This was a new kind of warfare. Rome’s soldiers would need to be utterly ruthless if the enemy’s spirit was to be broken. And those soldiers would need to be led by officers who would pursue the enemy with a merciless sense of purpose and no pity in their hearts. Fortunately such men existed, Quintatus reflected. There was one man in particular whose very name froze the blood of his enemies. Centurion Quertus. With a hundred officers like him, Rome’s difficulties in Britannia would be over very quickly. Such men were needed in war. But what would become of them in peace? That, Quintatus said to himself, was somebody else’s problem.

CHAPTER TWO

The River Tamesis, two months later

‘By the gods, this place has changed.’ Centurion Macro gestured at the sprawl of buildings on the northern bank of the river. The cargo ship had just tacked round a wide sweeping bend in the Tamesis and now the bows turned directly into the steady breeze and the sail began to flap against the dull, grey overcast.

The captain cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed across the broad deck, ‘Hands aloft! Take the sail in!’

As several men scrambled up the narrow ratlines, the captain turned to the rest of his crew. ‘Unship the oars and make ready!’

The sailors, a mix of Gauls and Batavians, hesitated for the briefest of moments before going about their duty with sullen expressions. Macro could not help a grin as he watched them, seeing their mute protest for what it was: a matter of form rather than substance. It was the same with the soldiers he had known for most of his life. His gaze returned to the low, rolling landscape that spread out on either side of the river. Much of it had been cleared of trees and small farmsteads dotted the countryside. There was also a handful of larger buildings with tiled roofs, evidence that the stamp of Rome was making its mark on the new province. Macro broke off his musing to glance at his companion a short distance away, resting his elbows on the ship’s side rail as he stared blankly at the ruffled surface of the river gliding past. Macro cleared his throat none too subtly.

‘I said, the place has changed.’

Cato stirred and then looked up and smiled quickly. ‘Sorry, miles away.’

Macro nodded. ‘Your thoughts are turned towards Rome, no doubt. Don’t worry, lad, Julia’s a good woman, and a fine wife. She’ll keep it warm for you until you get back.’

Despite the fact that his friend outranked him, an easy familiarity had been forged between them over the eight years they had served together. Once Macro had been the senior officer, but now Cato had surpassed him and risen to the rank of prefect and was ready to take up his first permanent command of a cohort of auxiliaries: the Second Cohort of Thracian cavalry. The Second’s previous commander had been killed during the last campaign season and the imperial staff back in Rome had chosen Cato to fill the vacancy.