Two grey stones stood on the slope ahead of them. Men called them the Mother and Daughter or sometimes the Mare and Foal and they were old, older than memory, set up by the vanished people who left behind their mounds and their blades of flint – or perhaps by the gods themselves before time began. The Textoverdi rarely came here, and only stepped between the two stones in dire need to work some magic or make an oath unbreakable.

The Mother was the taller stone and someone had balanced a flat red brown pebble on top of it. That was a dreadful sign, one Ferox had never seen before, a warning of evil and a curse abroad. What was worse was that someone had come along afterwards, taken the pebble and thrown it to the ground so that it smashed in two. Then they had picked up one of the pieces and drawn on both the standing stones. Each picture was no more than a crude circle, turned into a face by dots for eyes and an upturned V for a mouth.

Ferox’s voice was flat as he turned to the Brigantian. ‘It appears that our fears were justified.’

‘Yes.’

When he had warned of trouble the centurion had tried to explain to his seniors that Rome was seen as weak, its armies in retreat, its power ready to crumble into the dust. Especially in the far north ambitious leaders scented a chance to carve out empires of their own. Men nearer at hand spoke in whispers of war and destruction, of magicians and druids preaching hate. Vindex and his men had seen the same signs and brought word to him, but he was dismissed as over-imaginative and nervous. Yet every instinct told him that they were right, just as the hunter sensed the lurking presence of a savage beast long before he saw it.

‘A druid?’ Vindex said the word warily, as if the name itself had power.

‘Something like that.’ Only a man confident in his own power and magic would risk violating a sacred place in this way.

‘Then we’re humped,’ the Brigantian concluded.

Ferox ignored him and beckoned to the two Roman cavalrymen.

‘Crescens, who is in charge now at Vindolanda?’ That was the nearest garrison, a couple of miles away to the south-east.

The curator looked flattered to be asked something, although surprised that the centurion did not know. ‘The Prefect Flavius Cerialis, new commander of the Ninth Batavians.’

‘They are equitata, aren’t they?’

Crescens nodded. Cohors VIIII Batavorum was a mixed unit, with their own cavalry contingent to support the main force of infantry. The Batavians were Germans from the Rhineland, big men with reddish hair and an obvious disdain for the rest of the army – not just their fellow auxiliaries, but even the Roman citizens in the legions.