Crescens glared up because the order was given without consulting him, but the Thracian knew exactly what the regulations said. Vindex kicked his horse and cantered past the flustered young sentry and through the entrance way just as the gate opened. The Thracian grinned, poking his fingers through the little gap where the cheek pieces of his helmet met and scratching his beard. They had style, some of these Britons, you had to give them that.

The rest of the horsemen halted outside. Like their leader the scouts were Brigantes, warriors from the big tribe that held a great swathe of northern Britannia, and loyal allies of Rome for some time now. Slim-faced, tall and rangy, they sat straight-backed as statues in their saddles, staring impassively down at the young sentry. Most of them had thick moustaches, although none as full as the great brown whiskers of their leader. Each wore an old-fashioned army-issue helmet, the bronze types with a straight neck guard, modest peak and topped by a blunt spike, the style that the legions had stopped wearing half a century ago. Only the leader had a mail shirt, but every man had a sword on his right hip, though these were every shape and size from long local blades to infantry- and cavalry-issue patterns. The shields were even more mixed and painted in bright colours, some with pictures of animals on them.

The young sentry looked as if he was trembling as he stared at the silent warriors, and at last one grinned, and then they were all laughing and talking while some swung down to the ground. Brigantes talked a lot – at least compared to other Britons. The Thracian noticed that two of them had been riding double – never a comfortable thing, especially for the one behind – and then saw that two more of the scouts were heading into the fort on foot, each one leading a pack horse.

With much stamping of hobnailed boots, the Thracian’s relief arrived.

‘Longinus reporting as guard to the gate-tower,’ the man announced. He was a thickset Tungrian, his broken nose and scarred face hiding a gentle character. ‘Anything to report, brother?’

The Thracian was not really listening. As the two pack horses came towards the gateway he saw that each bore a corpse hidden under a blanket. The side of one of the animals was caked with dried blood. It seemed that things were not so quiet after all.

‘What?’ he said after a moment, realising that Longinus was staring. ‘Oh, you know, the usual – omnes ad stercus.’

His relief blinked, but the Thracian did not bother to explain. He went down the ladder on to the rampart and headed for the steps down into the courtyard, where Vindex sat his horse in front of the curator, staring down at the man.