Just then the trumpets sounded from across the river, announcing the change of watch that marked the official opening of the day. An instant later a louder blast rang out from the Second Legion’s trumpeters. Maximius and his officers exchanged nervous looks; the cohorts selected to witness punishment would be hurriedly pulling on their tunics and wriggling into their armour. Allowing time for them to form up and cross the river and then take position on the open ground outside the ramparts of the Second Legion, Maximius and his men had little more than half an hour before the truth was out. Then the wrath of the senior officers in the army would crash down on them like an avalanche of granite.

‘Legate approaching!’ the optio on the main gate called out. ‘Honour guard, stand to!’

Maximius’ shoulders sagged. No reprieve then: he would have to face Vespasian now. For a moment Macro felt sorry for him, and a little bit ashamed for engineering the escape. But then he recalled that the cohort commander bore the sole responsibility for their disgrace and the condemning of Cato and the others to an undeserved death. Macro’s expression hardened as a bitter contempt for the senior centurion clenched round his heart.

The optio on the gate shouted an order for it to be opened and then hurried down to take up position in front of the section that lined the route into the small camp. The timbers creaked as the gates were hauled inwards, and the legate and a few of his staff were visible as they rode up the muddy approach to the camp.

Maximius wiped his fringe to one side and blinked away some raindrops. ‘Better get it over with. Come on.’

The centurions of the Third Cohort steadily picked their way over towards the gate, weighed down by a palpable sense of dread over the legate’s reaction to the news of the condemned men’s escape. Around them the rain fell in a desultory manner; just enough to make them miserably uncomfortable, complementing the gloomy mood nicely.

Vespasian ran a quick eye over the honour guard and nodded his satisfaction at the turnout. One or two spots of mud above their mud-caked boots, but that was acceptable. He turned to the optio.

‘Very good. You can dismiss them now.’

‘Sir!’ The optio saluted, turned smartly towards his men and bawled out the order as if he was on the parade ground and not standing within easy earshot. The men stamped to attention and as soon as the formalities were completed they hurried away to find shelter.

The legate swung himself down from the saddle and landed softly. The five centurions pulled themselves up and pushed their shoulders back.

‘Good morning, gentlemen. I trust all the preparations have been made.’

‘Well, yes, sir . . .’

Vespasian sensed the man’s hesitation at once. ‘But?’