Ferox had found a lock and used it to fasten the door from the outside. After that they left, riding through the still night to Syracuse. They rode in silence apart from the breathing of the horses and the jingle of harness. Ferox wondered whether he had the energy to write the reports he knew needed to be sent. Most of all he wondered about the names on the duty roster, for one of them was British. The man might be among the corpses, but he might not, and that was worrying. Crispinus had told him to search for the truth. As so often in the past, Ferox feared where it would lead.

V

FEROX HEFTED THE shield again, holding the cross-grip tight enough to be secure without becoming rigid. His sword was high, arm back and elbow bent almost double ready to jab the blade forward at eye level, striking for the face, or lunging over the top of his opponent’s shield if he saw a gap open. It was not his own gladius and felt heavy and cumbersome in his hand.

Both men were breathing hard, watching for their chance. Ferox’s arms and legs ached, and his right shoulder was sore from a slamming cut that he had not seen in time. He suspected that the blow had driven some of the rings of his mail through the padded jerkin to bruise the skin. The centurion stamped forward with his left foot and punched with the boss of his shield, the weight of his body behind the blow. His opponent lifted his own shield to block as he sprang back, landing well and cutting down with his longer sword, catching Ferox on the helmet. It was a weak blow with no real force in it and did not bother him.

Ferox panted as they both went back to watching and waiting. This one was good, old in war and dark in cunning, and the centurion was weary with not much more to give. The greaves on his shins were heavy and uncomfortable. He was sure the top of the left one had cut into his skin. If he did not win soon then he was finished. He let his shield drop a little before raising it with visible effort, wanting the man to think that he was even more tired.