‘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.

When The Eagle Hunts

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 stunned comrades lining the palisade. In a moment the gate was open and a dozen mounted scouts galloped out. The decurion quickly spotted the Druids on the fringe of the forest and gave the order to charge. Pounding hooves plucked up sprays of snow as the scouts fanned out, wool capes whipping out behind them. The Druid who had killed Maxentius turned his antlered head to look, then kicked his heels into the flanks of his mount, spurring his beast towards his comrades who were already melting back into the shadows of the forest.

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.