He did not see the First Messenger being led away, for the king had arrived and Brasus bowed low as was proper. Then he heard someone walking towards him and a hand touched his bare shoulder, then moved to lift his chin. It was Decebalus, and the great king smiled at him, his teeth white against his thick black beard, the widening streaks of grey hidden by the night.

‘You do not bow to me,’ he said. ‘Not on this night.’ Instead the king bowed to him and hushed Brasus when he tried to say that this was wrong. ‘The Messengers are above the lords of men,’ Decebalus told him and made Brasus all the more disappointed that he had not been chosen to be First. Then he tried to banish such jealousy. A Messenger must be pure or the journey could not be made.

Brasus waited. He could not see what went on for the ritual was conducted behind him. He had never seen it done, although the last time he had stood with the king’s main escort some way down the path. Yet he knew what was to be done and imagined the twelve Carriers standing beneath the great boulder in four rows of three. The Messenger was led half way up the path and there his hands were tied behind his back. After that he walked alone, for this was a journey only he could take and that was a hard walk barefoot because the ground was littered with sharp rocks. He must not speak or utter any sound.

Beneath the great rock the Carriers drove the spiked ends of their long spears into the hard ground, and then held them at a slight angle, the great broad heads pointing up. The Messenger would reach the boulder some twenty feet above them. Then he would jump.

Brasus heard the screams and shuddered. The First had failed, and failure meant that he was not pure enough for the journey, which meant that a Second would go instead and then, if necessary, a Third. The drums beat once again, building up slowly this time, so that the last wails of the First carried above them until his throat was cut. On and on the drummers pounded the hollow trunks, and again the bowman shot into the sky to ward off clouds and storms.

Twice more the Eyes of the King asked the question, and the second time the priest answered. Brasus was not the Second, and instead the other man went, and again Brasus waited. This time it seemed to take longer.

‘It is done!’ The priest had his arms in the air and for the first time shouted. ‘The Great Lord of the Heavens has taken the Messenger into his arms!’

Brasus felt his eyes moistening, and his clouded mind struggled to know whether this was frustration at not having ascended or a shameful relief that he had not gone – or worse yet, been tested and failed. Was this uncertainty why he had not been chosen?