The pain was like a great, all-powerful white light. It drilled through his body, then up into his head, his mind, his soul.

Patricius gripped Lupus’s face and squeezed it hard.

‘Any last words before you die, brother of mine?’

‘May you rot in hell, Patricius!’

Lupus had just enough strength left to spit in his torturer’s face. He wondered if he would have to endure any more of the branding iron that glowed sun-red from being repeatedly shoved into the foculus that lay to the right of the cross on which he was suspended.

Lupus watched as Patricius turned and looked at the one he called Master, who nodded permission to his follower. This must be it; this must be the moment when they put an end to my misery! I will neve...

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