‘More of the bastards!’ Vindex called. Other horsemen were coming from the south-west, and were not far off, hidden up to now by the valley. There were half a dozen, perhaps more, and Ferox could see no trace of uniform or anything else to identify them. They did not ride like Britons, but they were heading towards the main group of the enemy.

‘This way!’ The slave girl was pointing at a flat grey stone, the first of a line dotted towards the wood. Her feet and her once white sandals were brown from the mud, and Ferox was surprised that the clinging mire had not pulled them off.

Vindex gasped. ‘Double bugger!’ An arrow had grazed his right leg just above the knee, tearing his trousers and gouging a red line across his flesh. It must have had a broader head than the ones Ferox had seen before.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, reaching out his free arm in an offer of support.

‘Piss off!’ the Brigantian said, pushing it away, and kept going. The slave girl was jumping from stone to stone, but even on that boggy ground Ferox could hear the hoof beats getting closer. They were at the first big stone.

‘If you’re all right then you take her. I’ll try to slow them down.’

Vindex’s face was grim as he took the weight of the girl, who immediately began to scream again.

A javelin whipped through the air between the two men just as they parted, missing them and the girl’s legs by a whisker. The horseman who had thrown it wore a hooded cloak that streamed behind him, but was bare-chested like the two Ferox had killed. He was close, no more than ten paces away, and riding like a wild man, straight at them, his right hand reaching to draw his long sword. His horse threw up fountains of water, then one of its front feet went deeper and the animal stumbled, throwing the rider, who slid through the mire towards them.

‘Stupid mongrel,’ Vindex said and jumped to the second stone, which rocked under the weight.

The centurion drew his blade, splashed forward through the mud and stabbed down once. Ferox saw the same horse tattoo on the man’s forehead before the long point of his gladius punched through the skull. For all his bravery, this third warrior was no more skilled than the other two. He had dropped his shield, a small one like the others, although round rather than square. Ferox picked it up.