Vindolanda

I

IT WAS CLOSE to noon, only a few fat white clouds in an otherwise bright sky, and Ferox pulled the brim of his felt hat down to shade his eyes from the glare. He would have preferred rain and wind, weather suited to his mood, but the day was a fine one and he resented it, just as he resented everything else. At least his gelding was behaving, and he gave the horse a loose rein, trusting him to pick the best path down this rocky valley. Ferox needed to think, but each thought came grudgingly.

‘Drink before a battle if you must,’ his grandfather, the Lord of the Hills, had told him when he was young, ‘although not too much if you hope to live. Never drink before a raid.’ His grandfather had forgotten more about raiding than most men would ever know.

They were not on a raid this morning, but they were surely hunting marauders who were and that needed the same cold head and colder heart. Ferox had led plundering expeditions and chased raiders more times than he could remember, and he knew that this was true, just as he knew that today his spirit and power were weak. So was the ability to reason, drummed into him by his teachers all those years ago. His mind was not clear, which meant that he would likely make mistakes, and perhaps he would lead them into an ambush and he would die. At least that would be a release.

He could almost feel his grandfather’s scorn, and tried to break free from his black and hopeless mood.

Vindex had taken some precautions without waiting for him. Two of the Brigantian scouts rode ahead of them, two more hovered in the rear, and the rest, including the two Roman troopers, came a couple of horse’s lengths behind him. They kept their distance and it was hard to blame them. Now and again Victor hummed a tune Ferox did not know. The rest of them were silent, watching him and waiting to see what happened. He sensed their doubt of his judgement and once again could not blame them. They rode for an hour, dismounted and led their horses for the next hour before remounting and pressing on at a gentle trot. They might have to go a long way and could not afford to wear out their mounts. At least the thick-limbed ponies favoured by the Brigantes were strong beasts, for they had already spent two days searching the country.

Ferox envied the animals their stamina and their lack of care, when he just wanted to lie down for a hundred years. His head throbbed, his belly churned and he could not rid his mouth of the taste of vomit. He worried that he might throw up again, as he had when they started to trot for the first time. He had not fallen off, but when he had tried to mount up back at Syracuse he had not been able to make his limbs work. Ferox had grabbed the horns on his saddle, ready to jump up, but could not. Instead he had just stood there, staring dumbly as the gelding turned its head and stared back. His legs had felt like lead – heavy, ready to bend or crack as soon as he put weight on them. He had bounced slightly, unable to do more. It was a sign of how bad he felt that the snort of laughter from one of his men and the contemptuous sniffs of the Brigantes had not cut deeper. They had to help him on, one of the soldiers cupping his hands and bracing them against his knee so that Ferox could step on it, while another man lifted and shoved him from behind.

Vindex was already on his own horse and had looked at him with a pity in his eyes that cut deeper than the laughter and contempt. Then his bony face became hard.

‘She is gone,’ the Brigantian had whispered. ‘She’s not coming back.’

It was like being thrust into the cold and dirty water of the horse trough again, and for a moment the old pain burned bright and fierce. Ferox hated the scout, hated himself for what he had become, hated the whole world and the gods who had brought him to this place and the great emptiness inside him. Rage and pain filled him with strength.

‘Let’s go,’ he had said, and urged the gelding towards the gate. Once he was outside the ramparts he had given a gentle nudge and the animal willingly trotted – the whole move only spoiled when the nausea took over and he vomited. It left him empty and weak once again as he led the straggling column south. Vindex had left the trail of the men who had killed the old man to come to Syracuse, and rather than retrace his path they hoped to find it again further on. It was a gamble, but time was precious. The scouts had lost half the night coming to fetch him, and it had taken a good half-hour before they were ready to leave the outpost.

Now that it was too late, Ferox wished he had let Philo shave him. It was always easier to think with a smooth chin to rub, and somehow it made him feel more alive. The Alexandrian boy fussed over him – ‘Like a good Jewish mother,’ he always said, even if Ferox doubted that the slave had spent much of a childhood with either of his parents. Philo set high standards, clearly determined to make his master almost as neat and well groomed as he was, and looked so disappointed at the centurion’s constant failure to match this ideal. Ferox liked the boy and indulged him a little, if only because he was a reminder of better times and of her. He had bought the boy as a slave for her, but then she had vanished and he was left with this fussy servant. That meant there was always a struggle for he could not be too hard on the boy.

The centurion had refused the mail shirt when the slave brought it out, knowing that if he had taken it the lad would surely have wanted him to wear his harness and decorations as well. He also turned down the helmet with its high transverse crest of feathers, demanding this old felt hat instead. Master and slave compromised in the end, and he had left wearing the hat, but with the helmet strapped to the rolled blanket tied behind his saddle. Ferox also allowed the slave to pin a deep blue cloak around his shoulders. It might prove useful if the weather changed or they were out for a night or more. Philo was no doubt pleased that it partly covered the old padded jerkin, a garment that he was convinced shamed his important master.

‘You should send a man and have the beacon lit.’

Ferox had not noticed Vindex come up beside him and was surprised at this interruption to his thoughts. It was the second time the Brigantian had made the request. There was a watchtower only a couple of miles away, built on one of the highest peaks in the line of hills, with a good view, especially of the lands to the south. There were rarely more than half a dozen soldiers there, enough to keep watch from the top of the tower and tend the beacon.

‘We haven’t found any sign of your latrones yet.’

‘Have we not?’ Vindex looked around him. ‘Anyway, isn’t that all the more reason to give the alarm? They could be anywhere.’ The black smoke of the beacon was visible for many miles and informed army and civilians alike that trouble was abroad. Once it was seen, riders would gallop from the garrisons to find out was happening, strong patrols would go out along the main routes and even larger forces prepare to move as soon as detailed reports came in. It warned the attackers just as it warned everyone else, letting them know that they were hunted, and that the danger would steadily increase for every hour they remained in the area.

‘Not yet.’ Ferox repeated his answer to the earlier request. The first time Vindex had dropped back and followed with the others. Now he said no more, but kept riding alongside the centurion.

Ferox was tempted, for there was certainly something not right. They had passed several farms and the people in them were courteous, nodding or waving at them as they went by. Yet they looked watchful, as if unsure what was happening and sensing danger. They met some drovers urging a small herd onwards in quite a hurry, but the men claimed to have seen and heard nothing untoward. To Ferox their faces were even more wary than men’s faces often were when confronted by Romans asking questions. He suspected that if his mind were not so dulled by his hangover he would have seen more.

There were a few signs by the wayside of the sort used by the tribes to send simple messages. Among the Textoverdi of these lands, one stone piled on another meant that there were warriors or soldiers abroad, and he had seen several of these that looked fresh. A mile or so back there were three flat stones piled on top of each other, the highest one much lighter coloured than the others. That meant a large force of warriors, well armed, with the bright stone marking them as enemies, although in truth some of the locals signified the Roman army in that way. It meant that the group were not Textoverdi, and probably not from one of the other Brigantian clans like Vindex’s Carvetii. Ferox wished that he had taken the time to read the fresh bundle of letters back at Syracuse and to check through the latest orders as that should have told him if a large army patrol or other detachment was in the area. He doubted that there was, as the nearest garrisons were stretched pretty thin these days, but it was still just summer, the time for training and shows of force, so it was possible that something was on.

Ferox knew that he did not believe it and wondered whether it was stubbornness or fear that stopped him from sending a man to raise the alarm. He could not pretend that the fear was not real. His was once a promising career, as the first young nobleman of the Silures to be given Roman citizenship, educated at Lugdunum in Gaul with the aristocratic children of the three provinces, commissioned as centurion in a legion, and decorated for valour by the Emperor Domitian himself. All of that had turned sour long ago and some of it was his fault. He had spent the last seven years here in the north of Britannia, without leave or promotion, serving away from his legion who never gave any suggestion that they wanted his presence. His political importance had long vanished now that the Silures were said to be peaceful, and he was posted to Syracuse because he did not matter and neither did the duties he carried out – at least not to any senior man in the province, let alone anyone at Rome. Ferox was regionarius of a district of little importance and if he wanted to rot there or drink himself into an early grave then no one much minded. Neither were they much inclined to trust his judgement, for his stubborn pursuit of the truth had made him few friends and plenty of enemies.

The truth mattered. ‘Lie to others,’ his grandfather used to say, ‘but don’t be fool enough to lie to yourself.’ Last summer, and then again at the start of this year, he had sent in reports of serious trouble brewing in the north. Everything he saw and heard had convinced him that it was only a matter of time before the tribes broke their alliance with Rome, but his superiors had scoffed at his fears, and nothing had happened so far, so he was now marked down as an alarmist, possibly unreliable. If he roused the garrisons with stories of great raiding bands of barbarians and it all proved to be nothing then he was finished. Crescens for one would happily testify to his drunkenness at the time of the alarm and there were bound to be others who would back up his story. After all, it was the truth. He would be broken, dishonourably discharged and lose the last faint traces of purpose and meaning in his life. Ferox could not face that, for he had nowhere else to go.

‘It is a bit early for a big raid,’ Ferox said, trying to delay the decision.

Vindex looked more than usually gaunt. ‘Depends who they are,’ he said. ‘And what they want.’

Most bands came for livestock. There might be a few of them, especially if they were horse thieves, or several dozen. If it was a bigger attack, a chieftain with the warriors oath-bound to serve him and any others who wanted to come along, then they wanted more than to take a few animals. The best time was in a month or so, when autumn was truly here. That meant sheep and cattle fat and strong from summer pastures, ground frosted and hard so that the going was good, and the sheltering darkness of longer nights.

Ferox wondered if this was a murder raid. They were rarer these days, with all the tribes and clans allied to Rome and encouraged to be friendly to each other. A big part of Ferox’s job was to hear complaints and arbitrate in disputes so that men were less tempted to go and burn someone else’s house down. Much depended on the chieftains, whether they sent their clansmen to him, settled the matter themselves or refused to get involved. There were still warriors out there eager to take heads and add to their reputations as dangerous men. Some of the chieftains were as keen for glory or to prove their power, and then there was always hatred and vengeance.

‘Someone took that young bugger’s head,’ Vindex said.

Ferox wanted to think, and needed quiet to do it, but had learned to value the Brigantian’s judgement.

‘Didn’t take the Goat Man’s, though, did they?’

Vindex was unimpressed. ‘Well, would you want that ugly old sod staring at you?’

Ferox did not know the old man’s real name, and wondered whether anyone really knew it or knew him. They called him the Goat Man, or sometimes just Goat, and even men who were grandfathers could only ever recall him being old. He had no home, but wandered the lands with his goats and the small boy who helped him tend to them. Sometimes he stayed in farms or villages, sometimes in caves or huddled in the shelter of trees. Everyone knew him and he never had a good word for anyone else, but he seemed to draw animals to him. Farmers hoped he would come if their cows went dry or the sheep were sick, for Goat Man understood the lore of creatures and how to heal them.

‘It won’t be the same without him,’ Ferox said.

‘Yes, it will be a lot less miserable. He never had a kind word for anyone, not that I ever heard. He’s cursed me plenty of times.’

Goat Man was never happy and never grateful. He arrived at a man’s house at night, took shelter and food and the place closest to the fire. He stayed as long as he wanted, then left without a word and without any thanks. Yet he was always welcome and more than a little feared.

‘I’ve heard people say that he was a god or spirit in disguise.’

Vindex threw his head back and laughed, causing a murmur to run around the men following them. ‘Humpin’ good disguise if it was.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But he’s dead as stone, and you can’t kill a god.’

‘I do not think they meant to kill him,’ Ferox said, rubbing the thick stubble on his chin.

‘That’s kind of them.’

‘Reckon they wanted something from him,’ he continued, trying the idea out as he spoke. ‘Probably wanted him to guide them, and when he refused they slapped him around and he died on them.’

‘Probably just to spite ’em, knowing that miserable git.’ Vindex chuckled to himself. ‘What about the other one? Did he try to help?’

‘No, he must be one of their band. I do not think he was from these parts. Something happened, he broke his leg and that was that. He’d only slow them down, so they killed him.’

‘Nice to have friends,’ Vindex said. ‘Why take the head – and the hand?’

‘That I do not know, but he let them.’ The cut to the neck was neat and from behind. It was a hard thing to take off a head with one blow, and to do it so well suggested skill and practice. Ferox imagined the man meekly waiting, probably a couple of others helping him to kneel in spite of the agony from his leg and one of the others raising his sword, timing it carefully before the downward sweep. ‘They took the hand afterwards. Maybe they have Goat Man’s boy as a guide or maybe he escaped. But I think—’

Ferox broke off, brought his gelding to a halt and held up his hand to stop the others. He swung down and walked forward through the long grass. They were in another little valley, a muddy stream at the bottom, and in one patch the ground on either side was churned and marked with the tracks of horses.

‘Careless,’ Vindex said, but the centurion raised his hand angrily for silence. Ferox crouched, studying the ground some way from the stream.

The Brigantian took the reins of the centurion’s gelding and walked his own horse forward.

‘Twenty, maybe a couple of dozen,’ Ferox said without looking up. ‘A couple with packs and a couple more unridden. Some of the horses are big, and some carrying heavy riders.’

‘As I said, but these are not the ones we followed.’ Vindex and his men had found the tracks of one party the day before, following it and finding the bodies. Just before sunset they had seen another similar-sized group join the first. Now there was a third bunch, heading in the same direction and probably planning to meet, which meant a band fifty or sixty strong at least, and one that was well prepared. The bigger horses were a puzzle. The tracks looked more like army mounts than ponies.

‘Looks like they came past seven or eight hours ago,’ Ferox concluded as he went to his horse and grabbed the horns of the saddle. ‘While it was dark.’

‘Do you need help?’ Vindex said nastily as the centurion hesitated.

‘Mongrel,’ Ferox muttered and then grunted with effort as he half jumped and half pulled himself up.

The trail headed up the side of the valley and the centurion put the horse into a canter as he followed it, the gelding bounding up the slope with obvious joy. Vindex and the others followed. The signs were clear – hoof prints and flattened grass. It meant that whoever they were they were no longer afraid of pursuit. They must be close to whatever it was they wanted.

‘Get the beacon lit,’ Vindex called as he caught up with the centurion.

‘Not yet. I need to know more.’ They came out of the valley on to a hilltop and followed the trail east. It was easy to see, and shifted direction only to avoid the patches of bog and the steepest and most rocky ravines. They went for a mile across this rolling country, riding near the top of the ridges so that all the land to the south was spread before them. Anyone looking would see them, but Ferox did not care. People in these parts knew his felt hat. It was old and battered, the sort farmers and labourers wore in the lands around the shore of the Mediterranean, and a rare sight in Britannia, let alone in the north. Locals knew it and would recognise him long before they could see his face. The raiders would see them too, at least if they were still close and watching out. Like the beacon, the sight might make them nervous or more dangerous or both. Still, if he kept to the open country then there should be warning of any threat.

They dipped down into a valley before climbing on to the next long ridge. Ferox slowed to a walk to preserve the horses, then came on to the crest and stopped as he saw something that chilled his heart. Vindex was beside him and went pale. The Brigantian tugged out a bronze wheel of Taranis, which he wore on a cord beneath his mail shirt.

‘Lord of Thunder, protect us,’ he murmured, pressing the wheel to his lips.

Two grey stones stood on the slope ahead of them. Men called them the Mother and Daughter or sometimes the Mare and Foal and they were old, older than memory, set up by the vanished people who left behind their mounds and their blades of flint – or perhaps by the gods themselves before time began. The Textoverdi rarely came here, and only stepped between the two stones in dire need to work some magic or make an oath unbreakable.

The Mother was the taller stone and someone had balanced a flat red brown pebble on top of it. That was a dreadful sign, one Ferox had never seen before, a warning of evil and a curse abroad. What was worse was that someone had come along afterwards, taken the pebble and thrown it to the ground so that it smashed in two. Then they had picked up one of the pieces and drawn on both the standing stones. Each picture was no more than a crude circle, turned into a face by dots for eyes and an upturned V for a mouth.

Ferox’s voice was flat as he turned to the Brigantian. ‘It appears that our fears were justified.’

‘Yes.’

When he had warned of trouble the centurion had tried to explain to his seniors that Rome was seen as weak, its armies in retreat, its power ready to crumble into the dust. Especially in the far north ambitious leaders scented a chance to carve out empires of their own. Men nearer at hand spoke in whispers of war and destruction, of magicians and druids preaching hate. Vindex and his men had seen the same signs and brought word to him, but he was dismissed as over-imaginative and nervous. Yet every instinct told him that they were right, just as the hunter sensed the lurking presence of a savage beast long before he saw it.

‘A druid?’ Vindex said the word warily, as if the name itself had power.

‘Something like that.’ Only a man confident in his own power and magic would risk violating a sacred place in this way.

‘Then we’re humped,’ the Brigantian concluded.

Ferox ignored him and beckoned to the two Roman cavalrymen.

‘Crescens, who is in charge now at Vindolanda?’ That was the nearest garrison, a couple of miles away to the south-east.

The curator looked flattered to be asked something, although surprised that the centurion did not know. ‘The Prefect Flavius Cerialis, new commander of the Ninth Batavians.’

‘They are equitata, aren’t they?’

Crescens nodded. Cohors VIIII Batavorum was a mixed unit, with their own cavalry contingent to support the main force of infantry. The Batavians were Germans from the Rhineland, big men with reddish hair and an obvious disdain for the rest of the army – not just their fellow auxiliaries, but even the Roman citizens in the legions.

‘Good. You will ride to Vindolanda and report to Cerialis – or whoever is senior if he is away. Please inform my Lord Cerialis that there is a force of at least sixty barbarians in this area. They are well armed and dangerous. They are planning an attack on the road to Coria. I would ask him to send word to the other garrisons and outposts along the road. Apologise to him that there was no time to write a report.’ The army always preferred to have everything in writing.

Crescens frowned in concentration as he listened.

‘Have you got all that?’ Ferox said. ‘Then repeat it to me.’

The curator may often have been a fussy, irritating man, but his obsession with detail was sometimes useful and he made no mistakes.

‘Good man. If you hear no more from me then return to the burgus as soon as you have rested. Now ride like the wind!’ Ferox turned to the other cavalryman. ‘Victor, ride to the watchtower and have them light the beacon. Tell the man in charge that there are sixty raiders on the prowl, and give the warning to anyone you meet.’

As the second rider galloped away, Vindex stroked his thick moustache and smiled. ‘I’m glad I brought you.’

Ferox grunted. ‘We do not have much time,’ he said, urging the gelding into a trot, although taking him wide of the standing stones.

‘If we are right, some poor buggers have a lot less time than us,’ the Brigantian said as they pressed on. ‘Are you sure about the road?’

It was not truly a road. The army had only built two proper roads here in the north. The Western Road passed through Luguvallium on its way north to the few outposts left beyond, while the Eastern Road went through Coria. There were a couple of forts between those two bases, and a route had been marked out to link them, with bridges where necessary. Ferox had heard talk of plans to turn this into a proper road, but so far nothing had happened.

‘Only thing that makes sense,’ Ferox replied, rubbing his chin again. The centurion suspected that he sounded far more positive than he felt. ‘The trail keeps on dead eastwards, not south, even though the routes that way are open. My guess is that the bands met by the end of night and will attack soon. That’s if they haven’t already done it. They’ll do what they came to do, and scurry back north to wherever they came from. There are not enough of them to attack a garrison, so they are looking for something in the open. Perhaps a farm, but no one that important or rich lives within easy reach, so it all comes back to an ambush on the road.’

They kept to the high ground, and could see the east–west road below them, sometimes as close as half a mile, more often further away. There were a few travellers along this route, but most of the traffic was military. They passed a couple of carts going westwards at the plodding pace of draught oxen, and three score of pack mules escorted by a dozen legionaries with as many slaves to tend to the animals. The sight made Ferox think, because the convoy would have made a prime target for raiders wanting to take some heads and get some loot.

Vindex must have had the same idea. ‘Perhaps they were lucky and got through before the ambush was ready?’

‘Perhaps.’

Half an hour later they passed Vindolanda, its buildings a dull white in the distance, and Ferox hoped that the curator was well on his way to the fort. Victor ought to have reached the tower by now, but there was no sign of the beacon’s warning smoke. Another mule convoy passed by on the road, bigger than the first, but still vulnerable to a determined band of fifty or sixty men – assuming they had not been joined by yet more warriors.

Ferox put his horse into a canter and drove the beast hard, slapping with the flat of his hand when the gelding tried to slow. They raced along, the horses’ shoulders and flanks white with sweat, eating up the miles until they could no longer see the fort, but only the thin tendrils of smoke from its fires. The gelding was breathing hard and beginning to stumble, always a sign that the animal had little more to give. Ferox slowed them back to a walk.

‘That’s where I would do it.’ He pointed ahead. The road veered a bit to the north, running along the valley side to follow a much older trackway and avoid meadows that became bogs after just a couple of days of rain. For a mile or so it was less straight, allowing wagons to negotiate a succession of little slopes and gullies. There were scattered copses and a couple of large woods, the trees big and offering plenty of cover from prying eyes. One stretch went along the bottom of a little valley and was even more secluded.

Vindex snorted with laughter. ‘Trust a Silure to pick the right spot for an ambush. Bandits the lot of you.’

‘They say I am a Roman.’

‘So they say.’

There was a murmur from the scouts, making Vindex turn in the saddle. ‘Beacon’s lit,’ he said.

Ferox was not really listening. Not far away was a herd of cattle being driven alongside the road, and a few travellers all going west. Passing them on the main track were ten or twelve cavalrymen followed by a mule-drawn carriage. It was not as large as many coaches, but such vehicles were rare in this part of the world, and the escort showed that it carried someone or something of importance.

The centurion touched the big wooden pommel of his sword, feeling the runnels carved into it. He wore his sword on the left as a mark of his rank, and also because it was an old-fashioned long blade and was easier to draw from that side.

‘I need you to take the scouts up to the top of the ridge.’ He pointed ahead, to the hilltop above the broken country. ‘The sight of you may worry them if they are waiting to strike. There are too many of them for us to take, so you watch what happens. We need to know who they are and where they’ve come from. Follow them when it’s all over. Catch one if you can, but do not take any daft risks. What you can learn is more important than anything you can do. Understand?’

Vindex nodded. ‘And what will you be doing?’

‘Taking a closer look.’

The Brigantian grunted and walked his horse over to his men. Ferox pulled off the felt hat and tossed it away. Twisting around in the saddle, he unfastened the helmet from where it was tied. As usual Philo had left the woollen hat inside. He pulled it on, put the helmet on top and tied up the leather thong to hold the ends of the cheek pieces together. It had been weeks since he had last worn it, but after thirteen years with the legions the heavy helmet still felt as naturally a part of him as his hair.

Ferox walked his horse downhill towards the road. His mind felt clear and calm, though easy because the decision was made and that was that. He had left the alarm too late, and this was his region. All his warnings in the past would not help because they could not change his mistake now. There was probably someone important in the carriage, and he could not let whoever it was die without trying to warn them. Even that might not be enough, and it would be all his superiors needed to recommend his dismissal.

His head no longer throbbed, and when he drained the last of the posca from its skin his mouth felt moist and fresh. When they had forced him awake and made him ride out he had felt as if the world was about to end. The black mood of the last days engulfed him once more and he no longer cared that much if it did. Ferox rode down the hill.

‘You forgot your hat,’ Vindex said cheerfully, coming alongside, holding the battered old hat in his hand.

‘I gave you orders.’

‘No one gives orders to the Carvetii.’

The two men kept at a steady pace.

‘It is important,’ the centurion said. ‘We will need to learn as much as we can.’

‘I told Brennus to take charge. He will do what he’s told.’

‘I thought no one gave orders to the Carvetii?’

Vindex grinned, his face more skull-like than ever. ‘Brennus’ mother is from the Parisii. Anyone can order those earth-eating buggers about.’

Ferox did not laugh, but his mood lifted a little.

They rode on. The carriage and its escort were out of sight, hidden by a grove of tall oaks.

‘Do you have a plan?’ the Brigantian asked after a while.

Ferox said nothing.

‘Well, that’s good.’ Vindex raised the wheel of Taranis to his lips and murmured a prayer.

‘No one asked you to come,’ Ferox told him.

‘I know. Some people are so unfriendly.’

For the first time the centurion looked his companion in the eye. ‘No shame in going back. It’s not too late.’

Vindex laughed. ‘Just what my uncle said to me before I took my first wife!’ The Brigantian suddenly looked grim, but then he usually did. Only men like Ferox who knew him well also knew his hidden sadness. Vindex had lost both his wives, the first to fever and the second bearing a stillborn son. The sorrow was deep, but had not dampened his enthusiasm for the pleasures of life.

Ahead of them, the escort and the little carriage emerged from behind the trees. They were close enough now for Ferox to see the cavalrymen’s green-painted oval shields, which meant that they were most likely Batavians out of Vindolanda. Their helmets looked strangely dark and only the cheek pieces gleamed in the afternoon sun. One man at the head of the little column wore brightly polished scale armour that shimmered, and there was an air of formality about the soldiers. Most men would not have bothered to take the shields out of their leather covers for an ordinary journey.

‘Maybe we were wrong?’ Vindex suggested, as the riders and carriage went briskly on their way on this warm afternoon. He reached down to swat a horse-fly settling on his mare’s neck. Now that they were lower down the insects swarmed around them, drawn by the rich smell of horse sweat.

A horn sounded, harsh and braying, and Ferox kicked his horse on savagely to draw on its last strength and lumber into a canter.

‘Oh bugger,’ Vindex said, and followed him.