Rosemary Sutcliff's The Eagle of the Ninth is the classic story of a young Roman centurion sent out to recover the infamous Ninth Legion's missing symbol of honor. Over a million copies sold worldwide, it was adapted to a major motion picture ( The Eagle ) starring Channing Tatum and Jamie Bell. The Ninth Legion marched into the mists of Northern Britain―and they were never seen again. Four thousand men disappeared and their eagle standard was lost. It's a mystery that's never been solved, until now . . . Marcus Aquila has to find out what happened to his father, who led the legion. So he sets out into the unknown, on a quest so dangerous that nobody expects him to return. “Sutcliff has a genius for the re-creation of an historical period.” ― Horn Book Reflections “An unusual blend of stirring action and poetic symbolism. Authentic in background, skillful in plot, and perceptive in characterization.” ― Booklist “Imaginatively conceived.” ― The New Yorker “Decades later, I can still hear echoes of The Eagle of the Ninth in my head: the chink of mail, the tired beat of the legionaries' feet.” ― The Independent “What a splendid story it is, compulsive reading!” ― Junior Bookshelf Rosemary Sutcliff (1920-1992) wrote dozens of books for young readers, including her award-winning Roman Britain trilogy, The Eagle of the Ninth , The Silver Branch , and The Lantern Bearers , which won the Carnegie Medal. The Eagle of the Ninth is now a major motion picture, The Eagle, directed by Kevin MacDonald and starring Channing Tatum. Born in Surrey, Sutcliff spent her childhood in Malta and on various other naval bases where her father was stationed. At a young age, she contracted Still's Disease, which confined her to a wheelchair for most of her life. Shortly before her death, she was named Commander of the British Empire (CBE) one of Britain's most prestigious honors. She died in West Sussex, England, in 1992. The Eagle of the Ninth By Rosemary Sutcliff Square Fish Copyright © 2010 Rosemary Sutcliff All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312644291 I Frontier Fort From the Fosseway westward to Isca Dumnoniorum the road was simply a British trackway, broadened and roughly metalled, strengthened by corduroys of logs in the softest places, but otherwise unchanged from its old estate, as it wound among the hills, thrusting farther and farther into the wilderness. It was a busy road and saw many travellers: traders with bronze weapons and raw yellow amber in their ponies’ packs; country folk driving shaggy cattle or lean pigs from village to village; sometimes a band of tawny-haired tribesmen from farther west; strolling harpers and quack-oculists too, or a light-stepping hunter with huge wolf-hounds at his heel; and from time to time a commissariat wagon going up and down to supply the Roman frontier post. The road saw them all, and the cohorts of the Eagles for whom all other travellers must make way. There was a cohort of leather-clad auxiliaries on the road today, swinging along at the steady Legion’s pace that had brought them down from Isca Silurium at twenty miles a day; the new garrison coming to relieve the old one at Isca Dumnoniorum. On they went, following the road that now ran out on a causeway between sodden marsh and empty sky, now plunged into deep boar-hunted forest, or lifted over bleak uplands where nothing grew save furze and thorn-scrub. On with never a halt nor a change of rhythm, marching Century by Century, the sun bright on the Standard at their head, and the rolling dust-cloud kicked up over the pack-train behind. At the head of the column marched the Pilus Prior Centurion, the Cohort Commander, the pride that shone from him showing clearly that this was his first command. They were, he had long since decided, a command worthy of anyone’s pride; six hundred yellow-haired giants recruited from the tribes of Upper Gaul, with the natural fighting power of mountain cats, drilled and hammered into what he firmly believed to be the finest Auxiliary Cohort ever to serve with the Second Legion. They were a newly joined Cohort; many of the men had not yet proved themselves in action, and the spear-shaft of their Standard had no honours on it, no gilded laurel wreath nor victor’s crown. The honours were all to win—perhaps during his command. The Commander was a complete contrast to his men: Roman to his arrogant fingertips, wiry and dark as they were raw-boned and fair. The olive-skinned face under the curve of his crested helmet had not a soft line in it anywhere—a harsh face it would have been, but that it was winged with laughter lines, and between his level black brows showed a small raised scar that marked him for one who had passed the Raven Degree of Mithras. Centurion Marcus Flavius Aquila had seen little of the Eagles until a year ago. His first ten years had been lived quietly with his mother on the family farm near Clusium, while his father soldiered in Judaea, in Egypt,