Queen of the Night

enough to boast about before the camp fires? All around him milled his men. One, already drunk from the posca, had fixed the severed head of the Roman on the end of a pole, the jagged neck still wet with blood, the eyes half closed, the mouth red and gaping. Another had castrated the man, displaying the severed testicles on the point of a spear.
    The chieftain remained still. He was confused. He'd expected to find the Golden Maid but there was nothing except that solitary Roman. Was he an officer? A sick soldier left by his comrades? Had the Romani left because of their own dissensions? But why were the torches, oil lamps and beacon glowing? He hesitated too long; his warriors were already moving, swinging open the gates facing south. Like a turbulent river eager to break free from an obstacle, the Picti streamed across the heathland south of the wall. The chieftain, beckoning his son to join him, had no choice but to follow. The cold night air swirled around them, chilling their sweat. They could already glimpse pinpricks of light beckoning them on to villas and farmsteads where they might find women, plunder, horses and other riches.
    The war party fanned out across gorse, the long grass bending under the strong night breeze. The moon had broken free of the clouds; the sky was star-lit and clear. They hurried forward like a wolf pack eager for the kill. Their chieftain was moving to the front when he heard the clink of chain, the creak of harness, the neigh of a horse. He froze stock-still like a hunting dog, eyes peering through the darkness. Shapes were approaching, horsemen spreading out into an arc; a number carried flaring torches. The chieftain narrowed his eyes, wiping away the lime-mingled sweat. He tried to count. Eight, maybe nine horsemen, perhaps even more, were moving slowly towards his war party of about thirty men.
    The Picti was a veteran. He might outnumber the enemy, but these were Catephracti, mailed, mounted troopers, highly disciplined and dangerous on such terrain. He screamed a warning, pointing back to the gates, and broke into a run, gesturing at his men to follow. Those quickwitted amongst his warriors had already sensed or seen the danger. Others were too drunk or confused. They only realised the ambush they had walked into when the formidable line of horsemen moved into a trot, then a full charge, the air riven by a hideous rumble of hoofs, the sounds of the night drowned by the clatter of weapons and the heart-chilling war cry of the Roman cavalry. The horsemen swept in, cloaks billowing, swords rising and falling. The tribesmen scattered. Out in the open they were doomed. If they fled towards the wall the riders would pin them against it and cut them down. They had to break free of the wall, retreat into their own territory.
    The chieftain raced back to the fort, in through the yawning gate, down the hard-paved gully to the north-facing gate, but when he and his companions reached it, they found it fastened shut, the bar nailed down. Outside echoed the screams of their dying comrades. The riders had fired the heathland by emptying small sacks of oil and throwing in torches to start a blaze. The flames roared up, illuminating the night. The Picti had little defence against such armoured men on their heavy mounts who now loosed powerful shafts from their reinforced Scythian bows. The chieftain turned away from the north gate, desperately searching for his son. He looked towards the ladder leading to the roof, but the Crested Ones were too swift. Some were already dismounting and crowding in through the other gate, bows at the ready. A few of his men tried to reach the ladder, only to be brought down by the long feathered shafts. The chieftain raised his shield and gripped his war club tighter. He recognised that his life-web had been spun to its full. The gods were ready to cut the thread. The Catephracti, hideous figures, faces almost hidden behind their mail coifs, were already pressing forward, bows pulled back. The chieftain smiled. He'd take the swan-path of glory. At least he'd possessed, if only for a short while, the Golden Maid…

Chapter 1
    Rome: August 314

    Justitia est constans et perpetua voluntas ius suum cuique tribunes.
    Justice is the constant and perpetual wish to give everyone their due.
    Justinian, Institutes

    Most people agreed that the Villa Carina, nestling in the Alban Hills above Rome, was a veritable paradise. 'Most handsome' was the worst sneering jealous