The small craft launches off of the Roman galley into the grey waters of the North Sea. The morning has broken with a smear of red across the sky, but dark clouds hang ominously to the west. As soon as the sea air punctures his nose, he knows...he is home.

Inside the small craft, Culann of the Brigantes, once proud Brehyrion - philosopher-king - of his people, breathes deeply. It is an aroma that has not caressed his senses in almost two years. If he knew how to cry, he would be in tears.

Also in the tiny vessel is a tall, regal woman dressed in a simple, yet elegant stola. She shivers slightly at the morning chill. Having grown up in Rome, she is accustomed to a warmer clime. She looks miserable. Beside her is a Roman soldier, a legionnaire of not more than twenty winters.

The steersman maneuvers the craft through the icy waves until at long last, a rocky shoreline comes into view. The huge man's fingers grip the sides of the boat until his gnarled knuckles turn white. He is otherwise expressionless. Within a half hour, the craft touches shore, and the three passengers disembark upon Britannic soil.

Culann leaps out of the boat, and falls to his knees heavily, gripping the earth between his scarred fingers, turning it over in his hands again and again. He takes a huge handful and touches it to his ruddy cheek. The cool, moist feeling comforts him greatly, and the smell is intoxicating. He breathes heavily, and a small bit of moisture comes to his eyes.

From behind him, a feminine hand touches his shoulder gently. A woman's sugar-coated voice, speaking perfect Latin, asks the man:

It is good to be home, Culann?

Culann stands to his full six and a half feet. He is wearing a sea-soaked toga that used to be white, but has turned a milky grey after the sea voyage. He rips the material from his body, leaving only a loincloth over his masculinity. He reaches down and unlaces the sandals on his feet, kicking them free. He tosses both the toga and sandals back into the sea, as if trying to throw them all the way back to the Great Whore itself. Standing and facing the west, where the great city of Ebraic awaits him, he answers the woman named Cornellia:

You will never know.

Culann turns to the woman, and for the briefest of moments, smiles. It is a mirthless grin, more like a wolf baring its teeth. Over the last two years, she has learned how to read this man and his seemingly invisible emotions, but she has never seen the wild look in his eyes right now. She swallows hard and immediately regains her placid composure.

The young soldier behind them shoulders the woman's burden of luggage, and states flatly,

We'd better get moving. Ebraic is two day's journey from here, if my memory serves. It's been two years since I was in this desolate place. Besides, Governor Agricola is supposed to have transportation waiting for us in the lands of the Coritani.

Culann turns to the soldier, a maniacal glint in his piercing eyes. He says nothing with his mouth, but his statement is plain enough. The soldier simply casts his eyes downward and begins walking.

More than half the day had passed before they stopped for a midday meal. The breakfast of dried fish on the boat had worn thin, and all three were starving. Culann alone did not want to stop, even to eat. Home was too close. But, these people he was with...especially the soldier! A Brigantes warrior would never stop when his destination was so close. But this woman...

Even though she came from a noble house and had lived a relatively pampered life, her spirit greatly impressed the Celt. Traversing northern Britannia on foot was no mean feat, yet this woman, for her sheltered life, could have been born here. If she felt discomfort or was having a hard time of it, one would never know it. Culann thought to himself that the woman could as well have been born combrogi - a Celt.

After the meal they ambled on, and finally reached the outskirts of the lands of a tribe of Coritani, known as terrific warriors and wonderful poets. They had long been a part of the Brigantes Confederacy, and were loyal to Ebraic. They, perhaps most of all, resisted the Roman invasion. Plus, they always served as a buffer between the Brigantes and the war-like, Roman-loving Catuvellauni to the south.

The trio moved on, until finally they came upon a natural crossroads that had been turned into a small fortified outpost by the Romans. A Banner hung on a pole, with a "XX" mark on it. It was shredded and looked as if it had been burnt. The trio looked at each other warily. Culann felt a fight coming on. his years of campaigning had honed his senses like an animal's. It was then that he noticed the corpses...

Strewn about the ground, and hastily pulled into the bushes off the side of the makeshift road, were bodies of men and horses. Heads had been taken from some, limbs from others. Culann's testicles tightened...something was very wrong. The Roman soldier began to speak...

What happened here? This was a Roman outpost, where the twentieth legion was to escort us to Ebraic! This is an outra-

The man's words are cut short as a leaf-shaped spearhead plunges out of his chest. Gore sprays out and spatters Cornellia's stola, but she does not scream. Another spear narrowly misses her head, and grazes Culann's shoulder. It draws a bit of blood. That's all he needs...

Running crazily towards the direction the spears came from, Culann is met head-on by two warriors. Each is woaded and limewashed, and carry tow more barbed javelins apiece. Instinctively, Culann reches for his belt...only to find...he is not wearing one. Weaponless, he charges anyway.

Intercepting the first man, Culann's shovel-sized hand wraps arund the man's throat, and he is lifted a good three feet off the ground. The bigger man, Culann, uses the man's own momentum, turns, and slams him to the ground with a sickening thud. It is obvious from the way he lands that his neck has been broken...

Like a wild boar, the other man is upon him. He slashes at Culann with his spear, but Culann simply waits for him to close. Making a fatal mistake, the warrior charges Culann. Sidestepping with grace belying his size, Culann grabs the man's arm on the way by, jerking the other warrior from his feet. With a gut-twisting wrench, the man's arm pops free from its mooring, snapping almost off of his body. He cries in agony for a second, and draws the short iron sword fom his belt with his good hand.

Culann balls up his fist and strikes out like a viper, catching the man just underneath his nose. The warrior staggers a moment, blood pouring out of his mouth and nose, and falls like a sack of grain to the ground. He turns to his companion and says in perfect Latin,

Welcome to Britannia. Welcome home.