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rendering it useless. With discarded shields, the men had no protection against the next volley of javelins hurled by the second rank of Romans while the first rank crouched to give them room to throw. Brude saw Fionnlagh go down, a javelin taking him in the chest, showering blood. Brude yelled to cover his fear as he ran past the stricken warrior, knowing he was dead and that Mairead now had no father.
    Then the first Roman rank rose to their feet to fling their second volley. By this time, Brude, leaping over fallen men, dropped spears and discarded shields, was barely twenty paces from the Romans. He saw a javelin hurtling straight at him. He dodged to his right, flinging out his left arm to knock the javelin aside, somehow catching its flight so that the point did not actually hit his shield. Colm yelled in pain as the javelin crashed into his arm, side on. Brude ignored him and kept running.
    The final volley of javelins from the second rank of Romans flew over his head but he knew that the awful weapons had done terrible damage to the charging tribesmen. Their attack was disjointed, broken apart by the volleys. Ahead of him, a few men reached the Roman ranks only to find a wall of shields with the sharp, shining blades of short swords gleaming in the spaces between the soldiers. The Romans, still eerily silent, stepped forwards in unison, working together to meet the charging tribesmen head on.
    And the carnage began.
    Using their enormous shields to batter the tribesmen down, the short swords stabbed repeatedly forwards. While the Boresti flailed and jabbed extravagantly with their spears, trying vainly to breach the Roman line, the Romans were economical with their thrusts, the sword blades biting home then withdrawing. Men fell, their blood covering the grass. Women as well, for the Romans treated them no differently. Then Brude saw his father swinging his own sword uselessly against the shield of the soldier in front of him. Brude, scarcely aware of anything apart from the men on either side and in front of him, flung himself to his own right, aiming for the narrow gap between the shield of his direct opponent and the man facing his father. Jabbing his spear overhand, he yelled in triumph as the wickedly sharp point caught the Roman in the neck, releasing a fountain of bright red blood.
    Time seemed to slow. Brude’s father leaped into the gap as the Roman soldier fell. He swept his sword in a wide arc to knock over the man to his right. Brude heard the sound of his iron sword ringing on the man’s armour, cutting through the din of battle. He made to follow his father into the gap but was battered by the huge shield of the Roman to his left. He lost his footing as he was thumped again with incredible force, the metal rim of the shield catching him just above his left eye. He stumbled, felt his knees go weak and fell to the ground. As he dropped, he saw that his father was now confronted by the entire second rank of Roman soldiers. He tried to call out, to tell his father to run, but could only manage a strangled croak. He landed on the fallen Roman soldier, rolled helplessly, his vision obscured by blood streaming into his eyes. He hit the ground, lying awkwardly face down on the grass, his legs twisted and entangled with the limbs of the Roman he had killed. Without warning, a huge blow hit him as someone crashed down on top of him, then something hard struck the back of his already battered head.
    Everything went black.
     

 

    A.D. 209

    Peart looked more prosperous than he remembered. From the height of the hills overlooking the wide valley of the Tava, he gazed down and saw the village nestled beside the river, surrounded by a strong wooden palisade. Smoke curled up into the afternoon sky from the large roundhouses. Cattle, sheep and goats dotted the lush fields and people were everywhere, going about their daily lives. By the standards of the empire, it was a poor place but it compared favourably to other