Ferox sent regular messages back to the cavalry vanguard and on to the main force, and once a day, usually in the middle of the morning, the provincial legate rode forward to meet him in person. Neratius Marcellus had a trio of stallions, all of them tall and black, and when he was in the saddle no one noticed his small stature. As usual his questions were direct for all the florid language, but his frustration at the ever-slower progress was obvious.

The rain stopped as the army began to dig its camp for the night. That was some comfort, but the brooding red glow off the low clouds ahead of them added to the grim mood among the cold and wet men as they carved out a ditch from the rocky soil and threw up a rampart.

‘Too many fires just to be a burning fort, my lord,’ Ferox said when the legate asked his opinion. ‘Even two forts.’ There was a smaller garrison ahead of them, about a dozen miles south of Trimontium. The few locals he had found during the day said that the Roman forts held out, but that both were hard pressed. More and more warriors appeared around the army as it advanced. Several pairs of scouts were chased. Two more came back, both men on the same horse, and one with a javelin wound to the thigh.

‘You said just,’ Neratius Marcellus held his gaze.

‘Maybe they have fallen, maybe a few of the buildings have been set on fire, and all the farms for miles around. That’s still not enough fires.’

‘Then what is it?’ the legate snapped, his patience worn thin.

‘It’s an army, my lord. A big army, not far away.’

Neratius Marcellus took a long breath. He was drinking from a silver cup and now offered it to the centurion, who shook his head. ‘Tomorrow then,’ the legate said.

‘Probably, my lord. This is as good a place as any – for them as well as us.’

‘And you saw them?’ The legate’s dark eyes never left the centurion’s face.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Only a few riders. But they are there, sir, and they are coming.’ In the late afternoon Ferox had ridden to the north-west, searching on his own for the force that he was sure planned to swing around behind them and box them in. He guessed at least half of the Stallion’s men would surround them, while the rest blocked their path. It was a guess, but it was what he would have done in the priest’s place.

‘Why are you sure?’

How could he explain the warning signs set out by the Votadini and the smoky fires men had lit, giving off thick plumes to signify danger, and expect even the sympathetic Marcellus to understand? Ferox did not need to see thousands of warriors to know that they were there.