Free The War at the Edge of the World by Ian Ross

the province,’ Strabo said quietly. ‘And he understands the Picts, knows many of them personally.’
    And wants to kill them , Castus thought. But he said nothing.
    It was early evening by the time they reached the villa. The tiled roofs showed through the trees, then the white-pillared portico and the vault of the bath-house. Castus ordered his men into military step as they approached the gates with the standard proudly before them. Tenant labourers in dun tunics stood in the fields and watched them as they passed.
    Aelius Marcellinus was waiting for them on the steps of the front portico. Castus knew him at once: his cropped greying hair and lined face contrasted with his muscular build and his upright military stance to give him a look of natural  authority.
    ‘Century – halt!’ he called, and the soldiers behind him stamped as one man and stood in formation in the courtyard.
    ‘Dominus, Centurion Aurelius Castus and century, Third Cohort, Sixth Legion Victrix, reporting for escort duty.’
    ‘Welcome,’ Marcellinus said. ‘You may stand your men down, centurion. I’ve prepared billets for them in the stable block, and my people will send out food and beer.’
    A fine parade-ground voice he had, Castus thought. Slight edge of the aristocrat, but nothing too refined.
    Strabo had dismounted and stood to one side watching, unobtrusive. Now, as Castus relayed his orders to his optio, he saw the secretary approach Marcellinus and speak quickly and quietly. A look of sober consideration crossed the old soldier’s face.
    ‘Centurion,’ Marcellinus said, coming over and placing a hand on his shoulder. The two men were almost the same height. ‘I’ve ordered the baths heated for you and the secretary here. I hope you can join us for dinner this evening.’
    ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, dominus. Splash of well water and a bite of cheese is all I need. I’ll stay with my men.’
    ‘Brother,’ the man said, smiling and showing his teeth, ‘you’re my guest. I get to hear so little from the wider world, and if we’re to travel together for so long we should talk, I think.’
    Castus shrugged, baffled. It felt strange and uncomfortable to be singled out for special treatment like this – it had never happened to him before. Then again, he had no real idea what the proper manner might be in these situations.
    ‘I can see to the men, centurion,’ said Timotheus, standing at parade rest just within earshot. ‘You’d better find out all you need to know.’
    ‘Right,’ Castus replied, nodding. For a moment he suspected that Timotheus was winking at him. ‘Right – get the men watered and foddered and see to their billets. I’ll be back to check them over before they turn in. The watchword is Sol Invictus .’
    The optio saluted, turned on his heel and marched away after the men.
    In fact, Castus learned little over dinner. Washed of the road’s dust and freshly dressed in his spare tunic and breeches, he reclined awkwardly on a couch in the gloomy dining room, listening to the two men talk. They were being scrupulously polite, even formal, discussing matters in Eboracum and the imperial city of Treveris in Gaul, where it appeared that Strabo had been living until recently. Nothing about the task ahead of them – Castus felt as though he was watching a strange ritualistic dance, the two men circling but never quite meeting. The meal was a simple feast but he ate little, and drank too much wine to hide his discomfort. His intuition told him that neither man trusted the other, and both had misgivings about the nature of their mission.
    Towards the end of the meal a shadow fell across the mosaic floor, and Castus noticed figures in the hallway beyond the doors. He stood up quickly, swaying slightly with the effects of the wine.
    ‘Relax, brother,’ Marcellinus said. ‘My family.’ He gestured to the group in the hall. ‘Please, come in and meet our guests.’
    Two women entered, eyes downcast, with a