Were the gods not fickle, prone to behave like humans, to take sides, to change sides even? Fate could not ever be unalterable! Lucius Falerius, in his steady seductive voice, began to question the certainty of the prophecy. As noble Romans they could consult the priests of every temple in Rome, sacrifice birds and animals and have the signs within the entrails read; what fear could they have of a bird that could not fly? The burning papyrus was mere trickery. Aulus Cornelius tried hard to match his friend’s growing disbelief, but he knew his own voice betrayed his failure to do so.

The image of that blood red drawing, that eagle in flight was behind his lids, to scare him every time he closed his eyes.

Brennos could conjure up an image of his impending fate and no amount of knocking his head on the smooth walls of his underground prison could erase the horrifying vision; only days before he had taken his place in the circle of massive rectangular stones to ritually do the same to another. Taller than ten men, when the sun rose on a clear day those huge granite blocks cast shadows that ran black to the edge of the world. Robed in white, Brennos had helped form the circle of priests surrounding the flat altar on which lay a recumbent male, eyes glassy from drinking an infusion of sense-dulling herbs. The priests had assembled in the grey pre-dawn light and waited in silence till the first sign of that blood-red ball of fire rose in the east, the moment when the giver of life dragged itself away from the souls of the dead to be greeted by bright blood. But on this day, at this sunrise, it would be his blood and his agony. There would be no drug to dull his feelings and his face would carry no ecstatic smile. The knife would cut out his heart while he was fully conscious, his body so arranged that he could watch it happen; that was the fate of a condemned Druid.

He had worked hard for what he was about to lose.