Macro frowned and then nodded before he turned away and marched off. Cato watched him for a moment and then cast his eyes around, taking in the change of guards at the entrance to the Second Legion’s camp. The daily routine of army life continued as before, a routine that had locked him in its harsh embrace for nearly two years now and made him a man. Now that same army had cast him out and, at dawn tomorrow, it would kill him. The sentries changed over and the watch-keeping slate was passed to the centurion coming on duty. Cato envied them the endless routine that would keep them occupied throughout the day, while he simply sat on the ground, a prisoner to his thoughts, waiting for it all to end.

The guards on the gate suddenly snapped to attention as a mounted figure emerged from inside the camp. As the horseman came into the bright orange glow of the rising sun, Cato saw that it was the legate. He rode down the side of the camp towards the men of the Third Cohort, who were toiling to excavate their defences. Vespasian glanced at them as he passed by. Then, as he reached the huddled forms of the condemned men, under the guard of two legionaries, the legate fixed his gaze straight ahead and spurred his horse into a trot. A few of the condemned men propped themselves up to watch their commander. They were no longer bound by military discipline now that the legion had disowned them. Yesterday they would have jumped to their feet and stood to attention, saluting as he passed. Today they were criminals, as good as dead, and any display of respect towards the legate would simply be insulting to him.

That’s the difference a day makes, Cato thought wryly. For the condemned men at least. Vespasian was free to live his privileged life out to the end, and a few days from now no doubt would have forgotten that Cato and his companions had ever existed. For a moment Cato indulged himself in a wave of bitter contempt for Vespasian, a man he had served loyally and come to admire. So this was how his good service was rewarded. Vespasian, it seemed, was not so very different from the rest of the self-serving class of artistocrats who led the legions. After a show of opposition to Plautius last night he had caved in at the merest hint of a threat to himself, and meekly gone along with the decimation of his men.

Sickened by the sight of the man, Cato spat on the ground. He stared hard at the back of the legate as he rode down the track towards the crossing, heading towards the camp of the general on the far side of the Tamesis.