Crispinus started to gag, and then threw up noisily and messily on to the table. As Ferox turned to see how he was, there was a great shout and a harsh rattle as the redhead opened the other’s man’s chest with a terrific slash that cut through mail, flesh and bone.

‘I’m fine,’ the tribune said, and he smiled weakly.

The redhead ought to have been tired, for he had just fought two combats and the last had been arduous. Yet when the victorious Hibernian faced him there no sign of fatigue. The man was fast and strong and if anything his opponent seemed the tired one. Ferox had seen it before and sometimes felt it – that strange mood of battle when a man became one with his sword, when he knew that he could do anything, defeat anyone and those around him were slow and weak. Perhaps this was what the bards sang about when they told the tales of great heroes, of men who no longer knew fear or doubt and wanted only to kill, so that they did not feel the wounds dealt to them. If the redhead lived he would collapse once it was over, as the love of battle left him.

Not bothering to call for another shield, he wielded his sword two-handed. That was awkward, but gave dreadful power to the blows. He cleft the Hibernian’s shield in two, breaking the man’s arm, and did not seem to notice the wild slice that cut off a piece of his scalp and took the top off his ear.

‘Enough!’ This time the high king shouted, sensing that the red-headed warrior was so lost in fury that he would not hear. ‘Enough!’

The Hibernian gave ground as the man came at him, blood pouring down the side of his face. He swung again, sweeping the long sword down, and the Hibernian jumped back only just in time.

‘Enough!’

Ferox pushed himself up and leaped over the table, spilling a flagon of beer and sending a plate clattering away. The Hibernian dodged another blow, but lost his balance and fell, managing to roll away from the fire, but losing his sword in the process. The redhead raised his sword above his head.

‘Stop him!’ Tincommius shouted, and Ferox did not know whether the high king meant him or the frenzied warrior. He ran at the man, crouching low, as the redhead turned and snarled at him, spraying drops of blood from the side of his head. The warrior checked his blow, and slashed one-handed at the centurion.