Ferox picked up the man’s sword and ran his finger along the edge, finding it distressingly blunt. No doubt that was fine for a man who liked to stand back and send his warriors off to fight. It was all he had, for the knife was no good for such work, so the centurion raised it and sliced down with all the force he could muster. The blade buried itself in the man’s neck, without severing the bone. It took three more blows, using all his might and grunting with the effort, before the head came off. He drove the blunt-tipped sword as deeply into the earth as he could and balanced the headdress on top of it. It tilted to one side, but would do to mark the corpse of their priest or druid or whatever this man had claimed to be. Ferox took the head, glad that the man had hair because it was hard to carry the head of a bald man, tucked the torc into his belt and jogged at a low crouch towards the nearest gully.

Trumpets sounded and he guessed that horsemen were charging from the entrances not attacked to go to the aid of the picket. Peering over the edge of the gully he saw the pairs of warriors still squatting along the slope and watching the last of their comrades die. He bundled the head up in his cloak, keeping his dagger low in his left hand, and set off towards them, walking down the slope, hoping that with his bare chest they would mistake him for one of their own.

A shriek of pure horror came from behind him. It sounded like a woman and he guessed that she had discovered the headless corpse of their leader. Pale faces turned to look back, hissing questions.

‘I don’t know,’ Ferox called. ‘What’s happening?’

He stopped. The warriors were getting up, coming up the slope.

‘Something is wrong,’ he said as the closest pair came towards him. Ferox dropped the torc, which rolled along the ground. ‘What’s that?’ he asked the nearest man.

The Briton followed the necklace, bending down to pick it up. His companion stared at the centurion.

‘Who are you?’ he asked and Ferox whipped up the knife and slashed across the man’s throat, dark blood jetting out over his pale skin. He swung the bundled head like a weapon on to the back of the bending warrior’s head and knocked him down.

Flavius Ferox ran. The time for hiding and caution was over and he sprinted down the slope towards the camp. Men shouted, but the Britons were still confused. The woman howled again and a man’s voice bellowed in anger, recognising the torc.