Stones and dirt shifted, there was a grunt, another even louder, and then a soft crack as wood broke and more pebbles rolled away. The youth took his bow and strung it, his breath coming in gulps, for the deep shadows around the tombs were moving. A shape broke from them, turning itself into the dark figure of a man, who stepped forward and his face was white, pure white, the flesh gone and little more than a skull, with eyes shining.

The youth tried to put an arrow to the bow, but his hands shook and he dropped it. He realised that the figure had a helmet on, just like the man he had killed and his mind reeled as the thought came that this was his spirit. Instinct somehow took over, and he reached for another arrow, nocked and loosed. It flicked away into the night, straight at the ghostly shape, and missed or went through him, because the spirit kept coming, and steel glinted as it drew a blade.

A hand clamped hard across the youth’s mouth, a great force pulling him back and then there was horrible pain as the knife stabbed up through his back and under his ribs. The ghost was coming closer, teeth even whiter than its pale face as it leered, and there were more shapes behind him, as the youth’s eyes went dark.

Ferox wiped his blade on the dead warrior’s tunic and stood up. Vindex nodded to him.

‘Wasn’t sure you were coming,’ he whispered. He and the other three Brigantes were covered in pale dust and filthy from lying in the tiny chamber for a day and a half. It was an old tomb, sunk into the ground, and they had felt it wise to pile the bones neatly in one corner. Then Ferox and the others had covered them over with planks and dirt, leaving a narrow slit to see out. If the enemy had not come within another half day, then they would have dug them out and tried again later in the month, but the enemy had come, so they had waited for the moon to start rising and then broken out.

‘This way,’ Ferox hissed. There was no sign of another guard, but two ponies were wandering nearby, cropping at the grass whenever they had a mind. He went to the closest, speaking softly, smoothing its head and neck until the animal was willing to trust him. Vindex did the same with the other one, and you could trust the Brigantes to make friends with horses. Using them as cover, they walked in the animals’ shadows, leading them slowly into the camp. Halfway to the stream, Ferox turned and tapped the Brigantian following him on the shoulder, making a sign for him to wait. The centurion vanished into the dark, and though Vindex had seen nothing, he did not doubt that there was some threat out there. Glancing up at the sky, he realised that they were running out of time, and still there was no sign of Ferox. Then there was a sigh, as peaceful as the wind in the grass, and the centurion reappeared, still holding his stubby pugio dagger.