The Last Of The Legions

Pontus, the Roman viceroy, sat in the atrium of his palatial villa by the Thames, and he looked with perplexity at the scroll of papyrus which he had just unrolled. Before him stood the messenger who had brought it, a swarthy little Italian, whose black eyes were glazed with want of sleep, and his olive features darker still from dust and sweat. The viceroy was looking fixedly at him, yet he saw him not, so full was his mind of this sudden and most unexpected order. To him it seemed as if the solid earth had given way beneath his feet. His life and the work of his life had come to irremediable ruin. "Very good," he said at last in a hard dry voice, "you can go." The man saluted and staggered out of the hall. A yellow-haired British major-domo came forward for orders. "Is the General there?" "He is waiting, your excellency." "Then show him in, and leave us together." A few minutes later Licinius Crassus, the head of the British military establishment, had joined his chief. He was a large, bearded man in a white civilian toga, hemmed with the Patrician purple. His rough, bold features, burned and seamed and lined with the long African wars, were shadowed with anxiety as he looked with questioning eyes at the drawn, haggard face of the viceroy. "I fear, your excellency, that you have had bad news from Rome." "The worst, Crassus. It is all over with Britain. It is a question whether even Gaul will be held."