When Tincommius kept begging for his uncle’s mercy the centurion threw him against the stone wall. Tincommius howled with agony, bleeding from a gash on his forehead. The centurion calmly picked him up and placed him back on his feet. ‘No more nonsense then, there’s a good gentleman.’

After they had eaten a quick meal in the royal kitchens Vespasian and Quintillus made their way to the redoubt. The semi-circle inside was lit by a small fire into which the point of a javelin had been thrust. The iron tip rested in the wavering heart of the fire and glowed orange. To one side Tincommmius was bound to a wagon, and leaned limply against the rough planks. On his bare back were scores of bruises and raw scorch marks. The air was thick with the pungent smell of burned flesh.

‘Hope you haven’t killed him,’ said Vespasian, the back of his hand pressing against his nostrils.

‘No, sir.’ Hortensius was affronted by the legate’s lack of faith in his expertise. There was more to being a torturer than merely inflicting a painful death. Far more. That’s why the legions trained men so carefully in this most arcane of military skills. There was a fine line between hurting men enough to guarantee they would speak the truth, and overdoing it and killing them before they were ready to crack. As any half-decent torturer knew, the trick was to inflict more pain than the victim could bear, and keep it at that level of intensity for as long as possible. After that, the victim would tell the truth all right. The terror of not being believed and thereby inviting further agony saw to that. Hortensius nodded towards the fire. ‘He’s just a little cooked.’

‘Has he said anything useful?’ asked Quintillus.

‘Just some native gibberish for the most part.’

‘Does he still maintain that Caratacus is coming to his rescue?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Vespasian looked at the mutilated flesh on the prince’s back with a horrified fascination. ‘In your judgement, do you think he’s telling the truth?’

Hortensius scratched his neck, and nodded. ‘Yes, unless he’s got more balls than a herd of billy goats.’

‘Interesting expression,’ Quintillus remarked. ‘Haven’t heard that one before. Regional speciality of yours?’

‘That’s right, sir,’ Hortensius replied drily. ‘We made it up for the benefit of tourists. Now, shall I get on, sir?’ The last remark was directed at the legate, and Vespasian tore his gaze away from Tincommius.

‘What? Oh yes, carry on. But if he doesn’t change his story soon, you can finish up here and get some rest.’

‘Finish up, sir?’ Hortensius bent down and pulled the tip of the javelin out of the fire. Against the darkness it glowed more intensely than ever: a fiery yellow on which pinpricks of even brighter light sparkled. The air wavered beside it. ‘Do you mean finish off?’

‘Yes.’