THE BATAVIANS WERE hot and stiff and knew that they still had more than half their journey to go to reach Coria. There was an ala based there, one of the all-cavalry units whose troopers were better paid and better mounted than the horsemen serving with an infantry cohort. The Batavians were determined to show those arrogant Gallic and Thracian bastards just what real horse warriors looked like. Anything metal, from spear points to armour, belt buckles to helmets, and the fittings and round phalerae on the harness of their horses had been polished until it shone, and then polished again to make sure. There had been a lot of competition to get selected for this detail, and the men who were chosen had swapped equipment with the unlucky ones if their own was no longer perfect. The horses’ coats gleamed almost as bright as the iron and bronze from being brushed, manes were neatly parted and tails combed. Shields were repainted, the red of the central star and the white rosettes made bright on the green field. Every man was big, even in a cohort known for the height and breadth of its soldiers, and although the horses were some of the largest available they were dwarfed by their riders. The decurion in charge wore a cuirass where alternate scales were tinned or gilded, and with his new yellow cloak looked like a god of war come to earth. He had a matching yellow plume on his silvered helmet decorated with figures of animals and hunters. The other eleven soldiers had bearskin glued to the bowls of their bronze helmets, the fur brushed so that it stood up. That was a mark of a Batavian, a sign that enemy or fellow soldier alike should treat him with respect.

They kept to a slow pace, trotting only occasionally because otherwise the mules drawing the carriage could not keep up. That meant that they could not stop the flies from tormenting the horses, and holding shield and reins in one hand and spear in the other meant that there was no free hand to swat them away. So the horses suffered and pressed close behind the ones in front to let their swishing tails give some protection. It was all worth it. The job was a lot easier than doing fatigues back at Vindolanda. It was an honour to be chosen, and to guard the occupant of the coach, but more pleasant was the prospect of at least one night at Coria, which was a much bigger base, with taverns and a proper bath-house. They would drink and bathe, eat and drink some more, and if a brawl or two broke out then so much the better.