As the track began to slope down, ahead, just over three miles away, the giant, sprawling square of the general's camp was visible. Intricate grids of minute tents filled the vast space bounded by the turf wall and ramparts. Three legions and several auxiliary cohorts, some twenty-five thousand men, were massing to advance, find and destroy the army of Caratacus and his British warriors. The spectacle had only a moment to impress itself upon the decurion before his view was filled with horsemen charging back along the track towards him. There was no time to rein in and let his men catch him up, and the decurion quickly raised his oval shield and lowered the tip of his spear, sighting it towards the centre of the nearest man's chest.

Then he was in amongst them, the shock of impact throwing his arm back, twisting his shoulder painfully. The shaft of the spear was ripped from his fingers and he heard the deep grunt of the man he had struck as the enemy passed by in a whirl of flowing capes and horse manes and tails. A sword blade thudded against his shield, clattering off the brass boss before it laid open his calf. Then the decurion was through them. He yanked the reins to one side and drew his sword. A sharp clatter of weapons and cries announced the arrival of the rest of his men.

Sword held high, the decurion charged into the melee. His men were fighting desperately, outnumbered two to one. As they fended off one attack they made themselves vulnerable to the next, and by the time their commander rejoined them, two were already down, bleeding on the ground beside the writhing form of the man the decurion had speared.

He sensed a movement to his left and ducked his helmet just as the edge of a sword cut through the metal rim of his shield. The decurion jerked his shield to the side, trying to tear the sword out of his opponent's hand, at the same time swinging his sword in a wide are as he twisted to face the man. The blade flashed, the man's eyes widened as he apprehended the danger and he threw his body back. The point ripped through his tunic, grazing his chest.

'Shit!' the decurion spat, nudging the flanks of his mount to edge closer to his foe for the backswing cut. The intent to finish the man blinded him to danger from another direction, and so he never saw the dismounted figure rush up to his side and thrust a sword towards his groin. He just sensed the blow, like a punch, and by the time he had turned back the man had leaped away, his sword stained crimson. The decurion realised at once that that was his blood, but there was no time to check the wound. A glimpse revealed that he was the only one of his men left. The others were already dead or dying, at a cost of only two of these strange, silent men who fought as if they were born to it.

Hands grabbed his shield arm, and the decurion was hauled savagely from his saddle and crashed down on to the hard earth of the track, the air driven from his lungs. As he lay on his back, winded and looking up into blue heavens, a dark silhouette came between him and the sun. The decurion knew this was the end, but refused to close his eyes.

His lips curled into a sneer. 'Go on then, you bastard!'

But there was no sword thrust. The man just whirled away and was gone. Then scuffling sounds, horses snorting, the pounding of hoofs, which quickly receded, and the strangely serene sounds of a summer afternoon. The shimmering drone of insects was punctuated only by the agonised groans of a man in the grass nearby. The decurion was shocked that he was still alive, that the enemy had spared him even as he lay defenceless on the ground. He struggled to draw breath, easing himself up into a sitting position.

The six surviving horsemen had renewed their pursuit of the Greek and a bitter rage welled up in the decurion. He had failed. Despite the sacrifice of the escort these strangers would still catch up with the Greek, and he could already imagine the harsh dressing-down he would receive when he, and what was left of the escort, limped back into the cohort's fort.

The decurion suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous, and he had to put a hand on the ground to steady himself. The earth felt warm and sticky and wet beneath his fingers. He looked down and saw that he was sitting in a puddle of blood. His blood, he dimly realised. Then he was aware of the wound in his groin again. A major artery had been severed and dark blood pulsed out in jets on to the grass between his splayed legs. At once he clamped a hand over the injury but the warm flow pressed urgently against the palm and squirted through the gaps between his fingers. He felt cold now, and with a sad smile he knew that there was no longer any danger of being bawled out by the prefect of the cohort. Not in this life, at least. The decurion looked up, and focused on the tiny figures of the Greek and his bodyguards fleeing for their lives.

The seriousness of their plight no longer affected him. They were mere shadows, dimly flickering across the edge of his dwindling senses. He slumped back on the grass and stared into the clear blue sky. All the sounds of the recent skirmish had faded; all that remained was the drowsy hubbub of insects. The decurion closed his eyes and let the warmth of the summer afternoon wash over him as his consciousness gradually ebbed away.

05 The Eagles Prey

'Wake up!' The Praetorian shook the Greek's shoulder. 'Narcissus! Come on, man!'

'You're wasting your time,' his companion said, on the other side of the Greek. 'He's out for the count.'

They both looked back up the track towards the skirmish on the brow of the hill.

'Bastard has to come round. We're all dead if he doesn't. I doubt our lads up there are going to last long.'

'They're not.' His companion squinted. 'It's over. Let's go.'

The Greek groaned and raised his head with a pained expression. 'What's… happening?'

'We're in trouble, sir. We have to move quickly.'

Narcissus shook his head to clear the dull fug clouding his mind. 'Where are the others?'

'Dead. Sir, we have to go.'

Narcissus nodded, took hold of his reins and urged his mount along the track. His horse suddenly lurched forward as the Praetorian behind him goaded the animal with a swift prod from his sword.

'Easy there!' Narcissus snapped.

'Sorry, sir. But there's no time to lose.'

'Now look here!' Narcissus turned round angrily to remind the Praetorian who he was speaking to. Then his eyes flickered back up the track just as their pursuers finished off the last of the escort and renewed the chase.

'Point taken,' he muttered. 'Let's be off.'

As the three of them spurred their horses on, Narcissus looked towards the distant camp and prayed that some of the more alert amongst the sentries would catch sight of the parties of horsemen and raise the alarm. Unless there was some help sent from the general's camp he might not reach it alive. The myriad reflections on the polished surfaces of arms and armour might as well have been the twinkle of distant stars, so cold and far off and unreachable did they seem.

Behind them, now no more than a quarter of a mile away, thundered the hoofs of their pursuers. Narcissus knew he could expect no mercy from those men. They were not interested in prisoners. They were simply assassins, tasked with murdering the Imperial Secretary before he could reach General Aulus Plautius. The question of who had hired them plagued Narcissus. If the tables were turned and one of them should fall into his hands, he knew there were torturers on the general's staff who were adept at breaking the will of the strongest of men. But even then, the information, he suspected, would be of little use. The enemies of Narcissus and his master, Emperor Claudius, were shrewd enough to ensure that any killers were hired via anonymous and expendable middle men.