‘Oh no,’ replied the tribune. ‘You don’t really think I took the trouble of bringing you all the way up from Rome to get a piece of stationery.’

He flattened the scroll out for the other man to read. But there was nothing to read, it was completely blank.

‘It seems someone is a step ahead of us. Looks like Vespasian was smart enough to use his safe-box as a decoy. Or, someone else here has beaten us to the scroll and left this in its place.’

Under The Eagle

Chapter Twenty-four

The departure of the Sixth century well ahead of the main column caused some little excitement to those who witnessed it, not least the men of the century itself. In the normal course of events no common soldier would dare march out of the camp before the senior officers and the colour party. Therefore it was clear to all that the Sixth century was being detached on a special duty. What that duty was remained known only to the centurion, his optio and secretary; the common soldiery could only wonder as the century’s baggage wagon creaked out of the main gate and followed the line of men stepping out down the road towards Durocortorum. The curiosity of the onlookers soon disappeared as their officers drove them back to work, preparing to strike the tents for the day’s march.

The Sixth century’s excitement was palpable and the men noisily speculated about the task before them. At the head of the column Macro could hardly fail to overhear the conversation conducted behind him at a level calculated to attract his attention. He allowed himself a small smile at their all-too-obvious angling for information. Let them have their fun, they would know soon enough. In the meantime there was little to be gained from ordering them to quit babbling like small children and march in silence. While they were happy he was prepared to indulge them. The centurion was glad to be detached from the Legion; no more looking at the same backs he had followed for the best part of two hundred miles. No more frustrating delays for distant bottlenecks, and waiting patiently to be led to and from tent-area allotments by members of the colour party puffed up by their sense of self-importance.

Ahead was an empty road, stretching out in a more or less straight line towards the horizon. Above him the sky was clear and deep blue, while the air was filled with birdsong. In short, it was the kind of morning that filled Macro with an inner glow of delight at simply being alive.

Which made it all the more strange that the optio marching to one side and slightly behind him cast his eyes down to the road surface with a grim expression of concentration, quite oblivious to the general sense of well-being in the world.

Macro dropped back a step and clapped him on the shoulder.

‘What on earth is the matter with you this morning, Cato?’