‘It’s best that we part here,’ said Macro. ‘I’m not sure how far I trust this lot.’

He nodded to some of the inhabitants who had risen early and watched the Romans leading their horses down the rutted roadway.

‘I’ll be fine.’ She lifted her cloak aside to reveal a cosh hanging from her tunic belt. ‘A souvenir from my Ariminum days.’

‘Try not to kill too many of the natives,’ Macro joked, attempting to lighten the mood at their parting. ‘Leave some for me. That’s my job.’

She smiled weakly then cupped her son’s cheek in her hand and stared intently at him. ‘Take care of yourself, and that boy, Cato. Don’t do anything stupid. I know you. I know what you’re like. Just don’t take unnecessary risks. Understand?’

Macro nodded.

She sighed and shook her head. ‘Maybe one day you’ll have a son of your own. Then you’ll understand. Now go. Before you make me cry.’

‘That’ll be the day,’ Macro drawled. ‘Tough as old boots, you are.’

‘Just go!’

Without another word, or any lingering hesitation, Portia dropped her hand and turned to walk back down the road towards the heart of Londinium. Macro watched her briefly, but she did not look back.

‘Tough as old boots . . .’ he repeated under his breath. Then, tugging on the reins of his mount, he strode forward to catch up with the rest of the governor’s escort while the natives, their curiosity sated, turned away and went back to their rude huts. Once they had passed beyond the last of the huts and emerged into open countryside, the governor gave the order for his men to mount.

Cato had been taught to ride as a recruit and had had some practice in the following years, but he still did not feel wholly comfortable in the saddle and the horse he had been given had a tendency to nervous jerks and twitches at the slightest flicker of movement in the periphery of its vision. Ostorius rode a length ahead of his men and glanced over his shoulder once in a while at Cato, and the latter understood his intent well enough. The governor was testing his new cavalry commander to see how he handled a difficult mount. Accordingly, Cato concentrated on keeping the beast in check and trying to anticipate its reactions to its surroundings to make sure that it did not bolt, or rear, or cause any embarrassment to him.

The road was a rough affair, often no more than a muddy track, and where the ground was particularly soft the army’s engineers had constructed corduroys of logs packed with earth to provide a stable surface for marching columns, riders and wheeled traffic. Although there was no rain, the sky was overcast and pockets of mist filled the hollows of the landscape. With no sun to burn them off they were set to remain there through most of the day and Cato could well understand why that was the prevailing impression of the island in Roman minds. The country-scented air was cool and a relief after the cloying stench of Londinium. It was late in April and the bare limbs of trees and shrubs were budding and hardy flowers provided a splatter of bright colours across the landscape. Soon, the town had fallen behind them and only a faint brown hue on the undulating horizon marked its presence.