‘All right, Mum?’ asked Macro.

Portia stared coldly at a group of tribesmen passing in the street, wrapped in furs and with swirling tattoos down their arms. ‘Savages . . .’

Cato smiled to himself and then frowned. There was still a way to go before the people of the island accepted Roman rule. Caratacus and his followers might be far to the west of Londinium, but the spirit of the tribesmen living in and around the town was clearly far from broken. If the legions ever suffered a serious setback then it was sure to encourage more than a few of the natives into open revolt against Rome. If the main weight of the governor’s army was concentrated at the frontier, there would be little to stop the rebels sweeping across those parts of the province that the officials back in Rome had already labelled as pacified on their maps.

‘Where the hell’s that Decimus and his crew?’ Macro growled, craning his neck, but unable to make much out due to his short stature.

‘Twenty paces or so ahead,’ Cato replied.

‘Don’t lose sight of the buggers. Last thing we need is to have all our kit nicked the instant we step ashore. I’ll not go back to the legions looking like some green recruit mummy’s boy if I can help it.’

Portia snorted. ‘If there’s one thing you are definitely not, my son, it is a mummy’s boy.’

They pressed on, struggling to keep up with the porters ahead of them. As they emerged into a crossroads filled with carts carrying amphorae packed tightly together, there was no sign of the porters on the far side of the junction. Cato felt his heart sink in despair and a sharp anger at Decimus for having tricked them.

‘Hey! Prefect! This way.’

He turned towards the voice and saw Decimus and his companions just over to their left. The former legionary shook his head mockingly. ‘There’s me with my limp, and the officers still can’t keep up. What’s the world coming to?’

Before Cato could cut in and tell him to mind his tongue when speaking to a superior, the other man raised his hand and pointed towards a large gateway a short distance along the other side of the street they had just turned into. Beyond the wall Cato could see scaffolding and the tall timber frame of a crane rising up against the smoky sky.

‘There you go, Prefect. That’s the basilica. Or what there is of it.’

Without waiting for his customers to respond, Decimus set off again and this time the flow of traffic was such that the new arrivals were able to keep up. When the convoy of wine carts had passed, they made their way across to the gateway and approached the two legionaries standing guard. The surface of the arch had been plastered and whitewashed, but the brickwork on the wall surrounding the building site was unfinished.

‘State your business,’ one of the guards said evenly as he ran his eyes over the two men and the older woman, hurriedly assessing their status. The two officers were dressed in neat, new tunics and military cloaks purchased in Rome before their departure. Although there were no insignia to show rank, nor any ornate rings to indicate wealth, the bearing of the two officers and the visible scars told their own story. Particularly the long white line that stretched across Cato’s face from forehead to chin. The sentry cleared his throat and moderated his tone. ‘How may I assist you, sir?’