The man with the red shield was a long spear cast away, but although he carried a slim-shafted javelin in his hand he made no move to throw it. He was a big man and yelled something at the warrior coming up alongside him, who was another of the bare-chested, animal-tattooed fighters, this time with his head shaved completely bald. A gesture confirmed that he was telling the man to stay back. The third horseman was little more than a beardless boy, fair-haired and red-cheeked, and was leading a saddled but riderless mare. There was no sign of any of the other horsemen.

Ferox bounded across the first few stones. If he must fight, then at least the mud would make it harder for anyone to come up on him from the side.

‘Roman!’ a deep voice shouted.

He turned and saw that the warrior with the red shield had dismounted. On foot he was huge, several inches taller than Vindex and broader across the shoulders than Ferox himself. He was bareheaded, with thick blond hair down to his shoulders and a neat beard. He wore boots and pale trousers, and had mail, with a black tunic underneath, the sleeves short and showing his powerfully muscled arms. A heavy, almost clumsy bronze bracelet was on his right wrist. His shield was hexagonal, a white star painted around the boss. He did not look like any warrior from the tribes of Britannia that Ferox had ever seen – more like a German, but that made no sense.

‘Want the queen,’ the man said, taking a step forward. He spoke in the language of the Celtic tribes, differing only in details among the peoples of Gaul as well as Britannia, but he did not speak it naturally. Each word took an effort to pronounce, and Ferox wondered whether he did not know the word for woman. He must be a German, perhaps an army deserter who had taken service with a chieftain?

‘Why do you want her?’ he asked in Latin. There was no sign of understanding, so he repeated the words in the Celtic tongue.

‘An oath,’ the warrior said and kept coming forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Ferox noticed that the boy was hanging back, but the bald-headed man had also dismounted and was wading through the mud. It would slow him down, but was not deep enough to stop him, let alone suck him down and smother him.

‘Don’t worry about him.’ The voice of Vindex came from close behind. ‘I’ll sort him. You deal with the big bastard.’

‘What about the women?’

‘Oh, I tipped them in the bog.’

The big German was closer, his spear raised. ‘The queen,’ he bellowed, ‘or I kill you both.’

‘What?’ Ferox glanced back, saw the Brigantian’s cadaverous face broken by a toothy grin, and beyond him the blonde slave girl helping her mistress jump across the bridge of stones. They were almost at the wood.