‘Come on, then, let’s get this done. Sword, spear or bow, it makes no difference to me. I can go to meet Cocidius knowing that whoever you are, however far you run, my people will hunt you down and gut you slowly for what you do today.’

After another moment’s silence, with the only sound his own harsh breathing, figures broke from the cover of the forest’s scrubby bushes. Four men stood, two slinging bows across their backs and drawing swords, two carrying spears ready to throw. The latter advanced to within easy throwing range and halted, keeping him under constant threat, while the other two men followed with more leisure. One of them, his face obscured by a deep hood, spoke out while the other, a black-bearded athlete with a long sword at his belt, stood impassively beside him.

‘So, Calgus. It seems that we have you at something of a disadvantage.’

His Latin was cultured, almost urbane.

The Briton laughed, disturbingly relaxed in the face of levelled spears.

‘So, Roman, you’ve come to talk. And there I was bracing myself for your blade.’

The hooded figure nodded slowly.

‘Oh yes, you’re just as the stories tell. I’ve just slaughtered your bodyguard… well, most of them…’

He pointed to Caes, still helpless on hands and knees, a thin line of bloody drool trickling from his mouth.

‘Finish that one.’

His companion flashed out his blade and stepped forward, stabbing down into the helpless Briton’s exposed neck, then stepped back with the sword held ready. Calgus stood completely still, watching the act impassively. The hooded man spoke again.