“Go back to your roundhouse, Ceridwen. There is nothing for you here,” Pryderi ap Crunan snapped, his bearded face creasing with annoyance as he stood in the centre of fifty of her kinsmen. “Ordovice land will not become Rome’s next province.”

Ceridwen tore her gaze from the Roman road that sliced through the lush valley. The flat stone glinted in the sunlight like a Roman sword, its sharp, straight edges severing the newly grown grass. “You send our people to war, brother. You know this.”

Pryderi’s blue eyes narrowed beneath his bronze helm as he surveyed the felled trees on either side of the road. “Is this what you would live in? A land whose wood is felled to build Roman forts and whose grain is taken to feed Roman mouths? Where does that leave my people but driven from their farmsteads?”

Ceridwen met the gaze of each armed warrior. Could they not see they would gain nothing from antagonising the Romans? How much each man had to lose? “If you fight this day, you forfeit any chance of negotiation.”

 Every man watched her. Their eyes angry, bitter, or worse, empty. It was hopeless to think she could convince them. But she would not give up. Freedom, her freedom was worth fighting for.

She gritted her teeth, heard the mournful cry of a buzzard echo across the rolling mountains. “It does not have to be like this, Pryderi. The Romans wish to trade. They need the wheat and sheep from our fields. Our tribe could grow rich from what they buy. But fight them and you will be defeated. We are a small tribe, Pryderi. Do not let your first season as chieftain become drenched with blood.”

He grunted and turned from her. “Father should have married you off when he had the chance.”

She flinched at his words. Had her brother changed so much in the year they had been apart? “I will not let you destroy everything our father worked so hard for. Rome’s attention was bound to turn to us eventually. Lead your people, Pryderi. Talk to the Romans. Find out what they would offer us.”

A loud horn sounded in the distance and Ceridwen’s heart sank to her stomach. Metal chinked against metal. Horses neighed and her mind spun with the dizzying sense of danger. She stared hopelessly at the road where it disappeared from the valley. Her brother turned his hard black eyes to her. “Ceridwen, go home, this is no place for you.”

“I will not leave you, Pryderi.”

His eyes softened. “I would not see you harmed, Sister. For all that we argue this day, I love you.”

His men turned. Shields knocked. Helms straightened.

Ceridwen choked back the tears that sprang to her eyes. “Pryderi, please, I beg of you to stop this foolishness before we all end up in bondage.”

The tribesmen surrounding him fanned out into two lines. Pryderi’s eyes darkened. He slammed his spear against his mailed chest. “That is what I fight to prevent.”

 Panic turned to dread. Her brother was no warrior. What demon possessed him to take up arms with so few men? She ran off the high road and climbed the steep hillside. Her feet slipped on the grass as she scrambled behind a gorse bush for shelter. Her mind struggled to accept her brother’s words. She was sickened by his actions, by the senseless ease with which he condemned his people to war. What did he mean to gain by attacking these hateful Romans? The respect of his warriors, the love of his people?

He was a fool.

And so was she for not stopping him.

She peered through the spiny branches, her gaze fixed on the Roman leader. The twin line of cavalry glistened like a silver river that flowed to him. His black horse was twice the size of his fellow soldiers’ mounts and from her vantage point he looked everything she expected a Roman officer to be. Proud, arrogant and deadly.

Her brother wouldn’t stand a chance.

Panic gripped her as she watched her tribesmen in their bright woollen tunics block the road. The Roman officer leaned down to the small group of warriors as though addressing a horde of unruly children. She had to do something. If Pryderi attacked, the Ordovices would be doomed and this time she knew there would be no Iceni revolt to deflect the might of Rome. If she prevented the confrontation she might have time to make Pryderi see the dangerous path he took.

She pushed through the scrub and slid cautiously down the hillside. She was closer now, hidden in a small coppice of silver birch.

Her life had been unbearable as a small child, but Pryderi had always been there for her. Bile leaped into her mouth just thinking of her brother’s exposure to Roman blades. What would she do if he was injured, or worse? She refused to let him throw his life away.

Ceridwen bit her lip as she looked down the line of mounted Romans and weighed the situation. There must be at least thirty and only half that number would slaughter her kinsmen before sun set.

Maybe she could distract Pryderi? Her spirit leapt with relief. Yes! She could prevent him challenging the Roman soldiers. Maybe her presence in their line would make him pull back to the safety of the trees. It might give him time to re-think his path. Quietly, she crept from tree to tree, her fingers gripping each gnarled trunk. By now she was close enough to hear what was being said and the Roman was talking.

“Satis!”  he yelled in Latin, before switching to Cymraeg. “Enough! I shall ask you once more. Move.”

Ceridwen stared hard at the Roman. He was enormous. She had seen many Romans, even watched them build this very road, working like little ants covered in small red tunics.

He stood twice as tall as any of them. Thick, solid arms gave way to large bronzed hands that gripped the reins of his horse. His muscular thighs disappeared under that strange skirt all Romans thought necessary to wear. The warm breeze caught his blood red cape and pulled it out around his wide, armoured shoulders in a plume of authority. Her insides trembled.

She jumped as his voice boomed again. “Very well.” His clean-shaven jaw clamped shut. Muscles bunched in his arms and legs as he wheeled his horse around.

For a heartbeat terror froze her to the spot. She was too late to stop the bloodshed.

Her hand flew to her throat. The column of horses surged to life. Not with the attack that her kinsman would have unleashed, but with cold Roman precision. She watched the cavalry divide into two perfect wings and engulf her kin. Instinct kicked in. It propelled her fingers to her pouch to snatch a missile even as she raced forward. Leafy branches lashed her face. Her heart squeezed as the Ordovices’s keening battle cry pierced her ears. She leapt over the tussocks of grass, desperately searching for any sign of her brother.

She could not see him.

Screaming engulfed her. Fear and frustration wrapped tight bands around her chest. Her brother was lost in the closing circle of horses and glinting armour.

Desperate to open a gap in the ranks, she lifted the sling above her head with shaking hands and swung. The stone landed with a satisfying thwack on the rump of a horse. The dark mount snorted with outrage and kicked out with a mighty hoof. Again, she loaded her sling.

The second missile found its mark on the rider’s helmet. Her mouth went dry as he turned the black beast. The whites of its eyes rolled in its head as it sprung.

Run! She told herself, but her feet refused to work.

The Roman stared at her with murderous intent. Ceridwen summoned every last ounce of courage to stand her ground. She would not run. She would face her enemy. Balling her fists, she straightened and met the amber fury of his gaze.

 A movement caught her attention and man screamed in pain. Something hard sent her sprawling to the ground and her breath whooshed from her lungs. She was trapped. No! She would not die here today, not after living through so many years of conflcit. Her fingers dug into the hard, dusty earth and she wriggled, clawed and hauled herself free. 

Grim determination took over and she primed her sling. If she was going to die this way, she would take this arrogant Roman with her. The officer stalked closer and his eyes burned into hers, hot and furious. She saw the battle raging behind him and glimpsed Pryderi surrounded by a dozen legionaries.

She had to reach him.

Like lightening she ran past the officer and toward her brother. She seized a long sword from the flattened grass and grabbed a shield from a fallen man. A mounted soldier raced towards Pryderi. She was no match for him, but she could keep him occupied. It would give her brother time to catch his breath. Her sword clashed with the short Roman blade, throwing her backwards. She regained her balanced and a different sword thrust towards her. “Pryderi!”

“What are you doing here, Ceridwen?”   His laboured voice shook with emotion.

Ceridwen sidestepped another lunging sword. “We must get out! If they surround us-“

The hairs on her neck rose.

She spun on her heel. Her shield arm rose and a sword smashed into the wooden protector. Her arm jerked backwards with the force of the blade. Over the lowered shield she saw her attacker’s blood-smeared face beneath his domed helmet. The raw sound in his throat made her feet freeze.

 In a heartbeat Pryderi was beside her. His long blade slashed her attacker behind his knees. The Roman fell to the floor, his eyes widened with hatred and shock. Ceridwen tried to move. She wanted to run but her eyes were fixed on those dark hating eyes. The hard earth beneath her feet shifted. A wet gurgle escaped the Roman and blood frothed at his pale, dirty lips. His eyes glazed over and the hatred in them stilled.

Death. She had seen it so many times at home, a difficult birthing or an old, worn out body. But never had she seen it like this. Sickness surged into her throat.

A horse screamed. The sound pulled at Ceridwen’s heart and she turned to see a large brown mass toppling towards her.

 Someone grabbed her and pulled her backwards, away from certain, crushing death. Her saviour spoke. The living hell around her drowned out the exact words but could not mask the strange, unmistakable accent of Latin.

 It was the Roman officer. His arms held her, cradled her as she fell. She heard his sharp intake of breath. The harsh, raw gasp of pain. His arms released her.

“Ceridwen, where are you?” Pryderi shouted.

She scrambled to her feet and ran towards her brother. She could not look back. Would not. What was the point? The Roman had saved her but he was still her enemy. He would kill her. Imprison her. No. She should find Pryderi. Get out. Get away from the suffocating destruction that engulfed her.  

Her foot stepped onto something soft and yielding. She dared not look down. Every inch of her focused on Pryderi fighting through the battle to reach her. Dirt smudged his sweaty, blood-splattered face. He jumped over a cleaved body. He dodged a swinging blade. In those few brief seconds it took for him to reach her, he seemed to age ten years.

 The battle was ebbing. Roman and Celt lay amongst the broken, tattered grass.

“Roma Victor!”

It was over. But she had to keep her courage. She had to believe they had a chance to live.

 “Follow me!” Pryderi called.

 She spied the wood at the end of the valley. A flicker of hope ignited inside her. It looked a lifetime away but she would not give up. If the goddess was with them they could get into the trees on the other side of the Roman road. They could find some place to hide. The Romans would not wish to stay on the battlefield.

Fear threatened to swallow her whole. Bodies littered the ground. The cries of dying men pierced the air. A shout to her left caught her attention. She looked up, yelping as a great black beast lunged at them. “The officer!”

 Pryderi was beside her. He turned, pushing her into the trees. “Run, Ceridwen!”

Ceridwen ran. Pain shot through her legs. Her throat burned and the metallic smell of blood overpowered her.

 “Keep going, Ceridwen.”

Pryderi’s voice faded. She glanced over her shoulder. He was not there. The thundering hoof beats bore down on her. She weaved through the gorse bushes, hoping to slow the Roman. Up ahead the trees swayed in the breeze. She stared at the mighty oaks and prayed.

Blessed Don. Once you chose me to serve you. Let me live so I may do so!

Ceridwen leapt over a fallen trunk. She dove into the thick undergrowth, wincing at the thorns tearing her arms and face. Dirt filled her mouth. Her eyes were riveted on the mounted Roman that stopped a stone’s throw away.

“You run like a hare, Celt!” His accent was strange, definitely Roman. The dialect he used was not Ordovican, but Silurian. Close enough for her to understand. He must have had dealings with their conquered tribesmen to the south. Ceridwen breathed in slowly. Her mind blurred with the enormity of what happened. Was this her fault? Had she caused this destruction by interfering?

A movement across the way caught the Roman’s attention. Ceridwen peered through the gorse to see Pryderi running into the trees. The Roman turned, plunging his steed into the woods behind her.

She inched her way through the thicket. Crouching low against the ground she made her way deeper into the wood. The booming echo of hoof beats drew closer. Alarm pricked her skin as she realised the other Romans must have finished butchering her tribesmen.

Now they were after her.

There was still no sign of the Roman leader. If she could just get deeper into the wood she could find a tree to hide in. A twig broke. She glanced to her left, trying desperately to quell her rising panic. The Roman officer had dismounted and stood not ten arm-spans from her. He looked no smaller. His massive shoulders consumed her view. The metal cuirass he wore accentuated his broad chest and narrow waist. The dappled sunlight darkened his red cloak and crest. With his back to her he removed his helmet. Her breath caught in her throat. Tawny streaks ran through the short length of hair, from the tiny curls at his ears to the bronzed spikes on his neck.

 Why had he saved her? What could a Roman officer have to gain? Her heart trembled. Of course. Rape and pillage. No doubt he had wanted her for himself. A warrior expected his share of the plunder, even in the midst of battle. How very Roman to be so sure of victory.

 “I mean you no harm.” His voice was warm, exotic. Each word carefully placed. He spoke as though he were comforting a child.

She needed to move deeper into the undergrowth. But she wanted, needed, to look upon the face that had swept her from death.

Or was it something else?

Frustration burned in the pit of her stomach. In truth she was angry. Angry at herself for having stood, knees knocking with fear at the falling horse and angry at the Roman for seeing her danger. Why would her enemy save her like that? What kind of man was he?

Heart pounding, she watched him turn.

 Disbelief drowned her frustration. His profile was exquisite, exotically foreign and unblemished. Dark hair plastered his head and clung to his temples where his curls give way to tanned, shaven skin. He was not the battle hardened warrior she had expected. He was glorious…for a murdering, arrogant Roman.

She dropped to the ground, heard him wade through the undergrowth and alarm raced through her. Twigs cracked and leaves rustled. Thorns scrapped against leather. Ceridwen swallowed her terror.

The wood fell silent. Her ears found nothing but her heartbeat thundering through her head. Where had he gone?

“I can hear you, Celt.”

Panic coursed through her limbs. Her fingertips tingled with apprehension but she dared not move.

“I know you are in there.”

His metal greaves pushed through the bushes, directly towards her.

She surged out of the undergrowth. Fear took over and she raced through small, spiny branches that snagged her skirt and sleeves. The Roman’s voice bellowed so closely she thought he must be right behind her. Three mounted Romans appeared in the clearing. She screamed, terrified the Romans would run her down. 

“Dismount! She will run right through you!” The officer’s voice echoed harshly through the trees. For a moment she could not place him, but a movement to her right sent terror racing through her. He was overtaking. By the Goddess, in all his armour he could outrun her. Ceridwen looked over her shoulder.

Could she double back onto the road?

Her heart sank as another four soldiers closed in.

“Take her alive!”

 Ceridwen turned to the leader’s voice ahead. Her eyes widened as a mounted soldier hurled his spear at her. Ceridwen flung herself behind a trunk and the Roman pilum hurtled straight into the tree opposite.

“Alive, I said. I’ll flog the next man to attack.”

 She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. She clung to the trunk. Her fingers dug into the smooth bark.

This wasn’t happening. How had such a beautiful day gone so horribly wrong? Her cheeks burned from the hot, salty tears on her face. She thrust her hand into her stone pouch and grabbed her last handful.

 She would not surrender to the Roman dogs.

 She would uphold her honour. Ordovician honour.  If this was what the goddess had meant for her to do. If this was the reason she had not been collected to serve the goddess as a child, then she would fight until her last dying breath.

With her sling loaded she lunged at the mounted soldiers. “Roman filth!”

The men remained impassive. In unison the riders moved to encircled her and like a living net they closed in, ready to catch her like a wild beast.

 She swung her sling. It hit a soldier’s helmet, but he didn’t move. She reloaded. This time she aimed for the cavalryman’s horse. Behind her the undergrowth cracked and rustled with soldiers.

“Halt.” His voice clung to the leaves. The harsh, masculine tone wrapped around the gnarled branches until it seemed his command rang from the trees. The horses stopped. 

Her breath trembled.  Where was he? She scoured the clearing. Where had he gone? Sunlight glinted through the thick leaves above her. Songbirds sung in the quiet wood. How could these things spread dread into her heart? Was he part demon to hide so? Not that it mattered. She was utterly lost now, whatever happened. She was out of ammunition.

Something moved behind the circle of horses. Confident, conquering footsteps strode through the undergrowth. The horses in front parted.

Ceridwen thought her knees would buckle. The officers hazel gaze slammed into to hers. Eyes that could have been warm, instead stared at her with cold fury. 

  Like Lleu the Sun God, his presence filled the clearing.

She swallowed. Her tongue turned to lead. She summoned every shred of courage to face her enemy defiantly.

 He handed his plumed helmet to a soldier. “My name is Gaius Vedius Marcellus. I am the commanding officer at Viroconium and I ask for your surrender.”

Gaius Vedius Marcellus? How strange his name sounded. Her heart squeezed painfully at her choice. She should not fear death. But she did, of course. The faith that drove her fellow Celts through life, through victory and defeat had been absent from her for more years than she cared to recall.

She shook her head. Her eyes darted to the left, hoping to see some means of escape. There was none.

 Would death be her new beginning? In her heart she could not believe it. She had no belief in gods. Her brother knew it. But would the Roman understand? Could he begin to comprehend how her faith was tested every waking moment since the Druids never came for her? The Goddess had forsaken her. But would she rather die by her own sword than in some Roman prison?

Like lightning, a horse surged forward. Ceridwen ducked out of the way, rolling on the leafy ground. She scrambled to her feet and a glimmer of hope bloomed in her chest. There! Straight ahead was a gap in the line of horses.

Ceridwen bolted. The gap began to close, but she dived between the horses legs. In an instant she was up and free.

She ran. Her lungs stung. Her legs screamed for her to stop. A voice rose above the din of neighing horses and shouting men. It sent a shiver of dread racing down her spine, urging her on, through the pain and exhaustion. She heard the officer chasing her down. His voice rang out. “Leave her. She is mine.”

Marcellus watched her run. Like some ethereal nymph, she veered through the thick bushes. Her dark hair, so tightly bound when she had first faced him, armed with nothing but a sling, streamed out behind her. Pain mingled with frustration. His wounded thigh burned with every step.

 Catching her was not his job. But he sensed her fear. He understood it. What he could not understand was why she had been there in the first place. He had faced many barbarian tribes. Even their women. But they screamed and shouted along the front lines. They filled their men with the fury to fight. They invoked their gods to ride to war with them.

 They did not attack you from behind with a sling.

 By Jupiter and all the gods, she had been a sight to behold. Her fiery courage had brought her through many of his best men. True, she had not fought them directly. But he knew many generals that would have thought twice about doing what she had done. “You cannot outrun me!”

He smiled as he heard her frightened gasp before she disappeared from view. Marcellus rounded the enormous mossy oak trunk that separated him from his quarry and stopped in his tracks as he looked around. The wood was empty. Anger replaced frustration. He scanned his surroundings. Nothing moved. Not even the low bushes and saplings swayed from where his prey had run. Where had she gone? She could not have vanished!

Marcellus closed his eyes. He sucked in a lungful of air. He had lost too much time already today. Chasing through a wood after some girl was not what he should be doing. He had already been away from his fort for a whole week. There would be much to do on his return. If he had the ear of Minerva he would turn around and return to Viroconium. But he would not accept defeat. That would not do. He had seen more campaigns than most commanding officers twice his age. He was not about to let a Celt get the better of him.

Opening his eyes he listened for movement. She must have gone somewhere. If she hadn’t carried on running then she must have climbed upwards. Slowly he walked away from the oak. His feet sank into the thick bed of rotting leaves. He scoured the ground. There were plenty of small rocks scattered among the leaf litter. The woman would surely be low on ammunition. But had she gotten a handful of stones, she could blind him. He glanced at the beech in front of him. Its bark was too smooth, its branches too high for her to climb. No, she must be in the oak behind him.

Leaves rustled and Marcellus swivelled on his heel. His gaze clashed with the frightened fury of his violet-eyed nymph clinging to a wide branch above him. He looked at her flushed face. She was Celtic from the dark mass of hair that pooled over her shoulders, to the way she grasped the gnarled branch with such stubborn defiance. “Come down and you shall not be harmed.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I do not trust you, Roman.”

Was she mad? “Your options, I believe, are limited.”

 Her hands slipped and she lurched sideways. Her body seemed to hover in midair before she plummeted to the ground.

Her scream pierced the forest. She grasped desperately for something to save herself. But her fingers met thin air. Her scream was cut short as her head collided with a thick, gnarled branch. Lifelessly her body fell the last few feet and landed with a dull thud on the floor.

 He dropped to his knees beside her, the sharp stones digging into the flesh on his legs. His fingers hovered over her moist mouth and her warm breaths tickled his fingers. Her eyelids fluttered and a soft moan escaped her lips. Her skin looked so pale and soft, unblemished by the harsh Mediterranean sun. 

He rose to his feet with her cradled in his arms. “Fetch me my horse!”

Within moments his chief centurion appeared leading Vetrix by the reins. Titus dismounted and offered to take the woman from his arms. For a second a jolt of possessiveness shot through him. She was his, a small compensation for the Ordovices gall in attacking Roman soldiers. He would not give her up. But he could not mount whilst holding her.

Gently, he handed her over and vaulted onto Vetrix. It was the only time he cursed having his own horse and not the smaller mounts the army paid for. He took the woman from the soldier and nestled her in front of him. He skimmed her waist, removing the empty ammunition pouch and her sling. If she woke now, he could overpower her. By nightfall he would be back at the fort.

Her hair smelt of heather and sweet wood smoke. Her body felt strong and womanly in his arms. She was so different from the decadent ladies of the Empire. Their schemes and feminine wiles sent a chill down his spine. Would a barbarian be any different?

He looked over to Titus. “I want the barbarian man who fled into the woods found. Take as many men as you need.”

Titus nodded as he mounted his own horse. “They were Ordovician?”

“This frontier road runs through the boundary of Ordovician land and they are certainly not Cornovii. Since Viroconium was built that tribe has been peaceful and the Silures are stockier with their faces running to a darker complexion.”

Titus brought his horse closer. “Do you think this is an isolated attack?”

“The Ordovices are fierce and they have the mountains to hide in. They are foolish enough to think they could challenge Rome.”

“And the woman? Will she tell us what all that was about?”

“Doubtful.” Who was this proud woman he held in his arms? Her purple tunic and brown skirt were old, but spun from fine wool. She was no farmer’s wife and that intrigued him, more than it should. Nothing could replace the men he had lost, but perhaps if this woman was from the ruling elite, some good might come from their doomed ambush.

 He rode to the line of soldiers halted in formation. He was proud of his men. Not just this small unit of thirty, but his whole cohort. His latest and last command consisted of the first and second cohort of the Twentieth Legion. The men that rode with him were the finest soldiers he knew. He had worked with many of them since he started his military career twenty summers earlier. He smiled thinking how green he had been then. But that had changed. His cohort’s banner spread terror into the hearts of his enemies and commanded respect from his Roman peers.

The Ordovice attack was serious. It might end in another campaign and the final push against the western frontier. Not that it bothered him. Campaigns meant victory and victory meant wealth.

 The woman in his arms groaned and shifted. He held her slender frame closer as her fresh mooreland scent wafted over him. She had lovely features. Dark brows arched across flawless skin. Then there were her lips. Full and sensual, they parted, murmuring something beneath her breath. They looked lips made for kissing.

Need ignited inside him. Pure and raw. Sensations he had not felt in an age. Swiftly he stifled them. She might be useful as a hostage. Her life to ensure the Ordovices good behaviour. That would teach them to defy Rome. Her presence in his house would be an example to all of the Cambrian tribes.

And then there was his future. The emotions she evoked had no place in that.

In six months, when the spring rains receded he would return to Rome and consider marriage. Only a noble wife would do. When their clans joined it would be the union of two of the finest patrician families in Rome. The restoration of his family name would be complete. And nothing, no tribe of rebellious Ordovices would prevent him from achieving his goal.  Especially not a woman. Even if she had the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen.