The fair-haired woman screamed as a javelin stuck into the wood beside her, throwing up splinters. The gelding was done, its long tongue lolling out, and the centurion knew that it would be hard to ride far down the gully as after a while it turned into scree.

The lone Batavian up on the far bank was making his horse rear, almost dancing it back and forth as he drove at the warriors. Ferox heard him laugh, taunting them, and when one of the Britons came close he saw the trooper’s long spear take him in the throat, coming back bloody as the Batavian held it poised to thrust again or throw. The other two troopers urged their horses up the other bank and with a whoop charged at the oncoming horsemen.

Ferox jumped down on the far side of the carriage, his foot catching a bronze statuette of one of the Muses on the corner of the roof, so that he landed awkwardly, rolling in the mud churned by wheels and hoofs.

‘Come on, you silly girl!’ He was up again, yelling at the woman to follow him. ‘Come on!’ He lifted his hands to catch her.

She glared at him, blue eyes angry, then crouched and sprang off. The same little bronze statue snagged the hem of her blue dress and tore it again. Ferox caught a glimpse of whitened sandals, pale green stockings and smooth calves before he caught her, slipping back a little in the mud.

‘Go!’ he ordered, spinning her round and shoving her down the slope. ‘After your mistress, girl!’ He guessed that no wealthy Roman woman would wait to help her maid, so this one must be the slave of the girl Vindex was carrying, the one with the golden necklace. A spoilt attendant with ideas above her station by the look of it, for she did not run, but looked back over her shoulder as if to argue.

‘Run!’ he shouted as loud as he could and slapped her hard on the rump, making her stagger forward and at last follow her mistress. Hitching up her skirts to reveal long elegant legs, she ran.

Ferox turned, drawing his sword once more. This time he did not feel the same thrill, although it was still so very natural. The sword was at least a hundred years old, a proven blade when his grandfather had taken it from a Roman to give to him. It was longer than the sort the army issued these days, but the perfect balance showed that the smith who had made it was a man of genius.