Ferox did not share the tribune’s enthusiasm and made no reply. Twenty-nine Tungrians and fourteen legionaries had died during the retreat from the old fort, and almost as many were badly wounded. The few survivors left on their feet at the end were all grazed or bruised. Ferox’s right shoulder ached and was stiff, but he knew that he had got off lightly. Rufus was dead, his head taken by the enemy, and Titus Annius had been stabbed as he lay on his stretcher and the surgeons held out little hope for him. The four auxiliaries carrying him had all died defending their commander. They and many of the other corpses had been mutilated after they had fallen. Men spoke of warriors tattooed with animals on their foreheads as the most vicious of the enemy, and there had been a lot of them as well as ordinary Selgovae in the group that overran the party carrying the injured.

‘I have spoken to Vindex the Brigantian and he is even more fulsome in his praise.’

Ferox stared at him sceptically.

‘Well, what he actually said was, “He’s a hard, clever bastard, and one you want on your side.” I am pretty sure those were his words, although sometimes his accent baffles me – as does his directness. It’s as if the man has no manners, but perhaps that is just the way among his people.’

The centurion shrugged, but said nothing.

‘He also told me a lot about you. From all that I have heard I do not believe that you are truly the drunken fool described by Claudius Super. You are sober most of the time, but now and again you brood and feel sorry for yourself and drink yourself senseless. Vindex reckons that you are so fond of being miserable because it makes you feel important. I suspect that he is right.’

‘I cannot help what you believe, my lord.’

‘Well, believe this at the very least. This is a victory,’ Crispinus assured him, letting go of the reins and spreading his arms wide. His weight did not shift in the saddle and the horse did not stir and just plodded on. The centurion had to concede that the aristocrat knew how to ride.

‘Some might not call it that,’ Ferox replied.

‘Perhaps.’ Crispinus sniffed his fingers and wrinkled his nose at the strong scent of horse. ‘But the only thing that matters is the report Quadratus is writing, which will say that we won a great victory and punished the tribes for refusing to pay their taxes and daring to oppose the might of Rome.’