‘Here!’ he screamed at the centurion. ‘This way.’ The Brigantian swung out of the saddle, wincing because his feet were cold and numb after so many hours riding and that made the ground feel harder than usual. He went to the door, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and waited to listen. He could hear nothing apart from the shouts, and started in shock when there was a great raucous blare of trumpets and horns. Someone began to beat on what sounded like drums made from tree trunks, a deep sound, pounding on and on. Before the Brigantian could lean around to look inside Ferox pushed past him, sword drawn and his face so full of cold fury than the scout hesitated before he followed.

The drums throbbed in their ears. The corridor was long, with doors opening off on either side. One was open a little, light spilling from it, and Ferox pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around his left arm to use as a primitive shield. His sword was up, ready to thrust, but he was fighting the despair that told him he had failed, and that brought an urge to charge ahead and hack into pieces anyone he met. He tried to breathe and to think, but it was hard. They had failed, the drums went on with the same relentless rhythm, and then he smelled the blood and the rage took over. He kicked the door in and screamed as he burst into the room and the stench of blood and butchered meat was overwhelming.

There was blood everywhere, dark pools staining the earth floor where the liquid had gushed out so quickly that it could not all drain away at once. A man lay on his back, but little of the blood was his because he had died from a neat wound that had gone under his ribs and into his heart. Whoever had done it was well practised, but there was no hint of skill in the rest. Ferox guessed that there had been three dogs – three of the big hounds the prefect loved so much – but it was hard to tell, because whoever had come here had chopped them into so many fragments. There were heads, paws, limbs, cuts of bone and flesh from a butcher’s shop strewn all over the room. Amid them were a few fragments of torn clothes, and no doubt the hounds had given a good account of themselves, but they had faced cruel men with sharp blades and the temper of madmen. It was almost like angry children tearing their toys apart.

Ferox’s rage eased, and it helped that the drums stopped amid another blare of trumpets. He guessed that the corpse was a slave, taken by surprise, but the slaughter of the enraged dogs must have made a noise and he had to hope that they had warned the rest of the household.