The ground was getting steeper. Ferox looked back, but the crest of the slope was not far away and he could not yet see anyone closing with them. Trees reared up above the steep banks as the gully narrowed. They were thick, and at least it meant no one could ride quickly to cut them off, or even run at any speed through the woods.

Ferox’s foot caught in a thick stem bent round and hidden by leaves and he stumbled, barging into the slave, who was knocked forward and nearly lost her balance.

‘Who are you?’ she hissed angrily.

‘Quiet,’ he whispered. ‘Just keep going.’

‘What are you?’ she said in reply.

‘Move!’

They pushed on, the thorns inflicting even more ruin on the pale blue dress and the darker tunic underneath, and then they were out, into rocky ground that soon turned into scree. Vindex was some way ahead, slipping and sliding as much as walking, stones tumbling away ahead of him. Gusts of wind caught them, and there were more clouds in the sky, running in ever faster from the west.

Ferox wiped his sword on the skirt of his tunic. Most of the blood had gone as he had beaten the path through the brambles, but he cleaned the rest off before sheathing it. His hands were covered in scratches, his woollen trousers holed and dirty.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he whispered at the woman, who had watched him in obvious distaste. He set off, and as always it reminded him of childhood expeditions along the rocky shores of his homeland. The trick was not to put too much weight anywhere, and always to keep going, springing, almost dancing, from stone to stone. He was rusty, sliding and starting a minor rock fall, before his confidence grew and he went rapidly down the slope. Behind him, the slave girl picked her way more gingerly, the hem of her ragged dress held in one hand and the other arm up high for balance. The hillside was too steep for any tree cover, but the gully’s sides were still high and he could not see out. Ahead of them the slope eased and opened out. There was a lake, fringed probably with soft bog, and beyond that straggling woodland. If they could make it to the shelter of the trees then they might just stand a chance. In a few hours the first patrols ought to get here from Vindolanda and begin to search. Their trail was an easy one to follow, which at the moment was not a comforting thought. There were no farms in sight, and the ones he knew were further on, in the valley of the Tyne, and too far for them to reach before they were caught.

‘Come on!’ he called back at the slave, already a good twenty paces behind him. ‘Go faster, you’ll find it a lot easier.’