It was more than half a day’s hard ride to Glevum where the governor and his retinue continued north along the road to Cornoviorum. As they reined in at the top of a gentle slope, Cato, Macro and Decimus surveyed the scene below them. The Fourteenth Legion had constructed a large fortress on low ground close to the River Severnus and, as was usual, a large civilian vicus had established itself a short distance from the outer ditch of the fortress, just beyond bowshot. Most of the buildings were constructed in the native style, round huts of wattle and daub with thatched roofs. A small opening at the apex of the thatch served to let the smoke escape from the hearth inside. Some of the structures were more substantial affairs, erected by traders from Gaul who had followed their customers when the legions had been transferred to the army that had invaded Britannia. The vicus was where the off-duty soldiers could indulge their appetites for drink and women and, if the legion remained in the location, some of the men would take women for wives and raise families. Such arrangements were unofficial as common soldiers were forbidden to enter formal marriages whilst serving, but it was a long-established custom, and the men were only human after all.

In addition to the fortress, there were two smaller forts for the auxiliary, cavalry and infantry units attached to the Fourteenth Legion, and the entirety had the appearance of a modest town in the making as it lay beneath a thin skein of woodsmoke. On the far side of the river the landscape was open and flat, and in the distance Cato could see the grey mass of the line of hills that marked the boundary of Silurian territory. Clouds hung over the hills, obscuring the heavily forested mountains that lay beyond.

‘Not the most cheery of prospects,’ Macro commented. ‘But at least we’re no longer skulking around doing dirty work for Narcissus.’

‘Given the situation, that’s a small mercy, I think you’ll find.’ Cato clicked his tongue and urged his horse down the broad, muddy track that led to the eastern gate of the fortress. The route passed by a few small farms where the natives were sowing seeds in strip fields for summer crops of barley and wheat. They were so used to soldiers passing by that hardly anyone paid attention to the three riders. Only a small child, a boy, squatting in the muddy soil beside his mother, stared up from beneath a fringe of dark hair and smiled suddenly at Macro. The spontaneity of the infant’s expression touched his heart.

‘Look, Cato. Not everyone seems to hate us.’ Macro smiled back and winked at the child.

Cato shook his head. ‘Give ’em time. That one will reach for his sword soon enough.’

‘Quite the little ray of sunshine today, aren’t you?’

Cato didn’t reply but spurred his horse into a trot and with a reluctant sigh Macro and Decimus followed suit. The servant edged his pony towards Macro and muttered, ‘Excuse my asking, sir, but is the prefect often like this? You know, miserable?’