It was not a responsibility to be borne lightly, leading such men. They looked to him for food and shelter, for order in their lives. Their respect was hard to win and could be lost in a single moment of cowardice or indecision. He would not have had it any other way.

“Shall we run, Regulus?” Julius said, between tearing breaths. The centurion smiled stiffly. The habit of shaving had come back to them all in Ariminum, and Julius saw the man’s face was red and raw in the wind.

“Best not leave the horses behind, sir,” Regulus replied.

Julius clapped him on the back and took a moment to look around at the mountains. It was a deadly beauty that they passed through. The aching white of the high peaks shone in the sun, and behind, Brutus struggled on to keep them in sight.

Regulus saw Julius glance down the twisting path.

“Shall I go back to him, sir? The general’s limp is getting worse.”

“Very well. Tell him I’ll race him into Gaul. He’ll understand.”

The long irons were heated in braziers until the tips were red. Madoc and Cingeto had stripped to the waist and now both men stood sweating on the floor of the temple. All the families were there to watch and neither of them showed the slightest fear as the priest checked the irons over and over until he was satisfied and the hairs on the back of his right hand shriveled as he passed it over the basket of iron.

At last, the old priest turned to face the two brothers. Their chests were paler than their arms and faces, he saw. Madoc was heavy with muscle, the bull his father had once been. Cingeto was a more compact figure, though there was not a piece of spare flesh on him. The old priest drew himself up to address the silent families of the Arverni.

“A king must have strength, but he must also have determination. All men feel fear, but he must conquer it when the need is great.” He paused for a moment, savoring the words of the ritual. His old master had used a long stick to correct a faltering recital. He had hated him then, but now he used that same cane on the apprentices in the temple. The words were important.

“By right of blood, these men have chosen the trial of fire. One will take the crown and one will be banished from the lands of the Arverni. That is the law. Yet the man to lead us should have a mind as sharp as his sword. He should be cunning as well as brave. The gods grant that there is such a man before us today.”

Both brothers remained still as he spoke, preparing themselves for what was to come. The priest grasped the first of the irons and pulled it out. Even the dark end he held made his hand stiffen.

“To the elder goes the first,” he said, his eyes on the glowing tip.

Madoc reached out and took the length of iron. His eyes were bright with malice as he turned to Cingeto. “Shall we see which one of us is blessed?” he whispered.

Cingeto did not reply, though sweat poured off him. Madoc brought the rod closer and closer to his brother’s chest until the blond hairs began to sizzle, giving off a powerful smell. Then he laid it against his brother’s skin and pressed it deeply into the flesh.

Cingeto’s lungs emptied in a great heave of air. Every muscle in his body went rigid with the agony, but he did not cry out. Madoc ground the iron against him until the heat had faded and then his own face tightened as he put it back into the fire.

Cingeto looked down at the brown welt that had been raised on his skin. It leaked pale fluid as he took in a deep breath and steadied himself. Without a word, he drew another iron and Madoc began to breathe faster and faster.

Madoc grunted as the metal touched him and, in a fury, he grabbed for another from the brazier. The priest touched his hand in reproof and he dropped it to his side, his mouth opening and his breath coming harshly.

The trial of fire had begun.

At the end of the second day in the mountains, the rugged path began to tilt down to Gaul. Julius paused there, leaning against a rock. When he looked up, he could see the plateau of the high pass above them and was astonished that they had put it so far behind. They were all desperate for food and sleep, and Julius felt a strange clarity of vision, as if hunger and the wind had sharpened his senses. Below him,

Gaul stretched with a darker green than he could have believed existed. His lungs felt huge inside his chest and he took great breaths for the sheer pleasure of being alive in such a place.

Brutus felt he had been trudging through the mountains all his life. His weak leg throbbed every time he put his weight on it, and without the horse to lean on, he was sure he would have fallen long before. As the century rested, he and Regulus weaved their way through the column to the front. Julius heard some of his men cheer, calling out encouragement. He turned back to see them and smiled as the pair responded to the voices, forcing themselves on. The strength of the brotherhood between his soldiers never failed to fill him with pride. As Julius watched, Brutus and Regulus grinned at the hoots and calls, laughing together as Regulus muttered some reply.

Julius looked back at Gaul below them. Spread out before him, it looked deceptively peaceful, almost as if he could take a step and land right in the heart of it. He hoped that one day a traveler through the passes would look down on cities as great as Rome. Beyond it lay the sea that called to him, and he pictured the fleet that would carry the Tenth and Third over it. The tribes would pay their taxes in gold and he would use it to see what lay over the dim white cliffs. He would take Rome to the edge of the world, where even Alexander had not been before him.

Brutus came to his side and Julius saw dark rings around his eyes. The climb had hurt his friend, but in his exhaustion he seemed to have lost some of the coldness he had brought back from Rome. As their eyes met, Julius motioned toward the country below.

“Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

Brutus took a water bottle from Regulus and tilted it back between cracked lips.

“Are we in a race or not?” he said. “I’m not waiting for you.”

He staggered down the slope and Julius watched him with affection. Regulus hesitated by Julius’s side, unsure whether he was to follow.

“Go on, stay with him,” Julius said. “I’ll follow you down.”

The smell of flesh and fire was strong in the temple. Both men were bleeding as their skin cracked open with each turn of the irons. Eleven times they had withstood the pain and Cingeto now swayed with his teeth showing whitely against his skin, ready for the twelfth. He watched his brother closely. The test was as much in the mind as in the body and each man knew it could only end when one refused to touch the other. As each burn was added, they both knew it meant they would face at least one more, and the knowledge ate at them as their strength dwindled.

Madoc hesitated as he wrapped his fingers around the black iron. If he held it to his young brother, he would have to stand another on his own skin. He did not know if he could, though the desire to see Cingeto humbled was still strong in him.

The trial was a bitter test. Through the waves of pain, the only solace was the thought that in a moment their tormentor would feel the same. Determination and strength crumbled in the face of such torture, and Cingeto felt hope leap in him as his brother continued to hesitate. Was it cruelty in him to be drawing out the moment, or had he lost his taste for the irons at last?

“Gods give me the strength for another,” he heard Madoc whisper, and Cingeto almost cried out as the red-tipped metal came out from the flames once more. He saw Madoc raise it and closed his eyes in anticipation and fear. His whole body cringed from the contact and always there was the terror that he would not have the will to go on when the choice was his. The spirit chose the winner of the trial of fire, never the flesh, and now Cingeto understood as he could never have done without experiencing it.