Ferox pulled the blade free and let the body fall. He went back to the other man, sitting and trying to hold in his innards as they spilled out of the great gash across his stomach. The palm of the warrior’s hand was tattooed as well, but with all the blood he could not be sure of the design. The centurion took careful aim and jabbed once into the back of the man’s neck. With a sigh as the air left him the man slumped forward. It was unlikely that the enemy would not know where they had gone, but at least this one would not be able to tell them.

There was a great shout, and he saw that the lone Batavian had been shot in the chest with an arrow. The man’s horse was bleeding from several wounds, and there were gouges on the rider’s legs. Half a dozen warriors closed around him, some of them big men with long shields, and as the horse sank to its knees the Batavian was pulled down. Ferox could not see over the bank of the gully and had no idea what had happened to the other two.

He ran. The slave girl had helped Vindex lower her mistress down before he also dismounted. The Brigantian struck his horse to make the beast ride off, and then slung the still unconscious girl over his shoulder. He waved at the centurion to hurry, before lumbering on with his burden, pushing his way through a mass of brambles. The slope must have dropped sharply, because Ferox lost sight of them before he had gone a few more paces.

When he reached the brambles he stopped and looked back. There was no sign of any Batavians, but warriors on foot and horseback were swarming around the coach, yelling in their victory. One man had a tall carnyx-trumpet and raised it over his head with both hands. The tattooed rider was standing on top of the coach, waving a severed head in one hand. He was haranguing them, pointing down the gully, and then he swung his hand and let loose a cloud of powder so thick that it looked like smoke. He must be the priest, the man who had violated the sacred stones by drawing on them.

Ferox started to push his way through the brambles and bracken, unclasping the brooch and letting his cloak fall because he knew it would just keep snagging.

The carnyx sounded again and the yelling stopped. They were coming.

III

FEROX CAUGHT UP with the others quickly, following the trail trampled by the tall Brigantian.

‘Just us?’ Vindex asked as he reached them.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ He pushed on, using his sword to beat down the clinging brambles and then stamping on them to make a path. The blonde slave girl followed him, her dress torn even more by the thorns and with patches stained green. ‘Nearly through,’ Vindex said. ‘Then it’s easier.’