As he asked the question, Cato watched Fuscius for his response. The younger Praetorian was silent and his expression suddenly became fixed and unreadable as he glanced over Cato’s shoulder.

‘What’s all this then?’ Tigellinus barked. ‘Gossiping like old ladies? Fall in, the Emperor’s coming.’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of the tents further along the side of the lake. The German bodyguards were stirring and the slaves hurried forward with the imperial litters. The men of Lurco’s century raised their shields and javelins and began to form up around the stage. Half of the men stood either side of the approach to the rear of the stage while the others, including Cato and Macro, provided a loose screen around the sides and front. Meanwhile the last of the senatorial families had arrived to take up their seats.

‘Shit …’ Macro muttered and Cato glanced sharply at him.

‘What?’

‘To the right, close to that red litter, see that party of hooray Horatios. Try not to be obvious.’

Cato casually turned his head to survey the Emperor’s audience until he saw the party that Macro had indicated - twenty or so young aristocrats in expensive tunics beneath their rather more austere togas. They seemed to be gathered around one individual. He was a tall but manifestly overweight individual whose jowls shook as he talked. At first Cato could not recognise him from that angle, but then the man slapped his thigh and laughed loudly enough for the sound to carry clearly over the hubbub of the other senatorial guests, several of whom turned in his direction with expressions of disapproval. The man turned and glanced towards the stage and Cato felt a chill seize his heart.

‘By the gods,’ he muttered. ‘Vitellius … Bastard.’

‘Who is he then?’ asked Fuscius.

Cato shot a warning glance at Macro before the latter replied. ‘He was senior tribune in the Second Legion a few years back.’

Fuscius made a wry smile. ‘Doesn’t sound like you approve of him.’

‘He nearly got us killed,’ Cato said flatly, as he considered how much it was safe to say. He was cross with himself, and Macro, for their reaction to seeing Vitellius again. The former tribune had been involved in a plot to assassinate the Emperor while Claudius was in Britannia. Even though Cato and Macro had foiled the attempt, Vitellius had managed to deftly exculpate himself. ‘Vitellius is the kind of man who puts himself first, above all other considerations. A word of advice, Fuscius. Never step in his way. You’d be crushed under his heel with no more regard than if he had trod on an ant.’

‘I see.’ Fuscius stared towards the loud group of aristocrats for a moment. ‘Still, seems like a popular lad.’