More warriors were appearing, some of them Germans, but also local men and a few wearing long tunics and bare-legged who were most likely Hibernians. Talking to the men, he learned that the high king had more than a thousand warriors in his household, although half lived at other settlements. These thousand were the best men, the ones who had no real occupation other than war, and they included the exiles. For a month before Lughnasadh, the great summer festival, each clan sworn to the high king sent him fifty men, along with all the lads who had turned fifteen. For four weeks they trained for war or laboured to restore the defences of this fort or helped to tend his cattle, then they shared in a great feast before returning home, ready to muster again in time of war. One of the Germans boasted to him of the storerooms full of shields and good spears ready to be given to men answering the king’s call to arms. Tincommius was creating an army of a sort never seen before among the tribes of the north, and that raised more questions about what he planned in the longer run.

Soon – too soon – Ferox was forced to duel again, and he wondered whether Gannascus had deliberately saved his better warriors until the Roman was tired. Soon he had to start pulling out all the dirty tricks he could remember. He beat the fifth man by punching with the boss of his shield at the top of his opponent’s shield, then slamming it up so that the edge caught the man on the chin. The warrior bit his lip and was left dazed and bloodied.

The sixth man was not a German, but was clearly in Gannascus’ band. It seemed that he had bolstered his numbers with a couple of dozen eager local men, so that these days he led almost a hundred men, eleven of them archers. The new recruits were slighter than the Germans, but several sported beards instead of moustaches. The one facing Ferox had gone further, tying his hair in a knot on top of his head in imitation of some of Gannascus’ best men. He was quick in his movements and wily, so Ferox let him probe his defence for a time while he looked for a weakness. He noticed a raven tattooed on the man’s right wrist, which was a mark of one of the clans of the Venicones.

Trumpets blared, the sound a mix of the harsh carnyxes and softer horns, and the Briton’s eyes flicked towards the gateway. Ferox pounded him with his shield, forcing the man back, and the warrior’s guard dropped for a moment allowing the centurion to thrust with his practice sword. He stopped the blow with the tip just short of the man’s throat.