"Yeah, yeah," agrees Deema, another barista. "And even if I had the brainspace to worry, I haven't got the roomspace in my apartment for a shrine. I make my obeisance when I visit my parents at the weekend, but my apartment's so cramped the shower's in the kitchen. Where am I meant to find the space for the Eighteen Forms of Frozen Madness?"

The heavy mauls swung inward, the only thunder in the soft morning rain. The priests watched, trembling. The small man from Arabia stared hungrily at the widening hole.

The bricks sealing the cell shivered, and Amren watched his father's jaw tremble under the blow. Tremble as it never had in two desperate battles. Not even when the men of his auxilia fell about him in desperate retreat had Amren seen Sir Bedwyr's face show fear. Until now. And the Roman Legate looked on, sneering.