In his tent, Tarquin savoured every morsel of his meal. He had forgone the use of his serving dagger, and licked the greasy residue from his fingers. The rations were the same as ever, but knowing that he and his men were full when he was starving out his enemy at the top of the mountain made him appreciate every successful mouthful. The vision of their cries as they clutched their empty bellies, dying in the agonising pain of deprivation, was often the sight that coaxed him into sleep at night. Undeniably, the general had been furious when the snow had fallen, and he discovered the wolves had made formidable obstacles from nature’s nuisance on the mountain paths. Despite knowing the dangers to his men, Tarquin had sent three separate units of his soldiers to their death before his anger a
