As for Quertus, there was nothing on record that revealed any more than Quintatus had already told him – except for one minor complaint from the previous commander of the Thracians. Following a skirmish on the banks of the Severnus, prefect Albinus had issued an order for Quertus to escort their captives to Glevum. They never reached the fortress. According to Quertus they had all attempted to escape on the first night of the march and were killed in the process. None survived. There was no mention of any disciplinary action and a few days later the prefect was killed when he was thrown from his horse and his skull was caved in when it struck a rock.

The cohort of legionaries that made up the rest of the garrison of Bruccium had an equally competent and unspectacular record up until their success of recent months. The only curious aspect was that neither unit had reported any breaches of discipline since Centurion Quertus had led them into the mountains. Normally, such infractions were part of the reports that were regularly sent back to the legion’s headquarters. But after the first few reports, there were only brief outlines of the number of enemies killed and villages burned. And nothing more for over a month now.

Cato, his companions and the escort crossed the timber bridge thrown across the Severnus by the engineers of the Fourteenth Legion and followed the route along the riverbank. There were fewer signs of the natives here than at any point on their journey through the new province. A handful of small farmsteads dotted the landscape. The inhabitants, wild-looking people in furs and rags, tended a handful of goats and worked small fields in the rich soil beside the river. Every five miles, the riders encountered one of the small fortlets that had been built to guard the route. Each garrison of twenty or thirty auxiliaries sheltered behind a turf wall topped with a stout wooden palisade, and a sentry kept watch over the surrounding landscape from a small tower rising up above the meagre fortifications.

At the end of the day they reached a large fort at Isca, garrisoned by a cohort of Gauls. After the mounts and baggage animals had been stabled for the night, Cato and his comrades joined the decurion leading the cavalry escort in the cohort’s mess. There was only one small room with two tables and a small counter where a skinny merchant sold bad wine for a premium to his captive market. This side of the Severnus was Silurian territory and none of the Roman army’s camp followers had been brave enough to settle into a vicus outside the walls of the fort.

Macro and Decimus had worked off their hangover during the day’s ride and Macro ordered some wine from the merchant with the begrudging attitude of a man who knows he is being exploited.

‘Five sestertii for this piss?’ Macro growled as his lips wrinkled away from the rim of the cup following his first sip. ‘Fucking outrage is what it is.’