The centurion had forgotten for a moment that the tribune knew so little of these lands and the folk who lived there. ‘That does not matter – they fear them. Men who can work magic and have one foot in the Otherworld are dangerous. As long as they have power then people will do what they want whether they want to or not. We need to do something about them.’

‘You are probably right, and I will see what I can do. For the moment keep your eyes and ears open.’ Crispinus tossed the cup to Philo, who fumbled, but managed to catch it before it dropped. ‘Nearly caught you there!’ the aristocrat told the slave. ‘Time to go. I think it might be a good idea if you went to Vindolanda. If he is well enough, ask Titus Annius about the orders given to him by Flaccus. We won’t be able to prove anything, but it gives us more to go on.’

The tribune leaped into the saddle and clicked with his tongue to make the horse walk on. He had almost reached the gate when he turned and came back. He snapped his fingers and then pointed at the centurion.

‘Augustus,’ he said. ‘I am right, aren’t I? The divine Augustus used to go to a special room in the palace when he wanted peace and quiet and to get away from it all. He called it Syracuse, and I dare say you would struggle to find anywhere better than this for getting away from it all.’ His horse tried to pull towards the water in the trough, but the tribune held the rein firmly.

Ferox nodded. ‘You are a learned man, my lord.’

‘And you are full of surprises. Farewell for the moment, Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius.’

The wind picked up overnight, coming from the east with the bitter hint of the coming winter. It ripped half a dozen tiles from the roof of the gate-tower, and a few more from the buildings inside the fort.

Ferox rode to Vindolanda the next morning, swathed up to stay warm and dry in the saddle as best he could, but it was not long before his face felt numb from the battering of the wind. He passed a young birch tree snapped almost in half and an older tree pulled from the ground by its roots. When he reached the fort he was not surprised to learn that Titus Annius had died. This was the sort of day a good man’s soul would leave its body. The centurion had seemed to be at peace, but then had cried out during the night and when the slaves ran to his room they found that he was dead. Ferox thought it odd that no slave was with him all the time, although the centurion was well known for his frugal lifestyle and for his fixed ideas of how things should be done.