Vepoc had painted his face white, so that it shone in the torchlight. On the road below waited his cousins, all mounted and carrying spears and shields. Andoco’s corpse lay across the back of another horse led by one of them, while each of the others drew a mule, one bearing provisions, the gifts given to the dead man and his weapons, and the other with bundles of wood and tools.

Once again no words were said, and the sentries had the sense to keep their distance and stay silent. There was something uncanny about the whole business, as if the entire garrison was holding its breath, unsure what was about to happen.

Ferox offered Vepoc the head, and the Brigantian took it. The centurion bowed and the warrior left, taking care as he went down the ladders.

‘I do not like this,’ Sabinus whispered as the Brigantes rode out through the gateway into the night. ‘How will we report it?’

Ferox did not answer, but leaned on the parapet as he watched them go.

‘The record will show that five men went on patrol,’ Julius Dionysius told him. ‘If pressed, it may be noted that one of the men was dead. The roster already shows the death of our lamented colleague, and the arrest and execution of his murderer as a warning.’

‘There’ll be questions,’ Sabinus went on. ‘There are bound to be.’

‘The responsibility is mine,’ Ferox said, still staring out, even though the horsemen had long since vanished into the darkness.

‘What if they don’t come back?’

‘Then we have a few more deserters,’ Dionysius said airily. ‘Or say they have been eaten by lions.’

‘They will come back,’ Ferox said, hoping that he was right. ‘The oath will hold them.’

‘The pledge to kill you?’ Sabinus was thinking back to the sudden, appalling burst of violence on the day Ferox arrived.

‘Perhaps,’ Ferox said, ‘or another.’

‘Brigantes keep their word,’ Vindex said. Sabinus started, for he had forgotten that the tall head of scouts was standing in the shadows. ‘Not like Silures,’ he added in the language of the tribes.

Ferox sighed. ‘Silures keep their word. It’s just that they hardly ever give it and promises don’t count.’

Sabinus shook his head, for Ferox had spoken in Latin. ‘I do not understand.’

‘I don’t think we are supposed to,’ Dionysius said.

On the following morning a pyre was prepared for Festus on the far side of the track opposite the parade ground. He had not been popular, for he lacked charm and his moods had been a little too unpredictable for the soldiers to accept him as a character. Yet there was grudging respect, a feeling that his death was a ghastly mistake, and also the desire of the veterani of I Minervia to see one of their own sent off in proper style. The centurion had liked things done to the letter of the regulation, so that is what they did.

In the afternoon they burned his corpse, and the preparations proved good because the heat was immense before the shelf collapsed and the centurion’s remains dropped into the flames. All, save the legionaries on guard duty or other essential tasks, were present, parading in their finest tunics, armour gleaming, leathers spotless, and those who had them wearing their dona and other decorations. Ferox was also in full uniform, the harness worn over his mail shirt heavy with medals, a torc at his neck and smaller ones around his wrists. Preparing all the gear was a task close to the heart of his freedman, Philo, who had done an exceptional job even by his standards. Up until now Ferox’s distinguished record was largely a matter of rumour and no more, and seeing all these awards for valour impressed even the most grizzled veterans, at least a little. Yet they were more satisfied to see that he was showing appropriate respect for the dead man and thus their legion.