Three days later the snow had almost melted and only the odd patch still gleamed in hollows and crevices where the low winter sun could not reach. The first days of March brought a little more warmth to the air and the rutted track became slick with mud beneath the booted feet of the Fourth Cohort. They were marching south from Calleva, patrolling along the border with the Durotriges, in an attempt to discourage any more raids. The mission was more of a gesture of Roman support for the Atrebates than a realistic attempt to discourage the Durotriges and their sinister Druid allies. The reports reaching Verica of the devastation being wreaked on the smaller villages had so unnerved him that he had begged Vespasian to act. So the Fourth Cohort and a squadron of scouts, accompanied by a guide, were dispatched on a tour through the frontier villages and settlements to demonstrate that the threat from the Durotriges was being taken seriously.

At first the villagers were nervous of the strange uniforms and foreign tongues of the legionaries, but the cohort had been ordered to behave in an exemplary manner. Shelter and rations were paid for in gold coin and the Romans respectfully observed local customs, which were explained to them by Verica’s guide, Diomedes. He was an agent acting for a trader in Gaul and had been living amongst the Atrebates for many years. He spoke their Celtic dialect fluently. He had even married into a warrior clan that had been just liberal enough to tolerate letting one of their less prized daughters become the wife of the dapper little Greek. With his olive complexion, oiled ringlets of dark hair, carefully trimmed beard and fine continental wardrobe Diomedes could not look less like the crude natives he had chosen to live among for so long. Yet he was well enough regarded to be warmly greeted in every settlement the cohort passed through.

‘What use have this lot got for cash?’ grumbled Macro as the cohort’s senior centurion counted out coins for a village headman in exchange for several bundles of salted beef — dark withered strips strung together by lengths of leather thong. The centurions of the cohort had gathered to be introduced to the headman and now stood to one side with the Greek guide while business was concluded.

‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’ Diomedes grinned, flashing his small stained teeth. ‘They drink as much wine as they can afford. They’ve got a real taste for the stuff from Gaul — it’s made me a small fortune over the years.’

‘Wine? They drink wine?’ Macro looked round at the motley scatter of round huts and small animal pens within a flimsy palisade that was only intended to keep wild animals out.

‘Of course. You’ve tried their local brews. All right if you have to get drunk, but not much fun to drink otherwise.’

‘You’ve got a point there.’