Back at Syracuse, Ferox read a new report that added nothing to their knowledge of the raid, but took a long time to say it. He dealt with Crescens, who had brought a number of trivial matters to him. The man seemed to have lost a lot of his bluster and was looking for guidance on more and more matters. Ferox kept hoping that he would take up the challenge to fight him, even though he realised that putting the curator down would probably not be good for discipline. The stationarii were a very mixed bunch, with a few eager volunteers among men sent here because their units did not want them.

Ferox lunged at the post, then stepped back before coming in again and cutting at head height, his shield all the while held up over his body. The German warrior bothered him. During one of his visits to Vindolanda he had asked to see the two survivors from the escort. The man cut across the face was in hospital, head bandaged.

‘Ask whatever you like,’ the orderly told him. ‘But his wits are in and out at the moment. Woke up screaming last night and said that there were horses chasing him and wanting to trample him beneath their hoofs.’

The man seemed well enough, sitting on the side of a cot and playing dice with another convalescent. If anything he enjoyed telling his story, which did not tell Ferox anything new.

Longinus was in the barrack block occupied by his turma and Ferox got the impression that the Batavians were not keen on letting him visit. They were a strange, clannish bunch, the closed expressions of the soldiers stopping just short of insubordination, and he had to insist for some time before a soldier led him to the right part of the fort. Men working on tack and equipment under the shelter of the colonnade running the length of the building watched him with cold eyes.

For all that, Longinus was welcoming when Ferox knocked on the open door of the room at the far end of the block. He was the only man there, and there were no blankets on either of the other two low beds. As he perched on the side of one, Ferox wondered if they belonged to men killed in the ambush. The old Batavian sat on his bed running a whetstone along the edge of his long spatha. When he tried to get up, obviously with some discomfort, Ferox gestured to him to sit. ‘No need to stand on ceremony,’ he said. ‘But if you are not too tired I’d like to draw on your experience.’

‘Sir.’ An old soldier could make that short word do so many things.