On a nice sunny day… a chill cruise down a beautiful river, with gin & tonics in hand, sitting on the deck of a boat, watching woods so ancient and thick they seem almost like jungles.

But I have a quick flash to – in my imagination – of what it must have been like to move up this river as a young Roman.

The mists curl around you like skeletal clutches. The silence is weaponised to play on your insecurities. And in those woods are people unbelievably savage – practicing all kinds of obscene magics and worshipping vile and foreign gods. The missions to this land have not ended well – and yet here you are – no more than a mere boy – with mysterious Celts and Mars knows what else waiting somewhere within those merciless woods looking at you… waiting with inhuman patience… waiting for you to make a single mistake, or to be separated from the troop.

And as you shiver in the mist, clutching the handle of your sword as if it can help you fight demons in the fog, you swallow painfully and with difficulty when you realize that it’s getting late – and the sun will be gone soon…