The warrior ignored him, still with his bare back towards the Roman, before turning round very slowly. ‘You sound like a sparrow chirping,’ he said. He looked to be about forty, a fraction shorter than Ferox, but just as broad and with arms that looked even thicker. There was a silver torc around his neck, slim bracelets on his wrist, and a long sword at his belt. He wore plain shoes and trousers made from wool dyed in a blue, green and grey tartan. Old scars criss-crossed a chest that was free of any paint or tattoo. Patches of the red-painted shield showed wood where the leather surface was torn. The man must have kept it that way deliberately, no doubt to show that he had taken it from its owner in a fierce fight.

‘You are the Silure who is a slave for the Romans.’ The man had the palest eyes Ferox had ever seen, their gaze as bright and cold as winter sun, and it was that which sparked the memory. This was Venutius himself and as well as a great thief he was known as a deadly fighter. ‘I’ll give your head to my dogs,’ he said. Close behind was the warrior in the red and white cloak, and now that he was nearer Ferox could see that he was no more than fifteen or sixteen, the few sparse hairs on his upper lip a weak attempt at a moustache. Next to him was the standard.

‘If they are like you, they’ll yap more than they bite!’

Venutius, the lord of these valleys, chuckled as if amused, then threw his spear with all his might. At this distance it would pierce the board of any shield and Ferox punched at it with the boss, felt the iron dent so hard that it pressed against his knuckles, and he slid back through the grass, struggling for balance. The chieftain had his sword out, the slim blade three feet in length, shaped into a point as well as sharpened on the edges. He surged forward at the Roman and his people cheered him on.

Ferox’s left hand stung and his arm felt numb. He raised his scutum again as the Briton slammed his own shield into it, and again Ferox went back. The long sword slashed down and the centurion felt the blow slam on to the top of his shield, bursting through the binding and cutting a slice through the three layers of wood. He jabbed forward with his gladius, but the chieftain jumped back, surprisingly nimble for so big a man, and the iron point struck only into empty air.

It was hard to breathe and he felt the strength draining from his body. He had not seen Venutius or the youngster in the fighting, and they looked fresh and strong while he was close to exhaustion. He was too tired to be afraid.