This story's plotis based on archaelogical evidence found on Hadrian's Wall which theoreticallywasbornduring the days of Allectus, the man who ruled Britain (Britannia in Roman times, though I refer to it as Britain in this fiction) outside of the Roman Empire until the Emperor Constantius took it back. While it is a tenuous link at best, the theory I have chosen to follow (on the grounds of it making the most interesting tale) is that the markings of ash and soot found along various parts of the Wall were made by Pict raiders who took advantage of the civil war in the south. See if you can spot the easter egg in the story - you won't find it straight away, but you'll recognise a character's name somewhere, I think. Hope you find it!

Lawrence Richards

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A glow of gold shone through the shallow haze, splitting the moist air and forcing its way through to glisten on the damp blades of grass, or to be absorbed by the dark tufts of heather that clung to the rocks. A hawk soared southwards, feathers ruffling as the great dark wings carried the airborne beast where its sharp beak led it, two beady eyes watching for a sign of movement along the great stone barrier.

The Wall.

Cold and dirty, the huge line of grey rocks mortared together with harsh precision had been standing for over a hundred and fifty years, guarding territory which had been stolen by a bureaucratic monster two centuries ago and had ever since been hoarded and controlled by these foreigners who knew nothing of the land. They knew how to prod a farmer with a spear and get him to work the earth for them, and they knew how to whip a slave to strike a pick axe against the rocks that held the gold and tin. They knew how to halt a caravan and help themselves to taxes, they knew how to build forts for their legions, but they knew nothing of the land itself. They had abused it for so long, though, that the land itself was impure and spoiled. The Romans had not been kind to the gods of Britain.

Rotting wooden gates groaned open and hinges, crusted brown from years of rust, squealed. A stubble-chinned petty officer grunted as he forced his helmet over his burly skull, wincing when a strand of hair caught and was plucked out by the helmet’s unclean straps. ‘Ave Centurion,’ he said, stifling a yawn as he made a sloppy legion salute. The centurion in question was a grizzled old veteran marked by various scars on his body and face in so many places it looked as if he was an animated corpse. His left eye was missing, the gap protected by a small brown eye patch, while he walked with a slight limp. He returned the salute with stiff vigour.

‘Ave,’ the centurion growled in response. ‘Fetch me some food. And for my men, too,’ he grunted, gesturing to half a dozen sleepy-eyes legionaries and a pack mule which brayed and nodded its head. The officer scratched his cheek and nodded.

‘Very good sir.’ He turned and walked a few paces, but he did not hear the soft crunch of boots on straw behind him, so he turned back to see that the centurion was still standing there. ‘Sir?’

‘How long have you been in the legions, tesserarius?’ the centurion asked, judging the man’s rank from his unwashed uniform.

‘Eight years, sir.’ The centurion glared at him disapprovingly upon hearing that, his white-scarred visage contorting into the disgruntled fury of a veteran, the sort of look that either makes a man guilty or uncomfortable.

‘And you didn’t think to state your name and rank, ask me mine, ask my business, ask for my papers and perhaps even shave before you leave you quarters?’ the centurion snapped. The tesserarius shook his head and stepped backwards.

‘I…forgot, sir,’ he said meekly.

‘Who do you report to?’ the centurion asked

‘Optio Castus Nervo, sir.’

‘Not a centurion?’

‘He died, sir,’ the officer said. The centurion nodded and grunted a short prayer.

‘Then we’ll try and do business properly?’ he suggested, wiping his empty eye socket to stop a random tear from sliding down his face.

‘Absolutely, sir, yes sir,’ the officer said. He coughed, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Halt,’ he said, holding up one hand and quickly grabbing a javelin which had been leaning against the wall. ‘I am Tesserarius Lucius Virilus, officer of the watch at mile castle XXVI of Hadrian’s wall, member of the fifth century of cohort I Tungrorum,’ he said, loudly but not confidently. Clearly Virilus was unused to the procedure after decaying at the wall for so long.

‘I am Centurion Titus Denarius of the second century first cohort, Legion II Augusta, here with papers for temporary discharge of…’ Denarius checked the scroll which he had tucked beneath his arm, ‘…Tesserarius Lucius Virilus.’ He frowned. ‘Wouldn’t let somebody with standards this low leave the milecastle without an armed guard and wrapped in chains,’ Denarius grunted, handing the scroll over. Virilus nodded and handed them back after a brief inspection, ignoring the comment about imprisonment.

‘All is in order, you may enter,’ he said. ‘Ave Allectus.’

‘Ave Allectus,’ Denarius replied grimly. ‘In we go, boys,’ he said over his shoulder, and the six tired legionaries followed him inside milecastle twenty-six of Hadrian’s Wall. As the gates groaned shut again, a hawk flew over the small army station, heading north, feathers ruffling as the great dark wings carried the airborne beast where its sharp beak led it.