There were several hundred Selgovae standing or sitting on the hillock. They wore dark trousers with faded patterns of tartan, and some had striped or checked tunics and long cloaks. One or two in the front wore helmets and armour and carried swords. Most of the rest had a spear or javelin and a little round or square shield. Ahead of them were forty or so warriors sitting on their ponies, and a chariot, the wooden frame brightly painted in red and blue. It was drawn by one black and one grey pony, and carried a charioteer, naked from the waist up and covered with tattoos, and a short, stocky warrior in mail, an old legionary helmet clasped under one arm and his long red hair falling down his back. As they approached the driver twitched the reins and the chariot came towards them. The warrior spread his arms high, waving the helmet in one, but apart from the long sword on his right hip he carried no weapon.

‘He wants to talk, sir,’ Ferox told the tribune. ‘It would be wise for us to meet him so that he can see your face and decide whether or not to trust you. And by the way, I’ll lay good odds that he is letting us see no more than half his warriors at best. The rest are in the trees on either side of us.’

‘Are you sure?’ Crispinus glanced around. ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘That’s why you know they are there,’ the centurion assured him, and then the chariot came round in a wide arc and slewed to a halt in front of them.

The chieftain was named Egus and he did not want to fight unless the Romans gave him no other choice. Ferox had met him before, although he did not know him well as it was less than a year since the man had succeeded his brother as leader. His reputation was as a good lord to his people, and the clan had always paid what was due to the empire on time, or near enough. This Egus was willing to do, but he resented the levy being demanded early.

‘It takes time to gather and sort the grain, and even longer to kill the animals and prepare the hides,’ he told Ferox, who interpreted. In ten days they would have everything as usual.

‘You should accept, sir,’ Ferox told the tribune. ‘He is offering his own son as hostage until everything is delivered.’

Crispinus was unsure what to do. ‘Do you trust him?’

‘Don’t look at me,’ Ferox said in a low voice. ‘Keep your eyes on his and do not smile. He needs to know that you are a serious man and one he can trust.’ He switched back into the language of the tribes and spoke to the chieftain in short, clipped sentences, getting similar replies. At last Egus held out his right hand to the tribune.