It had been an unusually cold winter. The open countryside was bleak and the seasonal trees were stripped bare of leaves and stood gaunt and still, like splintering cracks against the leaden sky. The frequent showers of rain and a passing storm had left the fields waterlogged, while puddles gathered in the ruts and dips of the road. At first there were plenty of farms and village along the route, their inhabitants living comfortably off the crops, fruit and meat that they sold at the markets in Rome. But as the day wore on, there were fewer buildings visible and they rode through unspoiled woods interspersed with much smaller farms and the occasional cluster of rural dwellings that could scarcely be called villages. The ruddy-faced inhabitants, who were outside cutting firewood or taking winter feed to their animals, paused with curious, and sometimes suspicious, expressions to watch the riders passing by and then continued with the unchanging routines of country existence.

After a brief rest at noon they set off again. The road entered the foothills of the mountains that ran down the spine of Italia, just as the clouds darkened the skies above, and with them came the first drops of rain. The riders hunched down inside their capes and pulled the hoods up as the rain pattered on the road. Marcus hoped that it might be a passing shower, but the rain continued to fall, and grew heavier. Despite the animal fat that had been worked into the cloaks to help waterproof them, it was not long before the riders were soaked through. The air was already cold and now the gentle breeze made it even colder.

Marcus could not prevent himself from shivering as he gripped the reins and clenched his teeth in concentration. He spared a glance at Lupus and saw that his companion was shaking uncontrollably as his teeth chattered.

Lupus caught his eye. ‘Wh-when is the master going to stop and take sh-sh-shelter?’

‘What shelter?’ Marcus gestured at the landscape on either side of the road. There was nothing but rocks and stunted trees to be seen, and ahead the road entered a dense forest of pine trees. ‘Perhaps up there.’ He pointed at the treeline.

But when they reached the forest Caesar continued riding, and while Lupus muttered curses at his master, Marcus resigned himself to the discomfort and misery of the journey. The road continued through the trees and, as the slope increased, the route began to zigzag up the hill into the grey mist that shrouded the view of the surrounding landscape.

As dusk encroached on the dismally lit world, the horsemen finally reached the gates of a small town. Caesar presented his senator’s ring to the cloaked sentries and they were ushered through the gate and into the street beyond. There were only a handful of travellers’ inns in the town and only one of those large enough to take the entire party and stable their horses. Night had fallen before the needs of the mounts had been seen to and then Marcus, Lupus and the others joined Caesar and Festus inside where they sat at a bench close to the fireplace sipping heated wine. They had already changed into dry clothes, and their riding cloaks, tunics and boots were drying by the fire.