He turned towards the voice and leaned over the side of the tower. In the moonlight he could just make out Petillius on the wall.

‘Sir, do you see? They’re going to attack. Shall I sound the alarm?’

Macro looked back down the slope. The enemy were making very little attempt to conceal their preparations if they were about to make an attack. He looked back towards the waiting centurion.

‘No need to sound the alarm. Caratacus and his lads are just having a bit of fun. Let our boys rest. At least they’ll be more ready to face what the morning brings than the enemy will.’

Petillius was silent for a moment before he replied in a reluctant tone, ‘As you wish, sir. I hope you’re right.’

The last words stung Macro’s pride and he was about to snap at his subordinate when he realised that Petillius’s nerves were even more strained than his own. It would do the man no good to have his superior bawl him out. Macro sighed. ‘Get some sleep, Centurion. I’ll keep watch on them for a while.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Petillius nodded, took one last look over the wall, and then descended the wooden steps to the foot of the ramp and sat down, crossed his arms over his knees and lowered his head.

Macro leaned on the rail and watched the crowd gathering around the fire. It was clear that something was about to happen, something to mark the height of their celebrations. Then he saw a small party emerge from the darkness, and the crowd parted before it. A tall figure in dark robes led the way. Behind him came clusters of three men, each with a prisoner pinned between two of them. The prisoners were thrust on to the ground close to the fire, five in all. More of the tribesmen arrived carrying wooden frames in the shape of an A. They bound the first of the prisoners to the frame with his head at the apex and his limbs tied firmly to the lengths of timber stretching out at an angle. When the preparations were complete, the figure in the dark robe gestured towards the fire and the frame was raised off the ground and set upright. The prisoner started writhing as he saw the fire and knew, as Macro did at the same time, what fate was to befall him. Several men strained on a rope fixed to the top of the frame and began to slowly pay it out so that the frame tipped towards the fire. For a moment the crowd fell silent and then the man’s cries of pain, quickly followed by screams, sounded. The natives let out a cruel roar at his agonies. The soldier twitched uselessly against the ropes that bound him to the frame. His tunic caught alight and he was engulfed in fire as his screams reached a new pitch of torment and terror.