There was a Roman outpost in the valley, but the sentry standing on the tower over its single gateway did not see them for some time. He was a Thracian, tired at the end of a long watch and not expecting anything to happen because nothing much ever happened here. There might be the odd feud and murder, and the inevitable thefts of livestock, but not any real trouble. With twenty-three years’ service under his belt, that was why the Thracian had applied for the posting. He had two more years left to go before his discharge. That meant becoming a Roman citizen, freedom from the army’s rules, and… After such a long time it was hard to picture life outside the army. He was not quite sure what it would mean, but wanted to live to find out, which meant that quiet was good, and at times it was so quiet here that it seemed the army and the wider world had forgotten all about them.

The outpost was as small and insignificant as any he had ever seen. For an army whose units loved to proclaim that they had built anything, the painted sign above the gate was unusual and merely stated that Legio II Adiutrix had made this burgus – they did not say when or why, neither did any officer claim credit for supervising the work. The notice was plain and the lettering small, giving the impression that the legionaries were not proud of the deed, and the Thracian did not blame them, neither did he wonder why the whole legion had left Britannia and cleared off to the Danube soon afterwards. This was a half-forgotten dunghill in the middle of nowhere in the empire’s most northerly province, and II Adiutrix had not even bothered to do a decent job.

It was supposed to be eighty-five feet square, but the side walls were nearly a double pace different in length and the front and back not much better. Long hours of guard duty, day after day and night after night, meant that the Thracian knew every inch of the place, and every creak in the walkway and crack in the timber where the legionaries had used green wood because they had wanted the job over with and had not waited for seasoned supplies to arrive. One of the planks of the tower’s platform was spongy underfoot and would give way sooner or later. He had the happy hope that the new acting curator Crescens would be standing on it when it did. The Thracian smiled at the thought, turned to face the east and then raised hand to forehead and promised to pour a libation to the Rider God of his people if only it would happen.