Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered Read Free Page B

arc from the defences. Momentarily paralyzed, she was unable to leap away. The heavy blade burst through her armour, plunging deep into her stomach. Her cry of anguish was drowned out by the deafening din of battle. She fell to her knees, clawing frantically at the spear, as blood gushed from the hideous wound. Her tear-stained eyes gazing skyward, she quietly uttered, “Our child…my love, save us… Magnus! ”
     
    Magnus bolted upright, his face covered in sweat and his breathing coming in rapid gasps. It was the middle of the night. Despite the cool breeze blowing through the open window, he was hot, and his skin flushed. He took a deep breath and fought back the sobs that came in the aftermath of every such nightmare. Some nights he was able to suppress his sorrows, others he was not.
    The same dream continued to haunt him since that terrible day during the assault of the barbarian hill fort at Mai Dun. For the Romans, the attack had been a moment of supreme triumph. General Vespasian’s forces had broken the supposedly impenetrable stronghold in less than a day. Hundreds of slaves had been captured, with the local king slain. For his decisive victory, the legate had been awarded triumphal regalia by the Senate of Rome.
    But for Centurion Magnus Flavianus, the death of his lover continued to plague him remorselessly. Every time the dream came, it was as if he were there, forced to watch, helpless as Achillia’s guts were ripped open, killing her and their unborn child. In reality, though both Magnus and Achillia had taken part in the assault, they had been nowhere near each other. Magnus did not know she was dead until well after the battle was over. He himself had been gravely wounded. The horrific scarring and the incessant pain in his leg were an endless reminder of that dark day. In many ways it bound him to the terrible past, never allowing him to let his pain go. He could not count the number of times he’d cursed the gods for not taking him instead. He was a soldier of Rome, and it was more fitting that he should die, rather than his lover and their son or daughter, who would have been four years old.
    Knowing sleep would be impossible to come by this night, the centurion threw on his cloak and stepped out into the cool night. The cold caused his muscles to tighten up, aggravating the ache in his leg. For this reason, he always rose well before any of the other officers, allowing himself time to work out the soreness and make his leg reasonably functional. Some of the men in his century wondered if he slept at all.
    “It’s been a while since we’ve been on an active campaign,” a voice said behind him. Centurion Metellus appeared to be having a sleepless night of his own, as he too was taking a night-time stroll through the camp. Metellus Artorius Posthumous was the adopted son of Magnus’ closest friend, Titus Artorius Justus. An accomplished soldier in his own right, Metellus was given command of the Fifth Cohort when Tyranus was elevated to centurion primus pilus.
    “Is that why you can’t sleep?” Magnus asked.
    “I suppose it is,” Metellus confessed. “Marcia worries every spring that I’ll be sent off to get disembowelled by the barbarians that infest this land. Having time to watch my boys grow has made the consequences of being sent on campaign all the more stark. When I became a father, I realized it was no longer simply about me.”
    Magnus understood. The younger centurion had married a couple of years prior to the invasion of Britannia. His sons, Lucius and Gaius, were infants when the invasion force landed on these shores. They had since grown into a pair of energetic, precocious young lads.
    “Marcia’s fears may be well-founded this time,” the Norseman conjectured. “It would seem some of our old enemies do not know when they’ve been conquered.”
    “So I heard. We have yet to venture into the lands of the Silures, yet I think Scapula won’t have much of a choice if these