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

Under The Eagle

Chapter One

An icy blast of wind swept into the latrine with the sentry.

‘Wagon’s approaching, sir!’

‘Shut the bloody door! Anything else?’

‘Small column of men.’

‘Soldiers?’

‘Hardly.’ The sentry grimaced. ‘Unless there’s been some change in marching drill.’

The duty centurion glanced up sharply. ‘I don’t recall asking for an opinion on policy, soldier.’

‘No, sir!’ The sentry snapped to attention under the glare of his superior. Only a few months earlier Lucius Cornelius Macro had been an optio and was still finding promotion to the centurionate hard to handle. His former comrades in the ranks were still inclined to treat him as an equal. It was hard to register a respectful attitude to one who so recently had been seen emptying his guts of a skinful of cheap wine. But, for some months before the promotion, Macro had been aware that senior officers were considering him for the first available vacancy in the centurionate and had done his best to keep indiscretions to a minimum. For, when all his qualities were placed in the balance, Macro was a good soldier — when good soldiering was required — conscientious in his duties, reliably obedient to orders and he could be counted on to hold firm in a fight and inspire others to do the same.