‘Enough, Emma! Abbey, get the lights!’
‘Sure thing, Mr Lovell.’
I let out a groan. Charles Lovell – it had to be him!
Blinding white lights flicker on through the room. The first thing I see is her eyes, the left one green and the right one blue.
‘Hi there,’ she says, with a smile on her lips.
She is roughly my age, or at most a year or two older, and her purple and red hair is instantly recognisable. She is the girl on the bike. The one who I now understand has been following me.
‘Emma, please let our guest stand.’
She does as instructed but can’t resist blowing me a mocking kiss.
It takes me a moment or two to take my eyes from her – I don’t trust she won’t come back and lump me, but when I do, I see that the area around me is far bigger than I first thought. Transparent panels separate sections of what looks more like a vast warehouse. There are glass cabinets as far as the eye can see.
‘Most people prefer the tour but, as we know, the Hunter brothers are not like most people.’
‘Where is my brother?’ I stand and dust myself off.
‘Mr Hunter, I promise you we had nothing to do with Matthew’s disappearance,’ Charles says, pacing towards me with his walking cane. ‘We spent days searching for him before you reached the loch.’
‘Then why did you pull the search teams out?’ I demand.
‘To see how you performed in the caverns,’ he says. ‘I was curious to see what your next actions would be. Did you really think you managed to steal Matthew’s journal without me noticing?’
‘Damn,’ I whisper, disappointed.
‘We did not expect you to run into… company down there. You proved us all wrong in finding the tombs.’
‘How do you know I found the tombs?’
‘The gladius. You certainly are Matthew’s brother,’ Charles says.
I snort derisively.
‘Will you stop for a moment and hear me out,’ Charles asks. ‘If you do not like what I tell you, then you are free to leave.’
‘Fine.’
Charles looks back over his shoulder and summons, ‘Dave.’
My initial attacker steps forward, grinning. ‘Dave Conway,’ he says, reaching out a hand. ‘We’ve already met.’
I recognise him. He’s the man who took me from the crash. Dave, that was the name mentioned in Matt’s journal.
‘You knocked me off my bike,’ I accuse.
‘No, kid. That was whoever took Matt,’ he says. ‘They chased you from the tombs and ran you off the road.’
My attention turns to the girl with the crazy hair. ‘You were there on that motorcycle. I saw you at the petrol station near Hadrian’s Wall! You’ve been following me!’
‘And at the loch, the night before you stole that boat,’ she says, taunting me.
‘Borrowed,’ I correct her. ‘Why were you following me? Why did you bring me here?’
‘For the same reason those men chased you from the tombs,’ Charles says. ‘Matthew’s journal.’
‘Where is it?’ I ask. ‘The journal, where is it?’
‘We’ll show you,’ Charles says. ‘We just need you to listen to us. Help us and we’ll find Matthew.’
‘Where am I?’ I ask.
‘H.Q. The place your brother worked as part of our team,’ he says proudly.
‘That doesn’t answer my question. Where am I?’
‘Take a look around you. Where do you think you are?’
I cast my eyes around the vast room again, finally getting a proper look at the glass cabinets. Those nearest contain full sets of medieval armour, dinosaur bones, Ming dynasty pieces, and even mummies, perfectly preserved within their sarcophaguses. Past them are dozens of vehicles of all different ages; planes, tanks, cars, and motorcycles, even a rocket or two. Most prominent among them is the ship, vast sails, wooden hull, a dozen cannons on each side with a skull and crossbones flag at its rear. I can barely believe my eyes. It’s an actual pirate ship. Beyond that is another ship, smaller, but just as impressive, a Viking longship with its dragon head mounted on the bow.
‘I thought this was a training camp, military or something from the other floors but this… this looks more like a museum.’
‘The museum,’ Charles corrects me. ‘The British Museum, London. These are the hidden archives. This is just the tip of the iceberg.’
A curious smile grows across my lips.
12
CENTURION MARCUS AURELIUS—Rome
It takes more days than I can remember to cross Gallia and more still until we finally see Rome on the horizon. We travel by foot, cart, and horse. The coin of the legatus barely covers the expense but it is far quicker than if we march the entire journey. Two men are lost, one to fever and the other to drink, falling in a river as the world spun around him one night. To our credit, not one man deserts, despite the hardships.
Finally, after so much toil, my home is in sight, the distance between Lucilla and me the shortest it has been for many years. She is in the village just beyond the city, less than half day’s march. I would see it shorter still, but duty first.
The Campus Martius is our destination, just outside the city itself, close to the waters of the Tiber. Named after Mars God of War, the camp is the training ground, where new legions are forged and boys turned into soldiers. It is where I trained under the tutelage of Acer and the legatus before our campaigns began in Gaul and the cursed lands of Britannia.
As we, the battered last of the Legio IX Hispana, approach, we see within the grounds hundreds of enlisted recruits training with spear, gladius, and shield; lifting weapons far heavier than those they would carry into battle to build strength in their weak arms. They wrestle, swim, and march, their doctore trainers barking orders every waking moment in preparation for when they will march from Rome as legion under their Eagle. I see dozens of standards, one for every legion, planted before the command buildings. Eagles shine brightly in the sun.
‘Clear off, boy, I can’t be dealing with you lot today,’ a gruff sentry of advanced years mutters as we approach the gates.
‘Is that any way to address a centurion, Legionary?’ I ask, tone dead serious.
‘You? Centurion? You’re nothing but a whelp,’ he sneers in annoyance.
‘Centurion Marcus Aurelius of the Legio IX Hispana, reporting to the commanders of Campus Martius,’ I state. My men draw down their arms and stand with backs straight at attention in perfect ranks. We may appear as beggars but we are Roman soldiers at heart and soul.
‘We had heard the Legio IX Hispana was utterly destroyed in Britannia,’ the sentry says with disbelief.
‘Not all of us,’ I state, raising my forearm to his gaze; the brand of H IX clear. It’s branded into the arm of the entire legion.
‘By the gods,’ he says aghast before hurriedly calling for the legatus to be summoned. ‘Apologies. Apologies.’
We are guided to the command buildings, and within moments of arrival, not one but four legatus stand around me, each demanding explanation as to what happened to the Legio IX Hispana. I answer all I can but that does not stop them from asking me the same questions again and again. My men are dismissed, all seeking food, wine and rest, except Optio Acer, who stands loyally at my side.
At noon we are presented with nourishment before another flurry of activity engulfs us. Acer and I are given fresh clothes, armour, weapons, and scented oils to cover the stench of travel – there’s been no time to bathe as horses are summoned and we are escorted towards the city by armed praetorian guards; the emperor’s own bodyguard. There is a knot of fear in my stomach. There is a sense that we are somehow guilty of a crime.
As night falls, we enter the city of Rome. The streets stink of excrement and there’s not one soul to be seen but those of the emperor’s guard. We see dozens of crosses bearing ruined remains of men and women, their chests mutilated and scarred by the V of Vespasian. Our escort does not ta
lk until we reach the very steps of the senate. There we dismount and are stripped of our weapons.
‘You are not permitted to carry them in his presence,’ we are told. Acer offers a natural resistance until I order him to relinquish his blade. I hand mine over and feel strange, as if I am parted from a limb.
‘Bow in his presence and do not rise until given permission,’ the praetorian prefect, orders. He is tall, strong with hardened face, scarred by war. His armour is perfectly polished, without a single blemish or mark, his gaze and commanding voice enough to draw respect and fear from many. I care neither for his words nor his damning eyes, eager to get this over with and seek out my wife.
‘Do not speak unless questioned, and say nothing that will anger him unless you wish to have your head parted from your neck, or to join those upon the crosses.’
‘As ordered, Sir,’ I manage to say. Acer repeats my words but with a voice less steady. The prefect fixes me with one last judging stare before guiding us on.
We are taken into the marbled halls of the Curia Julia, the house of the senate, where senators, consuls and praetors gather, where the rulers of Rome preside. Praetorian guards wait studiously. The hall is lit by the flame of torches. In the very centre, waiting patiently on his throne, is the power of the empire. Acer and I bow before him, my heart thundering in my chest.
‘You are granted audience with Flavius Caesar Vespasian,’ the voice of the praetorian prefect booms. ‘I present Centurion Marcus Aurelius and Optio Acer Xarox of the Legio IX Hispana.’
‘Heroes of Rome,’ Emperor Vespasian announces, rising from his seat and clapping three times. ‘Rise and stand before me so as I can judge you as such.’
Slowly, we rise to stand and I see for the very first time the Emperor of Rome, gold laurel wreath upon head. There is strength to him carved in the features of life spent as soldier before ruler. Two scars line his face; tokens of battles fought and won. There is no weakness, despite an advance of years and thinning, white hair. There is intensity to his eyes as they narrow upon us. He is judging our worth.
‘I see the spirit of the legion within you,’ he says, inspecting Acer. ‘And you, Centurion Aurelius – for one so young to hold such rank. Tell me, how many years of age are you?’
‘Sixteen,’ I stumble my reply.
‘Centurion and hero of the empire already,’ he says proudly. ‘Word reaches me that you have returned from Britannia. I too served on those isles when I was but legatus with the Legio II Augusta. I fear you have a tale to tell that far outshines mine. Tell it and fill my ears and soul with your glories.’
Acer merely looks to me, struck dumb in the face of the highest authority in the world. It is not his place to speak anyway; it is mine. I take a deep breath, calming before speaking.
‘As were your orders, Emperor, the Legio IX Hispana, under the command of Legatus Antonius Thadian, marched north into Caledonia in pursuit of the tribes that were harassing our garrisons. Many loyal tribes allied their strength with ours in the march. Three other legions were ordered to support but never appeared.’
‘Heads will be severed for such treacherous dereliction of duty. Orders were written by my own hand, and yet you report they were ignored. It pleases me to know that at least one of my legions acted with honour. I assume this is why you did not report to the garrisons in Britannia and instead chose to return to Rome?’
‘It is, Emperor,’ I state, utterly uncertain of how he will react to this. ‘Apologies if this action is unacceptable.’
‘No, Centurion. You acted as I would,’ he says, patting me roughly on the shoulder of my armour. ‘Continue your tale. Tell me of when you clashed swords with those barbarous northern Britons.’
‘When battle started, all but two of the tribes we thought our allies, turned on us, stabbing blades into our backs. Many of our brothers fell in those first hellish moments. We were surrounded and vastly outnumbered.’
‘How many of the enemy faced the legion?’
‘Fifteen thousand, maybe twenty thousand,’ I pause. I’m flustered. I don’t want to lie by error and upset the emperor. I shake my head. ‘Apologies. It was difficult to tell, such was the chaos and confusion.’
‘Take your time, Centurion. Explain it all as thoroughly as you can.’
‘Our lines were formed, impenetrable but for those who betrayed us. Order was lost, but not through fault of the legatus. He stood and fought to the last, giving his life in honour of Rome.’
‘I am sure he did.’ His tone is too cold for my liking, but I continue.
‘We slew hundreds, thousands, but the enemy was endless. Onwards they came, like demons spawned of hell. Savage and ghastly, even women among their number, hacking and slashing with minds lost to madness; they were crazed fiends.’
‘And as ferocious as the men,’ the emperor agrees. ‘I remember the horrors of Britannia well. Continue.’
‘We fought and died on that hilltop. When there were but a few hundred of us left, we fell back into order, ready for one final stand in honour of Rome and those who had fallen. Surrender was never a choice.’
‘It makes my heart swell to hear such. What miracle transpired to deliver you both to safety?’
That word, miracle. He knows. I can see it in his eyes. There is a certainty and expectation unlike any I have seen before. I feel Acer’s eyes on me, both of us dreading this moment, just as we had when telling the tale to the commanders of Campus Martius.
He is the emperor. I must trust him.
‘Legatus Thadian was struck down and then …’ I say, struggling with my words, the memory of my commander’s death, and what followed is still haunting me.
‘And then what?’ the emperor barks. ‘THEN WHAT?’
‘He called for the Eagle, the Aquila…’ I say, remembering the formal name rarely used by men in the ranks.
‘And? AND?’
‘With his dying breath he raised it high…’
‘AND THEN WHAT? DAMN YOU!’ he screams at me, face crimson, hands trembling.
‘The clouds above parted, piercing light striking down from the heavens to engulf the Eagle.’
‘The gods reached out to you,’ he whispers as he breathes heavily, a smile growing across his lips. ‘What of our enemies?’
‘Blinded,’ I state. I’m still in disbelief, despite seeing it for myself. ‘Their eyes were burned from their skulls, and yet not one single Roman was harmed, nor those few Britons who remained loyal. When the light ceased, all who sought to destroy us were blind. Then we saw the legatus and all our dead standing with us. Their souls had returned to that hilltop to save the legion. In frenzy, we slaughtered our foes’.
‘The gods and your fallen brothers saved you, young centurion,’ the emperor states proudly. ‘Tell me, how many of the Legio IX Hispana still march?’
‘Twenty-six,’ I reply quickly. My words are not a complete lie.
‘Chosen by the gods and saved,’ he says, smile growing larger still. ‘You are chosen, you few of so many who perished. I stand in awe of you, heroes of Rome. You shall be decorated and triumph held in your honour.’
‘And all who fell,’ I add, though instantly regret my words as he turns on me with sharp fury that thankfully breaks down into an almost sincere smile.
‘Of course, to the legatus and all the brave warriors of Legio IX Hispana who gave their lives defeating Rome’s enemies. All of you have done us a great honour. I will see you both elevated to ranks more befitting of such noble warriors. But first, before we call an end to this night, I must ask to see this bird touched by the gods themselves. Present me the Aquila. Give me the Legio IX Hispana’s Eagle.’
‘Apologies, Emperor. I do not have it.’
‘You do not have it?’ he asks in a mocking tone before shouting, ‘YOU DO NOT HAVE IT!’
I see it then, the vileness and evil behind it all. I was warned, on the ship from Britannia, on the roads through Gallia, and at the very gates of Rome itself. Our emperor is truly a
tyrant.
‘WHERE IS THE DAMNED EAGLE?’ he screams.
The praetorian guard is advancing on us with their swords drawn.
‘WHERE IS THE POWER OF THE GODS? WITH IT I CAN PURGE THE MUCK AND FILTH OF THIS ONCE GREAT EMPIRE UNTIL ONLY PURITY REMAINS!’ He is so angry that spit is foaming on his lips. He is mad. Mad and dangerous.
‘It was lost on the battlefield,’ I hurry to say. ‘It was destroyed.’ I feel Acer’s eyes. He is alarmed at the lies but I have no choice. I cannot let the Eagle fall into the hands of this madman.
‘You lost a gift bestowed from the gods?’ he asks, voice low, barely more than a whisper. ‘WHERE IS THE EAGLE?’ he yells again.
‘Destroyed by the very gods that saved us, shattered into a thousand pieces,’ Acer attests, speaking his first words in attempt to stem the emperor’s wrath.
‘No! I do not believe it.’ His fury continues to rage. ‘You lost the Eagle and your honour. The Legio IX Hispana’s shame survives only through those who yet live, and as such, I shall see it torn from sight, existence, and memory. The Legio IX Hispana shall be struck from the lists, eradicated from history, its honour and glories lost, forever forgotten – just as you will be. You are no one now.’
‘No, Emperor. It was not so. You’re mistaken…’
He strikes me hard across the face with a speed and strength I did not credit him with possessing. The taste of blood is quickly on my lips.
‘You dare speak to me as such! I will see you crucified, boy!’
‘Emperor, please…’ I try to stop him but it is too late; the praetorians are already closing in.
‘No!’ Emperor Vespasian yells at me, stepping back to let the guards pass him and face us. ‘You men are all that remains of your shame. You abandoned your legion and the garrison in Britannia. You will be an example to all foolish enough to think of deserting their posts. The rest of your men, those at Campus Martius, will be crucified as deserters, traitors, and cowards.’
Hiding the Eagle was the only right choice in all of this madness, even if it has damned my brothers and me to the afterlife.
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