Most bands came for livestock. There might be a few of them, especially if they were horse thieves, or several dozen. If it was a bigger attack, a chieftain with the warriors oath-bound to serve him and any others who wanted to come along, then they wanted more than to take a few animals. The best time was in a month or so, when autumn was truly here. That meant sheep and cattle fat and strong from summer pastures, ground frosted and hard so that the going was good, and the sheltering darkness of longer nights.

Ferox wondered if this was a murder raid. They were rarer these days, with all the tribes and clans allied to Rome and encouraged to be friendly to each other. A big part of Ferox’s job was to hear complaints and arbitrate in disputes so that men were less tempted to go and burn someone else’s house down. Much depended on the chieftains, whether they sent their clansmen to him, settled the matter themselves or refused to get involved. There were still warriors out there eager to take heads and add to their reputations as dangerous men. Some of the chieftains were as keen for glory or to prove their power, and then there was always hatred and vengeance.

‘Someone took that young bugger’s head,’ Vindex said.

Ferox wanted to think, and needed quiet to do it, but had learned to value the Brigantian’s judgement.

‘Didn’t take the Goat Man’s, though, did they?’

Vindex was unimpressed. ‘Well, would you want that ugly old sod staring at you?’

Ferox did not know the old man’s real name, and wondered whether anyone really knew it or knew him. They called him the Goat Man, or sometimes just Goat, and even men who were grandfathers could only ever recall him being old. He had no home, but wandered the lands with his goats and the small boy who helped him tend to them. Sometimes he stayed in farms or villages, sometimes in caves or huddled in the shelter of trees. Everyone knew him and he never had a good word for anyone else, but he seemed to draw animals to him. Farmers hoped he would come if their cows went dry or the sheep were sick, for Goat Man understood the lore of creatures and how to heal them.

‘It won’t be the same without him,’ Ferox said.

‘Yes, it will be a lot less miserable. He never had a kind word for anyone, not that I ever heard. He’s cursed me plenty of times.’

Goat Man was never happy and never grateful. He arrived at a man’s house at night, took shelter and food and the place closest to the fire. He stayed as long as he wanted, then left without a word and without any thanks. Yet he was always welcome and more than a little feared.