Far to the north of the Roman wall whose stones he had so recently trodden as conqueror, in a forest clearing not unlike the one in which the war had been set in train a few short months before, Calgus, lord of the northern tribes, was arguing his corner against growing opposition. While only one of the tribal leaders dared to speak out against him, half a dozen other implacable faces were arrayed behind the old man, mirroring his grim obduracy. Calgus shook his head and scowled at the old man, raising his hands and eyes to the skies as if to seek guidance from their gods.

‘No, Brennus. We have not lost this war. In fact this war has barely begun, and yet already we have two mighty prizes to parade in front of our people.’

The king of the Votadini tribe leaned back tiredly in his chair, glaring back at Calgus from beneath the hood of a heavy cloak.

‘As you keep saying. My people are expected to be happy with the head of a dead Roman officer and a meaningless metal bird on a stick when what they really need is their dead menfolk back. That, and an end to the killing. Can you magic forth either of those things from your bird on a stick, Calgus? At least we had peace with the Romans before this war, unlike your troublesome Selgovae. There were no forts on our territory before this revolt, whereas your lands were already studded with their outposts. You argued for us to abandon our ties with the Romans when you had already long since soured your relationship with them, like a fox without a tail convincing its brothers to go without theirs.’

The old man looked around to his fellows, holding his hands out in apparent exasperation.