‘Is that it ahead? Londinium?’

Cato turned to see a slender, hard-faced old woman picking her way across the deck from the direction of the hatch leading down to the cramped passenger quarters. She wore a shawl over her head and a few strands of grey hair flickered in the breeze. Cato smiled in greeting and Macro grinned a welcome as she joined him at the side rail.

‘You’re looking much better, Mum.’

‘Of course I do,’ she said sharply, ‘now this wretched boat has stopped lurching all over the place. I thought that storm would sink us for sure. And, frankly, it would have been a mercy if it had. I have never felt so ill in my life.’

‘It was hardly a storm,’ Macro said disdainfully.

‘No?’ She nodded at Cato. ‘What do you think? You were throwing up as much as me.’

Cato grimaced. The tossing and pitching of the ship the previous night had left him in a state of utter misery, curled up in a ball as he vomited into a wooden tub beside his cot. He disliked sea voyages in the Mediterranean at the best of times. The wild sea off the coast of Gaul was pure torture.

Macro sniffed dismissively. ‘Barely blowing a gale. And good, fresh air at that. Put some salt back into my lungs.’

‘While taking out absolutely everything from your guts,’ his mother replied. ‘I’d rather die than go through that again. Anyway, best not to remember. As I was saying, is that Londinium over there?’

The others turned to follow the direction she indicated and gazed at the distant buildings lining the northern bank of the Tamesis. A wharf had been constructed with great timber piles driven into the river bed, supporting the cross-beams packed with stones and earth and finally paved. Several cargo ships were already moored alongside and as many others were anchored a short distance upriver, waiting for their turn to unload their freight. On the wharf, chain gangs were busy carrying goods from the holds of ships into the long low warehouses. Beyond them other buildings spread out, many still under construction as the new town took shape. A hundred paces back from the riverbank they could make out the second storey of a large complex rising above the other buildings. That would be the basilica, Cato realised, site of the market, courts, shops, offices and administrative headquarters of towns that Rome founded.

‘That’s Londinium all right,’ the captain answered as he joined his passengers. ‘Growing faster than an abscess on the backside of a mule. And just as vile.’

‘Oh?’ Macro’s mother frowned.

‘Why yes, Miss Portia. The place is a rat-hole. Narrow streets, filled with mud, cheap drinking joints and knocking shops. It’ll be a while yet before it settles down and becomes the kind of town you’re used to.’

She smiled. ‘Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.’

The captain frowned at her and Macro let out a laugh.

‘She’s come here to go into business.’