One of the sentries was a young warrior, who had been sent to serve the king at the end of last year and was enjoying almost every moment of it. The older men kept saying that he must watch each night, since he could not sit still and probably would not sleep anyway. He did not really mind, for the Heavens above him were beautiful, and earlier today he had killed his first enemy. The man had been a Roman cavalryman, one of the outlying pickets from the convoy, and he and his comrade had strayed too far out. Up until now, every arrow the youth had shot had seemed cursed, missing marks that he would have hit every time in practice. It had begun to bother him, so that when he felt the arrow leave his bow he had doubted that it would strike, until the Roman had turned his head and the missile drove deep into his right eye. Other warriors dropped the man’s companion and his horse, but only the youth had struck this man, and had ridden up to finish the job and claim his trophy. The Roman was moaning as he lay stretched on the ground, one hand plucking feebly at the shaft, and the youth had hesitated before bringing his sword down to end the man’s life. It had not been fear or nervousness, he assured himself, but simple curiosity. He kept wondering who the man was, and one of the other warriors had shown him marks on the neck guard of the man’s bronze helmet and told him that the scratches were the soldier’s name and that of his clan chief. He would have to find someone who could read them.

The youth wore the helmet proudly for the rest of the day, and waited until everyone else had gone to sleep before taking it off, even though the cursed thing was heavy and uncomfortable. His task was to watch, until someone came to take over, so he wandered on the edge of the camp, nearest the old ruins, and listened to the soft noises of men sleeping, the louder sounds of horses breathing, stamping in the dust, or rolling over, and wondered whether the dead soldier had been a famous warrior. There had been a lot of grey in the man’s beard, which oddly reminded the youth of his own father, himself a proven warrior, who had told him again and again that the only thing that really mattered apart from honour was being around to tell the tale.

He wandered out a little way from the camp, staring up at the stars. The moon was rising, and the rolling lands around were brightly lit. No one moved out there. Then he heard a scratching, the small sound of some creature scrabbling for food or to burrow. It did not seem reason to call out, but the noise continued, and he realised that it was coming from the old graveyard. Yesterday, just that thought might have frightened him, but today, buoyed with the thrill of ending a soldier’s life and the proof that he could and would win as a warrior, he was too proud to be afraid. A man who had slain another could not let himself be timid. The youth walked up to the burial site, where there were two tombs larger than the rest, and near the centre an even bigger monument where the fallen stones still formed a rectangular pile standing proudly. The scrabbling was coming from somewhere close to them and was louder now.