The three warriors had tried. More arrows brought down a mule and another horse, throwing its rider badly.

‘After that it was as if they were blessed,’ the oldest warrior explained. ‘They came back to save their man and we shot, but it was as if the arrows flew wide by some magic or if they struck did no harm.’

Or your aim wavered when the targets were not helpless, but coming at you, Brasus thought to himself.

‘One, an older man, scooped up the one on foot and set him behind him. The other threw a javelin at us – he was that close. He missed and so did we, until as he was almost out of range an arrow struck his horse on the leg.’ The warrior licked his lips nervously. ‘There was one horse still grazing, so I ran to it and jumped up to give chase. It proved a good one, and though they rode like Sarmatians I began to catch up. Closer and closer.’ He was warming to his theme again, recalling the thrill of the chase. ‘I reckoned that I had a chance so reined in and jumped down. I only had three arrows with me – the others had spilled from my bag – but I nocked the first and let fly. Missed with that, but the second hit the horse with two men on its back. Beast must have been turned for I skewered the neck and it dropped, throwing them.’

Brasus had not said anything, and simply waited.

‘Well, I was a long way out and on my own. And it was getting dark. Had one arrow and a dagger and there were still three of them left. So I…’ He hesitated.

‘You were wise to come back,’ Brasus told him, almost saying prudent until he judged that this might come across as a rebuke and drive the warrior to fresh recklessness in the future. Nor was there much point in telling the man that it would have been wiser still to have left the Britons alone.

The next day Brasus sent men to follow the trail of the Britons. They found both of the horses and not much further on the corpse of one of the soldiers, who had taken an arrow in the thigh. It was strange that none of his archers had claimed to score this hit and reminded him of his own chaotic memories of past fights. So much happened that it was hard to see everything, let alone recall it afterwards. Brasus’ warriors obeyed their orders and did not go any further, for there was too much to do. He had to reckon on the last two men getting back to Piroboridava on foot, which meant that the Roman commanders – this Flavius Ferox that Ivonercus had told him about – would send out patrols to search. With regret Brasus decided to abandon the tower for the moment and set up camp amid the pines up near the pass itself. As far as possible he got them to remove every trace of their presence. Better for the moment that the Romans not know that the king was thinking about this valley and the path down to the river. They would learn soon enough, but the whole plan relied on surprise, catching the enemy on the wrong foot. So today they would copy the archer and do the prudent or wise thing and run away. The men did not like it, but none protested openly. That changed when he told them to wait for him and set out alone. The oldest warrior, a trusted man and one whose past valour granted him licence, wanted to come along, but he was the best man to keep order while Brasus was away. Instead he took the archers, allowing each no more than a knife and a little food, as well as a few loops of rope. Their bows stayed behind and they walked rather than rode, staying always in the treeline.