‘By invading their country?’

‘Visiting, my dear Ferox, visiting. And visiting in answer to an invitation.’ Batavian royalty – his men often said king – or not, Cerialis had always acted the part of a suave Roman gentleman. Ferox had not seen him for many years, but if his hair was a little paler, the hint of redness in it almost gone, he had otherwise aged little. He was still tall and athletic, with the same ready smile and enthusiasm. Since Vindolanda he had taken his cohort to Dacia, served as narrow-stripe tribune under Hadrian himself, commanded an ala of Batavian horsemen, before coming from the Danube with this latest command. ‘We are guests and it would be rude to be late.’

‘Quite so.’ Arrian had kicked his horse to come level with them as they rode at the head of the column. He was junior to Cerialis, who held overall command, and his place was really with the cohort of VIIII Hispana and other foot soldiers following on behind. His enthusiasm to come with them had been so great that Cerialis had accepted his plea that he needed to be on the spot, so that he could ride back and hurry his men forward if necessary. Ferox could not see any likely situation where the infantry would make a difference. Either Nicopolis opened its gates to them or they could stare at those walls for as long as they liked, for Arrian’s eight hundred men with just ten ladders between them were not going to storm the place. The tribune had seen some service on the Danube, but Ferox got the impression this was the first time he had ridden so deep into what could prove hostile territory. Arrian seemed to be loving every minute of it and Ferox could not blame him. There was something very soothing about the rhythm of hoofbeats, the jingle of harness and the thump of shields and other equipment. Each cavalryman had two sacks of fodder fastened with rope, tied to the saddle horn and draped over the horse’s back. If things did not work out, they would need this as well as the hard tack and salted bacon issued to the men because it could be several days before they met up with the main force and its baggage train.

‘How many know we are coming?’ Arrian asked after a while. Ferox sensed that the tribune was growing nervous.

‘No idea,’ Cerialis said. ‘The princess, of course, her advisors, and the city magistrates must know by now. Whether “rumour, the swiftest of all evils” spreads the news as we speak I cannot say.’ Ferox remembered how Cerialis always liked to parade his learning, even though it tended to sound rehearsed. ‘Still, I suppose a civilised man like yourself, who is as Greek as he is Roman, may find Virgil no more than a poor man’s Homer.’

‘“Small at first through fear, soon she mounts to the very heavens”,’ Arrian quoted. ‘No, no, not at all. Virgil was a great artist. Perhaps the barbarian’s Homer would be better.’