IT WAS THE sixth day after the Ides of September and the birthday of the new Caesar, Marcus Ulpius Trajan, adopted son of the deified Caesar Nerva who had ascended to the imperial purple on the same day. It was also raining steadily, had been raining since before dawn and showed every sign of raining for the rest of the long day. Ferox hoped it was not an omen, although if every drab, dank and windy morning in these parts were a bad omen, then the world would be a grim place indeed.

Bad times. A storm coming. The phrases kept going through his head.

Vindex was unhappy, although not for that reason. ‘Do I have to go?’

‘Yes.’

Both men wore hooded Gallic cloaks, drawn tight around them. The hood shadowed the Brigantian’s face and made his expression especially bleak and sinister.

‘I do not like crowds,’ he said, in the tone of a man announcing that he did not care to have his feet roasted over an open fire, but was resigned to the ordeal. They were riding to Vindolanda to witness the sacrifices to mark the occasion and the festivities to follow. There was also to be a meeting of senior officers on the following day and Ferox was required to be present to explain what he had learned about the ambush and report on the mood in his region. He wanted the Brigantian to be there if this was permitted, or at least be on hand in case he needed to ask him about anything. For all that Ferox remained unsure how much he would reveal. He feared treachery, probably by someone of high rank, and knew none of the men well enough to trust.

Behind the two horsemen trailed an unhappy Philo, riding a borrowed army mule. The Alexandrian had insisted on accompanying his master to make sure that Ferox was turned out respectably. No doubt the boy had long since begun regretting his persistence.

‘There it is.’ Ferox did not bother to point as the fort was barely a quarter of a mile in front of them. On a clear day they would have seen it long ago, not least when they crossed the ridge to the north, but today the mist and rain had hidden the base until the last minute.

‘Too big,’ Vindex muttered. ‘They must live like rats down there.’

There were dozens of buildings in front of the fort – houses, shops and bars. Wherever the army stopped, such settlements or canabae grew up, filled with people wishing to take on contracts for the army or sell things to the soldiers. It was a safer place to live in wilder country, governed by law – if a law that usually favoured the state and the army.

‘You have been to Eboracum.’

‘Aye,’ Vindex admitted. ‘Once.’ He thought for a while. ‘It stank.’