‘Does not look very many, does it?’ Crispinus spoke softly. Ferox’s exploratores were on the right wing, but the legate had asked him to stay with him for the moment until he had to take command of his men. There was far less order among the Britons, but the numbers now seemed even greater. They lacked horsemen, with Brocchus’ men on the left flank facing barely more than their own number of mounted opponents. There were no cavalry on the other flank, at least at the moment. Instead there were men on foot, great blocks of them ten or more deep with barely a gap between each one. It was not a battle line capable of manoeuvre, but then they had no need for any subtlety.

‘“I would name the fields on which a mere handful of Romans put to flight great hosts of enemies, and the cities fortified by nature which they stormed, were it not that such a theme would lead me far away from my theme.”’ Ferox was pleased to remember the whole line.

‘Sallust again?’ Crispinus managed a nervous smile. ‘They sent him into exile for corruption, you know.’

‘He pleaded innocence.’

‘Don’t we all.’ The tribune seemed about to say more and then changed his mind. He offered the centurion his hand. ‘Just in case that old sod was wrong about the odds not mattering. My apologies, I had forgotten that you do not like swearing.’

‘Waste of good anger, my lord. And anger’s a handy thing on a day like this.’ Ferox had the odd feeling of being inside a song. In the north he could see more and more enemies appearing, but it would still be some time before they arrived. For the moment the odds were three or four to one, perhaps more, and that was enough to keep them busy. ‘Good luck, my lord. All that matters now is what happens in the next few hours, so we had better live them well.’

Crispinus gulped, his face pale. ‘Wish I could think of a joke,’ he said, but Marcellus was gesturing for Ferox to go to his men and the centurion walked his mount away. There was no point in hurrying, for the animal was tired enough as it was.

‘You do not have to come,’ he said to Vindex as the Brigantian followed him. ‘You and your men are paid to scout, not fight battles.’

‘Reckon scouting’s done for the day,’ Vindex said, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘But I have taken a strong dislike to the mongrels over there, and so have the lads. Keep thinking back to that poor boy they buried.’

‘Aye,’ Ferox said, and it was not just the Goat Man and his boy, but poor silly Fortunata, the slave girl left murdered in her bed, and all the others. ‘If ever people needed killing it is this Stallion and his rabble.’