Ferox swung down to the ground, boots sinking into the deep mud. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘this is certainly a mistake and you have not been left behind for a reason. There will be no blame.’ The words were out before he had thought properly and he knew that they were a mistake.

Titus Annius’ eyes widened and he clenched his teeth for a moment. ‘Blame?’ he muttered. ‘I have orders, regionarius, and until I have new ones I shall obey them. No one will ever question the discipline of the First Cohort while I am in charge.’ A few of the auxiliaries nearby nodded with approval.

‘They’re coming!’ Vindex had galloped over and yelled out the warning.

XII

THERE WERE EIGHTY-NINE men in the century from cohors Tungrorum, along with an optio as acting commander, supported by a signifer and tesserarius. That was little more than half of the full complement for in theory the cohort had an unusual organisation, with six centuries of one hundred and forty men apiece. A decade ago they had often mustered something close to that total, before the army’s priorities changed and few recruits were sent to Britannia. The young legionary centurion had thirty men from Legio II Augusta, with carefully painted Capricorns on either side of the bosses on their rectangular red shields. Stretched all along the rampart, without keeping any reserve, that would still have meant no more than a man every three or four paces.

Ferox grabbed Titus Annius by the arm. ‘We should go, sir!’

The commander of the cohort shook him off. ‘I cannot,’ he said. He looked tired, the lines on his face harsh in the light from the burning houses. ‘If you can get new orders for me, then that would be different.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Ferox walked a few paces away and then stopped as he made up his mind. ‘Go down to the main force,’ he shouted to Vindex. ‘Tell them what is happening and that we shall need help!’ The Brigantian waved and rode away to rejoin the other scouts.

Ferox watched, wishing that he had gone with him and not quite sure why he had chosen to stay. ‘Hold this, lad,’ he told one of the auxiliaries, passing over the reins. Ferox stuffed his hat into a pouch on his belt and put on his helmet. At least the silhouette would mark him out as a Roman and a centurion. He checked that his gladius and his dagger slid easily from their scabbards and ran to follow Titus Annius, wondering whether he was staying simply because he liked the Tungrians’ commander.