The Romans cheered and Brasus roared, falx high, feinted a blow at her shield so that she raised it, then switched to the other side and brought it slamming down. The woman raised her curved sword to protect her head and there was a clang as the blade was snapped by the much heavier falx. Someone screamed from behind the barricade as she only just pulled out of the way. She flung the stump of the blade at his face, but he batted it away with the falx. Many hours of training over many years let him wield the great weapon with the speed of a light stick. He stamped forward, slashing down, and the rest of her shield fell into pieces.

The queen jumped back. Her left arm hung loosely at her side, numbed or even broken, but her right grasped the handle of the gladius and drew it. Brasus’ trouser leg was wet with his own blood, but his strength was still there and the pain seemed to have gone. He went forward, cutting down to the left and then to the right, but always she dodged and he turned too fast for her to reach him with her short sword. He was struggling for breath, sweat in his eyes. She was tired too, her tunic clinging to her body.

The queen lunged at him, ducking under the falx, diving to the ground and then pushing up to hurl herself at his legs. He hissed as the wound throbbed, but she was smaller and lighter and the force did not knock him down, although he was forced back, sliding in the dirt. He let go with his left hand and grabbed hold of her hair to hurl her away. She squealed, an oddly childlike sound, her sword fell and she landed on her back. It was over.

Brasus raised the falx, gripping again with both hands. The queen stared up at him, still defiant and the fear that anyone must have felt at this time did not show. Again the bruises to her face shocked him, for they made her seem vulnerable – just a very pretty girl rather than some sorceress.

Suddenly she rolled, reaching for her fallen sword, but Brasus was faster and kicked it away. There was silence now all around the fort. The queen was gripping her left arm, which was surely broken. Her green eyes seemed large and images from his dreams flashed through Brasus’ mind. He lowered the falx, letting go with his left hand, so that it could grasp his knife.

Shifting her weight the queen tried to get away, the only sign that she was human and fearful that she was showing and Brasus did not think less of her for it. He followed, the falx pointing down, ready to lunge into her chest.

‘Death is nothing,’ he said to her softly, almost like a lover. ‘It is only the beginning of the journey.’

Then Brasus raised the curved dagger to his own throat and sliced hard across it. There was pain, more than he had expected as he started his journey.