Dreaming the Serpent Spear by Manda Scott Page A

will lead Petillius Cerialisand however many cohorts of the Ninth he can muster at short notice back down the ancestors’ Stone Way towards the place where the watchtower was burned two nights ago. The track passes for half a day’s ride between the forest and the marsh. If the legate is so foolish as to march his men down there without adequate protection, and if the Eceni warriors are waiting, with the she-bears and the newly sworn spears among them, then it may be that the Ninth legion will, indeed, be destroyed in the way that your greatgrandfather’s cousin destroyed Augustus’ three legions.”
    His gaze came up then, to meet the other man’s, and the regret there was laid over other things, more complex. “I will do everything in my power to make that happen. The future of this land is at stake, and all that comes after it for all generations. I will not let an old man, even one who rightly names me brother, put that in danger.”
    “Am I a danger?”
    “You may be. If you come, then the entire wing of Batavians will come with you. How many of those will agree with you that their oath to serve the legions is as nothing compared to a glorious death in battle?”
    There was a pause, and time to reflect, then, “Follow me,” Civilis said.
    Pained joints cracked as the old man pushed himself to standing. He walked down the horse line to the white-legged descendant of the Crow. It did not pin its ears at him, nor threaten to bite. He lifted a soft leather rope from a nail and twisted it into a halter. The horse nodded its head to let him slip it over its ears.
    The love with which the old man rubbed his age-twisted hands down the beast’s face was displayed without shame.After a while, hoarsely, he said, “The Batavian squadrons will ride with the Ninth anyway, whether I join you or not. You’re right, I am old and they honour me, but at least half are blood-sworn to my nephew Henghes who is given wholly to Rome and cares nothing for the names of his ancestors. The other half, I think, will follow me. They would not fight against their fellows, but they would fight against the legions in support of your warriors if they saw me doing the same. It is not what I would want, but it’s the best I can give you.”
    Civilis turned, holding out the halter. “Except that I can also give you this colt. He is the Crow’s grandson and he has some of his fire without all of his hate. He is not a match for the horse that holds your heart, but nor is he as difficult to ride or to handle. If I were your age, I would ride him into battle and feel honoured that he carried me.”
    Valerius felt the drain of battle exhaustion, and had not yet fought. Without trying to conceal it, he asked, rawly, “Civilis, I could not have hoped for as much. How can I thank you?”
    “You walk with a god at either side of you, Valerius. Ask your question of them, not an old man who craves their company. Rome will brand me traitor, but the gods and my people will know that I have followed in the footsteps of Arminius, a man I admire above all others. What greater glory can there be than that?”

CHAPTER 8
    A T DAWN ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, SIX COHORTS OF THE IXth legion marched south towards Camulodunum, side on to the salted wind.
    Grey, blustery light rebounded off three thousand polished helmets and raked across curls of strip armour kept free of rust by daily attention. Four men abreast, with two javelin-lengths between each row, and twelve between each cohort, the legion marched fast and light, taking neither mules nor carts, but bearing their packs with them, each man burdened with only enough food and equipment for two overnight encampments.
    The legion’s eagle and the cohort standards crowded in a scarlet and glittering forest in the early rows, flanked by the officers on their horses with the cavalry, better mounted, just behind. These first ranks departed at dawn. The last of the men, waiting their turn, passed through the eastern