‘Flavius is not my son,’ she said, the laughter gone. ‘He and his little sister and brother are the children of my husband. His first wife died giving birth to the second boy. I have no children, so I suppose that I have failed in the duties the divine Augustus and most of the other Caesars have encouraged, but my husband is father of three and has all the benefits and respect that entails.’

‘I am sorry,’ Ferox said, flustered and then realising that it would not be clear just what he was sorry for. ‘And I am sure that there is plenty of time.’

‘Perhaps, but I doubt it. I shall be twenty-eight next year, so time – and other things – are not on my side.’ When he made no reply, she leaned out of the window, lowering her head so that her eyes stared up at him. ‘That was the moment when a well-mannered young officer was supposed to look shocked and assure me that I have all the bloom of a virgin bride and that I could not possibly be so old.’

‘If you have ever glanced at your reflection in a mirror, then you would have no need to seek such praise because no words would be adequate to describe your perfection.’

Vindex started humming again, the same song as before.

‘That is a pretty tune, and those were pretty words and bold – perhaps too bold?’

Ferox had not come to play games. ‘I am a soldier, lady. The emperor pays me to be bold.’

They were passing the last building to stand apart from the others, a big two-storey house built in stone, the plastered walls painted a white that was bright even on this dull day. It was owned by Flora, once a dancer, slave and prostitute, who ran the most expensive brothel north of Eboracum, but there was nothing on the outside of the building to show what it was. Ferox wondered whether the commander’s wife knew about it.

‘I have offended you,’ she said. ‘For that I apologise.’

‘You have caused no offence,’ he said, feeling clumsy and brutish again.

‘When I say that you are offended, you will be offended.’ The words were sharp, spoken as if to admonish a slave by someone with the assurance of many generations of aristocratic blood. Then she pulled back in through the window, threw her head back and laughed. ‘You are an odd fellow, Flavius Ferox, Prince of the Silures and centurion of Rome,’ she said after a while. He assumed that she must have spoken to Crispinus. ‘Your wife is a fortunate woman.’

‘I am not married.’

‘A woman?’

‘There was once, but no longer.’ He was surprised to find himself telling her.

‘Did she die, poor thing?’