Late in the afternoon, as the enemy feasting came to an end, a small party headed up the slope towards the main gate. They announced their approach with blaring horns and Macro saw that it was Caratacus, together with four men. One of them wore the black cloak of a Druid, while another was one of the prisoners. He had been stripped of his armour and boots and wore only a torn tunic. He was held firmly in the grip of two burly warriors and his head hung on his chest as they dragged him towards the fort. At the sound of the horns, Centurion Petillius climbed the tower and joined Macro. They exchanged a nod before Petillius gestured over the rail.

‘What are they playing at now?’

‘We’ll know soon enough.’

Caratacus stopped beyond javelin range and put his hands on his hips as he addressed the defenders.

‘Romans! Last night you witnessed the fate of some of your comrades. It is a pity that you had to watch the entertainment from afar. If you had shared the warmth of our fires you would have been there to see their flesh burn and hear the prayers they offered to your gods, begging for mercy.’ Caratacus paused and looked round theatrically. ‘Where are they now? Where is your Jupiter? Your Mars? It seems that your gods lack any interest in you. Or is it that they fear the power of our deities? In any case, the words of the dying fell on deaf ears. As I say, it is a shame you could not share such entertainment with us. To that end, I have come to offer you a small spectacle of your own. Here, where you can see and hear clearly.’ He stepped up to the prisoner and roughly raised his chin so that his face was visible to the defenders.

‘This is the commander of the Roman column we annihilated yesterday,’ Caratacus announced.

Petillius cursed ‘Shit. That puts paid to the prefect and the Thracians.’

The enemy commander continued addressing the garrison. ‘This man is Tribune Gaius Mancinus, a proud and haughty aristocrat. No doubt one of those Romans who can trace his family line all the way back to Aeneas. Let us see how a Roman aristocrat dies. A simple execution would be too merciful. I have never been too proud to learn from my enemies, and the Blood Crows have proved to be excellent teachers. You have terrified my Silurian friends and I must show them that you are, after all, just mortal men. Not demons. So, when we take the fort I shall hand any survivors over to the Silurians to do with as they wish. The purpose of this afternoon’s lesson is to show you that you will reap what you have sowed . . .’ The enemy general stared at the faces watching him from the wall and then stepped aside and gestured to the Druid to continue.