‘The general wanted to see him,’ Ivonercus insisted. ‘That’s my orders.’

‘Orders!’ The leader leaned to the side and spat, then cursed his horse when it shied. ‘Piss on orders! Didn’t run from the legion just to be ordered about by some ape of a barbarian.’

‘The Lord Diegis was very clear—’

‘Diegis! That useless bastard!’ The leader tried to spit again, but his lips were too dry. ‘Marcus, the wine!’ he called to one of the other riders, before taking the proffered wine-sack and raising it high, spilling as much as he drank. For all his long hair and beard the man still looked like the legionary he had once been before deserting to the Dacians almost a decade ago. For one thing, Ivonercus thought, he rode with all the grace of a sack tied up with string.

‘Forget Diegis! Can’t you use your eyes?’ They were riding down the valley, and all the while passing warriors going the other way. Some were in groups and some on their own, and some still had weapons and shields, but many did not. All walked or rode, heads bowed, exhausted and silent. ‘Or have you never seen an army in rout? That daft sod Diegis has fought the legions and taken a kicking.’ There was almost pride in the man’s voice. ‘Diegis has lost, and from all I’ve seen old Decebalus doesn’t take too kindly to chieftains who lose. What Diegis thinks about anything ain’t going to matter.’

‘I do what I’m told,’ Ivonercus said stubbornly. ‘The general said bring the prisoner to him, so that’s what I’m doing. You don’t have to come with us.’

‘No, I don’t,’ the leader said dubiously. He and his five men had joined them late in the afternoon, carrying a message from Sarmizegethusa. ‘Look, it’s nearly dark. Let’s stop and cook something to eat. The army’s coming back this way so Diegis will be along sometime if he’s still alive. How about it? I can’t let you wander, mate, you know that. Not until I’m sure you are with us.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ Ivonercus lied, nodding to Vepoc. The two Brigantians jumped down from their horses. ‘No food for that bugger, though!’ he said, pointing at Ferox.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ the leader agreed. He walked his mount over to the centurion and pushed him hard on the shoulders so that he slipped and thumped onto the grass. ‘Bastard centurions.’

Ferox lay where he had fallen as the others made a fire and cooked a stew. Deserters or not, they still mixed biscuit, onions and salted bacon soldier fashion. The men passing now were more talkative, and he was surprised that they were not drawn by the scent of cooking.

‘Best get a move on, boys,’ they called. ‘The Romans’ll be here soon and spill your guts out, full belly or no.’

‘Think we better go?’ Ivonercus sounded nervous. The sun had appeared briefly as it set and the gloom gathered around them. They had settled down a few hundred yards from the main track, and could barely see the dark shapes of men retreating along it. A couple of oak trees spread their arms above them, and should give some shelter when the rain came.