The horse’s feet were quiet as it walked a little way forward. Perhaps these men wrapped the feet in rags to muffle the sounds, as the Sarmatians did. The animal was to his right, and he judged that the man was a little to his left, but very close for the noise was getting louder.

Still Ferox waited, staring forward and unable to see much on either side because of the hood. He thought that there was movement beyond the camp and wondered about Bran, but the crawling man was so close that he heard him whisper something under his breath. Ferox’s fingers closed around the handle of the pugio as it lay under his arms. The crawling man was beside him, inches away and surely must realise that someone was lying covered in a cloak. Yet he kept going, muttering what sounded like curses. Perhaps he thought that Ferox was one of his comrades?

Vindex jumped back as an arrow whisked through the night towards him. Ferox turned his head, saw a bearded man just a foot or two away, who opened his mouth and said something. The centurion flicked out his left hand with the knife in it, and punched, driving the point through the man’s eye, who hissed once before he died. Ferox left the blade embedded, not bothering to wrench it free, for a horse was galloping towards him. He pushed himself up, gladius in his hand, and wrenched off his cloak, snapping the brooch in his haste. The rider was close by, bow up, an arrow already nocked, so Ferox ran at him, yelling as loud as he could and waving the cloak like a banner. There were shouts from the camp, and a piercing scream from further out.

The rider saw the new threat, and since Ferox was coming from his left it was easy to flick his bow round, but his horse reared from the sudden noise and movement, and the arrow flew high. His mount was turning, and he kicked his heels to drive it at Ferox even as he reached back for another arrow.

Ferox pelted towards him, and they closed so quickly that he mistimed his throw and his cloak flashed past the horse’s head rather than covering it. An arrow scraped the side of his head, drawing blood, then he thrust with the gladius. It was an old-fashioned blade, longer than the standard ones and ending in a long triangular point, which drove through the scale armour the horseman wore and went deep into his belly. The man screamed and fell out of the saddle onto him, knocking Ferox to the ground. His face was pressed into him, eyes wide, and mouth gasping and his fingers clutched for the centurion’s throat. Ferox’s hand was sticky with the man’s blood, but he still had hold of his sword so twisted the blade and drove it deeper. The man shuddered and went still.

Close by, a horse galloped off into the night. Ferox pushed the corpse off him and saw that the rider’s mount had stopped only a short way away. On the edge of sight the shape of a horseman pounded off across the plain.