A garlanded bull was led forward. This last part of the ceremony was probably the only good reason for holding it outside rather than in the covered hall in the principia. The bull was docile, no doubt drugged, and stood dumbly waiting in front of the altar. Most legions had professional priests and assistants and some auxiliary units copied them, but the Batavians did things their own way, in this as in so many other matters. A massive soldier, almost as big as the warrior Ferox had faced, stood in just his tunic, the wool plastered to his skin. He carried a dolabra, the army’s pickaxe, but this was a special one, carefully forged, sharpened to a razor’s edge and with a longer wooden shaft. The man waited, his great chest and heavily muscled arms tensed, and then swung once just where the bull’s head met its spine. The animal grunted and dropped on to its knees, tongue lolling out. Blood was pouring from the wound, great pools forming around the beast as it fell over on its side.

‘Good luck for the cohort, he did it in one.’ Ferox heard a standard-bearer whisper the words to the man next to him.

Cerialis uncovered his head and called on the men to salute the emperor.

‘Long life and good fortune to the Lord Trajan!’ the men shouted, raising their right arms up straight in salute and holding them rigid as they repeated the phrase twice.

‘Tomorrow you shall parade to receive the gift he promised you on his proclamation – a donative of three aurei per man!’ Cerialis’ voice carried well in spite of the wind and rain. ‘The parade will be at noon in the principia!’

‘Long life and good fortune to the Lord Trajan!’ The cheers were more enthusiastic this time, whether at the money – a quarter of a year’s pay – or the prospect of being in the dry.

Cerialis let them repeat the chant three times.

‘Tomorrow is also the anniversary of our great victory at Mons Graupius.’ He paused, looking along the lines of soldiers. ‘This will be commemorated in the usual way!’

The cheers and chants were almost ecstatic in their enthusiasm. Ferox had heard that the anniversary was the time for eating and drinking to excess.

As the units were marched back to the fort to be dismissed, Cerialis passed him.

‘Centurion, my wife the Lady Sulpicia Lepidina and I are entertaining friends to dinner this evening. I do hope that you will join us.’

‘Thank you, my lord. That is most kind.’ A hope from a senior officer was an order in all but name, though this one surprised him, as he would have thought that he was beneath their social circle.