Ferox did not have his sword, for Vindex had offered to hone the edge and he had left the blade with the scout. There was a long stylus on the table, its point sharp enough to drive through the tribune’s throat if he got the chance, and a heavy local bowl in which Piso had washed his hands at the start of the meeting, if he chose to take Vindex’s suggestion and knock the aristocrat on the head. The problem was that he began to think that the fool might be right. Either way, this was not the moment. He relaxed.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good,’ Piso said, taking this as acceptance. Then I shall write an account of the days since I left the hospital and you will write one of the siege up until that point. Apart from the message you carry in your head, these words will tell our story, so that the truth will be known even if we perish. So go away and write. There will be plenty of time for us to plan how you are to get out of the fort later on. I would suggest taking Ivonercus with you and perhaps some other Brigantes. If you run into trouble they can always pose as deserters and maybe you can all talk your way through. That rogue, Sosius, may be useful too. He is Hadrian’s man, so his words will be all the stronger.

‘And do not look so glum, Flavius Ferox. We may all be dead before nightfall!’

The Dacians did not attack, apart from sending arrows at anyone who moved in the open. With the ramparts and wall towers well above them, a man had to crouch close to the barricades to walk in any sort of safety. At noon the sentry on their own tower shouted down that large bands of Dacians were crossing the bridge, and in the hours that followed the flow continued, with waggons and mules as well as warriors.

Ferox had to admit that Piso was right about that, and the main army was continuing its advance, so he set to his task of writing a day-by-day account of the defence of the fort. The truth did matter, the tribune was also right about that, so he tried to remember every piece of bravery and name the men who had done it. Now and again he went back to read what he had written and struggled to believe that these things had happened.

Philo brought him food as the hours passed, and still he wrote, forcing his weary mind to concentrate and get it all right. He ate one-handed as he lifted one of the wooden tablets and read the tiny words. The door opened again, but he did not look up for it was surely Philo. Then it closed and he heard the key click in the lock. This was normally a storage room for records, and all such places had locks on the door. He was never sure why. Perhaps the army worried that a deranged soldier would break in and tamper with long forgotten duty rosters and reports.