Diegis would not hear of such a plan, and Rholes was willing to agree. The older warrior was paler than Brasus remembered, slower of speech, and seemed far older and less well than he remembered.

‘The Roman filth have defied us,’ Diegis declared at the great council. ‘So they must surrender or be crushed. Now that they have seen the greatness of our numbers, they will surely give in.’

Brasus had thought that Rholes was about to say something, but after a moment the old warlord simply waved his hand, a sign of agreement among his folk. A woman mopped his brow, leaning against the chair on which he sat. She was at least thirty, a pleasant face fading with the rigours of the years, and her manner almost maternal as she fussed over Rholes. She was also the only woman he had brought with him, a far cry from his troop of companions in past campaigns. Brasus knew that he should not hope for such things, but he could not help feeling that it would have been better if Rholes still had the vigour to require more entertainment.

The commanders chose him to summon the Romans to surrender.

‘Because you know more about these people and this place than any of us,’ Diegis said to him, and then also told him precisely what he should say. ‘If they come out we can always decide then whether or not to kill them,’ the commander had added. Neither in speech nor actions did he seem to belong to the pure. ‘Now run along, and redeem yourself.’

That first direct reproof stung, all the more because it came across as casual disdain rather than based on any thought. Brasus had not expected the Romans to surrender, yet felt that the army was watching, disapproving and judging him instead of the enemy as he rode forward on that dog of a horse. The Romans mocked and laughed, and he could not help wondering whether they realised that he was the man who had attacked them. He remembered the centurion’s voice from that day in the forest when he had hidden from them. He had at least expected more respect from Ferox, if indeed his enemy knew that Brasus was the man who had almost taken his fort. Then there had been the filthy banner, and that pale, flame-haired and remarkably beautiful woman staring down, armed as if for war. Ivonercus had spoken of the queen in words of hate and fear, yet never of her loveliness. Brasus was shocked to see her because he had dreamed of that face many times, since he was a child and did not understand why. She was perfect and she was terrifying like some spirit or demon of the air. He had lost his temper, less from the mockery for all its sting, but because this was a vision and he did not know what it meant as wild desire fought with cold fear.

Diegis was not welcoming, asking whether he had said the words as instructed, and then whether he would fight as well as he had raged.