Ferox dived, arms outstretched. He felt the sword strike his back, but the angle was poor and he was moving fast so that the blade did not cut into his mail. He locked his hands around the man’s knees, hitting him with all his weight, and the warrior buckled and fell. Ferox felt the fierce heat of the fire as they landed with the man’s head and shoulders in the flames. His hair flared and burned and the man started to scream. The centurion rolled back, pulling at the man with all his might, and then someone was beside him and rolled the redhead in a cloak. It was the big German.

‘This is an outrage!’ The voice was shrill, almost as high as a woman’s, as the Stallion stood and screamed at them. ‘See how the Romans mock our customs! How they humiliate us in the king’s own hall! They are filth and must be swept from the land.’

Ferox pushed himself up. The priest was not looking at him, but sweeping his gaze around the chieftains. He was wilder than the warrior at the height of his battle madness, yet cold, almost lifeless, and whether or not it was an act Ferox could understand men believing that the man was no more than a mouthpiece for a god.

Tincommius said nothing, but the big German patted the centurion on the shoulder and grinned. The gesture outraged the Stallion.

‘They are not of us!’ The priest shrieked. ‘Neither of them. The one has forgotten and the other was not born in these isles blessed by the love of the gods. They pollute us by their presence, but soon it will be gone.’ He jumped up on to the table, and Ferox could see that he was not as tall as he had thought.

‘Rome is weak!’ he yelled. ‘Every day it withers and if we strike hard enough it will die. They fled from these lands, and they will flee from the rest if we have the courage to defy them. Now is the time, for if we let them they will grow again like weeds in a field and choke us once again. Kill them! Kill them all! Kill them now!’

A few of the chieftains cheered, but only a few and Ferox wondered whether they shouted just because they were drunk and would cheer anything. The rest said little, but their faces were scared. There was a force in the priest, an unearthly force that cowed bold men.

‘Kill them!’ The Stallion drew a long knife, the only weapon on him, and jumped down into the circle. He ran at the fire and leaped through the flames and men gasped because he did not seem touched.

Ferox gripped the handle of his sword, but the German stepped in front of him and grabbed the priest’s thin arms, holding them tight.