Description:

THE LAST FREE MEN is the story of Marcus Gettorix, son of a Roman general and a British woman living in the northwest frontier of Rome’s mighty empire (modern-day Scotland). The Roman Army is determined to consolidate its grip on the British Isles, but the native peoples are rallied into constant rebellion by the Druids.

The Romans rely on scouts who dress and speak as the native peoples for intelligence, and Marcus has been trained for this role. While acting undercover he is rendered unconscious during a battle and is captured. His commandant is dead, leaving no one to attest that he is actually a Roman soldier. He is sentenced to work in the mines with the rest of the prisoners.

Quick to take advantage, the Druids use Marcus as a figurehead and fan the flames of resentment into an insurrection that joins British and Scottish tribes against the Romans. Now allied with the Druids, Marcus lures the ambitious Roman general in charge of the Ninth Legion into a deadly trap destined to create one of history’s greatest mysteries.

Excerpt:

"Prepare to die,” cried Uffin Gettorix, having finally shed the Roman Marcus from his name. He brandished the sword.

They leaped from the concealing rocks; the largest and the scruffiest was clad in a filthy brown tunic and leggings, a single lock of yellow-white hair hung amongst the tangle of dirty brown.

“Listen to him, lads,” said the leader of the brigands. “Prepare to die, says he and we’re the best three fighters in the Lunnif Hills,” he chuckled to his two henchmen, smaller and more tattered versions of himself.

“What is it you want?”

“Not much,” laughed the other. “Your horses, your clothes, that fine shield hanging at your side.” He put his foot on a rock and leaned forward, his forearm across his knee. “Maybe I’ll even take your lives, or maybe I won’t.”

Uffin smiled a thin lipped smile and felt goose bumps rise all over his body. He gripped the sword a little more tightly. “What tribe are you? All the tribes have pledged to the High Druids that they will offer no hindrance to us. Surely you know that I’m the Lord Uffin.”

Uffin’s pronouncement was met with silence, a silence that was broken by one of the brigands sniggering.

“Tribe? Why, we are a tribe of three, Lord Uffin. This is our land you are crossing.” He swept his sword around. “We demand the proper taxes.”

Uffin tightened his feet under the horse’s belly and urged it forward, the sword came up ready to parry or wound.

The three would-be robbers were taken off guard; the sword rose, swung, fell and rose again to chop downward. The nearer of the thieves lost an arm. The second, his life by way of a huge slash across his throat. The third also forfeited his life, the final chop had opened him from neck to sternum.

Uffin turned his horse on a shield’s span and dismounted.

One was still alive. He held his left hand to the stump of his right arm, attempting to staunch the flow of bright red blood. He was a dead man; he knew it, Uffin knew it. Uffin plunged the great blade into the brigand’s chest, cutting short the last few pain-filled minutes of his life.

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