‘Alms for a blessing!’ It came from a hunched man standing a little apart, leaning on a stick. His long white hair was plastered against a dark and ragged cloak. Both hair and the garment were filthy, as was the toe poking out from a hole in the front of one shoe. He had a straggling white beard and a face lined with age, suffering and dirt, but kept his eyes down, staring at their horses’ feet. A little mongrel, almost as filthy as its master and with several bald patches, was curled up by his heels. The two old women shrieked and spat at him, but he ignored them.

Vindex reached into his pouch and tossed him a bronze coin, which the beggar caught without looking up.

‘Generous?’ Ferox said as they rode on.

‘Bit of luck never did anyone any harm,’ Vindex told him.

‘Only if it’s good luck.’ He blinked as heavy drops of water fell from the edge of his hood and blew into his eyes.

The Brigantian was not listening. ‘Look familiar?’ he said.

There was a tall building just on their right beyond where the road forked and a branch led down to the main gateway of the fort. A square central tower topped with a pyramid-shaped roof of red tiles was surrounded by covered galleries on all sides, although these had large windows open to all weathers. It was the Temple of Silvanus – or Vinotonus as the Brigantes knew him, god of the hunt and of fertility – and outside the entrance waited the four-wheeled carriage. Ferox felt sorry for the driver, sitting in front, hair drenched and cloak sodden. Still, at least his luck was better than that of his predecessor.

They took the track towards Vindolanda, and as they came level with the temple’s entrance saw a short woman standing in the shelter, dark hair carefully arranged. It was the lady’s maid and Vindex gave a grin and big wink. She looked around to see whether anyone else was watching, realised that she was safe and stuck her tongue out at him. Shifting slightly and twitching her arm, the girl let her cloak part to show a bright white dress, cut rather low in front.

‘Making friends?’ Ferox said, wondering just how much time the Brigantian and the freedwoman had spent together on the day of the ambush, given her injuries. She looked well enough – and lively enough – a week later.

‘She’s a grateful lass. Hope so, any road.’ Losing two wives had done nothing to dampen the Brigantian’s enthusiasm for women.

Ferox was tempted to linger in spite of a fresh deluge of rain driving into their backs, but did not have to, as a moment later the lady appeared. She was in pale blue again and it suited her, so that he rather regretted the maid handing her mistress a heavy cloak in a grey wool even darker than the skies.