‘You forgot your hat,’ Vindex said cheerfully, coming alongside, holding the battered old hat in his hand.

‘I gave you orders.’

‘No one gives orders to the Carvetii.’

The two men kept at a steady pace.

‘It is important,’ the centurion said. ‘We will need to learn as much as we can.’

‘I told Brennus to take charge. He will do what he’s told.’

‘I thought no one gave orders to the Carvetii?’

Vindex grinned, his face more skull-like than ever. ‘Brennus’ mother is from the Parisii. Anyone can order those earth-eating buggers about.’

Ferox did not laugh, but his mood lifted a little.

They rode on. The carriage and its escort were out of sight, hidden by a grove of tall oaks.

‘Do you have a plan?’ the Brigantian asked after a while.

Ferox said nothing.

‘Well, that’s good.’ Vindex raised the wheel of Taranis to his lips and murmured a prayer.

‘No one asked you to come,’ Ferox told him.

‘I know. Some people are so unfriendly.’

For the first time the centurion looked his companion in the eye. ‘No shame in going back. It’s not too late.’

Vindex laughed. ‘Just what my uncle said to me before I took my first wife!’ The Brigantian suddenly looked grim, but then he usually did. Only men like Ferox who knew him well also knew his hidden sadness. Vindex had lost both his wives, the first to fever and the second bearing a stillborn son. The sorrow was deep, but had not dampened his enthusiasm for the pleasures of life.

Ahead of them, the escort and the little carriage emerged from behind the trees. They were close enough now for Ferox to see the cavalrymen’s green-painted oval shields, which meant that they were most likely Batavians out of Vindolanda. Their helmets looked strangely dark and only the cheek pieces gleamed in the afternoon sun. One man at the head of the little column wore brightly polished scale armour that shimmered, and there was an air of formality about the soldiers. Most men would not have bothered to take the shields out of their leather covers for an ordinary journey.

‘Maybe we were wrong?’ Vindex suggested, as the riders and carriage went briskly on their way on this warm afternoon. He reached down to swat a horse-fly settling on his mare’s neck. Now that they were lower down the insects swarmed around them, drawn by the rich smell of horse sweat.

A horn sounded, harsh and braying, and Ferox kicked his horse on savagely to draw on its last strength and lumber into a canter.

‘Oh bugger,’ Vindex said, and followed him.

II