“Not yet. He says there’s time enough.” He eyed me. “Is there?”

“How would I know?” I was unhelpful. “How long does he plan to stay here? A few days?”

“Three, he says. Time to bury the dead.”

“What will he do with Hengist?”

“What do you think?” He made a little chopping movement downwards with the edge of his hand. “And long overdue, if you ask me. They’re talking about it in there, but you could hardly call it a trial. The Count’s said nothing as yet, but Uther’s roaring to have him killed, and the priests want a bit of cold blood to round the day off with. Well, I’ll have to get back to work, see if I can catch more civilians looting.” He added as he turned away: “We saw you up there on the hill during the fighting. People were saying it was an omen.”

He went. A raven flapped down from behind me with a croak, and settled on the breast of the man I had killed. I called to a torchbearer to light me the rest of the way, and made for the main gate of the fortress.

While I was still some way short of the bridge a blaze of tossing torches came out, and in the middle of them, bound and held, the big blond giant that I knew must be Hengist himself. Ambrosius’ troops formed a hollow square, and into this space his captors dragged the Saxon leader, and there must have forced him to his knees, for the flaxen head vanished behind the close ranks of the British. I saw Ambrosius himself then, coming out over the bridge, followed closely on his left by Uther, and on his other side by a man I did not know, in the robe of a Christian bishop, still splashed with mud and blood. Others crowded behind them. The bishop was talking earnestly in Ambrosius’ ear. Ambrosius’ face was a mask, the cold, expressionless mask I knew so well. I heard him say what sounded like, “You will see, they will be satisfied,” and then, shortly, something else that caused the priest at last to fall silent.

Ambrosius took his place. I saw him nod to an officer. There was a word of command, followed by a whistle and thud of a blow. A sound—it could hardly be called a growl—of satisfaction from the watching men. The bishop’s voice, hoarse with triumph: “So perish all pagan enemies of the one true God! Let his body be thrown now to the wolves and kites!” And then Ambrosius’ voice, cold and quiet: “He will go to his own gods with his army round him, in the manner of his people.” Then to the officer: “Send me word when all is ready, and I will come.”