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exiled.’
    Pavo’s stomach fell away. Freedom? That distant memory.
    ‘Don’t get too excited, boy,’ Tarquitius’ mouth curled up into a grin. ‘Exiled to the edge of the empire. Invasion territory. Your days will be spent with the limitanei.’
    ‘The border legions?’
    A posting to the border legions was thought little more than a delayed death sentence, with the limits of the empire awash with rampant barbarian hordes. However, his heart tasted only sweet liberation, spiced with fear of the unknown. He lifted his hand to touch the bronze disc through his tunic.
    ‘When you fall at the end of a sword, then my hands are clean,’ Tarquitius warbled, his chin quivering in stubborn belief.
    The crone, Pavo realised. His life was being spared — no, probably just prolonged for a short period. All because of the crone. His head echoed with a thousand questions, but one roared the loudest.
    ‘What did she say to you?’ He probed. ‘That day — what did she say to you?’
    Tarquitius’ face whitened and his eyes bulged. His tongue jabbed out to moisten his trembling lips. But before anything could come out, Fronto bowled into the room behind him, a stench of sweat announcing his arrival.
    ‘Master?’
    Tarquitius continued to stare wide-eyed at Pavo, but addressed his slave master. ‘Get this boy out of my villa and down to the docks. Wear hoods and be sure you go unrecognised. Purchase a berth for him to travel on the next ferry to Tomis. The border garrison at Durostorum will be glad of another piece of barbarian spear-fodder.’ He turned to Pavo. ‘I have sent a messenger to tell them to expect you, so turn up, or there’ll be a slave-hunt on top of you within days, and they will show you no mercy, boy.’
    He turned away, but then spun back, drawing eye to eye with Pavo, grinning terribly. ‘You will be dead within the year, boy, I can assure you. But should you show your face in this city again…’ he began, wide-eyed.
    Then his face dropped.
    ‘…and you will die horribly.’

Chapter 4
    The first century crunched rhythmically over the bracken forest path. They had woken that morning under sodden tents. At least the rain had eased from the driving sleet showers of the previous day to a tame vertical drizzle. Now, late afternoon, the light was beginning to fade as they moved under a canopy of leaves, and a musty whiff of damp vegetation hung in the air. At the head of the column, Gallus systematically scoured the way ahead; the men had marched without rest since dawn and now time was the enemy. Without a safe campsite, they would have to employ a double watch tonight.
    ‘Can’t see a bloody thing, sir,’ Felix rasped, batting another branch from his face.
    Gallus kept his eyes forward, trudging on. ‘The map definitely puts the first fort here, maybe just a bit farther ahead…I don’t know, the forest has swallowed up every other bloody landmark we were supposed to have passed,’ he pinged a finger off the parchment map, ‘this map must date from the Trojan War!’
    ‘Standard fare for a recon mission, eh?’ Felix sighed, craning over to examine the sodden parchment. ‘Open plains and valleys to the south and we’re instructed to go crashing through the forests!’
    Gallus traced a finger over their route again in hope of a revelation. Three Roman forts lay across the neck of the diamond-shaped peninsula, but the etching also indicated watchtowers, trading posts, roads and settlements. He had chosen not to veer from this one ‘highway’ in search of these — not so wise in hindsight. He cursed to himself silently.
    ‘We’re headed almost due east and this path is, or used to be, Roman. Unless some bugger has dug the thing up for fun, we’ll reach the fort before nightfall,’ Gallus asserted despite his own doubts. Yet he could sense his optio’s unease. ‘We’re not here to engage the Goths, Felix, simply to ascertain their positions along this frontier.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’