The Blood Crows

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The column of horsemen struggled up the track to the crest of the hillock and then their leader raised a hand to halt them as he reined in. The recent rainfall had turned the surface of the track into a pitted and rutted expanse of glutinous mud and the cavalry mounts snorted and wheezed as their hoofs were sucked into the quagmire. The chilly air was filled with the sound of the wet slap of the horses’ hoofs as they slowed and then stood at rest, snorting jets of steamy breath. Their leader wore a thick red cloak over his gleaming breastplate, across which ran the looped bands that signified his rank. Legate Quintatus, commander of the Fourteenth Legion, entrusted with maintaining the western frontier of the empire’s recently acquired province of Britannia.

That was no easy task, he mused bitterly. It had been nearly eight years since the army had landed on the island that stood at the limits of the known world. At the time, Quintatus had been a tribune in his early twenties, filled with a sense of mission and a desire to win glory for himself, Rome and the new Emperor, Claudius. The army had fought its way inland, defeating the mighty host that had been gathered by the native tribes, under the command of Caratacus. Battle after battle had ground down the natives, until finally the legions had crushed the warriors as they made their final stand in front of their capital at Camulodunum.

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