The captain scrutinised the old woman. ‘What kind of business?’

‘I intend to open an inn,’ she replied. ‘There’s always a need for drink, and other comforts, at the end of a sea voyage, and I dare say that Londinium sees plenty of merchants, sailors and soldiers passing through its gates. All good customers for the kind of services I will offer.’

‘Oh, there’s plenty of business, all right,’ the captain nodded. ‘But it’s a hard life. Even harder in a new province like this. The kind of merchants who make their fortunes here are tough men. They won’t take kindly to a Roman woman trying to compete with them.’

‘I dealt with tough men at the inn I owned in Ravenna. I doubt the locals here will cause me any difficulty. Particularly when they find out my son happens to be a senior centurion of the Fourteenth Legion.’ She took Macro’s arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

‘That’s right.’ He nodded. ‘Anyone messes about with my mum and they mess with me. And that hasn’t worked out well for anyone who has tried it in the past.’

The captain took in the muscular physique of the stocky Roman officer and the scars on his face and arms and could believe it.

‘Even so, why would you come here, ma’am? You’d be more comfortable setting up back in Gesoriacum. Plenty of trade there.’

Portia pursed her lips. ‘This is where the real money can be made, by those who get stuck in quickly. Besides, this boy is all I have in the world now. I want to be as close to him as I can. Who knows, when he gets his discharge, he could join me in the business.’

Macro’s eyes lit up. ‘Ah, now there’s a thought. All the wine and women that a man could want, under one roof!’

Portia swatted his arm. ‘On second thoughts . . . You soldiers are all the same. Anyway, I will make my fortune here in Londinium, and this is where I will stay until the end of my days. It’s up to you what you do with your life, Macro. But I’ll be remaining here. This is my last home.’

With a steady rhythm the cargo ship approached the wharf. As they neared the town, those on board caught their first whiff of the place, an acrid, peaty, sewage smell that mingled with the odour of woodsmoke and caught in their throats.

‘There might be something to be said for sea air after all,’ Cato muttered as he wrinkled his nose.

There was no mooring space along the wharf and the captain gave the order to steer for the end of the line of vessels anchored further upriver. He turned apologetically to his passengers.

‘It’ll be a while before our turn comes. You’re welcome to stay on board, or I’ll have some of my boys row you ashore in the skiff.’

Cato eased himself up from the side rail and adopted the military manner he had learned from Macro, standing tall and being decisive. ‘We’ll go ashore. The centurion and I need to report to the nearest military authority as soon as possible.’