A thought nagged him for a while, and it was only as they walked across the courtyard that he remembered Flora telling him that the Batavians abstained from women during their festival. Perhaps the women were just too drunk to return to the house.

Morning reports were a good deal more subdued than usual, with less stamping and shouting. Flavius Cerialis sat at the table, chin resting on his hands, and apart from the bruise on his face his skin had a greenish pallor and his eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. His servants had done their best to tidy him up, but there were stains on his boots and trousers. Ferox wondered whether they had brought the commander directly from the barrack block to the headquarters. Of all the men assembled for the parade he looked the one closest to death. Several of the ordinary soldiers were turned out as perfectly as on any other day, even though he was sure they had drunk as much as anyone else. He had known a fair few soldiers like that, who could spend all the night drinking, get no sleep, and yet still look ready to parade in front of the princeps himself. What was the old tag? ‘Iron stomach, iron head, iron heart.’ Ferox wanted to smile at the thought, and it took an effort to keep his face rigid.

The bad news came in gradually, and it was as if enemy soldiers were undermining the rampart of his good mood. An optio from the Tungrians came first, marching smartly and noisily into the hall and shouting out a request to deliver an important message. Cerialis winced as if the sky had fallen on his head. He struggled to speak, then satisfied himself with a beckoning wave that was meant to give permission.

‘The centurion Pudens regrets to report that cohors I Tungrorum has a number of men missing.’

Cerialis gave a weak smile and coughed to clear his throat. ‘I dare say there are fifty or sixty of my men unaccounted for at the moment.’

The optio did not smile. They had found two soldiers killed, the bodies dumped inside a workshop. Three soldiers were gone. ‘We fear that they have gone over the wall.’

‘Deserted?’ Cerialis was brutal in his reply, not sparing the junior officer’s shame. ‘I suppose you know who they are.’

‘Yes, my lord. All from the new draft that reached us back in the spring.’ The optio spotted the questioning look. ‘Yes, my lord, all three are Britons.’

Cerialis nodded. ‘As before.’