“Changed how?” Castor’s finger traced the line of the Wall on the map, barely glancing at the territory beyond it.
Marcus took a breath. This was the moment. He’d rehearsed this briefing a dozen times in his mind, weighing each word, anticipating objections. The Areani had been his command for eight years now, and in that time he’d built them into the finest intelligence network on the frontier. His scouts knew the lands beyond the Wall better than most Picts knew them. They spoke the languages, understood the tribal politics, could disappear into the wilderness for weeks and return with information that had saved Roman lives time and again.
But for all that, the military hierarchy still treated them like an afterthought.
“The Picts are moving, sir. Not raiding parties—armies. King Nathalan has been traveling between the tribes for months now, holding councils, making alliances. The Votadini, the Selgovae, the Novantae—tribes that have been at each other’s throats for generations are suddenly sharing campfires and swearing oaths.”
One of the tribunes, a young man with the soft hands of someone who’d never held anything heavier than a stylus, let out a dismissive snort. “The Picts are always feuding or allying. It’s what barbarians do. Next month they’ll be killing each other again.”
Marcus kept his eyes on Castor, refusing to be baited. “Normally, yes, sir. But this is different. My scouts report that Nathalan has been offering something the tribes have never had before—a common enemy and a common purpose. He’s telling them that Rome is weak, that the Wall can be breached, that the rich lands to the south are theirs for the taking.”
“Barbarian boasting,” the tribune muttered.
“Perhaps,” Marcus said, his voice hardening slightly. “But my scouts also report that Saxon ships have been spotted along the eastern coast in unprecedented numbers. Not the usual raiding parties—war fleets. And there’s been contact between Saxon leaders and Pictish emissaries. Coordination.”
That got Castor’s attention. His eyes lifted from the map. “Coordination? Between Picts and Saxons?”
“Yes, sir. And not just them. The Scotti from Hibernia have been sending warriors across the western sea. Three separate tribal groups, all traditional enemies, all suddenly moving in concert.” Marcus leaned forward, placing his finger on the map north of the Wall. “Sir, in twenty years on this frontier, I’ve never seen