‘No one else wants me,’ he said the first few times, but Crispinus persisted.

‘There is always a need for able men.’

‘I like it at Syracuse,’ Ferox confessed at last. ‘No one breathes down my neck – at least until now. I’m on the edge of the empire, almost the edge of the world, if you like. I can see where it ends.’

That appeared to satisfy the tribune’s curiosity. Ferox was not sure whether or not it was the truth. After so many years serving Rome and the emperors, he could not really imagine any other life. Like it or not, it seemed to be his fate.

They had to go west for some distance before they were able to cross the river, ferried across four at a time, men and horses together on a raft. No payment was demanded and the sight of their guide seemed enough to make the locals help them.

Within hours of crossing the water the skies darkened and the rain started to fall. It rained all night, defying their best efforts to light a fire, and kept raining throughout the next day. It was warmer, but the wet seeped into their clothes and their souls and they did not feel any benefit. The next night they were glad of the hospitality of the chieftain whose people lived in a small walled enclosure beside a mere. There was a hot meal of stew and plenty of beer, so that they went to their tents content. The chieftain belonged to the Venicones, and told them that he had known to expect them today.

Crispinus was pleased with this proof of power and goodwill on the part of the high king. They made quick progress the next day in spite of driving wind and heavy showers of rain. The route followed the line of another road built by the army. Outlines of old ditches and ramparts showed in the grass, little squares like Syracuse and more circles or smaller rectangles that would each have protected a watchtower. It was not until they went past a bigger rectangular enclosure than Crispinus recognised what they were.

‘This was a garrison? It looks almost as old as the land itself.’

‘Ten years, maybe twelve since it was abandoned,’ Ferox said. ‘The army likes to be thorough so they knock down the buildings, rip up the posts, pile the wattles and burn them.’ He pointed to patches in the grass that were a different shade to the rest from the heat of the fires. ‘There’ll be thousands and thousands of nails buried in pits around here, and plenty of other stuff that was useless or too heavy to be worth carting away.’

‘Why don’t the locals dig it up? The iron would be useful if nothing else.’

‘They probably do if they know where to look.’