A Legate’s Pledge sneak peek

October 210 AD

They rose from the earth and fell from the trees. Shadows and ghosts—yet he knew they could bleed. There were not just men but also women, painted and fierce, as skilled as their counterparts. There were no open plains with neat rows of soldiers. No structure or order. Only an invisible enemy hidden by jagged rocks and low-hanging clouds.

Nerva Papias had never killed a woman. The mere thought of driving his sword through a delicate female ribcage made his stomach turn. He could not help but picture his sisters when he conjured the image. Now he was leading the third Britannia legion through the highlands of Caledonia with orders to kill all in their path. Severus was no longer interested in taking prisoners.

Marcus Furnia rode at his side, eyes on the trees either side of them. ‘What do you think?’ The tribune’s voice was haunting amid the shuffle of feet.

The fog was as thick as the air was thin, and the rising sun cast eerie light around them. Nerva looked up at the branches reaching out above. Where were all the birds? ‘It is too quiet. Still no word from the scouts we sent ahead?’

‘Not yet.’

Nerva looked over his shoulder. ‘Check on the rear, would you?’

Marcus swung his horse and cantered off.

The thick terrain north of Antonine’s Wall forced them to travel in single file, which meant the tribes hunting them could pick them off one at a time. Another disadvantage. The men were already tiring, and they had not even reached Longforgan yet. If Nerva had learned anything over the previous two years, it was that their enemy were not the simple-minded barbarians that Romans would have everyone believe.

His gaze swept the branches overhead, the muscles in his body growing rigid. He could feel them. Every shadow was beginning to look like a face.

Paulus Cordius trotted up beside him, his horse falling into step with Nerva’s. ‘Where is Furnia scurrying off to?’

His second in command was not a fan of the lower-ranked tribune, probably because Nerva preferred Marcus’s company—far less ego to manage, and he carried out orders without questioning everything.

‘What do you hear, Commander?’ Nerva asked.

Paulus listened a moment. ‘I do not hear a thing.’

Nerva nodded. ‘Exactly.’ A frog croaked, the sound too loud. His horse sidestepped. ‘I do not like this gully. It puts us at a disadvantage. We should move to higher ground.’

‘The forest is too dense. You can barely squeeze a shield between two trunks.’ Paulus glanced up at the steep hill to his left. ‘Better we pick up speed.’

Nerva did not mind input from his men, but Paulus made it a habit to disagree with everything that came out of his mouth. ‘The men will tire too quickly.’ He was about to give the order when the thick trunk of a rowan tree appeared through the mist, blocking their path. ‘Halt.’ He raised his hand.

‘Halt,’ repeated the centurion behind them.

The order echoed down the line. Feet stilled, eyes darting nervously—with good reason. Nerva was aware of the change in his heart rate, and he prayed the feeling in his gut was wrong. ‘Check the base of the trunk,’ he ordered Paulus.

The commander frowned at him. ‘You want me to check it?’

Here we go. The man was above every order Nerva gave him. ‘I want to know if its roots are intact or if it has been cut.’

Paulus’s jaw ticked, but then he nodded. ‘Very well.’ He dug his heels into the side of his mare and trotted away, dissolving into the light.

The sound of a horse approaching at a gallop made Nerva turn. He could hear the rider shouting something but could not make out the words. The centurion closest to him glanced in his direction, his bottom lip clamped between his teeth. The horse emerged from the fog.

‘It’s a trap!’ Marcus shouted.

Nerva immediately swung his gelding around. ‘Horses to the rear!’

‘Form ranks!’ the centurion shouted, his men scurrying into rows facing east and west.

The sound of battle rang out along the gully. Somewhere in the distance, men were already fighting. Paulus returned to the group then, his sword already drawn.

‘They have caged us in.’ The soldiers parted to let him through. ‘The tree was cut.’

‘Easy now,’ called the centurion to his men as he paced behind them. ‘Hold the line.’

Nerva drew his own sword, every hair on his body standing on end. A horn sounded, long and deep. The noise shifted the air, disorienting them. Soldiers looked to the low-hanging branches above, then to the horizon.

‘Shields!’ Nerva shouted. Shields hit the ground in a unified thud, forming a protective wall. He glanced at Marcus, whose horse was stirring, absorbing the fear of the men.

The centurion continued to pace, a deep scowl etched into his brow. Everything was still for a moment. There was not even a breeze to shift the leaves. Nerva tightened his grip on his sword, his gaze sweeping the hill, pausing at every tree and rock. The ground began to rumble, a low vibration growing louder. It travelled up the legs of his horse, through the saddle, until it hummed through his body.

‘Hold that line!’ the centurion shouted, his tone growing urgent.

Nerva’s eyes widened when he spotted a giant rock the size of a horse rolling down the hill towards them. ‘Incoming!’ There was no way the men could hold the line against a rock that size. ‘Split your men,’ he called to the centurion. ‘Let it through.’

‘Let it through!’ the centurion shouted.

The men separated. Nerva turned to see another boulder coming behind them. He could hear more farther along and cursed knowing that the other cohorts would try to hold the line, because they were soldiers of Rome and had been trained not to run from stones. The distant sound of rock smashing through shields was accompanied by the screams of the men holding them. Nerva watched one roll past his horse, climb halfway up the hill on the other side, and then come back at them. The moment it stopped rolling, the centurion shouted, ‘Form ranks—’

Before the line closed, an arrow pierced his neck.

Nerva knew there was no such thing as one arrow. A moment later they were raining from the sky. He saw them then, the Maeatae, appearing from thin air. No armour, helmets, or fancy crests. Only flesh and muscle covered in little more than fur and leather. Their skin was painted the colours of the mountains they possessed, enabling them to blend in with their surroundings. They descended the hill on foot, swords and axes in hand, impossibly fast. No fear or hesitation. Not only could they fight, Nerva knew from experience that they could win.

Steel screeched and shields clashed with axes. Their enemy broke through the line within minutes, seeping through the gaps, slaying soldiers left and right. A large man covered in scars advanced towards Nerva. A legate was the ultimate prize in the game of war. Soldiers were upon him before he had a chance to move. Another warrior came at Nerva, teeth bared. The legate fought atop his horse, eventually driving his sword through the man’s chest. Just as he withdrew his weapon, someone dropped from the branches above him, knocking him off his horse. The two of them landed with a thud on the ground.

Nerva struggled to draw breath as he got quickly to his feet, sword raised. His weapon fell a few inches when he saw a young woman with liquid gold eyes blazing up at him. A tangled mess of chestnut hair covered one side of her face. She sprang to her feet, weapon pointed at him. He had always known the time would come when he would be forced to fight a woman, to kill a woman. Lifting his sword, he blocked her strike and shoved her back.

The campaign was supposed to be finished. The year before, he had believed the war over. They had retreated, withdrawing south to Eboracum before the onset of winter.

Then came the revolt.

‘Finish them off,’ Severus had said, his health and pride in tatters. ‘Kill them all.’

Those words repeated in Nerva’s mind as he stared at the woman with no idea how to proceed. She must have sensed his hesitation, because for a moment she just stared back at him. His gaze fell to the spray of blood across her collarbone and shoulder. She had already killed someone. No, not someone—one of his men. She growled, a noise that reminded him of when he used to spar with Mila. His sister too had growled, always towards the end of their match when her frustration had boiled over.

The warrior came at him with her sword. He blocked it again but did not strike back. She was surprisingly strong given her size, but his build was an advantage. When she came at him again, he shoved her back harder that time, willing her to turn and run. He would not give chase. But she did not run; she responded with a foot to his chest, sending him crashing back into his horse. He was forced to roll beneath the animal to avoid the weapon chasing him. She was good, but that was not the only reason he preferred the horse between them. His insides were in knots at the thought of what was to come. He began doubting his ability to see it through. It seemed a shame to break a perfect track record by killing her during his final campaign.

And it was his final campaign.

A feeling made Nerva glance over his shoulder, and there he found a bearded warrior ready to take his head off with an axe. He ducked and slashed the man’s leg. The warrior collapsed to the ground, holding in a scream. Nerva did not have time to stand there watching him bleed out. He cut his throat and turned back just as the woman reached him. The sword was a hand’s width from his neck when he caught her arm.

‘Drop it,’ he said in Brittonic.

Most of the tribes understood the common language. Two years of negotiations and interrogations had forced him to learn how to communicate with their enemy.

Her eyes widened slightly before narrowing on him once more. ‘You first.’

She brought her knee up, but he was ready for that, lifting his leg just in time to protect his vulnerable area. ‘Drop it,’ he repeated, his grip on her tightening.

She tried to pull free, and the moment she realised she was outmuscled, she brought her face closer to his. ‘So brave in your armour.’

Now it was his turn to be surprised—she had spoken Latin. He did not let it show on his face though. ‘Very clever. Now drop the sword.’ He twisted her arm until it fell from her hand.

A body slammed into his back, knocking them both to the ground. He let go of her arm, fearing it would snap in his firm grasp. She rolled out of his reach. If he stood a chance at fighting off the bare-chested man sprawled on top of him, he would need two hands anyway. But the man was not fighting—or moving, for that matter. When Nerva turned his head, he found a spear lodged in the warrior’s neck. With a great heave, he pushed the dead man off. Sword still in hand, Nerva got to his feet, turning in circles, ready for her. But she was not there. Nor was his horse.

Shit.

A horn sounded, a deep moan cutting through the frosty air. Nerva blinked and looked around, unable to see farther than ten feet in any direction in that moment, only flashes of painted skin and armour. Then everything fell still, the only sound the groans of dying men. Walking forwards, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword, he found only bloodied and dazed soldiers staggering in circles.

Their enemy was gone.