Sons of Taranis

Начало книги

Aulus Vincentius stamped his feet in the cold morning air and blew into his frozen hands, his eyes playing across his meagre domain while the adjutant rattled on and on about supply routes and wagon capacities, traders’ fees and endless excruciating mundanities. The young, pink faced clerk seemed oblivious to his commander’s waning interest as he trotted out figures and facts that went unheard.

Beyond the eager fellow, the depot that had been Vincentius’ home and command – and prison – for most of the winter languished under a frost that had killed off all forms of optimistic life, as well as the commander’s spirit. As a decurion, he had led a turma of cavalry in the heroic actions at the foot of Alesia’s slopes mere months ago, when the Gauls were making their last great bid for freedom. And now? Now the only time he drew his blade was to check it for the inevitable rust, which he would then have the young clerk polish out for him while he rotted away in a sullen mood in his unpleasant quarters. His eyes drifted to that building which, even though he hated it with every fibre of his being, still looked inviting when compared to the cold outdoors and the monotonous reports of the adjutant.

Читать дальше →