‘Yes, there they are,’ he continued. ‘Every last one, every tree of regulation height and shape and at its station!’ He chuckled theatrically. ‘Actually, I do believe that there are a dozen more of the buggers since yesterday. … That one for a start.’ He pointed. ‘And the oak tree beside it. I’m sure it’s twice as tall as when I last looked.’

‘That’s a beech, sir,’ one of the sentries corrected. ‘Begging your pardon, sir.’

‘Dear me, is it, Maternus?’

The legionary nodded. ‘And it is the same height as yesterday.’ A veteran was granted more licence than an ordinary soldier, especially with a good-natured officer like Sabinus.

‘Really? … Well, you know best, I’m sure,’ the centurion resumed. ‘A beech, eh? Shows you can’t trust the devils to know their own mind from one day to the next.’

Disappointingly Ferox did not smile, and instead brushed aside the snow so that he could lean on the parapet at one of the low points and stare out. His instincts were telling him that the report was right, and that the attack could come at any moment. Yet it was all silent and peaceful out there, without the slightest sign of any danger lurking close by. Perhaps he was wrong or perhaps not. He had only lived as long as this by trusting his feelings and, through a good deal of luck, which made it all the more worrying that this place did not feel lucky.

‘You need to be careful,’ the centurion told him, the words so in keeping with his thoughts that it took an effort not to react.

‘Careful, Sabinus?’ Ferox had to appear unconcerned and off his guard, so gave a wry smile, before turning back to the view.

He had not said much all morning, so even this reply was very welcome to his guide. ‘Yes, sir,’ Sabinus said, ‘careful not to try counting the trees. Not good for a man’s peace of mind.’

There was no more response, and after a while the one who looked like a bandit sniffed. ‘We have trees in Britannia. What’s so special about these?’

‘Vindex, isn’t it?’ Sabinus had remembered the name because of the senator who tried to depose Nero and died in the attempt. The bandit muttered something impudent, but he decided not to notice in his relief that someone had spoken. ‘Yes, well, Vindex, these woods are special. Aren’t they, Maternus?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the sentry responded, obviously having heard all this before. ‘If you say so, sir.’

‘I do say so, Maternus, I do indeed, and so will these fine Britons when they have been here as long as us.’ He beamed a broad smile. The bandit leered back, but then the rogue’s face was locked in a permanent leer, not helped by his prominent teeth.

‘We will, will we?’ The Latin was clear, with the clipped accent common in the northern provinces.

‘No doubt about it,’ Sabinus assured him. ‘Meaning no disrespect to the woods and forests of your native lands, my dear fellows – or to the sprites and nymphs who dwell in them – but they are as far away now as my own homeland, and might as well be in India as far as we are concerned.