Macer whistled softly. ‘Omnes ad stercus.’

‘They added a couple of hundred men from the loyal clans, and just to season the mix all the waifs and strays recruited in Britannia, including a fair few caught thieving and invited to join up. On paper there is a mixed force of two hundred horse and four hundred foot, but in practice they haven’t yet been all brought together in one place. Half were concentrated in Pannonia back in the autumn. Neratius Marcellus’ brother is legatus Augusti there, so was easily convinced of the wisdom of the whole thing. The appointed commander drowned while they were being ferried along the river.’

‘An accident?’

‘I suppose that is at least theoretically possible. … And so they thought of me, and here I am.’ Ferox shrugged. ‘Guess I have tried to bullshit too many senior officers over the years.’

Macer laughed. ‘They probably told you that it was because of your exceptional abilities as a leader.’

‘Something like that. They said a Briton would best understand other Britons, but that’s just because they can’t tell the differences between the tribes. And they promoted me to pilus prior of cohors VII.’ There was no enthusiasm in Ferox’s voice.

‘That will make you senior here,’ Macer said. His mind was made up, even if he was not quite sure why. The orders brought by Ferox stated that he was relieved of command at the fort. He was free to leave as soon as he chose, and could take an escort of up to fifty men – including a dozen specified by name and intended for other duties – with him. The rest were to stay, and come under Ferox’s command. His annoyance at the man was replaced by a fair bit of sympathy, but it seemed clear that hanging around would risk Ferox getting murdered before he was gone. The orders would stand and he could – and officially should – leave and let command pass to Sabinus, who was the next in seniority. Yet people would talk as they always did, and they were bound to say that he had run from responsibility. He knew that it would bother him, even far away on his farm, revelling in the African warmth, so he would go first, as ordered, before anything else could happen. It would mean a hard journey because of the weather, but a day ought to take them down the valley far enough to ease the cold.

Macer’s intent gaze fixed on Ferox. ‘Why are you still alive? And don’t bother to say that you have no taste for philosophy. You know what I mean. A lot of your men want you dead – and this Vindex – and there is always the dark of night and the quiet moment in camp or on the march. If these men were truly as determined as Britons can be – or any men consumed by hate – then we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you’d be floating down the Ister or cold in a ditch somewhere.’