Waking after too short a sleep, Arthyr found that he was shivering with cold. Through the barracks windows was a sight that did not make sense and for a moment he wondered was he still dreaming. All was white. Then the door rocked open with a gust of cold and a flurry of snowflakes.

‘Blankets, one each.’ Laurence entered with the rest of the unit behind him and dumped a pile of brown, coarse blankets on the nearest bed. Smoothing a stray braid of fair hair back behind an ear, the decanus looked up at Arthyr and smiled. ‘Welcome back.’

A chorus of muttered greetings followed as the others came into the barracks, Runa brought a blanket over and threw it to him. Giving her a nod of appreciation, Arthyr drew it around his shoulders.

‘I was first to the quartermaster,’ Laurence chuckled, ‘they’ll all be at it now, but I reckon only half the camp will sleep in a warm bed tonight. Snow, in June. Unbelievable.’ The decanus did not, thought Arthyr, actually sound all that incredulous.

‘Like home,’ Runa said as she sat down beside Arthyr and began to untie her boots.

All at once, several trumpets began to sound. The notes of their call were loud and repeated in a definite and urgent pattern, albeit one that was unfamiliar to Arthyr.

‘Silence!’ Laurence raised his hand and the good-natured chatter in the room ceased. ‘Jupiter strike me down! It’s the Fall In. Quick, full gear.’

No one moved.

‘Come on. There are penalties for the last units to fall in. Hurry up if you don’t want to be digging latrine trenches in your free time.’

With groans and muttering — and against the background of the trumpets blasting out insistently, over and over — everyone began to strap on their army uniforms.

Runa gave a wry shrug and started lacing her boots back on. Acknowledging her with a roll of his eyes, Arthyr knelt down and from beneath the bed pulled out hardened leathers greaves, armguards and a stiff cuirass that still had a powerful scent of new leather. Even though Laurence had an extra layer of armour to put on, a tunic made of thousands of interlinked small iron circles (the thought of wearing of these gave Arthyr a headache), the decanus was first to be ready to leave and hurried up and down the aisle helping those who were still pulling on armour and reaching around for straps.

Being a scouting unit with relatively light armour (only Laurence wore metal), Nine-Ten were soon formed up in a line on the parade ground and were comfortably ahead of the rest of the ninth cohort, let alone the whole legion. This gave Arthyr plenty of time to look around. It was early evening and because of the mountains to the west, the camp was in shadow and there were torches lit on the wall towers.

From every direction, soldiers were emerging from their barracks huts into the gusts of thick snowflakes, to form up at lines indicated by their officers. The legion’s parade formation was that of three sides of a large square, with the troops facing inwards to a wooden stage that was wide enough to contain two dozen people. There were seven officers on this stage at present: the Camp Prefect and his six tribunes, all in their full armour with elaborately decorated breastplates. They wore thick scarlet capes, which must have been a comfort in this cold. Druffus was there, arm in a sling and cloak wrapped across his chest. He was striding up and down, looking out carefully at the assembling army.

Rubbing away a snowflake that had settled on his left eyelash, Arthyr looked up to see the Druffus was staring at him. It was a stare of intense hatred but Arthyr held it with equanimity. After all, not only had Arthyr defeated the short man in their duel, but the other new recruits had demonstrated their support for Arthyr. The bitter Roman reminded him of Ithel. Both wanted to tyrannise the young.

It was only with the arrival on stage of Sapentia, who was fastening a shoulder strap of her silver shining breastplate, that Druffus turned away. His hostile expression did not soften as he watched the legate.

Arthyr turned his attention to Sapentia. It was still difficult to appreciate that the rather giddy young woman who had travelled with him from home was such an important figure in the Roman world. She did not look pleased as she strode over to the Camp Prefect. There followed a very animated conversation, in which Sapentia visibly waved her arms around. The stage was too far away for Arthyr to hear the exchanges. Whatever they were arguing about, it ended with Sapentia standing with her arms folded, head down, the embodiment of impatience.

An abrupt silence. The trumpets had ceased their call, with the parade ground having filled up surprisingly quickly. Hoping to see his friends, Arthyr looked around on tip toe, over hundreds of metal helmets that reflected the purple, snow-filled sky. They were lost in the ranks of soldiers. And noticing that Laurence was frowning at him, Arthyr stood to attention, watching the stage, where the Camp Prefect stepped forward.

‘Romans. Soldiers of the Sixth Legion. Within the month, the emperor and the empress come to Aventicum. With them will be the Second and the Fifth Legion. Together, we will form an army that will march into Tartarus, defeat one of the Sí princes there, and replace him with an ally loyal to Rome.’ The Prefect paused, there was no response from the soldiers, no murmurs. Just the flapping sound of banners in the cold wind. Pulling his cloak tighter around his round figure, the grey-bearded commander of all these men and women raised his voice again. ‘We will repeat the success of Julius Caesar and give the denizens of that realm a taste of Roman iron!’

At this, the six tribunes stepped forward and gave the Roman salute, throwing out their open handed right arms (left, in the case of Druffus) and shouting, ‘to victory!’

‘To victory!’ came a thunderous response.

Stunned, Arthyr was both impressed and appalled at this display of simultaneous obedience by so many adult men and women. Having never seen so many people in one place before, it was only now he understood the power of mass, combined human action, so much greater than that of the individual. An army, he realised, was a collective instrument of war, not a school for individual fighters. What was he doing here? Were Merilyn, Gawain and Netanya thinking the same? That they were clinging to the sides of a massive cart, one that was carrying them towards danger for a reason they could not understand?

Apparently satisfied, the Prefect walked off the stage with a proud stride. In a less martial display, head down, Sapentia followed him. Once they had left, Druffus moved to the edge of the stage nearest the troops and shouted.

‘Veterans of more than five years, fall out.’

All at once, the cohesion of the legion broke apart. More than half the soldiers were moving away, back to their barracks rooms and they would be first to the mess hall. As this flow of troops emptied the ranks, Druffus shouted again. ‘Troops with more than six months experience, fall out.’

Soon, there were just the new recruits left and now there was so much space between the ranks, Arthyr could spot Gawain among the lines to his left and Merilyn to his right. Their leather armour made them both look older than the teenagers they were. All of Arthyr’s unit were still in line, including Laurence, who must have decided to wait with the rest of his command rather than leave as a veteran.

‘You thought to mock me today.’ All the ranks stiffened at these words from Druffus. They must have shared Arthyr’s expectations that they were about to be dismissed and his sudden realisation that they had been detained for a reason. ‘You, who know nothing of war.’ Druffus was white faced and thin lipped, his voice trembled with fury. ‘You will now run the circuit of the walls. And the last ten back to this stage will be on latrine duty for a week.’

No one moved and for a moment Arthyr’s heart gave a skip of delight that Druffus was to be snubbed again. But then the tribune waved his good hand, pointing to the earthen track that ran around the inside of the stockade. ‘Go! Go!’

A trickle of soldiers began to run from their lines, then more and more, until there was a huge rush, bottled by a gate in the low fence that marked out the limits of the parade ground. The soldiers pushed through that gate like grains falling in a sand-timer. And suddenly, Arthyr was nearly alone; even his contubernium had rushed off. All apart from Laurence and Runa.

After a moment’s hesitation, Arthyr found himself walking towards the stage and Druffus. An initial feeling of anxiety, dread even, emptied out of him with every step. They were looking at each other and even at fifty yards, there was something in the expression of Druffus and his hate-filled eyes that gave Arthyr confidence. By the time he approached the tribune, Arthyr was sauntering with a stride every bit as cocksure as when he walked along the banks of the river Conwy, adored by the creatures and plants of his home.

‘Obey your orders legionnaire,’ said Druffus.

‘I’m not going to do that run. And you are not going to put me on latrine duty.’

In the silence that followed, Arthyr could see that Druffus was searching hard for a means of regaining his authority. And after a shake of his head, the tribune looked up with a sneer. ‘She only has fifteen more months as legate. And then, barbarian, you’ll suffer fustuarium.’[1]

The power of this threat was entirely lost, however, as Arthyr had no intention of staying in the Roman army a moment longer than required to fulfil his task. Desertion from the Roman army does take place, but nearly always ends in the capture and death of the deserter. While Druffus was used to the long reach of the Roman authorities and their particular determination to locate and punish runaways, Arthyr was not bound by the same constraints that would apply to any normal soldier. He could step into Uffen whenever he needed to and escape to remote parts of Cambria.

So the tall Sí youth only laughed at the spiteful, little Roman before strolling back to his barracks room as though without a care.

Given that everyone else, including Runa, was running around the camp, Arthyr anticipated that the room would be empty. Instead, there was a man present and it would be hard to say which of the two of them were more surprised. Arthyr saw a middle-aged, grey and portly Roman who was the least suited person to undergo military training he could imagine. The Roman, well, he was stunned by the sea-green eyes and pure, delicate features of a tall young man who looked more like a prince out of Tartarus than anyone he had previously met.

‘Gaius Flavius Norbanus,’ the elderly man bowed and Arthyr bowed back.

‘Arthyr.’

‘Forgive me, Arthyr, if this sounds rude, but are you a human or a being from Tartarus?’

‘It’s not rude. And I am not being rude when I lie down. I’ve been three nights in a cell lying on a cold stone floor. I need a nap before dinner. But before I sleep, I’ll allow you three questions. To your first, I’m a Sí, raised my whole life by humans.’

‘A Sí.’ The Roman repeated the term slowly, then smiled. ‘A denizen of Tartarus. How very interesting. What are you doing here?’

Arthyr held up two fingers. ‘I’m going to perform a task for the empress, to fulfil a vow of my people — my human community — and then go home.’

Gaius looked thoughtful and Arthyr fully expected him to ask what the task was. Instead, he said, ‘and what time do we eat?’

This amused Arthyr. ‘In about two hours, you’ll hear a horn blow. Then everyone will come back and after the decanus has assigned the cleaning duties, you’ll be marched off to the mess hall.’ He couldn’t resist adding another sentence before closing his eyes. ‘I, on the other hand, will be dining with the camp prefect and the legate.’

Suddenly, the Roman was on his knees at the foot of Arthyr’s bed, holding his (sore) leg. Arthyr had rarely seen a face that looked urgent and full of intent. ‘You mean Sapentia? You are going to see her? I must give you a message to take with you.’

‘Fine. Write it out. But please let me sleep now.’

There was a quality to the silence that followed, which was unique in Arthyr’s experience. He was aware that Gaius was still kneeling by the bed and was poised to ask a hundred questions. Yet the newcomer managed to remove his arms and hold his tongue, doing as Arthyr asked and allowing him to lie down. It was impossible for Arthyr to say whether Gaius waited for long after this, mastering what must have been a very great temptation to ask further questions of Arthyr. For in the tense silence that followed his remark, Arthyr fell asleep.

[1] The abhorrent and archaic practice of making a soldier guilty of a very serious crime against his or her own tent mates run between them as they wield clubs against the criminal. The victim is knocked to the ground and then beaten to death. The last occurrence of this practice was more than fifty years ago, when the troops who mutinied at Ancinipo were spared further punishment on carrying out fusuarium on Julia Fortita, the instigator of the revolt.