So far. Vitellius had uncovered her involvement, and it was only the threat of his own disgrace over his attempt to steal a fortune in imperial gold and silver, about which Vespasian had evidence, that kept Vitellius from exposing Flavia's treachery. It was an acutely uncomfortable state of affairs, Vespasian reflected before turning back to the letter.

Dear husband, I must tell you that I have had word from Rome that the Emperor is still hounding the survivors of the Scribonianus plot. It seems that there is a rumour going round about a secret organisation conspiring to overthrow the empire and return Rome to its republican glory. Everyone here in Lutetia is talking, or rather whispering, about it. It seems this gang refers to itself as 'The Liberators', a rather presumptuous nomenclature – but shrewdly evocative of a more egalitarian age, don't you think? I believe the days of the republic are long gone, and we are in an age where the winner takes all. Great men must play by whichever rules help them most efficiently to achieve their ends. Dearest husband, in this, as in all things, I am your ardent servant.

Despite the day's warmth, and his earlier contentment, Vespasian suddenly felt a nerve-tingling chill rise at the back of his neck and glide slowly down his spine. Was Flavia trying to sound out his feelings about the Liberators? If, indeed, she was linked to them at all, as Vitellius claimed. Flavia did not yet know that her husband knew of her role in Scribonianus' plot. What was Flavia saying to him between the words written there on the page?

Suddenly, he felt an intense longing to have Flavia with him right at this moment, here in the warm shadows of the sun-dappled birch trees. He wanted to hold her, to look her in the eye and demand the truth, to be reassured of her innocence, to see no trace of guile in those wide brown eyes. And then to make love. Oh yes, to make love! He could almost believe she was with him as he conjured up the sensation of holding her naked in his alms.

But what if she was part of the conspiracy? She might deny it even then, even while gazing into his face, with an expression of injured innocence, and he would never be able to prove it – or disprove it. He cursed out loud at the wedge Vitellius had driven between them. The smouldering distrust that the imperial agent had planted in his head now ignited into a raging despair at the situation he faced. Flavia must be confronted with the accusation and made to relinquish any link she might have to the Liberators. And if she was innocent, then Vitellius must be made to suffer for the damage he had caused by fracturing the sacred trust that exists between man and wife. Vitellius would pay dearly, most dearly, Vespasian promised himself as he stared bitterly down the slope to where the legionaries still splashed about in the river.

For a moment he continued staring, an icy glint of hatred in his eyes, his fist unconsciously tightening round the scroll. A vague pain finally registered in his mind, and he looked down and saw that the scroll was tightly crushed, and that his fingernails were biting deeply into the palm of his hand. It took a moment to refocus his mind, relax his grip and uncrumpled Flavia's letter. There was more to read; a few more lines about their son Titus, but the words blurred into meaninglessness and so Vespasian abruptly rose to his feet and strode off down the slope back towards his headquarters.

The Eagles Conquest

'You're in a good mood!' Macro stopped whetting the blade of his sword and grinned at Cato. Normally he would send his weapon to be sharpened by one of the legionaries on fatigues, but they were at war now, and Macro had to be confident his weapons were honed to their sharpest. He ran his fingers gently back from the point along each edge. 'That letter, I guess.'

'From Lavinia.' Cato gazed dreamily towards the fading bronze sky in the west. The sun had set, and faint fingers of light gilded the underside of scattered clouds. After the beating heat of the day, the air felt cooler at last Even the wood pigeons in the nearest trees sounded more comfortable in the dull haze of the closing dusk. 'First letter I've had from her'

'Still burning a lamp for you, eh?'

'Yes, sir. Seems that way.'

The centurion regarded his optio for a moment and slowly shook his head with pity. 'Not even a man yet and you're straining at the leash to get hitched to the girl. At least, that's how it looks. Haven't you got some wild oats to sow?'

'If it's all the same to you, sir, that's my business.'

Macro laughed. 'All right, boy, but don't say I didn't encourage you when some day you look back on all the lost opportunities. I've met some odd types in my time, but you must be the first lad I've met who's been so smitten that he's not looking forward to getting his leg over the first of the local women we get to grips with.'

Cato looked down, ashamed and bitter. Try as he might, he could not slip into the role of the legionary that Macro was so comfortable with. He was plagued by a painful and perpetual self-consciousness whenever he approached a new challenge.

'Now then, how are those burns? Can you cope?' 'Do I have a choice, sir?'

'No.'

'They hurt like hell, but I can do my duty.'

'That's the spirit! Spoken like a true soldier.'

'Spoken like a true fool,' muttered Cato. 'But you are up to it? I mean, seriously?'

'Yes, sir.'

The centurion cast an eye over the glistening mass of blisters covering Cato's arm then nodded. 'All right then. The legion's moving off at first light. We leave our packs here, and the army's baggage train will bring everything up once we cross the Tamesis. When we're on the far side, the orders are that we dig in and wait for the Emperor to arrive with reinforcements. '

'The Emperor's coming here?'

'In person. Least that's what the legate said at the briefing. Seems he wants to be in on the kill so that he can present himself as triumphant general to the mob in Rome. We get across the Tamesis, and then we're nicely poised to strike west into the heart of Britain, or go east and take the Catuvellauni capital. Either way we keep the natives guessing and meanwhile get ourselves fully rested and ready for the next stage of the invasion.'

'Wouldn't it be better to keep our swords in Caratacus' back, to keep him from re-forming? If we just sit there and wait he can only grow stronger.'

Macro nodded. 'That's what I'd have thought. Still, orders is orders.'

'Are we going to get any replacements, sir?'

'Some cohorts of the Eighth are being sent over from Gesoriacum.

They should catch up with us by the time we cross the Tamesis. Thanks to our losses the Second's been promised the biggest share of the replacements. You up to date with the century's strength returns?'

'Just sent them over to headquarters, sir.'

'Good. Let's hope those bloody clerks see fit to send us our quota.

Not that those idle buggers in the Eighth are up to much. They've spent too long on garrison duty and most will be soft as rotten fruit. You can count on it. Still, a live idle bugger is more use than a dead one.'

Cato could only nod in agreement with such flawless wisdom. Particularly since all the men who had died were now generating a distastefully large amount of paperwork.

'So how are we doing?'

'Sir?'

Macro raised his eyes. 'What's our Current strength?'

'Oh. Forty-eight effectives, including us and the standard bearer, sir.

We've got twelve in the hospital; three of those have lost limbs.' Macro spared the last three a moment's thought, well aware of the fate waiting those who were discharged from the legions. 'Those three, any of them veterans?'

'Two, sir. The third, Caim Maximus, only joined the legion two years ago. Took a sword blow to the knee, nearly cut right through. Surgeon had to amputate.'