‘Nearly, but not quite,’ Ferox said, reaching his left hand down to pull the Thracian up. He had promised any man five denarii and an amphora of good wine if they could put him on his back. This was the fourth day, and so far he had not had to pay, although Victor had come close more than once, as had this Thracian. They were the pick of the bunch, the rest solid enough and stubborn, but too tied to the drill book to be really good. It was good training for them, and even better for him. Ferox was worried and drove himself hard to prepare for whatever was coming. He spent an hour each day working at the fencing post outside Syracuse, using the regulation wooden swords and wickerwork practice shields to go through the fighting drills the army had copied from the gladiatorial schools. Sword and shield were heavier than the real things, to strengthen the arms and make it easier when a man was given proper equipment. For the same reason he wore helmet and mail, and strapped iron greaves on to his lower legs. He had never liked greaves, clumsy things that made a man slow, and rarely wore them even in battle, but the weight made every drill harder and that helped. Once that was done he let three of the stationarii challenge him, each bout lasting a tenth of an hour measured by the water clock. Nothing matched facing a real opponent, and they had landed quite a few good blows and surprised him plenty of times. It reminded him of how rusty he had become, letting himself become lazy because things were quiet and no one believed him when he claimed that trouble was brewing.

When there was time he ran – at least three miles a day, choosing routes that forced him to drive himself up steep hillsides. There was no need to look for opportunities to get on a horse, for each day he rode many miles. He went to Vindolanda several times and to Magna, the next garrison to the west, up to the watchtower again, and all the while did his own job of going to villages and farms and meetings with chieftains. He spent most of his time listening to the usual grievances. With harvest done, taxes were due and the procurator’s men were out collecting the empire’s share of grain, livestock or hides, and sometimes money, although few in this part of the world paid levies in coin.

Ferox drove himself hard and, as always when he was kept busy, had no urge to drink more than was needed to slake a thirst. Her face still came to him, hazier now after all these years, but still with the dark eyes, olive skin and raven-black hair. The memories made him sad, but sometimes he pictured another woman, blonde, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, and there was little similarity in looks but something akin in their essence, that sense of life and joy. Sulpicia Lepidina puzzled him, not least because if all Crispinus had said was true then it was odd to find so distinguished a lady married to a mere equestrian.