A warrior took a brand from the great fire and used it to light the tallow wrapped around the shaft of an arrow just behind the head. He walked across to the edge of the cliff, where a tall bowman waited. The bowman took it, nocked and drew in one swift motion, and then loosed.

Brasus watched the arrow arch high into the air, the flames flickering. They did not go out until the missile dropped out of sight into the valley below. The drummers stopped as one man, sticks held up high, and waited as the echoes faded away until there was only silence. Brasus blinked and still the stars moved, dancing their endless dance through the Heavens. Then he realised that he heard everything as if the sound was new – the breath of each man, the soft whimpering of the strangers kneeling in their chains, and the great crackle of the fire.

‘Is the message prepared?’

The words were appallingly loud, though the man spoke in a whisper. He had asked the question three times before and received no answer, so that the drums had begun again and a fresh arrow been sent to ward off the storm clouds.

‘It is ready.’ The priest had answered. He was a tall man, clad wholly in black – boots, trousers, tunic, cloak and tall hat. Even his face was painted black, so that he was no more than a vague shape as he stood beyond the fire.

‘Is the truth pure?’ A warrior almost as tall asked the question. He wore an iron helmet and armour of bronze scales, both glinting red from the flames, but he carried no weapons. He was the Eyes of the King, his duty on this night to speak to the priest.

‘Truth is always pure or it is not truth.’ The priest never spoke above a whisper and yet Brasus heard each word sharply. He bowed his head and waited for the choice.

‘Which is the messenger?’

The priest said no words and must have pointed or made some other gesture. Brasus and the other Messengers waited, heads down and eyes closed. After a while they heard the sound of boots crunching in the snow and sensed the Carriers were passing them and making ready to play their part.

Suddenly the man on Brasus’ left stood up. There were men behind them, their tread as loud as their breathing and they had come for the man on the left. Brasus sighed, and raised his head, for the choice had been made and he was not to be the First. The Romans were being led past him, and he saw them closely for the first time. Two were soldiers, their unbelted tunics hanging well beneath their knees, and the third was familiar. He saw the jowly face, thick neck and the white scar on the forehead. His mind was sluggish, each thought taking shape as slowly as wood carved by a blunt knife. The man was a merchant, a secret friend of the king, but his odd foreign name would not come.