‘Oh shit!’ the soldier standing next to the boy said.

*

The facts were simple, and Ferox understood what had happened very quickly; the boy, whose name was Andoco, had been struck by the centurion and had killed him in reply. Even so, he spoke in turn to all the instructors and all the Brigantes who had stood close enough to see and hear what had happened, and then to the medicus from the hospital who had examined the corpse and confirmed the obvious cause of death. Then he saw Sabinus, Dionysius and Cunicius, telling them all that he had learned in case they had anything to add. Cunicius testified that Andoco was a good soldier, too young to have been in the rebellion although sent by a family who had joined Aviragus’ rebels. So far his record was unblemished, and as a well-educated and intelligent lad, there was some expectation that in due course he would be promoted.

Sabinus added that he believed Festus was rather sensitive about his weight, fearing that middle age was turning muscle to fat, so that perhaps the boy’s comment about a fat mongrel provoked him more than usual. ‘Pity he spoke in decent Latin or all he might have got was an order to be quiet.’

‘Perhaps, but how often does Festus – did Festus – use his cane?’

‘Quite often,’ Sabinus admitted. That was common enough, especially in some legions and cohorts, and the only restriction imposed by regulation was that a centurion was not allowed to inflict serious injury without making a formal charge against a soldier.

‘I am sure that you recall my telling Festus how important it was never to strike one of the Brigantes.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sabinus conceded. ‘And I heard him repeat the instruction most forcibly to our men and up until this moment all obeyed.’ The centurion’s round face was worried, but determined. He took a deep breath. ‘Nevertheless…’

Ferox sighed. ‘Nevertheless.’

There was no easy way out, for a soldier could not simply fly into a rage and kill a centurion without being punished, and there was only one penalty for such a crime. An offence to personal honour was no excuse, and the only real question was how it was to be done.

Ferox went to see Andoco, his cell guarded by one of Vindex’s Carvetii and an auxiliary. The boy had chains around his wrists and ankles, and that was necessary, at least for the moment. With effort he stood when Ferox entered, as a proud warrior should in spite of his terror. Andoco had very pale, innocent eyes, adding to his childlike appearance, and Ferox knew from the records that he was eighteen.

‘I was angry, and struck in haste, but he should not have treated me that way,’ was all that he would say when Ferox asked him to explain what had happened.

‘I am not afraid,’ the boy added, lying well enough in the circumstances.

Half an hour later Ferox strolled down to the river, Vepoc beside him, neither man speaking. Vindex and a couple of his men, along with three other Brigantes, followed twenty paces behind. The rain had stopped, the clouds scattered and a crescent moon gave enough light to see with ease. None of the men carried shields, though all had a sword in their belt. By now the picket was far behind them and they passed through the dozen or so buildings of the canabae without seeing a soul. They were alone, and Ferox knew that he was taking a risk. Vepoc was Andoco’s older brother, the other men their cousins. At least this way the numbers were equal and whatever happened would be fair.