Written by Jacob A. SanSoucie
The sun hung low over the Danuvius River as Quintus Valerius Rufus crouched in the underbrush, his scarred hand pressed against the mouth of a wide-eyed Celtic boy no older than twelve. The lad had nearly stumbled directly into the German patrol that now passed less than twenty paces from their hiding place.
"Breathe through your nose," Quintus whispered, his Latin useless to the boy but his tone conveying enough. "Slow and quiet, like a deer."
The Germans—six warriors with matted beards and iron spears—spoke in low guttural tones. Their leather armor creaked as they moved, scanning the forest with predatory efficiency. These were no undisciplined barbarians; these were men who had studied Roman tactics, perhaps even fought alongside the legions as auxiliaries before returning to their tribes with dangerous knowledge.
Quintus felt the weight of the eagle standard strapped across his back, its golden wings wrapped in cloth to prevent any betraying gleam. Three days ago, the Nineteenth Legion had ceased to exist, ambushed in a narrow valley by a coalition of Germanic tribes. As centurion of the First Century, Quintus had one sacred duty: ensure the eagle did not fall into enemy hands.
The German patrol passed, disappearing into the thickening twilight. The boy remained rigid beneath Quintus's grip.
"I won't hurt you," Quintus said, releasing him carefully. The boy scrambled back, eyes darting between Quintus's face and the cloth-wrapped bundle on his back.
"Aquila," the boy said suddenly, making a flapping motion with his hands. "Eagle."
Quintus stiffened. "You understand Latin?"
The boy touched his ear, then pointed west. "Mercator," he said. "Trader." He held up three fingers. "Three summers. I listen."
A cold calculation formed in Quintus's mind. He was still two days from the Roman fort at Mogontiacum—if it still stood. His wound was festering; he could feel the heat radiating from his thigh where a German axe had bitten deep. Without help, the eagle would never reach Roman hands.
"Boy," he said, speaking slowly. "I need to reach my people." He pointed west. "Romans. Soldiers."
The boy's face remained impassive.
"Help me," Quintus continued, "and Rome rewards." He removed a gold aureus from his belt pouch—a month's wages for a legionary. The coin gleamed even in the fading light.
The boy ignored the gold. Instead, he reached out hesitantly toward the wrapped bundle.
"Aquila," he repeated, something like reverence in his voice. "My father. Germans kill. Take our home."
Understanding dawned. This was no simple Celtic child but the son of a frontier family, likely settlers who had established themselves under the protection of Roman arms—protection that had failed when the Nineteenth Legion was shattered.
The boy pointed to himself. "Marcus."
A Roman name. Quintus felt a sudden kinship with this half-wild child of the borderlands.
"Marcus," he acknowledged. "I am Quintus."
The boy nodded, then pointed west and made a series of gestures that Quintus interpreted as describing a hidden path. The centurion's soldier mind quickly assessed his options: trust this child or die alone in hostile territory.
"Lead," Quintus commanded, rising painfully to his feet. "And if you betray me—" He left the threat unspoken.
Marcus simply turned and moved into the forest with the silent confidence of one born to its shadows. Quintus followed, one hand on his gladius, the other steadying the precious burden on his back.
Behind them, a German horn echoed through the gathering darkness, answered by another, closer call. The hunt was intensifying.
The eagle would fly west this night, carried by a dying Roman and a boy with two names, pursued by warriors who understood all too well its significance. By dawn, they would reach safety—or join the Nineteenth Legion in oblivion.