‘Got a new champion, have you, old man? Could it be your sister’s boy that’s stood behind you, perhaps? Or will you do this the old-fashioned way and turn your men loose on mine, see who prevails, eh?’
Brennus looked him straight in the face, no sign of fear in his eyes.
‘There will be no challenge if you agree to make peace with the Romans. They have two full legions on our soil even now, they dominate the land around their destroyed forts on the north road as they start to rebuild them, and yet you claim to have broken their grip on us for ever. If we seek to offer them resistance those legions will roll over us and grind us into the ground we stand on.’ He shook his head at Calgus, then turned to the men behind him. ‘This rebellion is over! We’re back in the iron fist, but this time there’ll be no Roman tribute payment to soften the indignity of our lost sovereignty. The best we can hope for is to trade those cursed spoils of battle, and humble promises of peace and good behaviour, for some measure of normality. Until we do their legions will trample our land and people under foot, forever seeking revenge for their wounded pride.’
Calgus turned away, affecting to consider the suggestion. It was more than a suggestion, of course, more like an order from the leaders of the other tribes arrayed behind the old man, and an assured death sentence for him. If the tribes negotiated with Rome he knew that nothing less than his own head, alongside that of the Roman legatus currently sat in a jar of cedar oil in his tent, would satisfy their lust for revenge. Not unless they could take him alive, of course, for a lengthy humiliation and eventual ritual execution. He turned back to face the implacable faces with a slow secret smile.