‘Yes, sir.’ The captain knuckled his forehead, instantly aware that the informalities of the voyage had passed. ‘I’ll see to it at once.’

He was as good as his word and by the time the anchor splashed down into the current and the crew shipped the oars, the kitbags of the two officers and the chests and bags belonging to Portia had been carried up from the hold. The skiff, a small blunt-bowed craft with a wide beam, was lowered over the side and two oarsmen nimbly leaped down and offered their hands up to assist the passengers. There was only space for the three of them; their belongings would have to be ferried ashore separately. Cato was the last and as he stepped down into the flimsy craft he frantically waved his arms to retain his balance, before sitting heavily on a thwart. Macro shot him a weary look and tutted and then the oarsmen pulled on their blades and the skiff headed towards the wharf. Now that they were closer to Londinium they could see that the surface of the river was streaked with sewage running from the drain outlets along the wharf. In the still water trapped by the wharf lay lengths of broken timber amid the other flotsam, and rats scurried from piece to piece, scavenging for anything edible. A set of wooden steps rose from the river at one end of the wharf and the oarsmen made for them. When they were alongside, the nearest man snatched his oar in and reached to grasp the slimy hawser that acted as a fender. He held on while his friend slipped a looped line over the mooring post.

‘There you are, sirs, ma’am.’ He smiled and then handed them ashore. With Cato leading the way, they climbed the steps to the top of the wharf and looked along the crowded thoroughfare between the ships and the warehouses. A cacophony of voices filled the cool spring afternoon and in amongst them were the brays of mules and the crack of whips and the shouts of the overseers of the chain gangs. Though the scene looked chaotic, Cato knew that in every detail it was proof of the transformation that had come to the island that had defied the power of Rome for almost a hundred years. For better or worse, change had come to Britannia and once the last pockets of resistance had been crushed, the new province would take shape and become part of the empire.

Macro joined him and glanced round briefly before he muttered, ‘Welcome back to Britannia . . . arse end of civilisation.’

CHAPTER THREE

Once the boat returned with their belongings, Macro approached a small group of men gathered outside the nearest warehouse.

‘I need some porters,’ he announced, addressing them in his loud, clear, parade-ground voice. At once they hurried forward and he chose several of the burliest-looking men, one of whom had a strip of leather about his head to clear his brow of thick, wiry blond hair. A brand was visible on his forehead, beneath the leather. Macro recognised the mark at once. The brand of Mithras, a religion from the east that was steadily spreading through the ranks of the Roman army. ‘You, a soldier once, if I’m not mistaken?’