Introductions were soon made and kept brief. The junior tribune was one Julius Flaccus from VIIII Hispana, who had accompanied the despatch rider, and the other man was Rufinus, commander of the auxiliary cohort stationed at Magna to the west, a unit of Vardulli from Spain. Crispinus was senior to the others in status and rank, if not years or experience, but let Cerialis begin the conference by summarising all that was known of the raid earlier in the month and the murder of the soldiers at the tower. It was certain that the missing soldier was the Briton.

‘May I ask from what tribe, my lord?’ Ferox asked.

‘What does it matter? They’re all the same,’ Claudius Super muttered. Ferox suspected that the man had a bad hangover and enjoyed his obvious discomfort.

Cerialis nodded to his cornicularius who fished out a wax tablet from the file. ‘Trinovantes from down south, although enlisted with the Tungrians.’

‘Good record up to now,’ Annius told them, ‘seven years’ service.’ He paused to stare at each of them. ‘I should like to state on record that the man has disappeared and there is no direct evidence of complicity in the attack. It is perfectly possible that he was taken as a prisoner, poor devil.’ Annius was junior to all the equestrians, but he spoke with force and his pride in his own soldiers was obvious.

‘You cannot trust Britons,’ Claudius Super told them, unimpressed by this display of loyalty. ‘Lies and treachery come too naturally to them.’ Ferox ignored the insult, suspecting that the man had forgotten he was there, but worried that the sentiment was a common one. When he had returned to his quarters after the dinner last night he had found a bruised and battered Vindex.

‘Some of the Batavian lads held Britons responsible for the men killed at the tower and in the ambush,’ he explained. ‘I told them that I was Carvetii and a Brigantian, not a Briton, but that didn’t seem to matter. They wanted to show their annoyance and I was there, drinking quietly and talking to a few of their women. All harmless,’ he assured Ferox. ‘Just being friendly, but then it turned nasty, and might have got a lot nastier if that one-eyed old bugger hadn’t turned up and knocked a few of them down. He stopped it all, told ’em I had saved their lady and then they all bought me drinks. They’re mad, the lot of them.’

‘Trinovantes, though,’ Rufinus said as if thinking aloud, and Ferox’s mind returned to the present. The prefect had dark skin and curly black hair, the accent of Africa Proconsularis and an air of competence. ‘That lot were out with Boudicca.’

Cerialis did not sound convinced. ‘That is ancient history, surely. All forgotten after nearly forty years.’