Crescens rallied, took a roll call and issued the new watchword of ‘Mercury Sanctus’, but his heart was not in the parade and he dismissed them after only a cursory inspection. Several men, including the Thracian, decided to eat their breakfast out in the courtyard to see what happened. At first there was no sign of Ferox or Vindex and the only change was that the scouts had taken the corpses down and laid them side by side on the grass. Two more Britons came into the outpost and started to fill waterskins for the men and animals outside, walking past the dead bodies without visible signs of interest or concern.

One of the dead was an old man, with thin grey hair and a straggling beard, dressed only in a ragged tunic with a checked pattern so faded that it was only just visible. He had a few light cuts about the face, but no serious wound. The other body was younger, taller and fitter, wearing dark wool trousers, a striped tunic and a pair of shoes that still had plenty of wear left in them. His right leg was twisted, the lower bones obviously broken. Otherwise the young man looked unhurt, save that his head and his left hand had been cut off.

After a while Ferox and Vindex reappeared, and the soldiers moved back a little, but stayed close enough to listen. The centurion did not show any sign of noticing them. Ferox was pale, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. He was wearing closed boots, trousers and a deep red tunic with a padded jerkin on top. The centurion walked like an old man, but there was some trace of his normal hard-eyed gaze as he stared at the body of the old man.

‘Any sign of the boy?’ he asked Vindex. The regionarius was frowning, giving the impression that thought was a great effort, and talking an even greater feat of strength and will.

Vindex shook his head.

With a grunt, the centurion went to the other corpse and prodded it with his boot. ‘Don’t think I know this one,’ he said, his voice flat.

‘Nor me,’ Vindex agreed. ‘But I reckon he used to be taller.’

After a while Ferox leaned over to inspect the broken leg and the other wounds. The centurion studied the corpse in silence, his skin taking on a green tinge as a wave of nausea swept through him. The Thracian did not think that it was because of the grisly sight. The centurion swayed, rubbed his chin and mouth with one hand and straightened up.

‘Hmm,’ he muttered, and then added something that did not sound like Latin, all the while massaging his thick stubble.

Vindex said nothing and so they waited.

‘Bad business,’ Ferox said at the end. ‘But do you truly need me?’

‘Yes.’ Vindex was standing very still, looking straight and unblinking at the centurion, who struggled to meet his gaze. ‘This is your patch.’