chapter 1 :- 82 AD

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THE SWOLLEN SUN WAS MAKING ITS LAZY DIP TOWARDS THE horizon, and its golden face held a blush that coloured the world. Long grass swayed in a gentle summer breeze. Lazy white clouds bunched up in the dying light, their undersides washed with brilliant oranges and gentle reds. The early evening was warm and balmy. No sound came, except for exhausted birdsong and the whisper of grass rippling in steady waves beneath the caress of the soft breeze.

The empty green fields, dotted with bluebells and daisies and buttercups, stretched out in all directions. Clumps of daffodils shone burnished gold around the occasional forlorn willow tree. The great Roman fort of Mamucium stood to the south. Its high limestone walls were grim and unadorned. The cold grey presence was a monument to the greatness of the expanding Roman Empire and the defeat of the Brigante tribes. In the distance to the east lay the emerald smudge of the great forest. The advancing Romans had chopped it back, eager for the raw materials that the woods held. The tree line began again beyond easy reach of the settlers, a wall of forbidding green and brown that squatted and stared back at the invaders with grim malevolence.

To the west and north, the grass gave way to the banks of a river that meandered through the rolling countryside with languid disinterest for the aspirations of men. Where the rapids ran, it twinkled bright and blue in the dying sun, whitecaps glittering with the flash of a smile. Elsewhere, the deep sluggish waters moved along, silent and black. On the far banks of the river lay more forest. Its thick canopy and tangled undergrowth turned the land within its borders from the ethereal twilight of evening to the grim blackness of night.

Between the fort and the river, closer to the muddy bank than to the squatting wall, was a ring of standing stones. There were sixteen boulders in a rough circle, and they were old. Some stooped at an angle, the earth beneath them having collapsed to send them crooked. All of them were covered in thick moss and lichen, which thrived on their granite surfaces. Beneath the vegetable matter it was still possible to see where runes had been carved, though the passing of time and the ravages of the weather had worn them to near invis‐ ibility.

The Brigante tribes and the Roman settlers alike treated the ancient and mysterious stones with quiet reverence and respect. The tribes whispered that they were a place of power – a Fairy-Ring, home of the old folk – and as such, not to be interfered with. The Romans saw them as a temple of sorts, and though the Druidic traditions of the area were being systematically destroyed, the invaders left it alone. Perhaps they felt its power. Perhaps, remembering the blood and fire of the last revolt, they simply did not want to antag‐ onise the painted tribesmen who lived in the brooding forest only an hour's walk from their walls. Whatever the reason, the stones had remained untouched for hundreds of years.

There was a shout of outrage followed by raucous laugh‐ ter. Three young men were halfway between the fort and the river. One had tripped and sprawled on the ground in a puddle of wine. Around him lay the shards of a smashed clay jug. He was a big man, in his mid-twenties, dressed in tan hunting clothes. His sandy hair was thinning despite his youth, and his face was round and jowly.

'Galerius, you oaf!' a second man crowed in delight. 'Now you have no wine for our evening swim!' He was tall and emaciated, with wide brown eyes and long hair, braided in the Brigante fashion. He was also wearing hunting clothes, though his were dark green.

'Give me some of yours, Octavius,' Galerius said from the ground.

Octavius laughed. 'Not a chance, my friend. If you want more wine, you will have to return to the fort.' He laughed again.

Galerius turned to face his final companion, a tall, wiry man of around the same age. 'What about you, Marcus?' he begged. 'I can't go all the way back to the fort. It'll be dark by the time I reach the river.' Marcus surveyed Galerius with disdain. His eyes were deep, dark and brooding, and his skin had a swarthy olive sheen to it. Like his eyes, his hair was black. The oiled locks were cut to a medium length that brushed his ears and fell onto his forehead in a wave. His nose was straight, and his stance was haughty and proud.

'Get off the ground, Galerius. You're supposed to be a Roman, even if you have been brought up in this forsaken wilderness.' Marcus twisted his face up in disgust as he spoke to the prostrate man.

Galerius dutifully pulled himself to his feet. 'What do you say, Marcus, can I share your wine?'

'I'll think about it if you show a little backbone.' Marcus took a swig of wine from the jug he held casually in his right hand. 'Lying there in the filth like a pig and begging like a tribesman; I swear you are barely Roman, Galerius.'

Galerius blinked nervously. 'We haven't all been as lucky as you, Marcus,' he said quietly.

'You call this lucky? Dragged from the colonnades of Rome to sit in some stinking wooden outpost? At least Eboracum has some comforts, but this awful place my father insisted on building is a privy.' He wrinkled his nose in distaste and took another drink of wine. Then he spat the liquid out onto the ground. 'Even the wine here tastes foul,' he announced before upturning the jug and pouring it out at Galerius' feet. The bigger man was wise enough to hold his tongue.

'Look around you: grass and mud. Even the river is small. And those awful forests – they aren't like the forests of home where a man can see. Look at them! Anything could be hiding in them!' Marcus shivered theatrically. 'I was not lucky to be dragged here after my father. Governor? Governor of what? He's spent years conquering this land, and it's nothing but filth and peasants.'

'There's Annaea,' Octavius said quietly.

Marcus's face immediately softened. 'Yes,' he replied simply.

'This time tomorrow you'll be a married man,' Galerius said and slapped Marcus on the back.

An infectious grin spread over the young nobleman's face. 'I will, won't I. Annaea is the one shining light in this mire. Once we are wed, my father has promised me estates in Rome. I will take her from here and show her a real civilisa‐ tion. One as perfect and pure as Annaea deserves better. This time tomorrow, she will be my wife.'

'This time tomorrow, she will be on her back with her legs in the air,' Octavius said slyly.

Marcus's grin spread wider, though he tried to show outrage at his friend's words. 'You are talking about my bride,' he said and punched Octavius in the arm. Galerius laughed too, happy that Marcus's grim mood had evaporated.

'We are supposed to be swimming,' Marcus shouted. 'I shall race you!' Marcus began running towards the river. The standing stones were directly in his path.

'Wait,' Galerius called.

Marcus slowed to a halt and turned. 'What?' he demanded.

'You can't go through the stones.'

'Why not? I am the son of Gnaeus Julius Agricola. I can do as I please.'

'Not the stones; they're unlucky,' Galerius said as he caught up with Marcus.

Octavius followed. 'He's right, Marcus. Those stones are cursed. The Brigante say they are the homes of their gods.'

'Well, their gods are no match for ours. My friends, this is exactly the sort of behaviour I am tired of chastising you for. We are the rulers here. We are the conquerors. The tribesmen are little more than animals, worshipping the trees and the earth. If I decide to walk through their holy places, then I shall. If I decide to tear them up and pave them over, then I shall. And if they protest, the legion will march out and cut them down. Look,' he said with a sudden smile. 'I will show you. I will prove to you that these heathen gods have no power.'

Marcus turned and ran towards the stones. His friends followed uneasily, Galerius gasping breathlessly as he tried to keep up. Once in the circle, Marcus stopped and began to walk around. He extended his arms out to either side of his body, palms up, and began to shout.

'Here I am! Here I am, and I deny you! Gods? I think not. You are the fantasies of a barbarian race, creatures of super‐ stitious dread. You have no substance, no power … I piss on you.' Marcus moved over to one of the stones and started to tug at his britches. 'I am the Lord here. I am the Master. I will hunt you down, and I will destroy you where I find you!' Laughing, Marcus let loose a thick stream of yellow urine against the side of the stone.

Hot liquid splattered onto the moss and lichen and drib‐ bled down to the ground. Even in the heat of the evening, it steamed slightly. Still laughing, Marcus finished and fastened himself back up. 'You see?' he asked his uneasy companions, as the acrid stink of piss wafted over them. 'There is nothing to fear here.'

'Who are you?' asked a melodic voice from behind Marcus. Galerius turned and ran. Octavius stood his ground, though his face was very pale. Marcus turned around with a sly smile on his face.

Stood within the circle of stones was a willowy girl with long red hair and huge green eyes. She was dressed in a flowing white dress which brushed the ground, and Marcus could see that she had no shoes or sandals on, though her feet were clean. The girl was beautiful. She had a heart-shaped face and soft white skin dusted with freckles. She wore the clothes of the tribes though, and Marcus stared at her with undisguised contempt.

'Who am I? Who are you?'

'I am the Maiden of Earth and Water,' she said simply. Octavius tugged at Marcus's sleeve. 'She appeared from thin air, Marcus. We should leave.'