‘Pia fidelis, sir,’ Celer added, shoulders stiffening back to attention.

‘Of course.’ Hadrian’s smile was open, apparently without malice, but unable to conceal the conceit of a man who knew himself to be smarter than others. ‘Pius’ and ‘faithful’, he thought to himself. The titles had been awarded to the legion by Domitian, because they quickly abandoned a provincial legate who had rebelled against him. They were also named Domitiana, but had quietly forgotten that after his fall and it would be impolite to mention it now.

‘Of course,’ he said again. ‘I did not mean to imply anything less. Legio I Minervia will always do its duty and more, I know that. That’s why I am so proud to become its legatus. It is just…’ He gave an earthy laugh. ‘Well all the best legionaries I have ever known have bitched like mad. Moan, moan, all the time, and then they fight like heroes and endure more than Hercules.’

Celer smiled, until Turbo glared at him. The praetor was speaking the truth, but that did not mean they had to admit it.

Hadrian stood up. ‘To be frank, I have always felt that with senators in charge, our lads have plenty to bitch about!’

Celer’s face was rigid, although his eyes were sparkling, and Turbo struggled to keep his own features as blank. With well-mannered apologies for disturbing them both, and thanks for their assistance, the praetor left. Both sentiments insincere and unconvincing when combined with the immense self-assurance of an aristocrat, but then what else were manners for save to conceal otherwise unpalatable truths. Turbo was glad to see the man gone. He did not believe that he had compromised himself in any way or done anything improper. Still, he dictated an account of the meeting to a clerk and had it copied and filed just in case.

III

Piroboridava

The same day, the third hour of the night

A BLIND MAN could have followed the tracks left by the horses, not that it mattered. The fugitives were well mounted, had two spare horses, and far too much of a lead. A month or so earlier, when the snow was deeper, they might not have made it up the valley to the pass at all, but Ferox reckoned that they would get there during the night if they pressed hard or at the latest tomorrow morning.

The pursuers did their best for two hours and did not see the quarry once, only the hoof prints in the snow. There was also a spear, point driven into the hard ground so that it stood upright, and surely a sign rather than an accident, but it was not one that Ferox had ever seen before.

He was disappointed by the cavalrymen provided by the garrison, or strictly speaking by their mounts, although that was really the riders’ responsibility. It was always hard to keep horses in condition during the winter, when they had to spend so many hours in their boxes and the chances to exercise were so few. Yet even allowing for that, these were in poor shape. Several looked old, almost as old as their elderly riders, and it was obvious that no one had ridden far or often even in the last few weeks when the paths were slowly becoming easier. There was a flabbiness about men and animals, infecting spirit as well as body. Not that it mattered, because he had known that the pursuit was hopeless from the start, but it was a bad sign. Even on the tour of the fort he had sensed so much that was wrong with the garrison. This was an odd place, the men stationed here bored, angry and frustrated, and none of that would help him in his task.