CHAPTER ONE

       Marius knew if the Romans saw him, he was dead. He could feel the horse strain under his thighs as the animal's head split the air in front of them, the roar of the wind mingling with the pounding of his heart and the rumble of the hooves against the forest floor. The wound on his shoulder throbbed and blood flowed down his arm, spattering behind him to stain the horse's rump. A grim thought flashed through his mind as he tightened his grip on the reins and bowed his head low over the animal's neck; the only thing I would regret is not holding Delia again. It made him dig his heels into Brutus ruthlessly and force him to move faster. Marius would make it up to the horse later-if he survived.
     The forest was a blur around him, brown, green, branches growing like twisted mirages charging at him out of the foggy morning. He dodged them, sometimes successfully, sometimes not-his head and good shoulder ached where they caught him. The movement of the horse's massive leg muscles against his own was deadening his thighs, making it difficult to manipulate the beast, but Brutus knew his master well and needed little guidance. Marius missed his centurion armor, his leggings, the other Roman accoutrements he had worn for over twenty-five years, but the Celtic leather rigging gave him more freedom to manage the animal. He was slowly getting used to being a civilian-very slowly.
     Risking a glance over his shoulder, Marius saw nothing but the trees receding behind him. The sound of jangling Roman horse tack, the shout of Latin curses, and the frustrated bellow of General Suetonius had also faded. If he was lucky, the searching soldiers had continued to follow him well into the woods, giving the refugees a chance to escape the blades or manacles of the governor's wrath.
     Marius, Kuna's century, and Evyn had found the Bretons starving in the woods just outside Londinium and had spent the last two days organizing them for the secret trip to Hillfort. He and Delia had been receiving refugees for months now. It was always difficult moving groups of people without detection and took much more planning than he was used to; his old duties as centurion never entailed this amount of covert management. There was nothing subtle about Roman tactics. He had to learn how to do things quietly, quickly, and without detection. Delia, her cousin Evyn, and several of the other Bretons had taught him a great deal about this type of fighting, just as he had taught them about planning, organization, and delegation. Because of this, after several successful excursions, he and his people were getting very good at moving the beleaguered masses. They had moved nearly a thousand people to safety and gotten them settled on the farmlands and villages around Britannia.
     But this time Marius had misjudged his old friend and now governor of Britannia, something you usually didn't do twice. When he had given the lead man final instructions, news reached them that Suetonius and his men were charging down the road. Fortunately, they were prepared. Aelius gave the signal, and everyone had scattered as drilled. Once Marius saw the Bretons move into the trees, he had made sure the Romans saw his masked face and then led them into the woods, certain they would follow. The only mishap was the javelin that had grazed his arm, leaving a deep and painful cut.
     Marius knew Suetonius could only guess who was leading these people, helping the fugitives, and becoming a symbol of hope where the general was trying to build fear. Marius knew the general very well. All Suetonius would know was that he wanted this man...wanted him so much he would risk anything to get him; his men, his mission, whatever got in his way. Marius was counting on that and had been for the last six months.
     The legend had grown to phenomenal proportions. They were calling him liberatio mysticus, the secret deliverer. The rumors were rampant, spreading from camp to camp until the commanders couldn't contain them any longer. Most soldiers thought this man must be a great Celtic warrior or king, but Marius had also heard rumors of a vengeful ghost who came to steal the Bretons and whisk them away to a hiding place among the halls of the gods. Suetonius would know it was a flesh and blood man; a man whose blood could be spilled. Marius had slipped through his fingers so many times the reward for his head had quadrupled in the last two weeks.