Ferox pressed on.

‘Hot work, sir,’ a veteran of I Minervia said as yet another arrow thunked into his big, rectangular scutum. There must have been at least twenty shafts sticking out from its front already, as the soldier hefted a rock in his hand, waited and then flung. ‘That’ll learn him!’ Two more arrows struck the shield so that it quivered, but the three layers of wood encased in leather let only the merest tip of one poke through.

‘Keep it up,’ Ferox told him and went on. Another veteran had a shield almost as covered in broken stumps and shafts. He stood up in the gap between the raised sections of the parapet, took aim and sent a light javelin thrumming down. An arrow’s point rang as it struck the iron boss and bounced away. Then a bigger, much faster bolt slammed into the scutum, ripping it from the veteran’s grip so that it fell away and slid down the bank at the back of the rampart. The man ducked, wringing his left hand.

‘You all right?’ Ferox asked.

The veteran was bearded like many older soldiers. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. ‘No. Bet the army will charge me for that!’

‘Typical army. They’d charge you for your own spit if they could.’

‘And make you get a receipt each time you go to the latrine!’ The jokes were old, very old, but there was a comfort in the familiar. ‘Yes, it’s those bastard officers that cause all the trouble.’

‘I know,’ Ferox said. ‘Can’t trust any of them.’

There was a savage crack as the top of the parapet above the man was struck by a great stone, breaking the wood and throwing up splinters.

Ferox winced. ‘I think we’ve upset them.’

‘Any chance of a month’s leave, sir?’

Ferox crouched as he went past. ‘Sorry, lad, you know the army, put it in writing or bribe some centurion.’

Ahead of him, a Brigantian rose to throw a javelin just in time to meet another great stone, ripping his head from his shoulders as missile and head kept going to land down in the intervallum. The rest of the body stood for what seemed an age, blood jetting high to spray over the other men sheltering around him, until slowly the corpse fell.

‘When are they coming, lord?’ asked another Brigantian, as he wiped blood from his lined face. He was one of the men from the mines, and that had aged him. He was wearing a helmet today, but underneath his head was wholly bald, which made him stand out for he was the only bald man among the Brigantes. ‘When are they coming?’

‘Soon,’ Ferox said. ‘Just wait and we will all be avenged.’

‘Good.’ In the past the man had done little to conceal his hatred of Ferox and Vindex, but there was no trace of that now, only anger at the enemy outside.