‘Men always believe that a new governor will move slowly and be cautious. Today is the Kalends of November, and so men will also expect the campaigning season to be over until the spring. Most men will think these things and be wrong.’ The legate had stopped pacing and stood very still, his right hand clasping his left wrist. Only his head moved, scanning the audience, looking at each man directly and then moving to the next. Ferox was behind the governor and could see the faces all focused on the little man.

‘From the reports I received before I arrived I suspected that a show of force would prove necessary before the year was out. Therefore orders were sent to gather food and transport and to prepare a force to take the field.

‘If these fanatics appear to be winning then others will join them. We must strike quickly and with all the force we can command to show the tribes and our allies that the prophets are liars, and their magic a fraud. Tomorrow we go to Coria to join the rest of the army. I want as many men as can ride or march and can be stripped from the garrison to accompany us. Detailed orders to be issued in an hour. Gentlemen, there is much to do and to arrange and I shall not detain you any longer. Thank you for your attention. Let us prepare to scour the land clean of this sickness.’

As the meeting broke up and the officers left the room, Neratius Marcellus pointed at Ferox, the gesture much like commanding a dog to stay. Crispinus glanced at the legate, looking puzzled, but the small man waved a hand for him to leave as well. Only one officer remained, a round-faced old man whose bronze cuirass did not fit him well and was traced with the lines of muscles that he clearly did not possess. His hair was white, but remained only as a thin fringe surrounding his dome-like bald head.

‘I wish to speak with you, centurion, and I wish you to speak to me frankly and conceal nothing.’

‘My lord.’ Ferox stiffened to attention.