With the sound of the Pictish horde closing in from the Northeast, the focus of the legionaries moves in that direction. Crouching in the shadows, Verica, Valeria and myself observe the mounted Ala, along with the Pedatura, rushing to the South's defense.

There is no Optio navaliorum that I can see, by moonlight, along the coast of the inlet, and all vessels appear to be docked. The boatman in me takes over. Though necessary, I am uncomfortable in the raiment of the dead Roman guard; it is all too reminiscent of my days in the Rhineland, under the command of tribune Ursus. The Bruin we called him in those days. I never thought I would ever find myself a prisoner, escaping his hold.

Wrapped in the dark blankets from the tent, Valeria and Verica follow as I course through a maze of shadow, to the water's edge. Each of them conceals a weapon of sharp iron, ready to use at a moment's notice. I carry the guard's bloody spear. In an effort to disguise our trail, I wear the Roman guard's boots, and Verica wears mine. Our path northwest is nearly deserted, and we make it into a boat with surprising ease. I untie us and we launch into the bay. The craft is narrow, but long and sleek. As the three of us row ourselves across to the north shore, we can see fire and the sparks of clashing iron, obscured by night, north of the Wall.

The Mother's blessings on the Fortriu for their unwitting aid. They may never make it over the Wall, but they have served us well.