There was a crash from inside the centurion’s quarters, then another, and then the sound of pottery shattering.

‘You mongrels!’ The Thracian recognised Ferox’s voice, although he had never heard him so full of rage.

More shouts, more smashing, then a sharp cry of ‘Taranis!’ suggesting someone in pain. Crescens again tried to push past the Briton, but the man and horses blocked him.

‘I want two men, now!’ he yelled, but his voice cracked and sounded weak. The Thracian and the man beside him stepped out of the rank to join the curator.

The struggle inside the building redoubled with even greater noise of violence and destruction. Philo winced at the sound of what must have been a whole shelf or table full of plates and vessels being struck by something heavy and smashed into ruin. The door burst open and the scout who had followed Vindex staggered out, his face bruised and blood pouring from a split lip.

Then the centurio regionarius Titus Flavius Ferox appeared, held in a lock by Vindex. The Brigantians loved their wrestling, although all that the Thracian had seen suggested more brute force and low cunning than true art. In this case he could not doubt its efficacy. Ferox was only a little shorter than the tall Brigantian, and much wider around the chest and shoulders, but he was bent over, arm twisted back so that all his strength was useless and he had to go forward if bone was not to break. Vindex drove him at the trough.

With a grunt of sheer effort the Brigantian lifted the centurion over its wooden side and plunged him head first into the cold water. He said something in his own tongue and the man with the split lip joined him, holding the Roman down as he fought them.

They pulled the centurion out of the water. Ferox was coughing up water, shaking his head and still struggling.

‘Mongrels!’ he spluttered. ‘Sons of—’

Vindex and the other Briton thrust him back into the water. Crescens’ mouth hung open as he watched, but still the curator did nothing.

The Britons lifted the centurion up again. This time he looked limp and exhausted, all the fight gone. His tunic was the dull off-white army issue, loosely belted so that it hung down to his shins, and the seam along one shoulder had been torn completely so that the material hung down. There were bruises growing on his bare skin, and a couple of old scars, one of them long. His dark hair was soaked and filthy, several days’ worth of beard on the chin of his slim face, and his usually clear grey eyes stared out blankly. There were traces of dried vomit on his torn tunic and on his skin, wine stains and dirt on his hands, bare legs and feet.