‘Bastards.’ Gannullius spat the word, and spurred his horse over the low rise to reach the track itself. There were a dozen more bodies around a couple of carts. Two men had been tied to the wheels, spreadeagled and then carved up by their captors. They must have worked slowly, peeling off strip after strip of skin and flesh. Another man lay in the bed of the other wagon, and the priest’s men had set it on fire and let him burn. The fire had been a big one, and there was a lot of newly cut timber strewn around the site of the massacre.

‘Wood-gathering party,’ Ferox said. ‘It’s that time of year.’ Garrisons always needed wood, for building work but most of all for fires, whether to cook food or just keep warm.

A scream split the silence, startling the carrion birds from their meals. Three warriors charged down from the far bank at them.

Gannullius reacted first, slamming his heels into the sides of his tired pony and galloping straight at them. ‘Bastards!’ he screamed.

One of the warriors brandished an army-issue pickaxe as a weapon and was ahead of the others. Gannullius reached him, slashed low and across with the force of rage, and the man dropped, head cut off at the neck and flying through the air so that it struck the chest of the auxiliary’s pony. It reared in terror, pulling away, and the other two warriors were on each side as the soldier fought for balance. One thrust a spear hard into his stomach, breaking through where four scales joined. Gannullius cried out in pain, but cut down, his gladius driving through the man’s skull.

Ferox reached them just as the last warrior hacked at the soldier, nearly severing his left arm. The pony bit the man, ripping off his nose and part of his face, and bucked, throwing its wounded rider. It bounded away, knocking the man aside, so that Ferox’s thrust missed and the centurion was carried past. Vindex finished the job, cutting down twice at the man’s neck.

Gannullius was coughing up blood, gasping for breath as he lay on the grass. The spear point had broken off and was still deep in his belly. The man tried to speak, but Ferox could not make out any words, and then there was more blood pouring from his mouth and the eyes went dead as his soul left the body.

‘Poor sod,’ Vindex said and he sounded sad. ‘I liked him, even if he was a southerner. What now? He was supposed to tell everyone the truth.’

‘Same as before. We get to Vindolanda and hope we are in time.’ Ferox sighed. ‘I doubt they would have believed him – at least not at first. If I cannot persuade them then…’ He trailed off. ‘The only thing now is to get back to the garrison.’

‘Then what?’