‘Good. Strike at the ones on this side. There are ten or twelve. Tell them to pay no heed to the enemy’s shouts or blades. Each of them will be given the strength of a hundred. They must kill and burn until there are none left to kill and burn or they fall and receive their reward.’

‘Yes, lord.’ None of the men sounded like Selgovae, but this one spoke like a southerner, maybe even like the Trinovantes. Ferox wondered about the soldier missing from the tower. Had he really slaughtered his comrades and deserted to join these fanatics?

‘Good, then go to them and tell them that I will invoke the pleasure of Cernunnos to guide their hands and uplift their hearts. I will be here watching their glory.’

That’s nice, Ferox thought, and a good excuse if anyone was fool enough to swallow it.

‘Follow the raven! Follow the stag! Follow the stallion!’ the tall man called, lifting his arms and no longer caring about quiet.

The shout seemed to echo across the valley and Ferox was sure that the Romans would hear it. Maybe that was what the man wanted.

‘Go my friends, go!’

The two other men slipped away, going towards a darker shade in the night that was a long patch of woodland. Ferox wondered whether to follow and try to catch the southerner, but doubted that it was possible. Instead he let them go and then resumed his snail-paced crawl.

In the end it was easy. The tall man began to chant, dancing round and round in a circle.

‘O Morrigan! O Cernunnos! O Vinotonus!’ he screamed, and drew a long sword, waving it in the air. ‘O Isis! O Hades! O unnamed gods and demons of darkness!’

Ferox was close now, reaching back to pull out his pugio. The man was chanting, calling on gods from many lands, and as he spun again, facing away, the centurion pushed himself up.

‘Barbaso Barbasoch Barbasoch!’ The man turned. Spittle flew into Ferox’s face as his left hand seized the man’s throat, grabbing a heavy torc, and the right hand punched the knife under the man’s ribs. The priest gasped and choked as the centurion drove the dagger further in, twisting the blade, his hand warm with fresh blood.

The night came alive with shrieks from down in the valley and as Ferox held the dying man up he saw a band of warriors charging at the picket outside the camp. He saw them because the men waved torches in the air and in the flickering red light forty or fifty men charged, bare flesh shining and bright weapons in their hands. Trumpets sounded the alarm, but glints along the rampart showed that it was already lined with waiting men.