They were four days out and almost fifty miles as the raven flew from Vindolanda, making good progress in spite of the country, which had added some distance to the march. Smaller forces always moved faster than big armies, and Crispinus’ first independent command consisted of scarcely one thousand fighting men, marching expedita, with only the bare essentials of baggage and supplies, which still meant one hundred and thirty pack animals and some eighty slaves and other followers. They had food for another eight days, although good fodder for the horses and pack mules and ponies for only half that time. At worst the animals could eat grass, and for a few days that should not do too much harm to their condition. Otherwise they would demand more supplies from the clans as proof of their loyalty or as a mark of submission, depending on how things went.

Ferox was sure that given a little more time the chieftains would have handed over all that was owed without the need for threats. As he saw it, the procurator’s men had changed the rules by demanding payment earlier than usual. The chieftains were bound to resent that, for they had a strong sense of what was fair – especially when it came to their obligation to others. They would pay in time, but only after showing that they could not be pushed around. It could all have been tactfully managed with faces saved on all sides, but that would have required tact, something lacking in Claudius Super’s soul. None of this was necessary, but Quadratus, as acting governor, wanted to mount a display of Roman military might, and the real provincial legate had given permission, and so the army marched. Nobody seemed bothered that they were putting on a show of force for a people who had had nothing to do with the ambush on the road.

For all that, there was excitement in being with a column in the field, especially since it had been several years since he had last taken part in a campaign. Idleness did not suit Ferox, for it gave him too much time to brood and to sink into black moods, when drink seemed the only shelter. It was always better to be busy and to feel that each moment and each decision he made mattered, not least because mistakes and misjudgements could kill him and plenty of others. His life had purpose again, at least for the next few days.