The boy leading the horse was shouting again. The warrior glanced down, decided not to jump into the clinging mud and finish his opponent and instead turned and bounded away from stone to stone. Ferox saw dark blood on the man’s trouser leg, but knew that he would have died if the German had not run off. The warrior and the boy rode away eastwards. There were horsemen in the distance to the west, but he could not tell who they were.

‘Some help would be nice,’ Vindex called. The Brigantian was knee deep in mud, mail torn near the shoulder and blood seeping through it. His opponent was motionless, face down in the mire. As Ferox splashed over to help him he saw that there were figures with the women at the treeline. They were dressed in breeches, tunics and cloaks and their short hair showed them as Romans.

‘Looks like we’re still alive,’ he said as he pulled Vindex free.

‘Never doubted it for a moment,’ the Brigantian said.

They made their way across the stones, covered in mud, their clothes ragged and torn.

To his surprise a tall, extremely handsome man with reddish hair was embracing the slave woman, while the little dark-haired girl stood meekly by her side, the unclasped necklace in her hands.

‘I believe I owe you profound thanks,’ the redhead said. He was dressed in hunting clothes, only a little stained by travel. His face was open, his hair perfectly in place and his teeth neat and very white. ‘You have saved my wife and I am forever in your debt.’

‘We owe you our gratitude,’ the slave added. ‘Although I do not know who you are – or even what you are?’ There was a trace of mischief in her tone, and perhaps she saw the bafflement in his face.

‘Titus Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, seconded from Legio II Augusta,’ he said, trying not to think too much about his harsh words – or the slap on her behind. ‘And this is Vindex, a noble warrior of the Carvetii and the leader of their scouts who serve with us.’

‘Then I am honoured to meet you,’ the man said, and shook their hands, even though they were filthy. ‘I am Cerialis, Prefect of the Ninth Batavians, and may I name my wife, Sulpicia Lepidina.’ She gave them a gracious smile.

Another man appeared, quite small and round-faced with thick hair that was a mottled grey even though he looked to be in his early twenties.

‘Well, it looks as if you have all had quite an adventure,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m Crispinus, by the way, and equally pleased to know you. I have heard a lot about you, and I believe you know my father. In the meantime, I’m tribunus laticlavius with the Augusta, so I suppose that makes me your commanding officer – well, at least up in this part of the world.’