The man Ferox had killed was more of a puzzle. His forehead was marked with a stag, rather than a horse, and underneath were traces of an older tattoo: ten e q a ugi. It was a Roman mark in Latin, not something put on by the tribes, and Ferox’s best guess was something like tene me quia fugi – ‘Arrest me, for I have run away’. The antler-wearing priest rallying the tribes against Rome was a former slave, a man who had fled from his owner and been recaptured, then escaped again. He was a runaway slave, a fugitivus from the empire, perhaps from Britannia, although the man with the southern accent made Ferox wonder whether there were more runaways from far afield among this strange band. It helped to explain a man who used magical words of power and called on Isis and Hades and other gods not widely known among the tribes.

Crispinus read the despatch, spoke for a while with Flaccus and then summoned his officers to a consilium to explain what they were to do. ‘The Legate Quadratus is attacking from the south, driving up the valley towards us. There are strong forces facing him, but the enemy have placed these bands here to stop us from fighting our way in behind their main force.’ He saw Ferox’s questioning expression. ‘The enemy are two chieftains. Venutius, as we expected, and his neighbour Tagax.’

That was a surprise, since the second man had a reputation for mildness and was a frequent victim of his neighbour’s cattle rustling. ‘The legate has advanced, putting farms and villages to the torch if the people did not welcome him.’ That explained the resistance of the chieftains – push the mildest man too far and he will push back, especially if he was as proud as the leaders of the Selgovae. Ferox suspected that the clumsy hand of Claudius Super was behind the needless aggression of the Roman approach.

‘Our job is to storm the pass, then move through and block anyone from retreating up the valley.’ Crispinus sounded calm and confident, although Ferox noticed that he kept drumming the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. His plan was simple, but so was the problem and there was little opportunity for subtlety.

‘Flavius Cerialis and his Batavians will lead.’ The tribune smiled at the prefect. ‘You had better order your troopers to dismount and form with the infantry. I know that they will not like it, but the pass is not good ground for cavalry.’ Now he was looking at Brocchus, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Titus Annius?’

‘Sir.’