'Of course,' lied Vespasian. 'I have sent a message to Rome to be lodged with my lawyer until either I reclaim it or I perish. Whichever comes first: At which point the letter will be opened and read before senate and Emperor. I should imagine that your death would follow swiftly upon my own. So swiftly that we might even cross the Styx in the same vessel.'

'I would count that an honour, sir.' Vitellius permitted himself a wry smile. 'But there really is no need for things to go that far, wouldn't you agree?'

'I would.'

'Then there's nothing more to be said, sir.'

'Nothing.'

'Am I dismissed?'

Vespasian paused a moment and then shook his head. 'Not quite yet, Tribune. I need you to answer a question before you leave. '

'Oh yes?'

'What do you know of the Liberators?'

Vitellius raised an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by the question. He tightened his lips and frowned before the answer came to him. 'She's been in touch with you, hasn't she?'

Vespasian refused to satisfy the tribune with a response and tried to hide his irritation at the informal reference to his wife.

'I thought so.' Vitellius nodded. 'The Liberators. Now there's a name that's been cropping up more and more in recent months. Well, well. Our Flavia is a darker horse than I realised, sir. You'd best guard her well before she does something your family line might have cause to curse her for. '

'You know of this organisation then?'

'I have heard of them, you might say,' the tribune replied smoothly. 'Rumour has it that the Liberators are a secret organisation with ambitions to overthrow the Emperor and restore the republic. They're supposed to have existed since the time of Augustus, and were vain enough to name themselves after the assassins of Julius Caesar.'

'A rumour?' Vespasian mused. 'Is that all?'

'It's still enough to get you executed, sir. Narcissus has men crawling all over Rome, and the provinces, searching for people connected to the organisation. Those involved with Scribonianus' plot are supposed to have links with the Liberators. I wonder how much your wife knows about them. I imagine Narcissus would be keen to ask her, given the chance.'

Vespasian refused to respond to the scarcely veiled threat; neither of them had anything to gain from exposing the other. He focused instead on Flavia, and her possible connection to this conspiracy hiding in the shadows of history. From what he knew of Narcissus, the imperial chief of staff would be relentless, and quite ruthless, in his pursuit of any who threatened the Emperor. However long it took, however many suspects were tortured for information, the conspiracy would be tracked down and its members quietly eliminated.

Yet if Vitellius was right, the Liberators had been quietly plotting for decades and that spoke of an extraordinary commitment to secrecy and patience. Vespasian could guess at the motivation of those who had joined the Liberators. Rome had been ruled by the emperors for over sixty years, and while Augustus had ended the terrible era of civil strife that had torn the Roman state asunder for generations, it was a peace bought at the cost of denying the aristocrats the political powers their families had wielded for hundreds of years. A social class imbued with such a sense of its own destiny does not easily accept its subordination to a dynasty that produced a madman like Caligula and a fool like Claudius.

But, wondered Vespasian, what other way was there for Rome now? Returning control of the empire to the senate would once again transform the civilised world into a battlefield, over which roamed the vast armies of power-crazed senatorial factions. They would leave devastation in their wake, while the barbarian hordes watched in glee from beyond the wild frontiers of the empire. Whatever their faults, the emperors stood for order. They might thin out the ranks of the aristocrats from time to time, but for the heaving masses of Rome, and everyone else who lived within the empire, the emperors stood for some measure of order and peace. Even though Vespasian was a member of the senatorial class, whose cause the Liberators claimed to represent, he knew that the consequences of the return to senatorial control offered by the Liberators were too terrible to contemplate.

'Sir?'

Vespasian looked up, irritated by the interruption to his train of thought. 'What is it?'

'Is there anything else for us to discuss? Or can I return to my duties with the Second?'

'We've said all that need be said. You'd better let Plinius know that he's to step down from the senior tribune's post. Get him to brief you on tomorrow's advance. And there's still some supplies to sort out. See to it before you turn in.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Bear in mind what I said, Vitellius.' Vespasian fixed the tribune with a stern expression. 'Regardless of your duties as an imperial agent, you are still my senior tribune and I expect you to act the part. One step, or word, out of line and I'll see you suffer for it.'

The Eagles Conquest

Early next morning the army advanced across the Mead Way. As the dense column of soldiers reached the ford, the pace slowed. Most had served long enough to know the discomfort of marching with a waterlogged shield, and kept their equipment held high as they waded into the churning water in the wake of the thousands of men crossing to the far side. Despite the previous afternoon's rest, the men still felt weary, and those with injuries light enough to classify them as walking wounded bore the strained expressions of men who fought their pain. All along the column were men with dressings to head or limbs, some still soiled by their blood, and the blood of others. But despite the ravaged look of the legion it still marched to the front fully prepared and willing to engage the Britons once more.

The success of yesterday's attack had rekindled the Second Legion's confidence in a way that heartened its commander. He watched the column on the far bank rise up from the river and drip through the muddy shallows before climbing the earthworks and disappearing inside the fortifications beyond. In the dim light Vespasian was reminded of a vast centipede he had once seen as a child at his family's estate near Reate; a shining mass with dark limbs struggling up the slope.

At his side Vitellius sat silently on his mount, staring at the ground before the earthworks. The memory of the harrowing assault across this very ground contrasted sharply with the early morning serenity of the river. The blood that had stained the river red had been washed away, and the bodies that had littered this shore had been carried away for cremation. Little indication of the savage fight remained beyond the memories of those who had fought and survived. With a vague sense of the depressing unreality of it all, Vitellius turned his mount and dug his heels into its shanks, trotting up the incline prepared by the engineers. He passed alongside the men of the Fourth Cohort, unaware of the hostile looks directed at him from the two men marching at the head of the Sixth Century.

'Thought we'd seen the last of that bastard,' Macro grumbled. 'Wonder what he's doing back in the legion.'

Cato was not unduly bothered by the tribune's return to the Second Legion. His mind was on other things. The pain from his burns seemed to be worse than ever this morning, and he longed for the inactivity of the previous day. Already the chafing of his equipment had burst some of the blisters and his raw flesh was agony against the rough material of his tunic. He gritted his teeth and concentrated his mind on following the rear of the century ahead.

He was shocked by the scene that met his eyes as the Sixth Century passed through the remains of the British fortifications. The enclosed area was fire-blackened, and while the bodies of the Romans had been respectfully cremated, no such treatment had been accorded the dead natives who lay heaped in sun-ripened piles of decay. The still air was heavy with the sickly sweet stench of dead men, and their stiff limbs, blank eyes and sagging open mouths filled the young optio with a nauseous disgust. Cato could feel the bile rising up the back of his throat and he quickened his pace, as had all the men passing through the fortifications ahead of him. Scores of prisoners were being kept busy digging burial pits for their fallen comrades, under the watchful gaze of men from the Twentieth Legion detached for prisoner-guarding duties. They must be grateful for the chance to keep out of the coming fight, Cato reflected, momentarily envious of their lot before a fresh waft of rotting flesh filled his nostrils, causing him to retch.