He spat at the centurion’s feet. “I’d rather die than be a slave to any man,” he said. “I would rather die.”
         The centurion looked quizzically at the translator, who repeated what he had said, word for word. The blacksmith replayed it in his own head.
         “I’d rather die…oh, porras”
         The centurion looked him up and down, shrugged, and ran him through. The look on the blacksmith’s face was one of tragic realisation mixed with sad resignation. Then it dissolved as his muscles slackened, and he slid off the blade and pitched, head first, into the ground. The centurion wiped the blade on the man’s tunic and returned it to his sheath. Hefting the full pack on his back, he motioned to the legionnaires to get into line. A flurried moment of activity ensued, and then calm descended again. A couple of snapped orders, and the legion moved off, back along the path. All roads led to Rome, in the end.

         Pìcaro was awoken by one of the worst things in the world, and that is someone pressing a piece of white-hot metal into your forehead with sadistic precision and a lifetime’s worth of skill. He came round just long enough to smell his own flesh burning before passing out again.