‘Our poor raedula,’ Cerialis said, shaking his head at the sight of the carriage, one door hanging off and the wood scarred by arrows and from the fall. The legionaries had lifted it upright again. Two of the mules were dead and the other pair taken, but the soldiers unloaded some of their own beasts to provide a new team. Ferox found it odd to hear a grown man using a diminutive. The coach was a bit smaller than a normal four-wheeled raeda, but it was the sort of expression he expected from a woman trying to be charming.

One of the Batavians had escaped after charging the British horsemen. He was cut across the face, his helmet dented and cheek piece broken off, but he had ridden through them, so was able to tell his prefect what had happened. To Ferox’s surprise, the man said that another of the troopers had survived. ‘Longinus was thrown and knocked out cold. His horse rolled on top of him and he’s badly bruised, but nothing seems to be broken, and he should be all right.’

The one-eyed, grey-bearded cavalryman was sitting up, drinking from a wineskin. Half the army was called Longinus, and it made Ferox wonder whether Batavian parents gave their sons military names because so many were destined to serve.

The man reporting to Cerialis seemed very relieved, even though two survivors from twelve was not many. Six of the bodies had been beheaded and another hacked about the head, arms and body so badly that it had not been worth taking a trophy. One of the corpses had its trousers pulled down and a dark patch of dried blood showed where the man had been castrated. Swords, armour, helmets and other weapons had all been taken, but nothing else, which suggested that the attackers had not had much time. A patrol from Coria, with the mule convoy close behind, had arrived less than half an hour after the attack, making the raiders leave in a hurry. They left behind five of their own, including the two Ferox had killed in the gully and another man also with a stallion tattooed on his forehead. Each of the three men’s left hands was marked with a raven, wings folded. Ferox and Vindex exchanged glances, but said nothing. Claudius Super had already scoffed when Ferox suggested that the heavily tattooed leader of the ambush was some sort of priest or druid. According to the senior centurion, Ferox was starting at shadows, just trying to cover up his own failure.

‘If only you had given the alarm earlier, none of this might have happened,’ Claudius Super told Ferox.

‘If my wife had not left later than planned,’ Cerialis cut in, ‘then it would have been a damned sight worse. There is no blame, and much praise for the centurion’s quick thinking and brave actions.’