Fires were lit in two rows behind the western rampart of the fort, spaced out every six feet as the length of a man and left with just enough gap between for someone to run with care. If a man could race from one end of the course to the other in bare feet then it was thought lucky, and a good omen for all. If someone scorched himself in the attempt then that was not the end of the world, for it gave onlookers plenty to laugh at. Like most of the celebrations held by cohors VIIII Batavorum, it grew more festive with every mug of beer. Every man not on duty ran or watched and shouted, and tradition in this and every other unit of Batavians meant that very few soldiers were on duty – and even fewer in a fit state to perform their allotted tasks.

Frost shied and reared, nostrils flaring and teeth bared as a runner stumbled and fell into one of the fires, throwing up a fountain of sparks, and it took force to calm her as the soldier rolled away from the flames. Comrades rushed to throw a blanket over him and staunch the flames from his burning tunic, but they were laughing too much to do a good job. The man kept rolling until the fire went out and his tunic was in rags. His friends doubled over, unable to speak, while the scorched man started to sing tunelessly as he lay on the ground.

‘Wonder he didn’t go up like a barrel of oil with all that he’s drunk,’ Vindex said, but the centurion was not listening and instead drove the grey to jump across the line of fires, making the flames surge and wave as she passed.

‘Oh bugger,’ the Brigantian muttered, and let go of the horses he was leading so that he could use both hands to force his own mount over the fires. ‘Oh bugger, oh bugger, oh bugger!’ he yelled as the beast fought him and then finally bounded awkwardly across, throwing him out of the saddle before he slammed back down hard and just managed to regain his seat.

Ferox was looking for an officer, or anyone else who looked sober and responsible. He could not see one, apart from a centurion who was being carried along in a blanket by four soldiers. The little procession lurched this way and that, but if the men were barely sober it was obvious that nothing could be hoped for from the centurion for many hours.

Some children, the oldest a girl of no more than seven or eight, came over to stare at the two riders.