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  Copyright © 2015 Simon Scarrow

  The right of Simon Scarrow to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group 2015

  All characters – other than the obvious historical figures – in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  Author photo © Crest Photography

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 1329 7

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also By Simon Scarrow

  Praise

  Dedication

  Map of Britannia

  Map of North Wales

  The Siege of Mona

  The Roman Army Chain of Command

  Cast List

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  A BRIEF INTRODUCTION TO THE ROMAN ARMY

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  Roman Britain, AD 52. The western tribes, inspired by the Druids’ hatred of the Romans, prepare to make a stand. But can they match the discipline and courage of the legionaries?

  Wounded during a skirmish, Centurion Macro remains behind in charge of the fort as Prefect Cato leads an invasion deep into the hills. Cato’s mission: to cement Rome’s triumph over the natives by crushing the Druid stronghold. But with winter drawing in, the terrain is barely passable through icy rain and snowstorms.

  When Macro’s patrols report that the natives in the vicinity of the garrison are thinning out, a terrible suspicion takes shape in the battle-scarred soldier’s mind. Has the acting Governor, Legate Quintatus, underestimated the enemy, his military judgement undermined by ambition? If there is a sophisticated and deadly plan afoot, it’s Cato and his men who will pay the price.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Simon Scarrow is a Sunday Times No. 1 bestselling author. His bestsellers include his novels featuring Roman soldiers Macro and Cato, most recently BRITANNIA, BROTHERS IN BLOOD and PRAETORIAN, as well as SWORD AND SCIMITAR, about the 1565 Siege of Malta, HEARTS OF STONE, about the Greek Resistance in WWII, and a quartet about Wellington and Napoleon including the No. 1 Sunday Times bestseller THE FIELDS OF DEATH. He is the author with T. J. Andrews of the gladiator novel ARENA and the novellas in the INVADER series.

  Simon’s novels have been published in the USA and in translation all around the world.

  Find out more at www.simonscarrow.co.uk and on Facebook/officialsimonscarrow and Twitter @SimonScarrow

  By Simon Scarrow

  The Eagles of the Empire Series

  The Britannia Campaign

  Under the Eagle (AD 42–43, Britannia)

  The Eagle’s Conquest (AD 43, Britannia)

  When the Eagle Hunts (AD 44, Britannia)

  The Eagle and the Wolves (AD 44, Britannia)

  The Eagle’s Prey (AD 44, Britannia)

  Rome and the Eastern Provinces

  The Eagle’s Prophecy (AD 45, Rome)

  The Eagle in the Sand (AD 46, Judaea)

  Centurion (AD 46, Syria)

  The Mediterranean

  The Gladiator (AD 48–49, Crete)

  The Legion (AD 49, Egypt)

  Praetorian (AD 51, Rome)

  The Return to Britannia

  The Blood Crows (AD 51, Britannia)

  Brothers in Blood (AD 51, Britannia)

  Britannia (AD 52, Britannia)

  The Wellington and Napoleon Quartet

  Young Bloods

  The Generals

  Fire and Sword

  The Fields of Death

  Sword and Scimitar

  Hearts of Stone

  The Gladiator Series

  Gladiator: Fight for Freedom

  Gladiator: Street Fighter

  Gladiator: Son of Spartacus

  Writing with T.J. Andrews

  Arena

  PRAISE

  ‘I really don’t need this kind of competition . . . It’s a great read’ Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Rollicking good fun’ Mail on Sunday

  ‘Scarrow’s [novels] rank with the best’ Independent

  ‘[Simon Scarrow] blends together the historical facts and characters to create a book that simply cannot be put down . . . Highly recommended’ Historical Novels Review

  ‘A fast-moving and exceptionally well-paced historical thriller’ BBC History Magazine

  To John and Joan Prigent

  CAST LIST

  At the Fort

  Second Thracian Cavalry ‘The Blood Crows’

  Prefect Cato

  Decurions: Miro, Themistocles, Corvinus, Aristophanes, Harpex, Plato

  Trooper Thraxis

  Surgeon Pausinus

  Optio Pandarus

  Fourth Cohort, XIV Legion

  Centurion Macro

  Centurions: Crispus, Festinus, Portillus, Lentulus, Macer

  Optios: Croton, Diodorus

  Eighth Illyrian Cohort Detachment

  Centurions: Fortunus, Appilus

  Optios: Saphros, Mago

  Auxiliary Lomus

  The Mona Invasion Column

  Legate Quintatus, Commanding Officer

  Legate Valens, Commanding XX Legion and Temporary Commander of XIV

  Camp Prefect Silanus

  Tribune Livonius

  Others

  Aulus Didius Gallus, incoming Governor of a province in turmoil

  Caius Porcinus Glaber, Gallus’s Chief of Staff

  Venistus, a venal leader of the camp followers of the Eigh
th Illyrian Cohort

  Julia, an unfortunate army wife

  Petronius Deanus, a mercenary northern trader

  Lucius, son of Prefect Cato and Julia

  CHAPTER ONE

  October, AD 52

  ‘What do you think?’ Prefect Cato asked as he stared down the slope towards the fortified settlement sprawling along the floor of the valley. While it was not nearly so formidable as the vast hill forts he had seen in the southern lands of Britannia, the Deceanglian tribesmen had constructed their defences well. The settlement had been built on raised ground close to the river that flowed swiftly through the valley. A deep ditch surrounded a turf rampart topped with a sturdy palisade. There was a fortified gateway at each end of the settlement where sentries kept watch up and down the valley. Cato estimated that there must be several hundred round huts within the defences. There were many animals penned in there as well, together with what looked like a cluster of tents – the covers of the stone-lined grain pits used by the natives.

  Lying next to the young officer was Centurion Macro, his lined face crinkling as he squinted into the late-afternoon sunlight flooding the valley, giving a burnished glow to the stubbled fields and the dark-green boughs of the pine trees covering the slopes either side of the settlement. Both men had taken off their helmets and left them with the small patrol waiting on the other side of the ridge. The same men who had reported the unusual activity at the village the day before. With their dull brown cloaks and their cautious approach to the vantage point through the stunted trees covering the hill, Cato and Macro had avoided being seen by the enemy as they took stock of the Deceanglian warriors’ preparations.

  Macro, a tough veteran, pursed his lips briefly. ‘Looks clear enough to me. They’ve gathered in men from the outlying villages. See that mob by the horse lines? Right by that stock of spears and shields. Ten denarii gets you one; that ain’t no hunting party.’ He paused and made a quick estimate of the enemy’s strength. ‘Can’t be more than five or six hundred of them. No immediate danger to us.’

  Cato nodded. It was true. The fort they had been posted to ten miles to the east was well positioned and garrisoned by the two units under his command: Macro’s cohort of legionaries from the Fourteenth, and his own part-mounted auxiliary cohort. The Blood Crows, as they were known, thanks to the design on their banner, had once been a cavalry unit. The recent campaigns in the mountains of the west of the province had caused the loss of many of the army’s horses. The training depot at Luntum had been working hard to supply remounts, but there were far too few to satisfy the needs of the army. As a result, half the men of Cato’s cohort now served as infantry, and the unit had been posted, along with Macro’s men, to one of the outposts tasked with protecting the frontier of Emperor Claudius’s new province. A fresh draft of replacement troops had filled out the ranks of both units and brought them nearly up to the strength with which they had started the campaign against the mountain tribes. With over four hundred legionaries together with as many auxiliary troops, they were in no danger from the war party gathering in the settlement.

  Which raised a question.

  ‘So what are they up to?’ Cato exchanged a brief look with his subordinate and guessed that Macro’s thoughts were heading in the same direction. ‘I’ll send word to the Legate. Chances are there’ll be similar reports from other outposts. In which case it looks like the Druids are back in business and we’re going to have trouble again.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Macro hissed. ‘Bloody Druids. Don’t those wild-haired shits ever know when to give in?’

  ‘It’s their land, Macro. These are their people. Would we respond any differently if we were in their boots?’

  ‘If we were in their boots, sir, the legions would never even have got a toehold on this island.’

  Cato chuckled at his friend’s hubris. ‘While I admire your estimation of our fighting qualities, I can’t help but grieve at your lack of empathy.’

  Macro snorted. ‘Any warm feeling I might have had for those hairy barbarians disappeared a long while back, about the time they should have been smart enough to realise that they weren’t ever going to give us a beating.’

  ‘They’ve come close enough at times.’

  Macro cocked an eyebrow. ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘And it’s not as if they haven’t contested us every step of the way.’ Cato sighed. ‘It’s been nigh on ten years since the army first landed, and we don’t feel much closer to securing the province. Of course, it doesn’t help when even the natives who are supposed to be on our side are treated little better than animals.’

  His companion shot him a weary look. Macro had heard his friend talking like this before and put it down to the younger man’s peculiar appetite for the affectations of Greek philosophy, and a corresponding tendency to overthink the situation. It did not seem to have done the Greeks much good, he mused. After all, their land was now a province of Rome, just as the whole of Britannia would become one day. He cleared his throat before he responded.

  ‘Yes, well, they’ll get better treatment the moment they stop behaving like animals and accept our ways. But first we have to put the stick about and beat some sense into ’em.’ He jabbed his thumb towards the settlement. ‘Starting with them Druids. I’m telling you, our job here is going to be a lot less difficult the moment we nail the last of the bastards to a cross and leave him out to dry.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Cato reflected. Macro’s hostility to the Druidic cult was well founded. Though the island’s tribal kingdoms were thoroughly divided, with half of them having made treaties with Rome before the first legionary had set foot on these shores, they were all steeped in reverence towards the Druids and were susceptible to their appeals to resist the invader. Even now, Cato knew, many of the tribes that had supposedly been subdued still looked to the Druids to continue the struggle. Many of their warriors had slipped across the frontier into these mountains to join the ranks of those still fighting Rome. The situation had been exacerbated by the death of the province’s governor. Ostorius had been a seasoned commander when he had been assigned to Britannia. Too seasoned, as it turned out. The strain of fighting the mountain tribes had worn him out, and he had collapsed at an officers’ briefing and died less than a month later.

  It was poor timing. The legions had just won a hard-fought victory over the native warriors. Their commander, Caratacus, had been captured and sent to Rome with his family, and the spirit of his followers had been all but broken. And then the governor had died. At once the Druids seized on this as a sign from their gods that the Romans were cursed and that the tribes must continue the fight now that they had won divine approval. The outposts of the frontier were attacked, supply columns and patrols ambushed and the army had been obliged to fall back towards the more easily defended territory that fringed the lands of the Silurians, Ordovicians and Deceanglians. The lack of clear leadership had undermined the Roman position; the replacement governor would be unlikely to take command before spring. And now this fresh evidence that the tribes were gathering to renew the onslaught.

  ‘I’ve seen enough,’ Cato decided. ‘Let’s go.’

  They crept back towards the treeline. Once they were safely within the shadows, the two men clambered to their feet and adjusted their sword belts and cloaks. Above them the boughs were already shedding their leaves. The foliage was russet and yellow, and the gentle breeze sent the more brittle leaves tumbling through the air. Cato, taller and more thin-framed than his friend, gave a shudder. He did not relish the thought of spending the long months of winter confined to the fort, which some wag on the previous governor’s staff had given the name Imperatoris Stultitiam – The Emperor’s Folly. It had been one of those quips that had passed into practice, and that was how the fort’s name was described on all official correspondence. The winter climate of the island was miserable enough, Cato reflected, but here in
the hills and mountains it was relentlessly cold, wet and windy.

  Cato longed for the comforts of Italia, with its milder climate. More to the point, that was where his wife was waiting for his return, in the home they had bought in Rome. By now, Julia would have given birth to their first child, and Cato was anxiously awaiting a letter from her to set his mind at rest. It would be months, years maybe, before Britannia was settled enough for him to request permission to return to Rome, so he had already decided that he would ask Julia to travel to the island. The first towns of the new province were rapidly expanding, and although they were primitive affairs, they featured enough comforts to offer a semblance of the civilisation found in the rest of the empire. Besides, he and Julia would be able to see each other more easily, and Cato could savour some of the home life that he had been yearning for the moment he received news of her pregnancy.

  Macro led the way up the slope through the trees, boots rustling through the fallen leaves and softly cracking the twigs underfoot. The ground soon evened out as they reached the crest of the hill and started to descend the other side towards the track where the squadron of auxiliary cavalry was waiting for them. With the hill between them and the enemy, the officers felt safe and able to speak in normal tones now that the danger of detection had passed.

  ‘Do you really think those bastards are going to stick it to us before winter comes?’ asked Macro.

  Cato thought briefly before he nodded. ‘More than likely. The Druids will want to strike swiftly while their people are still celebrating the death of Ostorius. They’re going to make things difficult for us, but I doubt they will have the strength to drive us out of the mountains. Thank the gods they don’t have Caratacus to lead ’em any more.’

  ‘Yes, thank fuck for that,’ Macro growled with feeling. ‘Bastard had more tricks up his sleeve than a ten-sestertius whore.’

  Cato arched an amused eyebrow. ‘Colourful.’

  Macro spat on the ground. ‘And just our luck that we won’t get any reward for capturing him, not once but twice. Instead, it’s going to be some other lucky bastard who claims the credit.’