Defender of Rome

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They came at him in waves over the crushed summer grass, tall and lean, bred to war, their spear points glittering in the low morning sunlight and the sound of their coming like thunder. And, as they came, he slew them.

He had been born for this: to bring death. His mind exploded with the savage, atavistic joy of the warrior as the point of the gladius, with the power of his strong right arm behind it, took out throats and spilled guts, each stroke confirmed by the haze of scarlet that is the only true signature of battle.

One by one he watched them die and he counted his victims by the names of the Romans he avenged. For Lunaris. For Paulus. For Messor. For Falco.

For Valerius.

The next stroke faltered and the battle froze around him, the screams of the dying trapped like flies in a web; spears caught at the very moment of the plunge; entangled enemies balanced precariously on the razor edge between life and death. No, not Valerius. Gaius Valerius Verrens lives. I am Gaius Valerius Verrens. The words echoed in his head and he wondered if he had joined the gods in their Elysian fastness. That was when he felt her presence. A flare of flame-tipped auburn at the very edge of his vision. Piercing green eyes that drilled into his soul. Boudicca. His enemy. At her unspoken command battle resumed. The spears fell. Men lived or died. But now the tempo had changed. Always, in the past, his had been the speed, his had been the vision. Other men had been too slow or too blind. Other men had died. Now it was different.

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