A Legate's Pledge Read online

  A Legate's Pledge

  Tanya Bird

  For Bec

  Let no one escape sheer destruction, no one our hands, not even the babe in the womb of the mother, if it be male; let it nevertheless not escape sheer destruction.

  * * *

  - Cassius Dio

  Chapter 1

  October 210 AD

  * * *

  They rose from the earth and fell from the trees. Shadows and ghosts—yet he knew they could bleed. There were not just men but also women, painted and fierce, as skilled as their counterparts. There were no open plains with neat rows of soldiers. No structure or order. Only an invisible enemy hidden by jagged rocks and low-hanging clouds.

  Nerva Papias had never killed a woman. The mere thought of driving his sword through a delicate female ribcage made his stomach turn. He could not help but picture his sisters when he conjured the image. Now he was leading the third Britannia legion through the highlands of Caledonia with orders to kill all in their path. Severus was no longer interested in taking prisoners.

  Marcus Furnia rode at his side, eyes on the trees either side of them. ‘What do you think?’ The tribune’s voice was haunting amid the shuffle of feet.

  The fog was as thick as the air was thin, and the rising sun cast eerie light around them. Nerva looked up at the branches reaching out above. Where were all the birds? ‘It is too quiet. Still no word from the scouts we sent ahead?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Nerva looked over his shoulder. ‘Check on the rear, would you?’

  Marcus swung his horse and cantered off.

  The thick terrain north of Antonine’s Wall forced them to travel in single file, which meant the tribes hunting them could pick them off one at a time. Another disadvantage. The men were already tiring, and they had not even reached Longforgan yet. If Nerva had learned anything over the previous two years, it was that their enemy were not the simple-minded barbarians that Romans would have everyone believe.

  His gaze swept the branches overhead, the muscles in his body growing rigid. He could feel them. Every shadow was beginning to look like a face.

  Paulus Cordius trotted up beside him, his horse falling into step with Nerva’s. ‘Where is Furnia scurrying off to?’

  His second in command was not a fan of the lower-ranked tribune, probably because Nerva preferred Marcus’s company—far less ego to manage, and he carried out orders without questioning everything.

  ‘What do you hear, Commander?’ Nerva asked.

  Paulus listened a moment. ‘I do not hear a thing.’

  Nerva nodded. ‘Exactly.’ A frog croaked, the sound too loud. His horse sidestepped. ‘I do not like this gully. It puts us at a disadvantage. We should move to higher ground.’

  ‘The forest is too dense. You can barely squeeze a shield between two trunks.’ Paulus glanced up at the steep hill to his left. ‘Better we pick up speed.’

  Nerva did not mind input from his men, but Paulus made it a habit to disagree with everything that came out of his mouth. ‘The men will tire too quickly.’ He was about to give the order when the thick trunk of a rowan tree appeared through the mist, blocking their path. ‘Halt.’ He raised his hand.

  ‘Halt,’ repeated the centurion behind them.

  The order echoed down the line. Feet stilled, eyes darting nervously—with good reason. Nerva was aware of the change in his heart rate, and he prayed the feeling in his gut was wrong. ‘Check the base of the trunk,’ he ordered Paulus.

  The commander frowned at him. ‘You want me to check it?’

  Here we go. The man was above every order Nerva gave him. ‘I want to know if its roots are intact or if it has been cut.’

  Paulus’s jaw ticked, but then he nodded. ‘Very well.’ He dug his heels into the side of his mare and trotted away, dissolving into the light.

  The sound of a horse approaching at a gallop made Nerva turn. He could hear the rider shouting something but could not make out the words. The centurion closest to him glanced in his direction, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. The horse emerged from the fog.

  ‘It’s a trap!’ Marcus shouted.

  Nerva immediately swung his gelding around. ‘Horses to the rear!’

  ‘Form ranks!’ the centurion shouted, his men scurrying into rows facing east and west.

  The sound of battle rang out along the gully. Somewhere in the distance, men were already fighting. Paulus returned to the group then, his sword already drawn.

  ‘They have caged us in.’ The soldiers parted to let him through. ‘The tree was cut.’

  ‘Easy now,’ called the centurion to his men as he paced behind them. ‘Hold the line.’

  Nerva drew his own sword, every hair on his body standing on end. A horn sounded, long and deep. The noise shifted the air, disorienting them. Soldiers looked to the low-hanging branches above, then to the horizon.

  ‘Shields!’ Nerva shouted. Shields hit the ground in a unified thud, forming a protective wall. He glanced at Marcus, whose horse was stirring, absorbing the fear of the men.

  The centurion continued to pace, a deep scowl etched into his brow. Everything was still for a moment. There was not even a breeze to shift the leaves. Nerva tightened his grip on his sword, his gaze sweeping the hill, pausing at every tree and rock. The ground began to rumble, a low vibration growing louder. It travelled up the legs of his horse, through the saddle, until it hummed through his body.

  ‘Hold that line!’ the centurion shouted, his tone growing urgent.

  Nerva’s eyes widened when he spotted a giant rock the size of a horse rolling down the hill towards them. ‘Incoming!’ There was no way the men could hold the line against a rock that size. ‘Split your men,’ he called to the centurion. ‘Let it through.’

  ‘Let it through!’ the centurion shouted.

  The men separated. Nerva turned to see another boulder coming behind them. He could hear more farther along and cursed knowing that the other cohorts would try to hold the line, because they were soldiers of Rome and had been trained not to run from stones. The distant sound of rock smashing through shields was accompanied by the screams of the men holding them. Nerva watched one roll past his horse, climb halfway up the hill on the other side, and then come back at them. The moment it stopped rolling, the centurion shouted, ‘Form ranks—’

  Before the line closed, an arrow pierced his neck.

  Nerva knew there was no such thing as one arrow. A moment later they were raining from the sky. He saw them then, the Maeatae, appearing from thin air. No armour, helmets, or fancy crests. Only flesh and muscle covered in little more than fur and leather. Their skin was painted the colours of the mountains they possessed, enabling them to blend in with their surroundings. They descended the hill on foot, swords and axes in hand, impossibly fast. No fear or hesitation. Not only could they fight, Nerva knew from experience that they could win.

  Steel screeched and shields clashed with axes. Their enemy broke through the line within minutes, seeping through the gaps, slaying soldiers left and right. A large man covered in scars advanced towards Nerva. A legate was the ultimate prize in the game of war. Soldiers were upon him before he had a chance to move. Another warrior came at Nerva, teeth bared. The legate fought atop his horse, eventually driving his sword through the man’s chest. Just as he withdrew his weapon, someone dropped from the branches above him, knocking him off his horse. The two of them landed with a thud on the ground.

  Nerva struggled to draw breath as he got quickly to his feet, sword raised. His weapon fell a few inches when he saw a young woman with liquid gold eyes blazing up at him. A tangled mess of chestnut hair covered one side of her face. She sprang to her feet, weapon pointed at him. He had always known the time would come wh
en he would be forced to fight a woman, to kill a woman. Lifting his sword, he blocked her strike and shoved her back.

  The campaign was supposed to be finished. The year before, he had believed the war over. They had retreated, withdrawing south to Eboracum before the onset of winter.

  Then came the revolt.

  ‘Finish them off,’ Severus had said, his health and pride in tatters. ‘Kill them all.’

  Those words repeated in Nerva’s mind as he stared at the woman with no idea how to proceed. She must have sensed his hesitation, because for a moment she just stared back at him. His gaze fell to the spray of blood across her collarbone and shoulder. She had already killed someone. No, not someone—one of his men. She growled, a noise that reminded him of when he used to spar with Mila. His sister too had growled, always towards the end of their match when her frustration had boiled over.

  The warrior came at him with her sword. He blocked it again but did not strike back. She was surprisingly strong given her size, but his build was an advantage. When she came at him again, he shoved her back harder that time, willing her to turn and run. He would not give chase. But she did not run; she responded with a foot to his chest, sending him crashing back into his horse. He was forced to roll beneath the animal to avoid the weapon chasing him. She was good, but that was not the only reason he preferred the horse between them. His insides were in knots at the thought of what was to come. He began doubting his ability to see it through. It seemed a shame to break a perfect track record by killing her during his final campaign.

  And it was his final campaign.

  A feeling made Nerva glance over his shoulder, and there he found a bearded warrior ready to take his head off with an axe. He ducked and slashed the man’s leg. The warrior collapsed to the ground, holding in a scream. Nerva did not have time to stand there watching him bleed out. He cut his throat and turned back just as the woman reached him. The sword was a hand’s width from his neck when he caught her arm.

  ‘Drop it,’ he said in Brittonic.

  Most of the tribes understood the common language. Two years of negotiations and interrogations had forced him to learn how to communicate with their enemy.

  Her eyes widened slightly before narrowing on him once more. ‘You first.’

  She brought her knee up, but he was ready for that, lifting his leg just in time to protect his vulnerable area. ‘Drop it,’ he repeated, his grip on her tightening.

  She tried to pull free, and the moment she realised she was outmuscled, she brought her face closer to his. ‘So brave in your armour.’

  Now it was his turn to be surprised—she had spoken Latin. He did not let it show on his face though. ‘Very clever. Now drop the sword.’ He twisted her arm until it fell from her hand.

  A body slammed into his back, knocking them both to the ground. He let go of her arm, fearing it would snap in his firm grasp. She rolled out of his reach. If he stood a chance at fighting off the bare-chested man sprawled on top of him, he would need two hands anyway. But the man was not fighting—or moving, for that matter. When Nerva turned his head, he found a spear lodged in the warrior’s neck. With a great heave, he pushed the dead man off. Sword still in hand, Nerva got to his feet, turning in circles, ready for her. But she was not there. Nor was his horse.

  Shit.

  A horn sounded, a deep moan cutting through the frosty air. Nerva blinked and looked around, unable to see farther than ten feet in any direction in that moment, only flashes of painted skin and armour. Then everything fell still, the only sound the groans of dying men. Walking forwards, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword, he found only bloodied and dazed soldiers staggering in circles.

  Their enemy was gone.

  Chapter 2

  Brei stood with her sister and nephew, staring at the tall horse. She marvelled at the gelding’s smooth coat and elaborate saddle. When she stepped forwards to rub the silky mane, the horse snorted and sidestepped.

  ‘Oh, the Roman horse hates you,’ Alane said, holding her eager son by the shoulders. ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘I can’t believe you stole the general’s horse,’ Drust said.

  Brei stepped back in line with them. ‘I needed a fast exit.’ She let out a noisy breath and glanced behind them to the huts where the wounded were being tended to.

  ‘Does Father know you went after the general?’ Alane asked, brushing her fair hair back from her face.

  ‘If he doesn’t, the horse might clue him in.’

  Seisyll had remained behind after the battle to ensure they were not followed. He would be mad that she disobeyed him. As one of the chief’s daughters, she was supposed to set an example.

  ‘Can I ride him?’ Drust asked, looking up at her with a hopeful expression.

  She ruffled his hair. ‘Absolutely not, but you can lead him to the stream for a drink.’

  ‘And then ride him?’

  Alane patted the boy’s shoulder. ‘Off you go.’

  Drust stepped up to the gelding and took hold of the reins. The horse’s front feet lifted off the ground for a moment. ‘It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.’

  Brei smiled to herself. ‘Unfortunately, he doesn’t speak our language yet.’ At seven her nephew was already as fearless as the warriors who mentored him.

  The women watched as the horse was led away. A gritted-teeth cry drifted down to them from one of the huts, and they both turned to look.

  ‘I should go check on Reagan,’ Alane said. Her husband had been injured during the battle, and a healer was cauterising his arm wound.

  Brei turned back to the horse. Lavena had run down from the huts to join Drust. The two had been born on the same day and become fast friends since they took their first steps together. The events of the previous few days were playing in Brei’s head as she watched the two of them conspiring.

  Alane leaned in to her sister’s ear. ‘I can almost hear you thinking.’

  Brei glanced sideways at her sister. ‘Sorry, what?’

  Alane’s gaze went to the horse, then returned to Brei. ‘It was ambitious going after the general. You were supposed to cover the men from the trees.’

  ‘I ran out of arrows.’

  Alane rolled her eyes. ‘You’re lucky he didn’t kill you.’

  ‘He could have.’

  Her sister frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The general.’ Brei stretched her neck from side to side, trying to loosen the muscles. ‘I think he could’ve if he wanted to.’

  Alane’s brow relaxed. ‘Oh, please. A Roman with a beating heart is nothing more than a myth. More likely you were a stronger fighter and he knew it.’

  ‘He told me to drop my sword.’

  ‘So he could kill you.’

  Brei shook her head. ‘He didn’t need me to drop my sword for that.’

  ‘Well, you know what they do to the women they capture. He probably would’ve had his way with you first, then killed you.’

  Brei cast a doubtful glance. ‘Yes, I’m sure that was top of his mind as his men were crushed by rocks around him.’ Things had been different since the revolt. The Romans no longer seemed interested in taking prisoners. They were killing all the Caledonii and Maeatae tribes they came across—even children.

  ‘I’m surprised you left before killing him,’ Alane said. ‘You’ve been waiting for the opportunity ever since…’

  Not an easy sentence to finish. ‘I dropped my sword.’

  Her sister looked down at the dagger strapped to Brei’s thigh. ‘But not your knife.’ Before Brei could reply, Drust returned with the gelding. Alane went to speak again, but something caught her attention, and she reached for Drust’s arm instead. ‘Time to go.’

  ‘But I want to stay with the horse,’ Drust whined.

  Alane began dragging him, looking past Brei again as she backed away. ‘Later.’

  A feeling of dread settled in Brei’s stomach. ‘Father’s walking up behind me, isn’t he?’

  A
lane’s answer came in the form of a sympathetic look before she fled to safety with her child.

  ‘I’ll remember this,’ Brei called after her. She turned then to watch her father striding across the grass towards her. He was still covered in enemy blood, and she wondered if he had left it there specifically for their conversation.

  ‘You were supposed to cover us from the trees,’ Seisyll said before he had even reached her.

  His expression made her take a small step back. Annoyed at appearing intimidated, she tried to make herself a little taller while acutely aware of the tall shadow he cast over her. ‘I ran out of arrows, and I saw an opportunity.’

  ‘To die?’

  She swallowed. ‘To kill the legatus legionis.’

  He crossed his arms and they grew in size. ‘And did you?’

  She looked away. ‘No, but... at least he’s on foot now.’

  Seisyll turned to the gelding tethered a few feet away. ‘Two hundred Maeatae dead and another hundred wounded, and this is what you’re proud of?’

  Her stomach fell. ‘Two hundred dead?’

  Seisyll’s expression did not change. ‘That number might’ve been less if you’d done as you were told and covered us from the trees.’

  She bit down on her lip. ‘How many Roman soldiers dead?’

  ‘Around four hundred or so.’

  While that might have seemed like an impressive number, she knew that one legion was made up of around five thousand men. The Maeatae did not have the endless resources their enemy seemed to have. ‘That proves we’re better fighters.’

  ‘That proves no such thing. Anyway, it won’t count for much when our people are all gone.’

  She drew a breath. ‘You’re always saying that to kill an adder, you should cut off its head.’

  His expression softened a little. ‘And we have enough men for that. You’re a good fighter, but you lack the experience and strength to go up against soldiers who’ve been fighting most of their lives.’