Altar of Blood

6

With the feast’s inevitable and messy degeneration from celebration to orgiastic drinking frenzy, Gernot had given the command for guards to be set on all of the tribe’s most important places. The roads in and out of the city to the south, west and north, the grain stores and the tribe’s treasury, all were to be manned by men whose lack of fortune in the traditional drawing of lots had resulted in their being excluded from the feast other than a quiet mug of beer taken out of sight of the celebrating tribesmen. Not for them the long evening and early morning of drinking that would inevitably result in most of the tribe’s warriors lapsing into insensibility and sleeping where they fell, but instead the honour of ensuring that the Bructeri’s most sensitive spots were guarded by men possessed of sharp iron and the wits to use it.

The young warrior standing guard on the treasury paced from one end of the short corridor that led from the palace quarters to the massively beamed and heavily nailed door that secured the repository of the tribe’s gold and silver, still glowing with the pride of having been given such responsibility by Gernot when there were men far better experienced and deserving of such an honour than he. On pointing out his unsuitability for the task in the face of his betters he had been heartened to hear his lord’s reply.

‘Consider this as a reward for your hard work on the training ground over the months. Other men may be better prepared, but none has worked as hard or improved as quickly. Another will stand guard tomorrow, but for tonight the honour is yours.’

Pacing up and down the long corridor his heart swelled with the pleasure of it, the pride that his father, himself a warrior in the king’s household, would be enjoying now, perhaps raising one last beaker of beer to his son’s rise in their lord’s estimation before falling into the drunken stupor that was the aim of every man present at the feast. As he reached the treasury door and started to turn, he heard a footstep behind him, and spun, swinging his spear down from its place at its shoulder to bear on whoever it was that was approaching him from behind without warning. Seeing a face not only familiar to him but revered, he lowered the weapon’s point to touch the ground as the newcomer stepped close, bowing his head deeply.

‘My-’

The knife struck once, swiftly and with all the power that the other man had at his disposal, its blade punching into his stomach and its point thrusting upwards to find his heart, stilling its rhythm with a cold, harsh kiss that sent his lifeblood spraying briefly across the corridor. Opening his mouth to speak, to ask why, he found the strength to do so absent, fled from his body with the blade’s implacable theft of his life, and slumped against the strong room’s door frame with his consciousness already absent and his life not far behind it. His killer bent over him for a moment, pulling the largely ceremonial but still completely functional key from around the dead man’s neck, opened the door and slipped inside.

‘This is the place.’ Gunda’s whisper was so quiet that Qadir had to lean close to him to make out the words. ‘Wait here. I will whistle before I rejoin, so that you don’t put an arrow in me.’

The Hamian nodded, and before he had the chance to reply the scout was gone, away down the path that led into the town below them, a track so heavily used that it was wide enough for two men to walk abreast, and utterly devoid of any hint of grass.

‘We do not want to be here after daybreak.’

The centurion nodded at Husam’s blunt statement.

‘I agree. You heard the tribune’s order, we are to leave before the sun is above the horizon.’

‘He is a wise man, and he cares about the men who serve under him. We are lucky to have come under his command.’

Qadir smiled in the darkness.

‘Lucky? As you have said yourself on more than one occasion, being under his command could soon enough prove to be our death sentence. Do you never wonder how it is that we are forever being sent to perform just one more “impossible task”? His birth, his disregard for the niceties of his situation … his protection of our friend Centurion Aquila, all calculated to make him easily disposable, should such a sacrifice be required. And in that event …’

‘We would die with no little honour. That we know. But have you forgotten your vow to the Deasura, our goddess Atargatis, three times blessed be her name?’

‘The goddess …’ Qadir sighed, and Husam frowned at his centurion’s weary tone of voice. ‘In a world where the gods are so frequently used as a loin cloth to disguise the naked evil that lives in the hearts of men, I do find myself questioning the validity of all such idols when I hear a man being tortured to death in the name of a god. And I wonder why a god, were he — or she — to exist at all, would wish for that man to die in such a degraded manner.’

The chosen man almost hissed his reply, whispering despite the lack of any audience beyond the third member of the party, a stolid man entirely trusted by both of them.

‘Do not say such a thing aloud! Do not even allow yourself to consider such a thought! Question the German gods all you like, but you doubt the existence of our Deasura at your peril!’

Qadir smiled at his friend.

‘We are among friends, Husam. None of these men is likely to censure me for the crime of being godless.’

Husam’s reply was indignant, his shock at the centurion’s admission evident in his hushed voice.

‘I care not what these Tungrians think of such a thing, but only what the Deasura herself might do were she to believe that your faith in her was lacking. You know as well as I do that she is a jealous goddess, and demands the total loyalty of her followers!’

Qadir shrugged.

‘So we are told by the priests, who instruct us in these matters from such an early age that we never think to challenge their preaching.’

‘You cannot think …’

‘That they may tell us the things they do, as to the fate of unbelievers, in order to ensure that we follow their teachings, and make our gifts to their temples. Perhaps I do.’

An uneasy silence fell over the trio, Qadir musing on his growing feeling of disassociation from the goddess he had for long venerated with every ounce of his being, while Husam puzzled as to how he was to stop his friend from voicing such terrible doubts.

‘You still recall the vow we both made to the goddess the day we joined the army, that first day when the centurions roamed our ranks with their vine sticks beating any man who gave them the faintest hint of an excuse? That we would live and die with the same honesty and cleanliness of purpose, in her sacred name?’ The chosen man snorted dark amusement. ‘And after all, given our current position, it would hardly be surprising if our time to die was close at hand, would it? Perhaps you should avoid antagonising the goddess, at least until we are once again on the safe side of the river?’

The second archer shifted his position fractionally, easing the strain on his knees. Older than both Qadir and his second in command, he was stoic by nature and perhaps the steadiest of Qadir’s men, given to saying little unless he had something to say.

‘Better to make the other man die, I would say. And better to use the sharp ears that the Deasura gave us for the purpose of detecting movement in the dark rather more, and the tongues that we are supposed to use for the purpose of communicating with our fellow men, rather than idle chatter, somewhat less.’

Both men grinned at his dour chiding, respecting his wisdom, and silently nocked arrows to their bows, settling in for a long silent wait in the forest’s darkness.

Moving with slow, exaggerated grace, Gunda eased himself into the shadow of the first house that overlooked the path, now grown in width until it was practically a road, walking slowly down its length until he reached the end of the rough-walled building. Slowly leaning forward, he carefully observed the sleeping town, remembering his maternal grandfather’s frequent admonishment against making any sudden movement while stalking a beast in the forest, a lesson that seemed equally appropriate as he gambled his life on his skills to avoid detection by the tribe’s warriors. In the absence of a father, the older man had taken on the task of educating his grandson in the skills of a hunter with a combination of straightforward instruction hammered home by straightforward punishment of any error.

‘Your eyes should dart here and there as swiftly as a rat’s, boy, but your head needs to move as slowly as a bull’s! Your eyes are more like your grandmother’s first thing in the morning, staring at nothing for moments on end, and your head’s no slower than a weasel’s when it scents rabbits!’

He grinned at the memory of the old man gripping a wooden switch, the end flicking out to sting his ears whenever his movements were anything less than slow and smooth, then pushed the memory away to focus on the present. Somewhere close by a dog was asleep, the faint whimper of its dreams priming him for flight until he realised with a flood of relief that the animal was dreaming rather than growling a warning. The potential for any faint noise to wake the animal redoubled his awareness of the peril he was courting as he slowly settled into the building’s cover and slowed his breathing, listening for any hint of the men he was expected to meet.

The faint scrape of boot leather on the hard ground caught his attention, and he sank deeper into the cover of the building’s shadow as first one shadowy figure and then another pair of men detached itself from the darkness of the forest to his left. Standing stock-still, the newcomer stared about him with a slow sweep of his head and then, satisfied that he was unobserved, started forwards, moving stealthily into the settlement’s dark streets with his escort close behind, passing within a dozen yards of the crouching scout who slowly turned his head to the wall to prevent his being betrayed by the shine of his eyeballs. Holding his breath, he waited until the other man was safely past him before exhaling slowly, watching as the dark figures vanished into the shadows. Something in the first man’s gait had pricked his memory, and he stared into the gloom into which the half-seen intruder had vanished, his lips moving with a silent expression of amazement.

‘Surely not …?’

Slipping through the darkened streets of the city, the decurion called Dolfus stood for a moment on the corner of a building overlooking the king’s great hall before gesturing to his men to stay in the shadows, then crossed the road and entered the building through a door that had been left ajar. Inside the large wooden structure he paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adapt to the almost complete absence of light.

A figure stepped out of the shadows with a bulky object in one hand and the blade of a long knife protruding from the other.

‘You’ve got balls of solid iron, Roman, to come here so brazenly.’

The man who had been waiting in the great hall’s shadows whispered the agreed challenge, then stepped forward to reveal himself to the waiting Roman. Dolfus stood stock-still at the sight of the long knife in the other man’s hand, its blade still wet with blood, and eased his arms away from his body to demonstrate that he represented no threat. Pitching his voice low, he replied to the challenge with the words that had been agreed years before.

‘Without risk, there can be no reward.’

The Bructeri nodded, handing an iron-bound wooden box to the decurion.

‘Your message gave me little time. To bring this here I took a risk that will see me cut to pieces on my tribe’s altar if it is ever discovered. No man could be allowed to live after such treachery, not even a man of my exalted rank. I can only hope that the end result will justify the risk into which your master has forced me.’

Dolfus bowed his head in respect for the evident danger to which the German had exposed himself.

‘This is the eagle?’

‘It is. It was taken when a legion was defeated in our war against the Romans alongside the Batavi, and claimed by my people as a prize of battle.’

Dolfus looked down at the wooden box, opening its lid to reveal the symbol of Roman power it contained, a once proud legion eagle fashioned of solid gold, although its surface had long since lost the brilliant shine that had once graced its outstretched wings.

‘A thing of beauty, is it not? And yet the best use we can put it to is to use it to torture the legionaries our warriors capture and bring across the river, heating it in a fire and branding them with its image while they are tied to our altar. A dangerous game, which must one day result in a punitive raid by your army that will leave this city a smoking ruin. And I will share their fate were my part in this theft ever discovered. Rome would lose a friend within my tribe, and a rare friend at that. Few other men have the sort of influence that I can wield.’

‘The eagle will be returned to your treasury soon enough, never fear.’ Dolfus closed the box, extending a hand to point at the Bructeri’s garment. ‘There is blood on your tunic.’

The other man looked down at the spots of blood that had been sprayed across him during his murder of the man who had been guarding the royal treasury.

‘It is of no matter, a clean tunic will be no great surprise the morning after a feast of that magnificence. We proceed as you proposed, in the message your men delivered to me earlier?’

Dolfus nodded.

‘Yes. The eagle’s loss will be discovered, and suspicion will naturally fall upon them, suspicion they will very shortly be doing their best to encourage by riding for our bridge over the Rhenus. You must ensure that the king’s household pursues them to the gates of the fort that guards the crossing to demand the eagle’s return, at which point the plan will unroll just as I have proposed. You will be rid of the two men who have the most to gain from continued conflict with Rome, and Rome will have the prospect of an ally where there was previously only enmity. If we both follow our roles then mutual benefit will be the outcome.’

The Bructeri nodded tersely, his face set hard.

‘Let us hope so. My people need a change of fortune, and that can only be achieved by removing those who preach violence against your people. There will never be a better opportunity.’ The noble nodded to Dolfus and turned away, then stopped and looked back at the cavalry officer. ‘The Romans you betrayed are imprisoned close by, and I made sure that your men were allowed to witness their incarceration. Whether you choose to free them or leave them to suffer the tribe’s revenge for what is soon to happen is entirely your decision.’

He vanished into the shadows, leaving the cavalryman looking after him for a long moment before he too padded silently away from their meeting place and back out into the night.

‘What that?’

Sanga raised his head, looking at Saratos quizzically.

‘What’s what? You still hoping to overpower the-’

His friend put out a hand and placed it over his mouth, putting a finger to his own lips while his expression became one of warning that the Briton had learned from experience not to ignore. From outside the hut came the faintest of noises, a coughing grunt that was cut off almost as soon as it had been uttered, and then silence fell, only the minute scraping of boots in the dust betraying the presence of men outside the building. With a sudden heavy thud the bar that secured the hut’s entrance tumbled to the ground, and the door itself slowly opened, to reveal a single figure standing in the frame with a drawn sword, the blade dark with blood.

‘Wait!’

His whispered imperative stopped them in their tracks, as every man in the hut tensed himself to make a dash for it, and as they paused two more swords emerged from the darkness on either side of their apparent rescuer, the men wielding them instantly recognisable. He walked forward into the shaft of moonlight, revealing a face whose eyes were hard and intent on the men before him, his stance that of a man ready to use the blade in earnest.

‘Nobody leaves until we’ve got a few things straight. Which one of you is Cotta?’

The standard bearer stepped forward.

‘That’s me. Centurion, apparently condemned to a slow and horrible death as a result of being betrayed to the king of this particular shithole by men dressed just like you. Have you come to finish the job?’

The other man’s expression didn’t change.

‘If you’re Cotta then you’re the man I’m extracting from this mess, you and whoever you vouch for.’

The veteran bridled.

‘This mess?’ We were doing fine until some prick calling himself Dolfus marched into the feast and sold us out!’

The swordsman shook his head.

‘I doubt it, and I’ve got a good deal more experience of the way these people think than you do. I think it entirely more likely that the king’s nobles were planning to have you quietly killed later in the evening, or perhaps they’d have just thrown you in here until their priest was ready for you. But that is of little consequence. I’m here with orders to get you out, and take you to your comrades in the forest, wherever it is you’re planning to meet up with them.’

Cotta shook his head, feigning ignorance.

‘Friends in the forest? What-’

‘There’s no time for denials, Cotta, the man I’m working for knows everything about your mission to abduct the priestess, and he wants it to succeed just as much as the men who ordered it. So while Governor Albinus thinks he sent me out to betray you all to the Bructeri, to further some little spat he’s having with your tribune, I’m acting under orders from someone whose authority is somewhat stronger than his. So you can either come with us or I can just lock you back in to wait for the man I believe they call the Hand of Wodanaz to get round to putting you on his altar. You choose.’

‘My King! Wake up!’

Amalric rolled over in his bed and stared uncomprehendingly up the man standing over him, shaking his head as he fought to focus.

‘What?’

‘The treasury, my King! The treasury has been opened!’

Surging from his bed, suddenly, horribly, very much awake, the king pulled on a tunic and followed the man’s lead to the massive wooden door that was the only access to the stone staircase that ran down to the underground chamber where the tribe’s wealth was stored. Slumped against the door’s wooden frame was the body of the young warrior who had been tasked to guard the treasury the previous evening, his chest covered by a thick, dark red bloodstain. Offering a swift prayer for the dead man’s spirit before taking a torch from the wall sconce, the king strode down the stairs and into the repository of his tribe’s wealth, looking about him with a growing sense of relief.

‘Whoever they were, and however they managed to open the door, they don’t seem to have taken any-’ He stopped in mid-sentence as his eyes alighted on the spot where the tribe’s most valued spoil of war should have stood proudly in pride of place along the gold and silver plate, neatly stacked bags of coin and other valuable items. The words hissed out of him, amazement robbing him of any more than a whisper. ‘The eagle …’

‘My King?’

He swung to face the man, spittle flying from his lips as rage rose within him.

‘The eagle has been taken! Call for the men of my household!’

Gernot appeared at the slave’s side, his appearance as crisp as ever despite the hour, and his face grim.

‘I’ve already called for your warriors, my King. The men standing watch on the road to the south were ridden down a short time ago, and the Romans are not in the quarters we provided for them. It seems fair to assume that their presence here was always aimed at this theft, and that their condemnation of the trader and his men was simply a cover for their plan.’

Amalric snarled his fury at his closest advisor.

‘Very well! Have my household mounted and ready to ride at first light! I’ll show those thieving, murdering usurpers the limits of a king’s patience!’

Gernot nodded and turned away, careful to conceal his slight smile of satisfaction until his back was turned to the king.

‘As you command, my King.’

Cotta’s party and their rescuers were most of the way to the city’s eastern edge when a hissed challenge from the shadows froze them in their tracks. The armed men turned to face the potential threat.

‘Cotta!’

A figure detached from the shadows of the closest building with empty hands spread wide, his voice no more than a faint whisper.

‘Your tribune sent me to guide you to the meeting place.’ He looked more closely at the men around him, tilting his head in question. ‘Dolfus? It was you …’

Cotta turned to face the subject of his question.

‘Dolfus? But-’

‘Keep your fucking voice down. Yes, I’m Dolfus.’

‘But if you’re Dolfus …’

‘Save it.’ The command implicit in the whisper was unmistakable. ‘Yes Gunda, it’s me. You’d better get on with what you came here for, hadn’t you?’

The scout nodded, turning away wordlessly and leading them past the last of the houses and up the wide track that led into the forest.

‘But if he’s Dolfus …’

Sanga shrugged in reply to the veteran’s baffled question.

‘Fucked if I know. It’ll all be clear soon enough, so until then I’m just going to work on not getting recaptured by those barbarian bastards.’

Saratos leaned over their shoulder.

‘Is easy enough. More than one man call self Dolfus.’

Dolfus himself chuckled quietly.

‘At least one of you has a brain then? Now shut up and follow the scout, the sooner we’re in the trees and out of sight the better. It’ll be dawn soon enough.’

Amalric looked out over the ranks of his household companion warriors, gathered before the King’s Hall dressed and equipped for war, their iron helmets and spear heads gleaming dully in the dawn’s cold light.

‘These Romans have gone too far! They have stolen our eagle! The prize that our ancestors fought and died to protect as we were driven from our tribal lands by the Chamavi and the Angrivarii! The trophy that is the symbol of the Bructeri people’s survival in the face of overwhelming numbers! And we will not tolerate this! I will not tolerate this!’

An angry rumble greeted his outraged statement of intent, the warriors raising their spears and calling for him to lead them in pursuit of the Romans.

‘Follow me, my brother warriors, follow me and we will recover what has been stolen or take the flame of our anger to these thieves!’

He looked at Gernot, who nodded approvingly at his words before turning to face the assembled warriors.

‘I stand with my king! I will fight with my king! And if necessary I will die for my king!’ He turned back to Amalric with a deep bow. ‘My King, your orders?’

The younger man took the reins of his horse from the man waiting with the beast, disdaining the offered hand up into the saddle and springing up onto the horse’s back, reaching down to take the spear that was held up for him.

‘We ride for the river!’

Gernot’s mouth split in a ferocious grin.

‘We ride on Rome! We ride!’

‘Men coming in!’

The hissed warning brought the detachment to a state of readiness to fight that showed no sign of either fatigue or hunger, Dubnus’s axemen crouching in the cover of the gulley’s lip, their evil-bladed weapons at the ready for a sprint at whatever enemy might have discovered them, while the Hamians nocked arrows and peered out into the gloom. An owl hooted mournfully twice, and Dubnus tipped his head on one side, waiting as the silence strung out.

‘Perhaps it really was just an ow-’

The call sounded again, and the big Briton snapped out a terse order for the men of the detachment to stand down. Gunda was the first man to materialise out of the dawn’s murk, stepping down into the gully with the look of a man who was grateful for the completion of his night’s work. Cotta and his companions followed close on his heels, their progress a succession of snapping twigs and rustling leaves where the German had been all but silent, but it was the next man over the edge of the tiny valley that got the officers’ startled attention. Unused to having to look up to any man other than the giant Lugos, Dubnus stared in amazement at Magan for a moment before finding his voice, his father’s arrival almost going unnoticed.

‘What the fuck is that …?’

The question froze on his lips as Dolfus made his entrance behind the trainer, still carrying the box containing the Bructeri eagle, and even Scaurus was now starting to look more than a little perturbed. The various parties were still eyeing each other speculatively when Qadir and his archers stepped down into their midst.

‘So go on then Cotta, tell us who your new friends are. No, don’t tell me — Morban won them in a wager.’ The standard bearer shot Dubnus a poisonous look, but the big centurion had known him too long to be impressed. ‘I’ve told you before not to try eyeballing me, standard bearer-’

‘I knew that prick was a statue waver!’

Lucius refused to be cowed by Dubnus’s swift glare, and Cotta sighed, stepping forward to make the introductions to a clearly bemused Scaurus.

‘The big lad’s called Magan, Tribune, and this former legionary is his father. He goes by the name of Lucius, and he tells me that he knows where the German woman is to be found.’

‘His father?’

‘Unlikely as it might seem, yes. And as to how we met them …’ He shook his head with a wry smile. ‘Even I’m struggling to believe it. The thing is, the Bructeri hate us, they loathe us so badly that we weren’t getting anywhere with pretending to be traders.’ He held up thumb and forefinger with a minute gap between the two digits. ‘I was this far from giving up on the whole scheme when this one …’ he waved a hand at Sanga, ‘saw that monster taking on the locals for money, and had the idea of getting his Dacian bruiser to smack the boy about a bit as a way of getting the Germans’ attention. But we did too good a job of it, and got dragged into their king’s feast so they could keep an eye on us. And then … he happened …’ He indicated Dolfus, who stepped forward and saluted Scaurus, who returned the salute with a look of growing incomprehension. ‘Or at least his men there did. They betrayed us to the Bructeri, who locked us up ready for execution, and then a couple of hours later he killed the guards and released us.’

Scaurus looked at the cavalry officer with his eyes narrowed in calculation.

‘You can explain this, I presume? Your actions might easily be construed as verging on treasonous. Your name?’

Dolfus snapped to attention.

‘Decurion Quintus Matius Dolfus.’

Scaurus looked him up and down.

‘Gods below, as if I wasn’t already laden with one thrusting young gentleman without another one dropping into my life just when I’m trying to pull off something that requires a bit of subtlety. So what are you doing here sticking your nose into my delicately poised mission, Decurion? Are you one of those sons of privilege who found life in Rome insufficiently challenging and volunteered to join the occupants of the Camp of the Foreigners? You are a Grain Officer, I presume, despite the lack of any insignia to that effect?’

A dozen pairs of eyes hardened at the suggestion, men who’d already seen the damage that one of the emperor’s private army of spies could wreak at close quarters, but to Scaurus’s bemusement Dolfus shook his head and chuckled.

‘A fair guess, Tribune, but a fair way from the truth none the less. My profession is aligned with the men you’ve mentioned with such disdain, but our recruitment is a good deal more select. And our activities are a little less murky from a moral perspective too, I’d have to say …’ he paused for a moment, ‘or at least most of the time they are. My orders are to do whatever I see fit to ensure that your mission is a success. In the pursuit of which I had one of my troopers here pretend to be me and betray your men to the Bructeri, which by the way might well have kept them alive longer than had I failed to do so, but mainly in order to procure this from the tribal treasury …’ He offered the iron-bound box to Scaurus, who opened it, staring at its contents for a long moment. ‘The absence of that highly prized item is currently distracting King Amalric in quite a dramatic style, since he’s chasing two more of my men all the way back to the Rhenus and thereby giving you the time you need to achieve your mission and make your escape, if you get down to it immediately.’

He fixed a level gaze on Scaurus.

‘Although once I’ve briefed you properly as to the governor’s intentions, you may have cause to make a few small alterations to your plans.’

‘They knew we were coming!’

Gernot nodded grimly at Amalric’s angry words as he trotted his horse alongside his king’s mount towards the bridge fort’s towering wooden walls. The ramparts were lined with men, at least half a dozen centuries of legionaries interspersed with clusters of easterners whose differently shaped helmets made their presence obvious as, he guessed, was the intention. He had chosen to ride to the Novaesium bridgehead with all forty of his companion warriors at his back, far too few to offer any real threat to the fort that guarded the crossing, but enough to make it clear exactly who he was, to be escorted by so many men bearing such a precious weight in iron. Where most of his men fought with a spear, and a shield with an iron boss if they could afford it, the men of the king’s household, the tribe’s fastest and strongest warriors, were lavishly equipped by comparison with bowl-shaped iron helmets that protected the tops of their skulls, and long swords of sharp iron.

‘Certainly, my king. They will have been warned by the thieves.’

Reining their mounts in a dozen paces from the gate, they looked up at the defenders for a moment in silence before the king spoke again.

‘They look scared to me.’

Gernot smiled up at the legionaries.

‘Consider it from their perspective. They hear their fellow soldiers being tortured in the night, distant howls and shrieks of pure agony, and the chanting of our warriors as your priest sends their spirits to Wodanaz. They know we hate them above all others, and that if you were to throw the strength of the tribe at that fort it would be a burned-out shell before nightfall, populated only by their corpses. They have good cause for fear.’ He looked up at the men on the wall above them. ‘Shall I address them, my king? To do so is beneath your dignity.’

Amalric dipped his head in acknowledgement, and the noble straightened his back, calling out to the men on the wall closest to where they sat.

‘Soldiers of Rome, is this any way to greet the leader of a tribe with whom you claim to have friendly relations? My king has suffered the theft of something that is very dear to his tribe, and has come here with all speed to request your assistance in its return, only to find himself faced by a wall of spears! I suggest that you put this presumably unintended insult to one side, and that we speak man to man with your commander!’

A grizzled centurion stared down at them for a moment and then turned away to speak to someone inside the fort. After a moment’s discussion he turned back and called out a reply.

‘Our prefect will come out to speak with you! Twitch in the wrong way while he is outside these walls and you two will be the first to die!’

After a moment’s pause the fort’s northern gate swung outwards, a file of legionaries issuing through the opening and fanning out to either side to form a ten-man escort for the officer who followed them. Looking up, Amalric saw that the easterners now had arrows nocked to their bows, while the fort’s bolt throwers had swung down to point at them in an ostentatious display of threat. The prefect strode forwards confidently enough, but as his questing eyes looked beyond the two horsemen to size up the threat posed by the men of the king’s household, both of the Germans could see his awareness of the situation’s delicacy. He stopped walking when he was five paces from their position and bowed, the minimum diplomatic gesture of the respect that could be expected by a king, then looked up at Amalric from beneath his helmet’s brow guard.

‘Your Highness, this is an unexpected pleasure.’

Gernot laughed out loud.

‘Apparently neither unexpected not pleasurable, for you to have all these men out of their beds and, as you like to say, ready for war!’

The Roman nodded his acceptance of the fact.

‘It was pointed out to me yesterday that I might be receiving just such a visit, although the circumstances were not made entirely clear. It seems that the advice I was given was well founded.’

‘Advice given to you by a man who goes by the name of Dolfus?’

The Roman sniffed.

‘My informant didn’t identify himself. He was passing through the fort into your land on a mission for the governor, with four of his men.’

Amalric frowned.

‘Four?’

‘You were sent by the governor to wreck our mission.’ Scaurus raised his eyes to look at the iron-grey dawn sky. ‘That man’s idiocy seems to have no limit! But instead, and acting on the orders of a higher authority, you’ve rescued my men from the Bructeri, stolen a captured legion eagle that’s a sacred tribal relic, and sent their king off chasing those of your men you’ve used as decoys.’

Dolfus nodded equably.

‘That’s it, Tribune, more or less.’

‘A higher authority? Higher than the governor?’ The younger man looked back at him in silence. ‘You’re trying to tell me that you’ve been posted to the province by the same people who appointed Clodius Albinus, with instructions to subvert his orders should they run counter to whatever it is that your masters think should be happening?’

The cavalryman raised his eyebrows without saying a word, and Scaurus shook his head in frustration.

‘I gather you don’t feel able to comment.’

‘No.’

The tribune walked away for a moment, then turned back, a decision clearly made.

‘Dubnus, get the men fed and ready to move.’ The Briton nodded and turned away to his task. ‘Centurions Varus and Corvus, accompany the decurion and me down the gully a way and bring the giant’s father with you. And Qadir …’

The Hamian came to attention.

‘Tribune.’

‘Make sure our guide is closely observed at all times by men with arrows on their strings. He looks nervous to me, and I don’t want him vanishing off into the trees. We’ll never find him if that happens.’

He led the three officers and Lucius away from the detachment, until they were out of earshot.

‘You served with the legions?’

The older man saluted.

‘Yes, Tribune sir. I was a legionary with the Thirtieth Legion, before I retired on this side of the river to be with the woman I loved.’

I see. And you’re sure you know where this priestess is to be found?’

Lucius nodded.

‘She’s right under your nose, Tribune. There’s a hill to the east, less than five miles distant, where Amalric keeps her safe and sound, guarded by his men.’

‘To the east.’ Scaurus’s tone was suddenly hard. ‘One minute.’

He turned back to the detachment, calling up the gulley.

‘Centurion Qadir, I’ve changed my mind. Bring my scout here please.’

They watched in silence as Gunda was escorted, stony-faced, down the gully to where they stood. Scaurus stared at him for a long moment, and when he spoke his voice retained its iron-hard tone.

‘I asked you where the path to the east went, yesterday morning. You told me that it was just a hunter’s trail, and you led us away from it as quickly as you could. That wasn’t true, was it?’

The German shook his head, his face downcast.

‘No.’

‘Where does it lead?’

After a momentary pause the guide sighed.

‘To the place where my people keep my sister.’

‘Mithras help me …’ Scaurus shook his head. ‘This priestess is your sister?’

Gunda looked up, his expression suddenly hard enough to match the Roman’s.

‘Yes. My sister. I was expelled from the tribe for killing a man who threatened her, when one of her prophecies wasn’t fulfilled exactly to his liking. I told you that she sometimes only sees a part of what is to come, and this was one such case. She foretold a male child for the wife of one of the tribe’s noble warriors, but when the child was born it was evident that he was not the father. He threatened to kill her for misleading him, and I took my sword to him in her defence. The old king was merciful, partly for love of Gerhild and partly because the man in question was dangerously quick tempered, but he had to send me away if only for my own protection from the dead man’s brother Gernot. Ever since that day the kings of the Bructeri, old and new, have both kept Gerhild safe from harm in the tower where she has lived for the last fifteen years, a prisoner in a fur-lined cage. When you told me that you planned a mission into my tribe’s territory so close to Thusila, it didn’t take much intelligence to work out what your purpose was, and so I was even more determined to come with you if only to make sure that she wasn’t harmed.’

Dolfus and Scaurus exchanged glances before the latter spoke again.

‘And why is it that you think I won’t just kill you, here and now, and leave your body for the pigs? There’s going to be a lot of death in these woods today, so another corpse wouldn’t trouble me overly.’

Gunda looked back at him, shaking his head slowly.

‘Two reasons. Firstly, Tribune, because you’re not that sort of man. And that’s not a guess, it’s a fact. I may not be my sister, but I never fail to judge a man correctly. It’s a gift, compared to what might be said to be her curse.’

‘And the second reason?’

‘If you kill me, she’ll know. Don’t ask me to explain it, just believe me when I tell you that we have some sort of connection. If I die here then you’ll find her less than co-operative. And I wouldn’t want to be subject to my sister’s anger, not if I were you.’

Scaurus looked at him for a moment.

‘That’s a first. I’m being threatened, it appears, with the retribution of a woman who doesn’t even know I exist.’

The scout smiled back at him.

‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that if I were you, Roman. She sees everything.’

‘I see.’ Scaurus shook his head in disbelief. ‘This day is rapidly descending into farce, so I think it’s time we took control of it back from the Fates. I presume it’s a fair assumption, Decurion, that this …’ he gestured to the eagle inside its box, ‘is going to bring the Bructeri after us like a pack of wild dogs, once they get so much as a hint that we’re in the forest?’

‘I’d say that’s a safe assumption, Tribune. And it can only be a matter of time before they reach that conclusion. The decoys who led them to the bridge will have fulfilled their purpose very soon now.’

The tribune nodded decisively.

‘In that case I think we need to strike fast and hard, with as much distraction as possible, get what we came for and then get back to the river and the warships that are waiting for us. Once we’re under the protection of their archers and bolt throwers we might as well be on the far side of the Rhenus as far as the Bructeri are concerned.’

‘This man Dolfus brought four men with him through your gates yesterday?’

The fort’s prefect nodded tersely.

‘And two men came back through them this morning?’

‘Yes.’

Amalric looked at Gernot in puzzlement.

‘Those two men …’

The noble’s face darkened, as he drew the same conclusion to that which his king had already reached.

‘Were decoys! Intended to draw out our strength and send us chasing shadows!’

The king looked down at the Roman officer, who seemed none the wiser.

‘Was either of these men carrying a wooden box, bound with iron and big enough to hold your dagger in its sheath?’

The prefect turned to the senior centurion who had walked out alongside him with the look of a man spoiling for a fight.

‘First Spear?’

‘No Prefect. I watched them come back in myself, given the unusual timing of their arrival. They had nothing more than their standard equipment.’

Gernot looked down at him for a moment, then pointed back the way they had come.

‘If he’s telling the truth then we’ve been lured away from Thusila while the other three men who didn’t declare their presence last night are somewhere back there, doing who knows what!’

The king turned his horse in a whinnying half-circle.

‘And they still have the eagle!’

Marcus and Dubnus ran back down the track in the direction from which the detachment had marched the previous day, a mixed group of axemen and archers at their heels. Scaurus’s last words to the Briton had been stark in their intent, his face set hard as the detachment readied themselves for the fight.

‘Do two things for me, Centurion. Make me a diversion, something to get the Bructeri’s attention and lead them in the wrong direction. And make sure the man who’s been torturing our soldiers isn’t ever going to do it again.’ The two men had saluted and turned away, only for the tribune to add an afterthought. ‘Oh, and gentlemen, make very sure that anyone who fancies their chances of taking on this priest’s mantle as “the Hand of Wodanaz” has a very clear understanding of what Roman justice looks like.’

They stopped running a hundred paces from the clearing, taking a moment for their breathing to return to something close to normal before proceeding at a slow, careful pace with arrows nocked and ready to fly on either side. Pacing stealthily towards the grove’s entrance Marcus flicked a pointing finger to either side, waiting as the two axemen, chosen for their rare ability to move quietly in the forest, vanished into the foliage on either side of the path and were lost to view. The remaining members of the party sank down into the bushes’ cover and waited while Dubnus and Marcus silently counted down the agreed three hundred heart beats. Looking at each other they nodded, rose from their crouches and walked slowly and quietly towards the arch of trees. Stepping into the clearing Marcus eased his gladius from its scabbard with an almost silent hiss of metal and oiled leather, raising the blade to point at a figure busy at work on the grove’s far side with his back to them, his hands raised in the act of tying a fragment of plate armour to the tree before him. Ghosting forward with one hand up to ensure that his companions held their positions, he was less than ten paces distant from his quarry when the tiny sound of his hobnails scraping against a pebble gave the priest the slightest of clues that he was being stalked.

Whirling, his decorative task instantly forgotten, the German was in flight even as his eyes registered the Roman’s presence, making a bolt for the glade’s western entrance with a surprising turn of pace for a man of his age. As he passed through the arch the biggest of the pioneers stepped from cover, ducking the wild punch thrown at him by the fleeing priest and hammering a big fist squarely into his gut, leaving him coughing and gasping for breath on his knees in the path’s dust. At Dubnus’s command the two axemen swiftly pinioned the priest before pulling him to his feet and dragging him back to face the two centurions. Wild-eyed, his tunic and cloak filthy with dust, the German railed at them all in his own language, struggling as vigorously as he could against their iron grip.

‘What’s he saying?’

Arminius smiled darkly.

‘It may be better you never know, Dubnus. That sort of curse can get to you, given enough time to think about it. Although quite a lot of it seems to be him asking if we have any idea just who he is?’

The big Briton snorted, snapping a fist out without any warning and rocking the priest’s head back in a spray of blood that spurted across his tunic in a wide fan.

‘Tell him I know exactly who he is. Tell him that he’s about to find out what it feels like to receive the sort of special attention he specialises in.’

The holy man’s face took on an affronted expression as he began to gabble at them again, a new note of outrage in his voice. Arminius sighed.

‘Seems he didn’t take you seriously. Now he’s threatening that his master Wodanaz will call upon his brother Thuneraz to punish you with his mighty bolts of lightning.’

The Briton shook his head disbelievingly, unsheathing his dagger.

‘Bring him over here and let’s put that theory to the test.’

He gestured to the pioneers to follow him to the altar, with the furious priest powerless to resist. Reaching out, he took the holy man’s right hand and forced it down onto the altar. The German stared at him in horrified realisation as he pulled the dagger from his belt, holding it up to display the small blade’s keen edge.

‘A lot of men don’t like the idea of doing harm to a priest. After all, almost everyone believes in some sort of god.’ The Briton waited while Arminius translated. ‘My friend here is a follower of Mithras, I’m a worshipper of the hunting god Cocidius. And that sort of devotion makes your sort believe you’re in no danger from dangerous men like us, because you believe we’ll be too afraid of the revenge of your god if we do you any harm.’ He grinned, shaking his head. ‘The problem is, priest, while I have no special urge to mutilate a man, I’m under orders to send a message to your people by making sure you exit this life with as much pain as possible. Just like you’ve been doing with our soldiers, eh? So while I’d rather just put this knife through your throat and leave you to die, that wouldn’t really do my orders justice, would it? My orders are to make sure that anyone finding you is terrified that if they take on your mantle they’re going to end up in the same sorry state. So I’m afraid that this is going to hurt … a lot.’

He waited until Arminius had translated for him, then put the dagger to the German’s little finger and cut down into the first knuckle joint, eliciting a muffled, snarling growl of pain as the digit came free. The German struggled against the hands gripping him, the pain lending him fresh strength that was nevertheless ineffective against the two pioneers’ firm grip. The Briton worked swiftly and without any let up, cutting away each of the priest’s fingers with firm strokes of the knife, ignoring the German’s frenzied, muffled shrieks of pain and the thrashing of his feet against the altar stone as his blood spread across its blackened surface.

‘There, you’ll never hold a knife again, that’s for certain. But that’s hardly enough of a message, is it?’

‘That’s the place? That’s where the Bructeri are holding your sister?’

Gunda nodded. Scaurus peered through the thin foliage that straggled across the forest’s edge at a stone-built tower that occupied the centre of a wide-open area, the trees having been cleared for fifty paces in all directions. The ground around the building was neatly kept, largely turned over to what looked like an extended vegetable plot, and the scent of aromatic herbs was carried to the watching men on a slight breeze.

‘The king has told his men that no effort is to be spared in keeping my sister content. She may be a prisoner, but the cage bars have been gilded.’

The bitterness in the scout’s tone surprised Scaurus.

‘But why hold her prisoner, I wonder? I had been led to believe that she was the tribe’s most valuable asset?’

‘True, but she is a prisoner nonetheless. The king keeps her counsel for himself, and for himself alone.’

‘Why?’

Varus’s question drew little more than a shrug from Gunda.

‘I could not say, I only hear snippets of gossip from time to time. But whatever it is that she tells him is clearly not for the ears of his people as far as Amalric is concerned.’

The young aristocrat looked to his tribune.

‘Perhaps she foretells another uprising?’

Scaurus shook his head.

‘More likely she predicts another defeat at the hand of Rome. That would probably be enough for any king to want her voice to go unheard, I’d have thought. But that’s enough speculation. Let’s go and see who’s at home, shall we?’

They stepped from the trees, pacing across the open space in a line which interspersed archers with axemen. The air was heavy with silence, no call of bird or animal to be heard as the Tungrians slowly, deliberately, advanced though the vegetables and herbs with swords drawn and arrows nocked. With a creak of ungreased hinges a door opened on the other side of the building, and the sound of a man breaking wind with gusto made the advancing men grin despite the tension. Scaurus raised a hand, sinking down into a crouch to give his archers a clear shot just as the tribesman came round the tower’s curved side, still too sleepy to see what was in front of him until it was too late. At Qadir’s hissed command the Hamians loosed their arrows, dropping the Bructeri guard into the dirt with no more noise than the thumping impacts of a pair of iron arrowheads and the grunt as they drove the breath from the German’s lungs.

‘Move!’

Whispering the command to attack, Scaurus led the dash for the tower’s door with Varus at his heels, the two men rounding the building to find that the dead tribesman had left it wide open. Varus lunged in through the opening, coming face-to-face with another Bructeri who had seemingly just climbed from his pallet bed, alerted by the noise of their feet on the hard-packed dirt around the building. They stared at each other for an instant that seemed to last an eternity before Scaurus threw the unprepared warrior back against the room’s rough stone and followed in with his blade, stabbing the point into the warrior’s unprotected chest with such force that it unintentionally lodged between two of the hapless tribesman’s ribs. Struggling to free it, as Varus hacked down another of the priestess’s guards to his right, he was taken unawares by an attack from his left, out of the darkest corner of the room. Releasing the sword’s handle he reached for his dagger, but had the weapon no more than halfway out of its sheath when the half-seen figure punched at him, a sudden intrusion of cold pain that sent him staggering back with his right-hand side suddenly numb.

The tribesman snarled, baring his teeth and stepping in close again, raising the blade to strike with the wild-eyed expression of a man who knew he was about to take a life, then went down under the axes of a pair of Dubnus’s men as they rampaged into the fight. Varus stepped over the corpse of his man with a look of concern.

‘You’re wounded.’

The tribune nodded, grimacing at the pain in his side, already wet beneath the torn mail.

‘He put the point through my mail. You …’ he pointed to Gunda, ‘fetch your sister.’

The young Centurion helped him out of the building and back out into the watery sunlight, then lifted the tribune’s mail shirt and looked unhappily at a slit in the tunic that lay beneath it, dark red blood already staining the material down to its hem.

‘We need to get that bandaged.’

Scaurus shook his head decisively.

‘No time. We need to …’

He fell silent as Gunda reappeared through the door, leading a woman by the hand with a piece of cloth tied over her eyes. Copper haired, her willowy frame was clad in a simple woollen tunic, a string of stone beads hanging around her neck the only obvious form of decoration. The scout gestured to her, his face creased in a sad smile.

‘My sister.’

The priestess shook her head in protest.

‘There was no need for the blindfold. I’ve seen those men die more than once, in my dreams. There is no horror left in their deaths for me.’ The soldiers looked at each other in disbelief, but before any of them could comment, she continued. ‘That’s a nasty wound, Tribune. He twisted the blade as it went in, I believe.’

‘How did you …?’

She reached up and removed the cloth bound over her green eyes, playing her penetrating gaze across the men around her as she answered in a patient tone, her Latin perfect and almost unaccented.

‘I told you. I have dreamed this moment a hundred times, this and others yet to come. The wound will need treatment, but there is indeed no time now, if you are to evade the attentions of my king. There are horses, tethered in the woods over there …’

She pointed to the forest opposite the point where the detachment had entered the clearing.

‘And while you fetch them, gather me some herbs with which to prepare a balm for that wound. Sage, thyme and lavender will be enough, but I’ll need a large quantity of each, and the purple flowers over there.’

The soldiers looked at each other in confusion, and after a moment she shook her head in amusement.

‘It seems I’ll have to do this myself. Perhaps one of you could fetch my iron pot from the tower?’

‘Varus.’

Scaurus called out to his subordinate, and found himself both amused and irritated by the fact that his centurion’s attention was fixed on the woman as she swept away towards the herb garden.

‘Varus!’

The young centurion snapped his attention back to his tribune.

‘Yes, Tribune.’

Scaurus grimaced as he pointed at Gerhild, who was now crouched over a plot thick with herbs and flowers.

‘We have no time to waste. Detail some men to fetch the horses, send a man to fetch her bloody pot and set a guard on the witch. Make sure she doesn’t make a run for it, and watch what she gathers. I don’t want to end up with a belly full of hemlock, should we manage to give this Amalric and his men the slip.’

‘I have to admit it, you’re a tough little bastard.’

The priest stared up at Dubnus through a mask of pain and hatred, then looked down at his ruined hand, still held firmly against the altar stone. Flies were already buzzing around the finger joints that had been severed, one at a time, to lie discarded on the ornately carved stone.

‘Yes, I can’t deny it.’ The Briton nodded sombrely into his captive’s agonised glare. ‘You’ve handled yourself with some dignity, but then all I’ve done so far is take off a few fingers.’

He waited for Arminius to translate, then lifted the sacrificial bone saw from its place on a shelf beneath the altar.

‘When my tribune told me to make an example of you I decided to cut off your ears, your lips, your nose and your balls, and leave them laid out for the men who find you, ruined but still alive. I even wondered if I might use this …’ he held the saw up before the priest’s wide eyes, ‘to carve your heart out, like you do with those poor bastards, but now that the moment has come I can’t bring myself to do it. Because when it comes down to it, I’m not an animal wearing a man’s body like you are.’

He watched a triumphant expression spread across the priest’s face as Arminius’s words sank in, and nodded slowly in response, bending close to the stare into the German’s eyes.

‘Yes, you’ve won, I give up. I’m not going to torture you any more.’

As Arminius explained the meaning of his words he looked intently at the priest, waiting for the moment when the tribesman’s believed his victory was complete. For an instant the German’s guard relaxed, and in that moment Dubnus had what he wanted.

‘No. I’m not going to torture you, because that would be lowering me to your level. I’ve got something a lot purer in mind for you.’

The priest frowned, and the Briton gestured to his men.

‘Fetch the wood.’

The priest’s expression crumpled, and Dubnus bent close to speak into his ear as the Tungrians hurried to pile kindling and firewood onto the altar’s flat surface, taking it from the neat stacks of aged timber at the grove’s edge.

‘I never held with human sacrifice myself. My people used to practise it in secret, back when I was a prince of the Briganti tribe, when they thought the Romans weren’t looking. I always considered it a waste of a human life, personally, but of course there’s always someone happy to leave this world in search of someone they’ve lost. A slave wanting to follow a dead master, or a wife looking to see her husband again. Our priests were kind when it came down to it, always trying to make sure that even if the sacrifices weren’t allowed to be dead when they went onto the pyre, they were already most of the way across the river, with poison or bloodletting to weaken them so much that it took no more than a gentle push to finish them off, but every now and then they’d get it wrong and put someone on the sacred fire with the wits to realise what was happening and the strength to fight it, once the flames reached them. And that, let me tell you, was never nice to watch. A man who knows that he’s about to burn to death — there’s a man who’ll fight like an animal to escape. They screamed, they strained against the ropes, and then, when the fire took them …’ he paused, shaking his head, ‘they just weren’t human any longer. Their screams were those of animals, dying in agony. I used to hate watching it then, but in your case I expect I’m going to find it …’ he paused, searching for the right word, then nodded with satisfaction, ‘ah yes. I’m going to find it … just.’

He gestured to the hulking men of his century who had gathered around them.

‘Tie him up so tight that he can’t move a muscle, then get him on top of the altar. And try not to scatter the wood when you put him up there, eh lads? This is one sacrifice where we want a nice strong fire.’

Scaurus looked back at the men running behind the horses, their heads thrown back to gulp in the cold morning air. The movement made him wince, as a bolt of pain shot up his side.

‘Tribune?’

Varus was riding alongside him with a look of concern, one hand ready to reach out and steady his superior if necessary.

‘You should be focusing on the witch, Centurion. I can keep this up all day.’

The younger man nodded, allowing his horse to drop back down the column to where Gerhild was riding her own white mare with the confidence of an accomplished horsewoman.

‘You have no need to worry, Centurion. He won’t fall off his horse until much later in the day.’

He stared at her for a moment before replying, unsure of how best to deal with her complete self-possession, even in the face of enemies who had abducted her with violence.

‘You have dreamed that as well?’

She laughed at him, her green eyes seeming to sparkle.

‘No, Centurion, but I can read a man. Your tribune is made from stronger iron than most, and he will stay in that saddle, no matter how painful the ride, until he passes out from loss of blood. When next we stop you will persuade him to allow me a short time to apply a bandage, and that will enable him to stay in the saddle for a good time longer than if he continues bleeding from an unstaunched wound.’

Varus stared at her again, then nodded brusquely and dropped back to encourage the runners. After another mile of riding they reached the point where the path crossed the main trail, and Scaurus reined his horse in, looking to the north hopefully.

‘No sign of Marcus and Dubnus. I’d hoped they would be here by now.’

The centurion looked at his thigh, dark with drying blood from the wound hidden beneath his chain mail.

‘The woman wants to bandage your wound. And I think she’s ri-’

Scaurus shook his head brusquely.

‘There’s no time.’

Gerhild climbed down from her mount, the tone of her voice making the words something between encouragement and a direct command.

‘On the contrary, Tribune, you have more than sufficient time for me to dress the wound. Your men won’t be done with burning the Hand of Wodanaz for a while yet. Now get off that horse and have these men help you out of your mail so that I can make sure you don’t succumb to its effects. How else am I going to ensure that you fulfil your destiny?’

‘Bring me that torch.’

Two of the Hamians had busied themselves with flint and iron while Dubnus’s axemen were busy trussing the priest up so tightly that he was completely unable to move, and manoeuvring him onto the firewood that now covered the altar to a depth of three feet. The priest’s outrage had long since become simple terror in the face of his impending immolation, and his eyes followed the Briton’s movements as he took a burning brand from them and approached, holding up the blazing torch for the German to see. Reaching out, he stripped the crude woollen gag from the helpless priest’s mouth, waiting in obdurate silence as the doomed man babbled a stream of invective, curses and entreaties at him. At length, raising a finger to silence the captive’s abuse, he spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘You murdered our soldiers. Men who had never harmed you or your tribe were tortured, maimed and then cut open while they were still alive, the beating hearts ripped from their bodies.’ He paused, lifting the torch to shoulder height. ‘And now you pay. Roman justice has been delivered. Feel to free to shout that fact at the sky as you burn. The more of your people who hear you, the better.’

Pushing the brand into the heart of the kindling he waited for a moment while the twigs and leaves took light, then walked around to the other side of the altar and repeated the process. Leaving the brand in place he reached for the saw, pulling his arm back to hurl it far into the forest.

‘Don’t throw it away.’

The Briton turned to find Marcus with his hand out to take the evil little tool.

‘This? You want to keep something that’s killed so many men?’

His friend nodded, reaching out to take the cold metal from his hand.

‘Yes. Don’t ask me why, because I couldn’t tell you.’

Dubnus shrugged and turned back to the now frantic priest, wriggling and writhing fruitlessly against his bonds.

‘Now it comes down to it I find I have no desperate need to watch this bastard fry. Do you?’

Marcus shook his head and turned away.

‘No. Knowing that he’ll burn is enough for me.’

Calling to the soldiers who were standing watching the helpless priest’s fruitless struggles, as the flames from the kindling began to play on the wood on which he lay, Dubnus led them from the grove while Marcus paused for a moment at the clearing’s entrance and locked eyes with the helpless torturer. With a sudden burst of fire the stacked timber underneath his head ignited, the flames catching his greasy hair and burning it away in a sudden gout of flame that provoked a falsetto scream of agony from the priest, his entire body straining hopelessly against the bonds that would secure his body until their destruction by the hungry flames. The Roman turned away and followed his comrades up the path without a backward glance.