Then the centurio regionarius Titus Flavius Ferox appeared, held in a lock by Vindex. The Brigantians loved their wrestling, although all that the Thracian had seen suggested more brute force and low cunning than true art. In this case he could not doubt its efficacy. Ferox was only a little shorter than the tall Brigantian, and much wider around the chest and shoulders, but he was bent over, arm twisted back so that all his strength was useless and he had to go forward if bone was not to break. Vindex drove him at the trough.

With a grunt of sheer effort the Brigantian lifted the centurion over its wooden side and plunged him head first into the cold water. He said something in his own tongue and the man with the split lip joined him, holding the Roman down as he fought them.

They pulled the centurion out of the water. Ferox was coughing up water, shaking his head and still struggling.

‘Mongrels!’ he spluttered. ‘Sons of—’

Vindex and the other Briton thrust him back into the water. Crescens’ mouth hung open as he watched, but still the curator did nothing.

The Britons lifted the centurion up again. This time he looked limp and exhausted, all the fight gone. His tunic was the dull off-white army issue, loosely belted so that it hung down to his shins, and the seam along one shoulder had been torn completely so that the material hung down. There were bruises growing on his bare skin, and a couple of old scars, one of them long. His dark hair was soaked and filthy, several days’ worth of beard on the chin of his slim face, and his usually clear grey eyes stared out blankly. There were traces of dried vomit on his torn tunic and on his skin, wine stains and dirt on his hands, bare legs and feet.

‘There, are you quiet?’ Vindex had switched back to his accented Latin. ‘I need you, and I need you now.’ He saw Philo standing near the door, staring aghast at his master. ‘Greek. Get him some posca.’ That was the cheap drink of soldiers and slaves, more water than sour wine and very bitter in taste. ‘And get him ready. He has a long way to ride and he may need to fight.’

With a nod at the other scout, they began to assist Ferox back into his quarters, until he shook them free. The centurion stared around him, eyes bleary. He noticed the gaping Crescens and looked at him for what seemed a long time.

‘Ah, curator,’ he said at last. His voice had a rich musical quality so that everything he said sounded almost like verse. ‘Do not let us keep you from your duties.’

Vindex shrugged as he followed the centurion back into his quarters. The other Briton went back to the trough and started dabbing water on his cut lip.