Today there were two men forming the picket on guard outside the gate, just as in any fort, even though the likelihood of rioters in such an affluent part of the city was unlikely, and the approach of foreign enemies absurd. Yet the men stood there, replaced every two hours, their equipment burnished until it almost glowed, with tunics bleached a brilliant white, and the drab cloaks of the frontiers, albeit new and perfect, because no one was about to let any of the pansy, play-acting soldiers in Rome find the slightest fault.

‘Halt!’ One of the guards was quite short and the shoulder bands of his gleaming segmented armour made him look almost square. ‘Who goes there?’ The man’s rectangular scutum was red, and emblazoned with the lightning bolts and wings of Jupiter painted in gold. A lot of the legions used similar insignia, but the praetor knew that this was the badge of Legio X Fretensis, based in Judaea.

‘The noble Aelius Hadrianus, praetor, with an appointment to see the princeps peregrinorum,’ the lictor responded, careful to say exactly what he had been told. His master made it clear that precision was important.

The two legionaries stamped to attention, sparks flying on the paving stones as their hobnailed boots slammed down.

‘You are expected, my lord,’ the second soldier said, eyes curious even if his voice was not. This man also had a red shield, with a white Capricorn and LEG II AUG beneath the boss. That meant that the man was detached from the garrison of Britannia. ‘If you would like to go through the gate, there is a man waiting to take the noble praetor to the princeps.’

Once the lictors and the litter had passed, the two soldiers exchanged wondering glances, before resuming the impassive stare of a sentry. A couple of grubby infants who had trailed the magistrate for the last half hour waited for a while, until they realised that sticking their tongues out at the legionaries provoked no response and decided to shuffle away.

By this time, the commander of the garrison was a little less worried. His guest had accepted a cup of wine and given sufficient sign of enjoyment to justify the purchase of so expensive a vintage. He had also eyed the slave who had brought it as the boy had left, which suggested that some of the rumours about the man were true.

‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice, my dear Turbo,’ the praetor said abruptly. ‘By the way, I trust that your brother is well? He was very kind to a young and naïve tribune when I served with II Adiutrix.’

Turbo had not known of the connection, for his brother had not mentioned it – well, who bothered to discuss the antics of the aristocrats doing their five-minute stint as broad stripe tribune with a legion. Interesting that the praetor had not mentioned this in his letter.

‘He is well, my lord, hoping to be made primus pilus before too many more years.’