion hurriedly sketched a map of the location on the wax tablet hanging from his shoulder. When he was done, he snapped the tablet shut and joined his men. But before the column could move off a sudden pounding of hoofbeats on the track caused his men to turn, wide-eyed and afraid. Moments later a handful of cavalry scouts burst out of the mist and galloped by the infantry. One scout leaned forward across his horse's neck which ran with blood from a gaping wound in the man's side. Then they were gone.

Almost at once came the sound of more horses, this time accompanied by the harsh cries of the natives the legionaries had grown to dread. There was a new triumphant edge to their war cries and a cold finger of dread traced its way down the spines of the Romans.

'Ready javelins!' The centurion called out and his men hefted their throwing spears back, waiting for the order. In the mist, the sounds of their pursuers swept towards them, unseen and terrifying. Then indistinct grey shapes appeared a short way off. 'Release!'

The javelins arced up and out of sight and crashed down on the reckless Britons with a chorus of screams from both man and beast.

'Form up!' the centurion cried out. 'At the command… quick march!'

The small column stepped out down the track towards the distant safety of the last evacuation ship, the centurion marching at their side, keeping an anxious watch on the mist that swallowed up the track behind them. The volley of javelins did not delay the Britons for long and soon the sound of hooves closed in on them again, slower and more cautious this time.

The centurion heard a thud and one of his men gasped in pain. He turned to see an arrow shaft protruding from the back of the rearmost legionary. Fighting for breath as his lungs filled with blood, the man fell to his knees and toppled forward.

'At the trot!'

The belts and harnesses of the legionaries jingled as they quickened the pace and tried to increase the distance between themselves and their invisible pursuers. More arrows whirred out of the mist, fired blindly at the Romans. Still, some found their mark and one by one the column shrank in size as men fell on the track and lay, swords drawn, grimly waiting for the end. By the time the centurion reached the final rise, where the marsh gave way to sand and pebble, only four men remained with him. The faint sound of the seashore was the music of hope to their ears and a slight September breeze worked to thin the mist ahead of them.

All at once the path ahead was clear. Two hundred paces away across the shingle, a small boat waited in the surf. A little way out to sea a trireme lay at anchor in a gentle swell and, far out towards the horizon, the dark specks of the invasion fleet were fading into the gloom of dusk.

'Run for it!' shouted the centurion, throwing down his shield and sword. 'Run!'

The shingle scattered beneath their feet as they sprinted down towards the boat. Immediately the war horn sounded behind them as the Britons also caught sight of the sea, spurring their horses on to run down the surviving men before they could reach safety. Teeth gritted, the centurion hurled himself down the gentle slope, grimly aware of me sounds of their pursuers closing rapidly, but he dared not look back for fear that it might cause him to slow his pace. He could see a tall figure standing in the rear of the boat desperately urging him on, as the general's red cloak rippled out behind him in the gentle breeze. Fifty feet to go, and a sharp cry came from just behind him as one of the Britons thrust his spear through the rearmost legionary.

With every fibre of his body screaming out for life, the centurion pounded across the wet sand at the sea's edge, splashed through the surf and hurled himself over the bows of the boat. Eager hands grabbed him under the shoulders and bodily pulled him down. An instant later, a legionary crashed down on top of him, snatching his breaths from the sea air. A pair of the general's burly bodyguards jabbed their spears at the pursuers who had reined in at the water's edge now the odds had been evened. But they were already too late and the boat quickly moved into deeper water as the oarsmen bent themselves to their work, rowing the boat back to the safety of the trireme.

'Did you manage to sink the wagon?' the general asked anxiously.

'Y-yes, sir…' panted the centurion, and he patted the wax tablet hanging at his side. 'There's a map, sir. Good as I could make in the time we had.'

'Well done, centurion. Well done. I'll have that now.'

As the centurion handed over the tablet he glanced round and saw that only one man had escaped with him. Only one. On the shrinking shoreline he could see a score of horsemen clustered round another of his men, foolish enough to be taken alive, and the centurion shuddered at the thought of what terrors lay in wait for the helpless legionary.

Every man in the boat watched in silence, until finally the general spoke.

'We'll come back, men. We'll come back, and when we do I promise you that we'll make those bastards regret the day they ever took up arms against Rome. I, Caius Julius Caesar, swear this on my father's grave…'

The Rhine Frontier

Ninety-six years later, in the second year of the reign of Emperor Claudius

Late 42 AD