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Chester was never just another Roman campsite. In the Empire's latter days it became The Castra on the Deva, the haunt of those famed Running Boars of the 20th legion. Their reputation carried into the Saxon Legecestria; the Normans knew it as the Cestre.

Chester April 1883.

The northern wall had collapsed to the West of the Northgate inside the damaged portion Roman gravestones were discovered. One stone told of a Camp Prefect, the third most important soldier in a famous legion. His epitaph two thousand years later in translation still reads. `to the spirits of the departed. Marcus Aurelius Alexander born a Syrian, camp prefect the 20th legion, lived 72 years.

Seleucia, port of Antioch. The Eastern Empire. Early Spring Ad 51.

The harbour was a hive of activity. A Bireme badly damaged in a storm a week earlier was being refloated in readiness to transport Syrian recruits towards the embrace of a Legion on some distant shore. A Liburna loaded supplies for a fast passage to Alexandria in the south while alongside a gaggle of fishing boats landed their catches.

A cooling breeze blew onto Marcus Aurelius's perspiring forehead as he paced backwards and forwards in front of the largest warehouse east of Rome. The runes foretold that his name would live on for generations. It was difficult to believe for a youth preparing to abandon his high status and run away into the Auxiliaries.

The call of the Eagles had rung in his ears since he was a child. His father Augustus could never understand that he would go mad if he picked another grape, sold another spice. It no longer mattered; that this was the land of his birth, that within sight of this jetty on the confluence of the Orantes River his grandparents had drowned.

The taste of the salt on his lips, the feel of the wind in his short auburn hair, convinced him he was right. Out there the Mare Internum provided his gateway to adventure to a new life. No wave from their Middle Sea lapped on any shore that was not Roman; not until the waves emptied onto the far side of the world beyond the twin pinnacles of Hercules in the great expanse of the Oceanus did they escape Rome's domination.

Oceanus was a sea of mystery inhabited by Gods and evil spirits that even his magisters could hardly dare contemplate. Somewhere in those vast wastes lay Britannicus that heathen land that the God Claudius had ordered brought into the fold. The gossips around the baths muttered about dank forest; rugged mountains and swamp where all it did was rain even in high summer, of their priesthood the Druids that dressed in nothing but blue dye as they tore out the hearts of their victims while alive.

It was a Roman duty to civilise barbarians. Living on the fringes of Empire Marcus understood those politics well enough. It was only the might of the legions that kept them all safe from the restless Jews fermenting rebellion in the south and the Parthian hoard in Mesopotamia a few miles away to the East.

The legions in Britannicus had not completed their task after nine years of occupation. Might his superiors post him there? Or might he be sent to the Germanic frontier on the Rhenus that land of forests with giants behind every tree? It was time to take the salt.

Britannicus western edge of the known world. Early Spring ad 51.

An invading Roman army had occupied the lowland south and east for many a year. It was whispered on the wind that the Druids on Mona had received envoys last week.

Latin trade was expected to increase tenfold this summer. Few of the chiefs on the great hill forts of the Cornovii understood that by allowing a free movement of goods their way of life could be threatened; few of the priests, in a religion that had held sway for a thousand years suspected their days were numbered.

In the high hills of the west life had not changed for generations. A band of Celts following the ancient way towards the river crossing emerged from under the forest canopy. Sprigs of spring fauna lined many a shaded bank to lighten a weary eye. The smell of new grass filled the nostrils with the scent of rebirth. It should have been a time for optimism it was not.

The leading rider ignored the rutted track that lead to the ford instead she crossed a narrow ravine that made the ridge ending almost an island at high tide. In the distance to the west tidal marshland marked the route to the ocean. A straight breadth of water beneath turned on the peninsula before a succession of meandering corners heading southeast became a slither of blue that blended with the greens on the horizon.

The Celt, a maiden close to puberty; placed two fingers to her lips; with left arm aloft palm open Princess Deva saluted the river Goddess. The river deity duly honoured she rode back onto the broader plateau.

The ridge sheltered her from the cool westerly breeze that blew in from the ocean as her mount descended the steep slope towards the fast flowing torrent. A backward glance, towards Yon her father, confirmed she had the honour of fording first. Deva studied the movement of the tide, remembering her lessons.

A kaleidoscope of colourful woollen and leather clothing was placed in the satchel that hung on the pony's right hand side. The blueness of the woad glistening on her forehead highlighted a mass of fair hair that blew in the wind. Swirling tattoos adorned a torso displaying the early signs of her full adult potential.

Gar her elder brother, the last of the three riders rode alongside the older man. "Da! You are allowing Deva to merge with the Goddess first?"

"Aye lad, she's almost grown. Let her shows us what she's learnt".

"The spring watermarks are high again this year. Suppose the Goddess drowns her?"

"The shamans tell us she is born in her likeness. Why would the water spirit claim her now before she's grown?"

"She rides well enough I suppose," her brother muttered.

"No warrior rides better. None can throw a dart straighter you know that," Yon replied with pride and a hint of humour. A young warrior even a brother did not thank any elder reminding him of such skill from a sister.

Gar shrugged "beauty and pride comes before a fall you know the saying da?"

"True, true, she's a blessing if not a worry I admit. Look there she goes into the torrent".

The two males watched her with critical interest. "That stallion has a mind of its own. He'll not have it, see how he snorts".

"None has a stronger will than hers. She'll make him go," Yon replied a wry smile on his moustached features.

The river was on the turn, the current difficult to read. Some might have said it was safer to wait. Deva knew better forcing her mount into the torrent. The stallion brought up his head in apprehension instinctively she knew what he is about. A hard cruel heel onto his belly forced him to obey. The reins may have been slack but the animal understood firm hands were very much in control.

The stallion waded gingerly into the slipstream. There was never a need to slip her mount. With a satisfied squeal Deva allowed the cool water to engulf her athletic body. A small hand grasped the leathers to allow the animal to pull her across nearer the far bank she remounted.

A wily boar pushed his long snout through the undergrowth to smell the danger on the wind. His timing was far from opportune, his eyesight not keen. A javelin came to hand in a single sleek movement; launched with that cool distain of the natural born huntress. His piercing squeal was not dissimilar to that of a small child. The boar charged only to collapse after a few paces his lungs flooding with blood. The death rattle echoed above the sound of the rushing tide to alert the other riders to his final torment.

The Devas will become the darlings of all Running Boars but not on this day.