Simon Scarrow - When the Eagle hunts

'For Jupiter's sake, watch what you say. That's quite an honour he's suggesting. We don't want to offend our Iceni allies. Understand?'

The two patients nodded, then Macro replied.

'Tell him that's, er, very kind of him. If we ever quit the legions then I'm sure we'll look him up.'

Prasutagus beamed halpily, and Vespasian puffed his cheeks and relaxed.

'Anyway,' Macro continue'd, 'when are you heading off?'

'Soon as we leave you] replied Boudiea.

' Camulodunum?'

'No. Back to our tribe? Boudica looked down at her hands. 'We've got to prepare for our wedding.'

'Sa!' Prasutagus nodded happily, placing his paw on Boudica's shoulder.

'I see.' Macro forced a smile. 'Congratulations. I wish you both well.'

'Thank you,' said Boudica. 'That means a lot to me.'

A difficult silence thickdned uncomfortably, before Vespasian stirred.

'Sorry. I meant to tell you straightaway. The general sends his greetings to all four of you. In fact, what he said was, he trusts that the mission you undertook to rescue his family will be emblematic of the relations between Rome and her Iceni allies. Plautius does not think any reward he could give you would do justice to the great deed you have done… Anyway, that was the gist of the message.'

Macro winked at Cato and smiled bitterly.

'I think he really meant it,' Vespasian continued. 'I really do. I dread to reflect on what might have happened if they'd been killed. The whole invasion would have degenerated into a massive effort to wreak vengeance on the Druids. Not that he'd ever admit it. And while he might not have provided you with a reward, he did authorise me to arrange a decoration, and organise a little adjustment in rank.'

Vespasian laid the bundle he was holding on the end of Macro's bed and carefully unwrapped the folds. First out came two phalerae, ebony inlaid with gold and silver, one each for Macro and Cato.

While Cato reverently handled the medallion, his legate continued unwrapping the bundle.

'One last thing, for you, Optio.' The legate suddenly drew up, smiling to himself.

'Sir?'

'Nothing. I just realised that's the last time I can call you that.'

Cato frowned, not yet understanding. Vespasian flicked back the last fold of wool to reveal a helmet, with a transverse crest, and a vine stick.

'Got them from the supplies this morning,' Vespasian explained. 'As soon as Plautius confirmed the promotion.

I'll put them over in the corner with the rest of your kit, if that's all right.'

'No, sir,' replied Cato. 'Pass them to me, please, sir. I'd like to see them.'

The legate smiled as he handed them over. 'Of course you would.'

Cato raised the helmet up in both hands and stared at it, swelling with pride and emotion. So much so that he had to cuffaway a tear that was moistening in the corner of his eye.

'Hope it fits,' said Vespasian. 'But if it doesn't, take it back to stores and demand one that does. I doubt those officious clerks will be giving you much grief from now on, Centurion Cato.'

Author's Note

One of the most enduring symbols of pre-Roman Britain is the huge complex of earthworks at Maiden Castle in Dorset.

It impresses the eye of any visitor and stirs an imaginative empathy towards those who would have had to assault such apparently daunting defences. Yet Maiden Castle, and many other hill forts, were no match for the legions and were stormed and reduced within a short space of time. One wonders why the Durotriges continued to cling to their belief in the defensive properties of hill forts even as they were being systematically destroyed by the Romans. It was not as if they lacked the example of a more effective method of defying the legions. Caratacus was enjoying far more success with his guerrilla tactics. Despite such evidence, the Durotriges remained bottled up in their hill forts when the Second Legion was unleashed upon them. Perhaps blihd faith in the promise of ultimate salvation given by their spiritual leaders kept them there.

Compared to the voluminous evidence of Roman history, not much is known about the ancient Britons and their Druids. With almost nothing by way of a written heritage, knowledge of these people has passed down to us through legend, archaeological evidence and the partisan writings of more literary races. What can be surmised is that the Druids were held in great respect and not a little awe. They bestrode the Celtic kingdoms and were frequently approached for advice, and for arbitration between disputing tribes. The Druids were the guardians of the cultural heritage and memorised vast quantities of epic verse, folklore and legal precedents, which were passed down through successive generations of Druids. They formed a kind of social cement between the fractious small kingdoms that, at one time, sprawled right across 13urope. Small wonder that the Druids were a prime target fo.r Roman propaganda and were harshly repressed whenever Celtic lands were added to the burgeoning Roman empire..

Yet there may have been,.a darker side to the Druids, if we can believe some of the ariclent sources. If human sacrifice took place, then it did soi the context of a culture that took great pride in collecting and preserving the heads of their enemies; a culture that had devised methods of torture and execution that repulsed even he Romans, whose love of the carnage of the arena is well-documented.

With their geographical spread and cultural peculiarities, the Druids were not a homogenous body, and would have had their factions,,much like contemporary religions are riven by competing interpretations of dogma. The Dark Moon Druids are fictional, but they represent the extremist fringe that exists within any religious movement. They stand as a corrective to that naive and nostalgic re-invention of Druid culture that parades around Stonehenge at certain times of the year. And, as I complete this work, they stand as a timely reminder of the extremities to which religious fanaticism can be taken.