‘Do they always paint their faces?’ he asked. Crispinus talked a lot and asked many questions, so that his early long silences were no more than a blessed memory of a better world.

‘Means the bugger’s taken a vow,’ Vindex explained when the centurion said nothing. ‘He will either vanquish an enemy and take a trophy before returning home or he will die in the attempt. They’re queer folk, the Selgovae. Good hosts, though, and fairly honest if you don’t trust them too much.’

Crispinus was puzzled. ‘So he really will not go back to his home unless he kills an enemy?’

‘Pity we haven’t got any archers, we could solve his problem for him now,’ Ferox suggested, making the tribune stare at him.

‘I thought you wanted to talk to him?’

‘Well, I’ll try.’ Ferox urged his horse into a trot up the slope towards the lone warrior. He raised his empty right hand high to show that he was coming in peace. The man watched him, letting him come close, until the centurion was twenty paces away. The Briton raised his spear and Ferox reined in. He shouted out that they did not want to fight unless they had to and wanted to speak to the chieftains. The man rode away.

‘Get anywhere?’ Crispinus asked Ferox when he returned.

‘We shall soon see, sir.’

They pushed on, down one valley that opened into another, steeper sided with high hills on either side. Ferox did not like this country. If they had had a bigger force and plenty of time then he would have wanted them to advance covered by pickets on top of the ridges. As it was even the main force did not have the manpower to do it, so relied on mounted patrols to see any threat long before it appeared. He hoped that he was right and that the Selgovae did not want to fight. All the while Crispinus kept chattering away. Some of it was nerves, but there was also a genuine curiosity and desire to learn so that he could do his job better. With just a few months of military service, the young aristocrat was now in charge of over a thousand men, their lives at risk if he made a mistake. He was nervous but eager, and the man gabbled away almost as much as Vindex and his Brigantians.

‘You do not paint your face?’ Crispinus asked the head of the scouts.

‘No, my lord, I’m pretty enough as it is.’ Vindex leered at him to demonstrate, his teeth more than usually horse-like. ‘Not many do, apart from these people.’

‘Yet you are kin to them.’