In his dream, Arthyr was happy. Beyond the crest of a mountain in Uffen was a breath-taking view of the blue sun in a purple sky. His friends were with him. Waking on his new barracks bed, however, was to wake to misery. For the first time in his life, he was not free. Being in the Roman training camp at Aventicum was almost like being a captive. Furthermore, the disorientating effect of all the iron around him had created a pain at the front of his head that was constant and strong.

It was dawn; a cloud-covered grey sky was visible through the windows of the barracks room.

‘Up you get. Hurry it now.’ The decanus was up out of his bed, walking down the middle of the barracks, pulling away blankets. ‘We’ve a busy day.’

There were ten simple, wooden-framed beds in two rows, all of them occupied apart from the one at the top of the room (where the decanus had presumably leapt out from under his blanket, full of vigour for the coming day) and the one opposite Arthyr’s, at the farthest point from the door. In some ways — the thought bringing a painful jolt of homesickness — it was a room that had almost the same size and layout as that of his family back in Betws-Y-Coed. The roof here was higher and the walls were bare, but the two rows of beds either side of a central aisle were almost familiar.

By the time the decanus had reached Arthyr, there was no need for the officer to strip away his blankets, Arthyr had already sat up and pulled on his new, Roman-issue, brown woollen tunic.

‘Good, mate. You’re on mop duty. Get those muddy footprints washed off. And you two…,’ the decanus turned to the two women on the adjacent beds. ‘… you’re drying. Everyone else, get your kit on, throw all your other gear on your beds — nothing on the floor — form up outside and when these three are done, we’ll all march to the mess.’

Despite being given these orders, it was hard to resent the decanus, who smiled at Arthyr from time to time as he spoke and who did not look at all like a typical Roman soldier. Instead of the short, bowl-shaped haircut visible on the heads of nearly all the Romans (the ones who were not balding, at least), the decanus had long, fair hair — mostly yellow, but with a mix of grey, the man was somewhat grizzled — and these long tresses were wound tightly into about twenty braids, which stood out from his head and gave him something of a leonine appearance.

At breakfast, Arthyr saw Merilyn, Gawain and Netanya in the large, noisy, warm hall. It was easy to spot them, as they stood out with their pale skins and long hair.

‘Can I sit with my friend, over there?’ Arthyr asked the decanus.

‘Sorry, mate, you have to eat with your unit. Here, take a seat on the bench beside me.’

When Arthyr gave a wave to the others, they each gave one back, looking cheerful enough, especially Gawain, who mimed someone eagerly filling himself with food and rubbing his stomach with satisfaction. This caused Arthyr to pay attention to his own food. A big bowl of porridge, two strips of fried meat, probably bacon, and a hard pear. It was good, better than breakfast at home.

‘All right, thank you decanus.’

‘Call me Laurence. I’m not one for airs and graces, you don’t have to worry about titles with me.’

‘Thank you, Laurence.’

‘You’re a magician, are you?’

‘Some people call me that.’ Arthyr set to work on the porridge.

‘Is it true that we are going to war in Faerie?’

Spoon paused half way to his mouth, Arthyr looked at Laurence, to see if he was joking. While the man was smiling, it seemed that his question was in earnest.

‘I doubt it. Uffen’s no place for a Roman army.’

‘Then what are you here for?’ Evidently, Laurence saw something in Arthyr’s expression that made him hurry on, ‘I mean, no offence mate, but we Romans don’t do magic and we stay away from, Uf… Faerie. So why would the legate go all that way — Cambria, right? — to bring you here?’

‘Just some task. I don’t know. I thought it might be build a bridge across a canyon, or something you couldn’t do alone, without the help of a powerful spirit.’

Laurence shook his head. ‘There’s nothing in this world the Roman army can’t build. But the rumour from Rome is that a Sí princess has come to ask our support for her claim to title and that we are going to invade Faerie for her.’

‘Interesting.’ Again, Arthyr stopped eating. ‘That would make sense all right. The legate did ask could we bring an army into Uffen.’

‘Uffen. Faerie. Same place, right?’

‘It is.’

‘Uffen. Doesn’t sound right to me. Sounds too friendly. Whereas Faerie, sounds more dangerous. Fey. Wild. Of course, I’ve never been.’ Laurence bit into his pear. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘Terribly dangerous.’ Arthyr smiled and Laurence smiled back.

‘Seriously mate?’

‘Seriously. Like, only yesterday I nearly got all the blood drained from me by an undead, vengeful spirit.’

This seemed to amuse Laurence and Arthyr was about to explain that the encounter with the blood-drinker wasn’t really anything to laugh about, when the decanus was interrupted by the female soldier the other side of him and turned away to her.

After a while, the hubbub of the mess hall began to die down as the other soldiers left (Arthyr got a smile and a pat on the back from Netanya as she passed him).

‘Eat up, we’ve field training soon.’ Laurence nodded towards Arthyr’s plate.

‘I’m done. I don’t eat meat.’

‘Can I have them then?’

‘Help yourself.’

Picking up the two strips of bacon, Laurence stood up. ‘Come on then Nine-Ten. Back to the barracks.’

Arthyr tramped out with the other soldiers of his unit and as they returned to their hut, felt a little better. His headache had eased and there was something to be said for a way of life where you were provided with a large breakfast. The camp felt less like a prison.

Once returned to the small hut that was the barracks of the unit, Laurence had them sit at the end of their beds, facing the central aisle while he strolled up and down along it.

‘In every cohort, the tenth contubernium is a scouting unit. You, we, Nine-Ten are scouts. Now, the rest of the army will tell you that we are the most useless soldiers in the legion. That only misfits and those too feeble to fight properly are sent to contubernium ten. But didn’t Julius Caesar himself say that the scouts were the most important troops in the army?[1]

‘Our main job isn’t fighting. But in war, scouts often end up fighting and if that happens, you’ll want to be good at it. So when we are on the field this morning, I want you to give it your best. Learn what the drill sergeants tell you, learn it well and practice. It could save your life.

‘Any questions?’

‘I’ve one,’ asked the tall, young woman sat to Arthyr’s left, ‘were you ever in battle?’

Having only ever seen Laurence looking cheerful, it was a new experience for Arthyr to see a cold, hard expression come over the decanus. ‘I have. I was at Kallipolis in four sixty-seven.’

‘What was it like?’ another woman asked and all nine people in the room were serious now.

‘Ugly. But this isn’t about me. Buy me a drink sometime and I’ll tell you all about it. For now, line up outside and we’ll march up to the training field. And by Jupiter, don’t make a show of yourselves. You’ll get enough mockery and jibes in any case.’

The training field at Aventicum is a huge rectangle of grass, marked out with wattle fencing. On the northern side — facing the lake — is the section where the cavalry practice their manoeuvres. There, the ground is churned up and muddy. In the centre is where the infantry proper rehearse their formations. Typically in full armour, this is where the core troops of the Roman army rehearse the wedge, the square and the tortoise, until everyone knows his or her role. And at the top of the field, on the rising ground to the south, is the region where the newcomers gather to learn the very basics of how to be a Roman soldier.

There were some two hundred new recruits in that part of the field when Arthyr arrived with his contubernium. It didn’t take him long to spot Merilyn, Gawain, and Netanya and exchange a wave with them.

‘No more of that,’ muttered Laurence at Arthyr, ‘keep your discipline.

‘When can I get to talk to them?’

‘After evening meal you have an hour for yourself.’

That was something to look forward to. For the time being, Arthyr’s attention turned towards a bearded officer, standing on a small wooden stage. Although Arthyr had not yet become familiar with all the insignia of the various ranks, the burnished breastplate of this older man indicated that he was of some importance.

‘Contubernium Nine-Six, come to the pile of staves here and take one each.’ The man on the stage called out in a strong voice and in due course followed this command by calling over Nine-Seven, Nine-Eight and Nine-Nine.

When it came to Arthyr’s turn, he selected a hickory stave about the same length of a Roman sword and found it surprisingly heavy as he waved it through the air a few times.[2] There was a sinister presence among the piles of wooden practice swords, one that caused Arthyr to pause and look more carefully. One of the staves very much resented being in the Roman camp. Looking up, Arthyr sensed he was being watched. It was Merilyn and she pointed toward the same spot that had concerned him. Yes, Arthyr nodded to her, I felt it too. Then he shrugged. It would not be safe for any of the soldiers to use that particular practice weapon, but so long as the stave remained in the pile, it really wasn’t his concern. And while a part of his conscience nagged him — the spirit in the stave was deeply unpleasant and should really be dealt with — Arthyr did not want to hold up proceedings and draw attention to himself by making a fuss.

Once all the new recruits were stood in their units, holding their hickory weapons, their instruction began. With an interest that was mild at first but began to grow as he realised that what he was being shown might actually prove useful, Arthyr watched as the bearded instructor (whose moves were copied by the decanus of each unit) demonstrated the five basic parry positions: horizontal in front of the forehead; upright at the left shoulder; downwards at the left foot; upright, right shoulder and downwards, right foot.

‘One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five.’ Over and over to a regular rhythm, the drill officer had them move their staves through the various parry positions. After he’d lost count of the number of times he’d done this, with his wrist beginning to ache, Arthyr’s newfound interest in matters military began to wane. And even though the commands now changed, so that the numbers one to five were called out without any obvious pattern and you had to react quickly to the call, his concentration faltered.

The instruction became more interesting again when they were partnered, not only because the point of the exercise became much more obvious when the person opposite swung a real blow at you, but also because Arthyr found himself partnered with the young woman of his unit who had earlier asked Laurence had he ever been in battle. She was tall, not as tall as Arthyr of course, with pale skin, blue eyes and very light hair that was almost golden. Quite different, therefore, than most of the other recruits, who were typically darker-complexioned southerners.

Each time their staves clashed together (with a surprisingly musical chime), Arthyr’s partner smiled and he found himself smiling back. Who was she? he wondered, and where had she come from? Somewhere north, probably.

‘Use the centre of the weapon to parry. And attackers, go easy, I don’t want any broken fingers or any other accident. This is all about memorizing the moves, not showing off or trying to hit your opponent.’ Laurence was walking up and down the short line of contubernium members, watching them all carefully. Sensing the eyes of the decanus were upon him, Arthyr become more serious. The dance-like flirtation was at an end, for now.

After several minutes going over and over these five defensive moves, Arthyr was surprised to hear Laurence mutter, ‘Jupiter save us, what does he want?’

Mounting the stage, stave in hand, with five officers behind him in full uniform, was Johannes Druffus, the small, aggressive tribune who had split up Arthyr and his friends and assigned them to their units.

‘First timers, form a line. Come on.’ Druffus took off his cloak and began pacing around the stage, slapping the stave into his left palm. ‘This is going to be your only chance to hurt me, while for me it will be the first of many chances to demonstrate how little you know.’

A dozen or so recruits from other units were making their way to the stage, where a sergeant lined them up. Druffus looked across, directly at Arthyr. ‘Everyone who has arrived at camp in the last six days, come up the front!’

The whole of Nine-Ten started forward.

‘What’s happening?’ Arthyr did not move.

Laurence shook his head and looked uncharacteristically grim. ‘It’s a stupid initiation. I thought the prefect had stopped this. Listen everyone, just take a knock and get off.’

‘I don’t want to,' said Arthyr and a wave of insubordination ran through him, right down to his toes.

‘Better if you go up and get it over with than have them drag you up.’

'What about the legate? She wants me here for my magic, not to get knocked about.'

‘Sorry mate. The legate is a long way from here.’ Laurence gave a nod towards the stage. 'That man has the power to hoist you up on a cross. Take a hit and keep out of his way.'

On his way up to the front, Arthyr detoured slightly and, with a shudder, swapped his stave for the gnarled and darkly stained weapon in which the evil spirit resided. This was dangerous but despite the advice of his decanus Arthyr had decided to stand up to the tribune. While it was impossible to foresee the consequences of allowing this evil spirit a voice, Arthyr’s resentment at being forced into the army against his will swamped all other thoughts. With a mind that felt clouded, a desire to run away, and a body that was on fire with anger, he knew he was probably making a mistake. Yet some essential part of him didn’t care.

Insofar as Arthyr had a voice of caution in his thoughts, it always spoke in Merilyn’s tones. There she was now, mounting the stage, first up.

‘Try your best!’ Druffus shouted for everyone on the field to hear. ‘It won’t be good enough. You are ignorant savages and it will take years of hard work to make you into good Roman soldiers.’

Other than hunting with a bow, Arthyr had never seen Merilyn strike a blow in earnest and it was no surprise when he saw his friend swing a clumsy and obvious blow at the tribune’s head. Batting her effort aside with ease, Druffus struck Merilyn a glancing blow to the temple and she fell to her knees, long brown hair cascading around her and hiding her expression. A surge of rage caused Arthyr to grip his stave tightly and he felt a corresponding rush of eagerness in the spirit under his fist.

‘Next!’

A more cautious recruit, a young man with a heavy face and shuffling gait, edged around Druffus. A sudden dart, a jab, and the new legionary was holding his nose, which was pouring bright red blood.

‘Next!’

And so it continued, with the recruits never landing their own blows and always receiving one, sometimes a very harsh one. It was hard for Arthyr to contain his rage — and also fear, if truth be told — and he had to consciously relax the tension in his jaws and unclench his teeth. There were only five more new recruits to go; the small tribune was barely sweating and his grin was becoming wider and wider.

Netanya was on the platform and Arthyr felt anxious for her. Although Merilyn and Gawain had both taken bruising blows, they had left the platform on their own feet. Not only was Netanya small (still taller than Druffus, however), she was likely to be defiant and provoke a stronger beating. Surprisingly though, Arthyr saw Netanya deliberately drop her stave and put her hands on her hips.

‘Pick that up!’ Druffus ordered.

‘Why? I accept that I know nothing about fighting and you know a lot. What’s it going to prove if I take a swing and you hit me?’

‘It’s going to prove you can follow orders. Now pick up your weapon.’

‘No.’ Netanya folded her arms and Arthyr knew that the Romans could drag her to the Island of Volcanoes and throw her in one and she still wouldn’t pick up the stave.

Druffus shrugged. ‘Tie her up and give her twenty lashes.’

‘Wait!’ Arthyr leapt onto the wooden stage. ‘I’ll go next, I can beat you.’

The following moment lasted an age, Arthyr could see that Druffus was in two minds and it was with immense relief that he heard the tribune’s next words.

‘Come on then.’ The expression on the face of Druffus was both mocking and murderous, like depictions of the god Gwdyyion.[3]

Evidently the challenge in Arthyr’s voice had done enough to shift the focus of the bully.

Now the whole world shrank to this wooden platform, which echoed his every footstep. It seemed to Arthyr that the rest of the recruits were gathered around more closely, that hundreds of eyes were watching attentively, and hundreds of ears were listening.

‘Do you see this stave?’ Arthyr raised it, not only for Druffus to see, but for everyone watching.

‘What of it?’

‘I see an old man.’ Arthyr paused, to ensure he was safely out of range of a possible darting jab by the tribune. ‘An old, bitter, angry man. He strangled his wife and was condemned to live out his life as a hickory tree in Uffen. When the tree fell, it landed in Earth and was broken into staves by the Roman army. The man put all of his wicked spirit into this particular length of wood. He is determined to do as much harm as he can before he dies and right now he is drooling with insane laughter that his chance has come. Be warned, tribune, this stave could take your life.’

The expression on Druffus’s face told Arthyr that the tribune was indeed worried, but his words were contemptuous. ‘Rubbish! Cast all the spells you want, magician, but Roman iron and Roman training will always win.’

‘It’s not a spell. Merely the truth. Everyone watching hear me again. If I let this stave loose, it will harm the tribune. I give him the chance to leave.’

‘Leave?’ Druffus was scornful. ‘Before a wet recruit who has never handled a weapon. Come on.’

‘Thrice I warn you. It is enough. Leave.’ Knowing that the tribune could not back down in front of all the new recruits, Arthyr spoke for the sake of geas only. Already, he was surrendering control of his motion to the dark being in the stave.

The spirit was an old, angry — appallingly angry — man in the body of a youth. Laughing, Arthyr licked his lips. It was good to be lithe again after a century locked in a pose that could only change when swaying with the wind. How many people could he kill? It was tempting to swerve to the right and brain that young woman who was looking on with pure amazement. She would not react in time.

But this little man was more interesting. He was a coiled snake of a man. His blood ran green with jealousy of his fellow officers, of those taller than him (the vast majority), and even of barbarians like Arthyr, who may have been uncivilized but who had, at least, freedom from the excruciating and suffocating Roman politics that had hampered Druffus from obtaining the promotions he deserved.

All this Arthyr now saw clearly written in the widening irises of his opponent. And he saw too that while Druffus was competent as a fighter, he was no gladiator. Playfully, Arthyr circled the smaller man and all at once, they exchanged several clattering blows. One of them caught Druffus on the hand, probably breaking a finger or two. There was nothing unexpected in the motions of Druffus. Enjoying himself immensely, Arthyr dipped a shoulder, prompting a quick skip and defensive move from his opponent. The slightest of feints was all it took to send Druffus scurrying.

It was all over in another rapid exchange. Realising that Arthyr had the better skills and with his long reach was going to mark his entire body with bumps and bruises, Druffus threw himself at Arthyr with a jab that was feinted at his throat, but was actually aimed at his crotch. This was as evident and as slowly executed as a cloud’s impending passage across the sun. Almost effortlessly Arthyr stepped aside and broke the tribune’s forearm. Then, when the man was reeling back and screaming, smashed in his ribs. Another blow caught Druffus’s shoulder and span him to the ground, where the tribune writhed in agony before lurching into Arthyr and biting hard into his Achilles tendon.

‘Stop!’ A girl cried. Arthyr knew her but didn’t care. He couldn’t stop and wouldn’t until the man’s head was caved in. Shrugging off the men and women clinging to his arms and shoulders, Arthyr raised his weapon for the killing blow, when another girl, one with brown hair and a pale face (he knew her too, somewhere) scattered apple blossom across the space between them and shouted.

‘Begone!’

Returning to himself, Arthyr collapsed, a huge weight of bodies pressing him against the wooden planks of the stage. In the distance he could hear Druffus screaming.

‘He’s broken my arm! He’s broken my arm! Throw him in the prison and make sure he’s shackled in iron.’

As he was being dragged away, Arthyr glimpsed Laurence, who was looking pale with anxiety.

[1] Of course, Caesar, in his Conquest of Tartarus, doesn’t really say this. His exact words, which occur in the description of the Battle of Dragonspine Ridge are: ‘If it had not been for the bravery and excellence of our scouts, over half of whom never returned to the army, we would have had double the losses we suffered on the first day.’

[2] The training weapons of a Roman legion are typically much heavier than the real ones used in battle, the idea being to strengthen the muscles of one’s arms. Yet so many sprained wrists and even broken arms arise from this practice that I, for one, have raised objections to it.

[3] Our Hermes.