‘Fonder of mutton really,’ he said, and was pleased when the translation prompted more merriment. He reached out for the spear and was surprised at its lightness. The shaft was slim, wobbling a little as he held it, and he tried to remember how the other man had done it. His mare was not keen, but Vindex had had her for years and they knew each other well, so that it did not take much tightness on her bit or more than a few taps with his heels to push her on. For the moment he had the spear upright in his right hand and kept the left for the reins. Singling out one of the larger pigs, which was slower than the rest and a big target, he swerved towards it, lowering the spear. One-handed it was awkward and end heavy, but with great effort he managed to hold it, arm bent at the elbow.

The pig was gathering pace, squealing in alarm, but he was close now. Vindex looped the end of the reins over one of his saddle horns and grasped the spear with his left hand as well. The mare was steady, keeping straight, and he lowered the spearhead, knowing that it would need less of a thrust than a steady hand to let the speed drive the iron into the beast.

The pig swerved to the right. Vindex reached, point chasing it, then his mare stuttered in her run, he felt his legs slipping from the grip of the saddle horns, and the point of the spear rammed into the ground. The shock flung him off and to the side to crash onto the soft turf.

There were more whoops of delight and amusement. Ferox passed him, a pig neatly skewered on the lance he held up.

‘Having fun?’ the centurion asked and then trotted away.

‘Bastard.’

Ardaros and the man whose lance he had taken appeared.

‘I told you I prefer mutton,’ Vindex said, and when the warrior translated his words the nearest riders cheered. The scout rose, sore, but nothing broken.

‘That’s a good horse,’ Ardaros said, for the mare had gone no more than a few yards and stopped, waiting for him.

‘That’s one mean pig.’ Vindex reached the mare and jumped up. The herdsman and his boy remained where they were, watching and saying nothing.

‘Do we pay them for these?’ he asked.

‘We do,’ Ardaros said. ‘For we do not kill them or plunder their homes. None will starve because of what we take.’

Vindex did not bother to say anything. These were not his people or his lands, and soon they were riding again, leaving the pigs and their owners far behind, apart from the bloody carcases slung behind a few saddles. ‘So tell me why they call the centurion Flavius the Bad?’ Vindex asked after they had ridden for some time.

Ardaros shrugged. ‘Because there was already a good Flavius when he arrived.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘And he is a life-taker. A taker of many lives.’