‘Now we stop,’ Ferox said as the Roxolani formed a circle around them. ‘And don’t worry.’

‘Really.’

‘No point, it wouldn’t do any good.’

The riders had weapons, but the javelins were held upright and none had placed an arrow on their bows. Many were of strange design, held not in the middle as usual, but two-thirds of the way down so that the lower arc was much smaller than the one above their hand. They were horseman’s weapons, awkward until a man trained himself to use one, but then far more powerful at short range than an ordinary bow.

Ferox placed his right hand, palm flat, against his left shoulder, and kicked his horse while holding the reins tight, so that its hind legs stayed where they were and the front made the beast turn a full circle.

The riders watched, saying nothing. To Vindex’s surprise, one was a young woman, her face decorated with tattoos, but dressed like a man and carrying a bow.

There was a man beside her, his beard dyed bright red, but showing grey hairs where drink had washed the colouring away. He lowered his bow back into the case fastened to the rear of his saddle, made the same gesture as Ferox and walked his horse forward. He came close, saying nothing, face impassive. Ferox took off his centurion’s helmet with its tall crest – a replacement for the one he had broken on his first day at the fort.

The rider stared at him. No one said anything, and even Vindex had the sense not to crack any jokes, although he did wink at the young woman. She ignored him, and all of the warriors had the same impassive stare. For a long while they sat on their horses.

‘It is you,’ the bearded man said at last, using strongly accented Greek.

‘Yes,’ Ferox replied.

‘Flavios Kakos.’

‘Yes.’

‘We thought you dead.’

There was not really an answer to that, so Ferox said nothing.

‘Then come.’ The warrior turned and raised a hand to the others. A moment later they were streaking away down the far side of the ridge.

Vindex was puzzled.

‘He said to follow,’ Ferox called, forgetting that Vindex spoke no Greek, and then set off in pursuit. The scout followed and caught up after a few hundred paces.

‘Talkative buggers, aren’t they?’

‘When they are riding they only speak when they have something worth saying.’

‘Oh aye,’ the scout said, ‘that could take some folk a lifetime. And what’s this about cack.’

‘It’s what they call me.’

Vindex roared with laughter, and said no more. The path was easy to follow, and more riders appeared to look at them before riding off. None came close enough to speak, although now and again they called out ‘Kakos!’ Vindex laughed a lot.

The camp was not a large one, with about a dozen waggons, some tents, and a few hundred horses and ponies, with half that number of goats, the bells on their collars tinkling as they moved. There was a great fire burning in the centre of the main ring of waggons and tents, and at the head a canopy beneath which rugs were spread and three people sat in high-backed chairs.