Silus threw the door of the small hut wide open so it crashed against the stone wall, shaking some thatching from the roof. A young girl, no more than five or six years old, screamed and ran behind her mother, grasping her legs and peering out. Silus realised his appearance must be quite terrifying to a child. Muddied, matted beard, and his brown hair grown long and tangled with twigs and leaves, stinking from the time in the field without a bath, and carrying a heavy bag soaked through with congealed blood.
The mother of the child stared coldly at Silus.
‘There is nothing for you here.’
‘Nothing?’ he said. ‘Not even a kiss?’
Instead she stepped forward and slapped him hard across the cheek.
‘You said you would only be gone two days!’ she yelled at him. ‘I thought you were dead!’
‘Sweetheart,’ he said, in what he hoped was a placating voice. ‘Velua, darling wife. The mission takes as long as it takes.’
‘Shit on the filthy whore of a mission. What about your family?’
‘My love. I am a soldier. I go where I am sent. And the money I make keeps this roof over your head, and food on your table.’
She looked up at the roof, where grey sky could be seen through gaps in need of patching. Then she looked at the table, on which sat a loaf of hard bread and tired looking cheese.
‘This roof? This food?’
‘Mummy?’ said the little girl. ‘Is that daddy?’
Silus knelt on one knee and held out his arms. ‘Sergia, darling. It’s me.’
Sergia screamed, this time in joy not fear, and ran to him, hugging him tight. Then she took a step backwards and wrinkled her nose.
‘Daddy, you smell.’
‘I know, darling. There were no baths where I have been.’
‘Where have you been, daddy?’
‘I’ve been helping keep you and mummy safe from the nasty Caledonians and Maeatae.’
Sergia held her thumb and first two fingers in a circle and spat to warn off evil.
Silus smiled, then was overcome by a wave of fatigue. He closed his eyes and put his hand to his forehead.
Instantly, Velua was by his side, steadying hand on his shoulder. ‘My love, is everything alright?’
‘Yes, beloved. My mission has been… challenging, and I’m very tired.’
Velua turned to her daughter and snapped, ‘Sergia, don’t just stand there. Get your father some wine, then get a bowl of water heating over the fire so I can wash this filth and stink off him. Silus, come and lie down.’
Velua led him by the hand to what passed as the bedroom, which was actually just a continuation of the room separated by a curtain. A simple wooden box with a straw mattress served as a bed for all three of them, and curled in the middle was a small, elderly black and white dog. She half opened her eyes, sniffed, considered, then jumped up and started yapping and running in little circles.
‘Calm down, Issa, your ladyship,’ said Silus, smiling and picking her up. ‘You must be getting really deaf now if you didn’t hear all the screaming and shouting that welcomed me home.’
He cuddled her close to him, and she licked his muddy face enthusiastically.
‘By Christos and all the gods of Olympus I swear you love that dog more than you love me.’
‘Of course not, my petal,’ he said, continuing to hug the little old bitch close. ‘Although, Issa has been in my life longer than you…’
‘We should put her in the cooking pot. Then at least she might make some contribution to this family. When was the last time she killed a rat or brought home a squirrel?’
‘Don’t listen to her,’ said Silus. He kissed the dog on the forehead, then put her down and gave her a gentle push out of the bedroom.
‘She’s retired,’ he said to his wife in a tone of reproof. ‘She has seen twelve summers.’
‘Hmm, well she had better stop pissing in the house if she wants to make it to a thirteenth. Now get those filthy rags off. I’m going to have to boil them, no doubt. Or burn them.’
Velua helped Silus out of his tunic and breeches. Her face softened when she saw the scratches of twigs and brambles criss-crossing his skin, bruises made by impacts from branches and rocks. She said nothing, but her gentle touch belied her stern words.
Sergia pulled the curtain back, holding a cup of watered wine, which she proffered to Silus. He took it gratefully and drank deeply, the liquid quenching his thirst and warming his empty belly. Sergia disappeared and returned with a bowl of lukewarm water. Velua tested it with a fingertip. She nodded.
‘Well done, Sergia. Now take this copper coin and go to Senovara’s house. Ask for six of her eggs. We will boil them for our dinner.’
Sergia grinned and took the coin, running towards the door.
‘Oh, Sergia,’ called Silus. Sergia stopped and looked at her father expectantly. ‘Ask if you could play with Senovara’s puppy for half an hour.’ He winked at his wife. ‘Actually, make it an hour.’
‘Yes, daddy,’ said the little girl and was gone.
‘You think, after you disappear for more than two weeks, without a word, and then return stinking like a derelict who has slept in a pigsty, that you can just…’
Silus silenced her with a deep, long kiss. She melted into him, arms sliding around him, head tilting to one side as she returned the kiss, her tongue pressing into his mouth and exploring desperately. Silus fell back onto the bed and pulled her with him, so she landed on top of him, laughing.
‘Silus,’ she said. ‘You’re filthy.’
‘Don’t you just know it,’ he said. ‘You’re pretty dirty yourself.’
He kissed her again, hands reaching for her breast, squeezing and kneading. Despite, or maybe because of, the stress and fear of the last days, he was desperately aroused. Velua straddled him, guided him inside her, and rode him fast. Her face and body, showing the first signs of the depredations of time and childbirth, were still as beautiful as a goddess’s to him, and he kept his eyes locked on hers through the entire short lovemaking.
After, they lay side by side, holding hands, breathing heavily.
‘That was quick,’ said Velua.
‘It’s been a while,’ said Silus. He stared at the roof, wondering if the reward for his mission would mean he could afford a decent thatcher. Maybe he could buy his wife some jewellery. Venus knew she deserved it. Velua was from a well-off Romano-British family and had been cut off by her father when she had fallen in love with and married the lowly soldier. Not even a legionary at that, just an auxiliary. But this mission could be the making of him. Promotion, prestige, money.
A scream from the main room made them both sit bolt upright. Velua was faster, out of bed and yanking the curtain aside. She put her hand to her mouth, frozen in shock. Silus was right behind her, guts clenching in fear at what had made his daughter scream for the third time this afternoon.
Sergia had her back against the wall, palms pressed behind her as if feeling for the possibility of further retreat. She screamed continuously, her eyes fixed on a point in the middle of the floor. Silus followed her gaze and his heart sank.
In the middle of the straw-strewn dirt floor, lying at an odd angle where it had rolled out of the bag which moments earlier had been opened by a curious child searching for presents from her newly returned father, was the decapitated head of Voteporix. The dead chief’s sightless eyes seemed to be trying to see his own eyebrows. The mouth was pulled back in a snarling rictus, black and rotted teeth visible beneath the lips. The long, grey hair was tangled and matted, and one side of the face was plastered in gelatinous globs of old blood. The neck ended abruptly in a jagged wound through which could be seen protruding the white bone of the spine, blood vessels and the food and air pipes.
‘Mother Maria, Venus and Minerva Sulis,’ whispered Velua. She turned to Silus. ‘What in the name of all the holy goddesses is that?’
Silus stepped past her and swept Sergia up in his arms, turning her around so she was facing away from the horror that had invaded her home. Still she screamed, and he clapped a hand on her mouth, muffling the noise.
‘Gods, the neighbours will think I’m murdering you both. They’ll be breaking the door down if she carries on.’
Velua stepped forward and tore Sergia from Silus’ arms. She rocked her gently, smoothing her hair with one hand, and the screaming slowly ebbed into inarticulate sobs. Velua glared at Silus. ‘What’, she said quietly and dangerously, ‘is that, you stupid cunt?’
‘Language, darling,’ said Silus, then immediately regretted his attempt at levity when her glare felt like a physical burn. ‘I can explain.’
‘Maybe you could start by explaining to your daughter that you haven’t brought a demon into our house.’
Silus moved behind Velua and tilted his daughter’s chin up so she could look at him. ‘Honeycake,’ he said. ‘That was a bad man. A Maeatae. Remember I said I was fighting them to keep you safe? I killed that one, and he can’t hurt you any more.’
Sergia gulped a few times, then asked, ‘Was he trying to hurt you?’
‘Yes,’ said Silus. Not strictly true, but he was sure the Veniconian chief would have skewered him if he had had the chance. ‘And now he is dead, and Britannia is safer because of it.’
‘And you haven’t brought his ghost home with you? To kill us while we sleep?’
Silus repressed a shiver at the thought. Gods, he hoped not.
‘Of course not, baby. You are completely safe. Daddy will never let anything bad happen to you.’
Velua gave him one more dagger stare, then took Sergia into the bedroom. Silus sighed and bent down. He opened the mouth of the sack, then gave the head a kick with the side of its foot so it rolled back inside. He pulled the retaining string tight, and tossed the head into a corner where it landed with a thump. He saw the eggs that Sergia had gone to fetch, and wondered what were his chances of getting them cooked. Slim, he guessed. He slumped into a corner and put his head in his hands.
Velua was gone long enough for Silus to attempt to construct several excuses for his carelessness, but in the end, he was too tired to come up with anything convincing, so he sighed and steeled himself to tell the truth.
The curtain swished back, and Velua came back in, stepping quietly, but her face was set.
‘She’s asleep,’ she said.
‘Good.’
There was a pregnant pause. Velua sat on a stool. Silus wondered if he should begin.
‘Well?’ she said. Clearly, he should.
When he had finished explaining his mission of the last couple of weeks, Velua looked down at her lap and her clasped hands. Silus waited for her to say something. When the silence stretched, he said, ‘You’re angry with me.’
‘Of course I’m angry with you,’ said Velua, though her tone was calm, her voice low and flat.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Silus. ‘I shouldn’t have brought that thing here. I should have gone straight to headquarters. I would never do anything to upset Sergia. Or you.’
‘You’re so fucking stupid.’
‘Um. Right.’
‘You have no idea why I’m angry do you?’
‘Because I’ve been away?’ hazarded Silus. ‘Because I brought the head here? Because I’m dirty?’
‘No, Silus. Because you could have died.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘That.’
‘Yes, Silus. That. You took a dumb, unnecessary risk that could have left your daughter without a father, and your wife without a husband.’
‘But my love, I took the risk for both of you. Look at this shithole we live in. You deserve so much better. This head could be the making of me. A bonus. A promotion. I could buy you jewellery and make-up, buy Sergia toys and fine clothes.’
‘Silus, I left riches behind to be with you. It insults me that you think I love money more than I love you.’
He knew that this was his moment to say something beautiful, something to express what she meant to him, his gratitude for her love. Instead, unexpectedly, tears sprang to his eyes. His head dropped, one hand over his eyes, and he tried not to sob as he was overwhelmed with emotion – fatigue accentuating his feelings.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Velua was kneeling beside him. He looked up into a mask of concern.
‘My darling, what’s wrong?’
‘I love you,’ he choked out, then buried his face in her shoulder and let the tears flow. She cradled him in her arms until he had cried himself dry, then she continued to hold him and he savoured her warmth and the relaxing feel of the rise and fall of her chest against his.
‘Mummy, why is daddy crying? Did the demon head hurt him?’
Sergia was looking round the curtain.
‘No, baby. Your father is fine. He is just tired.’
‘Daddy, mummy and me will look after you. You don’t have to worry about anything now you’re home.’
Silus dissolved into helpless sobs once more.
‘You’re so fucking stupid, Silus,’ said Geganius, Silus’ immediate superior.
Silus stood before the bulky centurion, deflated like a punctured water carrier, expectations and hopes pissing out onto the floor.
‘But… but this is the head of Voteporix. The Veniconian chief. Leader of the party that was going to attack us.’
‘Was going to?’ repeated Geganius. ‘You think you have prevented the attack?’
‘Well, I…’
‘If I chopped your father’s head off, would you just shrug your shoulders and say, “Oh well, time to head home?”’
There had been many times while Silus was growing up when he had wished someone would chop his father’s head off, but he saw the centurion’s point.
Geganius shook his head. ‘You expected glory and promotion for this, didn’t you, Silus?’
‘No, sir,’ lied Silus. ‘I acted purely for the honour and safety of Britannia and Rome.’
‘Come on. We’d better go tell the Prefect of your monumental fuck up.’
Geganius led the chastened Silus to the Prefect’s office. The Prefect’s secretary, a tall, ageing bald-headed freedman who brought to mind the statues of Julius Caesar that Silus had seen, looked down on them over his hooked nose.
‘What do you want, Geganius?’
‘Please announce us to Prefect Menenius, Pallas.’
‘He’s busy. Make an appointment,’ said Pallas.
‘This is urgent.’
‘Everything is urgent.’
‘Announce us right now,’ said Geganius in a threatening voice. ‘Or if Menenius finds out you have delayed us from seeing him, he will have your balls.’ Geganius looked the freedman up and down. ‘If you still have them.’
Pallas tossed his head back contemptuously and disappeared into the office. Silus heard indistinct words being exchanged, then the door opened, and Pallas ushered them in.
Menenius, the Fort Prefect, a grizzled veteran who had risen through the ranks to this prominent position, sat behind a desk covered in scrolls and wax tablets. He looked up at them, clearly annoyed.
‘Make it quick, Geganius. What is it?’
‘I think Silus here might explain things better than I can.’ He nodded to Silus.
Mouth suddenly dry, Silus opened the drawstring on his bag, and pulled out the head by its hair.
Pallas let out a small scream, but Menenius merely narrowed his eyes. He fixed his stare on Geganius. ‘What,’ he said, ‘the fuck is that?’
Geganius prompted Silus with an elbow in the ribs.
‘This,’ said Silus, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, ‘is… I mean was… Voteporix, a tribal chief of the Venicones.’
Now Menenius’ eyes widened.
‘Silus,’ he said. ‘you’re so fucking stupid.’
Silus grimaced. That message was starting to sink in.
‘Tell me, soldier. What exactly was your mission?’
‘Sir, I was told that traders had reported rumours of stirrings in some Maeatean tribes in the region of Dùn Mhèad. I was ordered to scout north of the wall to see if there was any truth to the rumours.’
‘And? Was there?’
‘Yes, sir. I observed a large warband gathering at the Dùn Mhèad hillfort. Maybe some five hundred warriors.’
Menenius whistled. ‘That’s enough to cause us some trouble, don’t you think, Geganius?’
‘If they caught us by surprise, yes, sir, especially with the Emperor and Caracalla still wintering in Eboracum right now. But if forewarned? With patrols recalled, the garrison on alert and some local reinforcements? Maybe less of a problem.’
‘Quite right,’ said Menenius. ‘And knowing how vital it was to warn us of this imminent raid, Silus, you made it your priority to return to us as quickly and safely as was humanly possible, correct?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Silus, hoping they didn’t find out that he had spent last night in bed with his wife in the vicus before he had reported to the fort for duty this morning.
‘Then why in the name of all the gods on Olympus, in the name of Christos and Maria and Mithras and every fucking major and minor deity that exists,’ yelled Menenius, standing up and slamming his fist on his desk, ‘am I staring at the decapitated head of a Maeatean tribal chieftain?’
‘Sir,’ said Silus. ‘I thought…’
‘You thought, soldier? Was any thought really involved here?’
‘Yes, sir. The opportunity presented itself, and I thought that killing their chieftain might damage their morale, maybe get them to call off the raid completely.’
‘Damage their morale? Let me tell you a story, soldier. When I was a child, my older brother showed me a wasp’s nest. He told me not to go near it or the wasps might attack me. So what did I do? As soon as my brother was gone, I stuck a stick into the nest to see what happened. I can tell you now that the effect my stick had on those wasps’ morale will be very similar to the effect that you murdering their tribal chief, mutilating the body and stealing the head as a trophy will have on the Maeatae.’
A shiver went down Silus’ spine. Slowly it was dawning on him that he had made a huge error of judgement, and the consequences might affect not just his own career.
Menenius sat down and took a deep breath.
‘Pallas,’ he said, ‘send messages to the neighbouring forts either side of us on the wall, warn them there is to be a Maeatae raid, which we believe will be on Voltanio. Ask if they can spare any men to reinforce us, but warn them to be on full alert in case the barbarians decide to attack a different fort. Geganius, ensure the garrison is prepared. Everyone is now armed and armoured round the clock until this danger is over. Make sure all equipment is in good order. Ensure we have enough food, wood, arrows and slingshots for a siege. The barbarians could be here in an hour or a week. It will be no longer than that – they can’t hold a group together for that long without them starting to fight each other.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Geganius. ‘And what about him?’ He nodded to Silus.
‘Throw him in the cells. He can have some time to reflect on his idiocy before I decide his punishment.’
‘Sir!’ protested Silus.
‘Don’t make it worse for yourself,’ said the Prefect. ‘Geganius, get him out of my sight.’
Maglorix looked down on the faces in the expansive roundhouse that served as the meeting hall for the council. He sat in the highest chair, which was adorned with skulls, both animal and human, while the other council members sat on lower chairs or simple benches made out of thick branches and tree trunks. They were a mix of ages, the very eldest a man of more than sixty winters called Erc. Many had tattoos on their faces, arms and for those who disdained to wear a tunic, on their chests. Many too wore scars of battles, from internecine tribe war as well as fights with the Romans.
Erc regarded Maglorix steadily while masticating a nettle leaf with toothless gums. Maglorix couldn’t read the older man’s expression, but others were more open, and he could see sympathy, fear, anger, suspicion and contempt. His head still ached, but food and rest had restored his energy, and he felt strong enough now to take his case to the council.
‘You all know why my father summoned and gathered you here. For two years, the Romans have been ravaging our country. The Emperor – curse him and his family – could not defeat us, so he resorted to murder, rape, and pillage. We have all lost brothers, cousins, children, even womenfolk, to the brutish invaders. The Emperor’s son Caracalla led his armies against our brethren in the far north. We know what he did. We have seen it for ourselves. He burnt crops so our people would starve. He burned villages so our people would freeze to death in the winter. How many Caledonian and Maeatae children died cold and hungry this winter? Their blood is on Caracalla’s hands just as much as if he had choked the life out of them himself. He murdered the menfolk. He raped our women, putting his seed in them, so they grow Roman bastards in their bellies. Even the Romans relate the story of our forefather Calgacus when he was defeated at Mons Grapius. Erc, you know what he said.’
Erc spat the leaf out, then mouthed the famous phrase that Tacitus had reported spoken by the Caledonian chief more than a hundred years before, after he had been defeated by the historian’s father-in-law. ‘They ravage, they slaughter, they steal, and they call this Empire. They make a wasteland, and call it peace.’
Maglorix saw nods of agreement around the hall, but still he saw reluctance and resentment.
‘My father wished to bring the fight back to the Romans. To teach them to fear us. To drive them back behind the wall, where they can live with the timid Britons, like the Votadini and Novantae who bent over for the Romans to fuck them so long ago. Now the Romans have murdered him, not in open combat, but in the most cowardly way. And not only this, but they have dishonoured his body and taken his head as a trophy. We cannot let this insult go unavenged. For my father’s wishes and for his honour, I will lead you against the Romans, and we will win a great victory that will avenge him and restore our pride.’
There was a murmur of approval, but not from every throat, and not as emphatic as Maglorix had hoped.
Maglorix caught the eye of Lon, the druid. His hair was styled in the typical druidic fashion: a high shaved forehead so his hair line ran over the top of his head from ear to ear with a flowing white mane behind. His nose was long and pointed, his eyes too far apart, and his ears, accentuated by his hairstyle, protruded almost comically outwards from the side of his head. He wore a long scarlet robe with gold embroidery, sported a gold torc around his neck and carried a wooden staff with a bell tied to the end. The tribe’s holy man was attempting to keep an air of neutrality about him, as he sat haughtily at the far end of the room. Nevertheless, he returned Maglorix’s gaze with a slight inclination of his head, and Maglorix smiled inwardly, pleased he had the support of a man who was both important politically within the tribe and as a conduit to the gods.
‘We are too few in number,’ called out one elder. ‘There is a truce with the Romans at the moment and the Caledonians are licking their wounds from last year’s disasters, as are most of the other Maeatae tribes. We can’t start a war.’
‘I’m not talking about taking on the whole Roman Empire,’ said Maglorix. ‘This will be a punitive raid, for revenge, for pride, for the honour of my father.’
‘This is all irrelevant,’ interjected one of the elders, a thin-faced bald man with a long white beard called Muddan. ‘You are not our chief.’
‘Is that so, Muddan?’ said Maglorix, fixing his stare on the old man.
‘Yes,’ said Muddan, unperturbed. ‘It is so. The Venicones do not rule by right of their parenthood. Our leader is elected by the Council of Elders.’
‘And here you are. So confirm me as Chief and we will continue.’
‘The Chief is chosen after debate, after trials of strength and wisdom prove that he’s worthy of leading. Your father was no exception, and nor will his successor be, whoever that is.’
‘Whoever that is? I am the new Chief, by right of my birth and the strength in my right arm. We have no time for these games. As you dribbling old fools worry and chatter, the Romans are preparing themselves.’
‘Have a care how you speak of those older and wiser than you,’ said Muddan, voice low.
Maglorix leapt out of his chair and into the centre of the circle, drawing his sword in one smooth motion and sweeping it in a full arc around the seated council members.
‘This sword lends me all the wisdom I need. Is there anyone here that would challenge my right to wield it as leader of the Venicones?’ He turned slowly, locking eyes with each face present. Each one dropped his gaze to the floor, until he reached Buan, who had been standing behind Maglorix’s high chair. His father’s faithful bodyguard smiled at him and gave him a small nod. Maglorix nodded back, then faced the council.
‘It is settled then. No one disputes my right to lead. So I command you all to—’
‘I dispute your right to lead.’
Maglorix looked towards the sound of the voice. A tall, broad warrior was standing in the doorway, blocking the light, shaggy, matted hair cascading over the wolf skin he wore over his shoulders.
‘Tarvos,’ said Maglorix and spat. ‘You are not on the council. You have no right to challenge me.’
‘I heard your speech, Maglorix. Right of birth and a strong arm make a chief today? We share a grandfather, cousin, and I am willing to wager my right arm against yours.’
‘You wager your life, cousin,’ said Maglorix, eyes narrow, voice dangerous.
‘So be it.’
Tarvos strode into the centre of the council circle, sliding out his sword. Maglorix assessed his opponent with narrow eyes. His cousin was half a head taller than Maglorix, and his reach just that little bit longer. But Maglorix was older by two years, and Tarvos had not yet developed the full musculature of a warrior in his prime. Nevertheless, Tarvos’ smile was condescending, and although Maglorix had not sparred with him for some time, he knew he had a reputation for ferocity and skill among his peers.
Tarvos stood with his feet planted firmly, one further forward than the other, sword held in a loose grip by his side. Maglorix had his back to the high chair, resting the tip of his sword against the dirt floor.
‘Come on then, Tarvos. I stand before my father’s seat. Take the place from me.’
Tarvos took a step forward, but he was cautious. Maglorix had his own reputation as a cunning fighter, and Tarvos was wary of a trap.
‘You hesitate, Tarvos. If only your mother had been less impulsive.’
‘What are you talking about?’ growled Tarvos.
‘My father was furious when he found out his sister had opened her legs for a Roman soldier.’
Tarvos whitened. ‘That’s not true.’
‘And nine months later she shat you out. Is that why you are hesitating now? Because deep down you want to fight like a Roman. With men to your left and your right and behind you. Sheltering in one of their tortoises?’
‘You go too far, Maglorix,’ said Muddan. Maglorix ignored him.
‘Your poor cuckold of a father loved your mother too much to do the right thing and flay her alive like the whore deserved. So he raised you as his own, and put up with the mockery and the shame. You look like you didn’t know, Tarvos. Surely you suspected? Doesn’t your soul cry to live in a city? Aren’t your dreams filled with images of bathhouses and reclining on couches being fed grapes by your slaves?’
Tarvos was silent, lips a thin line. His sword quivered.
‘Why do you want to be chief of this tribe, Tarvos? So you can surrender to your Roman kin at the first opportunity, just like your whore of a mother did?’
Tarvos roared and charged across the circle at Maglorix, sword held high above his shoulder in a two-handed grip. As he reached Maglorix, he brought the sword down in a blow hard enough to split a skull like it was an apple.
But Maglorix slipped nimbly to the side, raising his sword and using it to deflect the power of the blow. Tarvos’ blade slammed into the high chair with such force the back disintegrated into kindling. It bit into the wooden seat, and wedged for a moment.
A moment was all that Maglorix needed. As Tarvos heaved to free his weapon, Maglorix pivoted behind him and thrust his sword straight through his cousin’s back. The tip burst out of the front of his chest accompanied by a gout of heart blood. Tarvos slumped backwards, body going rigid, then flaccid. The stench of the corpse’s bowels opening flooded the hall.
In the silence that followed, Maglorix took a knife from Buan, and quickly sawed through his cousin’s neck. He held the dripping head up for the council, turning in a slow circle so all could see. Then he tossed it onto the dirt, where it rolled across the circle.
‘Are there any here, now,’ said Maglorix, slowly, ‘who dispute my right to lead as Chief?’
At first, there was no reply. Then Lon said gravely, ‘Maglorix, you are Chief of the Venicones, by right of blood and by right of arms.’
Murmurs of agreement swelled to cheers and whoops of celebration.
‘Buan,’ said Maglorix, ‘get the head of that half-breed on a spike outside the council hall, and when it has rotted, make sure the skull adorns my new high chair.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ said Buan.
‘Now,’ said Maglorix, addressing the submissive elders. ‘These are my orders.’