‘What? Oh, all right. Whatever you will. I need a drink.’

Vespasian left his superior and hurried down to the holding cells at the side of the amphitheatre.

‘Anyone seen the imperial secretary?’

‘Here I am.’ A voice piped up and Narcissus emerged from the dark recesses. ‘Safe to come out?’

‘Only just!’ laughed Vespasian. ‘That was quite a performance.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m just curious. Is there no indignity you wouldn’t suffer to further your cause?’

‘My cause? That humiliation you just witnessed wasn’t for me. I did it for the Emperor and Rome. One day you’ll learn, Vespasian,’ Narcissus continued bitterly. ‘One day you’ll realise that the only thing that keeps any state running is the number of bureaucrats who are prepared to eat shit to keep it going. That’s the measure of their commitment. And the fact that they are never mentioned by historians is the measure of their success. You’d do well to remember that.’

‘Oh, I will. But what made you think of trying that strategy?’

‘It’s a cynical age,’ Narcissus replied. ‘A direct appeal for patriotism was bound to fail, so a different approach was needed. I just pray to the Gods that it’s enough. Do you think it’ll work?’

‘We’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Yes. Can I take shelter in your camp tonight?’

‘No-one else will have you,’ said Vespasian with a grin. ‘Do you want an escort back to the camp?’

‘I need to have a word with someone first. There’s still a little matter that needs sorting out. See you later.’

The imperial chief secretary threw a military tunic over his torn clothes, then scuttled off back towards the main army camp. Vespasian returned to his headquarters and passed the word for Macro to be brought to him.

Shortly afterwards a hastily spruced-up centurion was standing to attention in front of the legate’s desk.

‘Centurion Macro, in view of your proven fighting qualities and discretion over that escort business, the imperial chief secretary and I have got a little job for you once we land in Britain…’

===OO=OOO=OO===

The festival atmosphere deriving from the afternoon’s events in the amphitheatre lasted well into the night until the riotous soldiers had drunk the army base dry and returned to their quarters to sleep it off. Those too drunk to stand found themselves a quiet corner and slumped down. And so, in the dark hours before dawn, few were around to witness what followed.

A small detail of centurions, led by Vitellius and Pulcher, accompanied a wagon as they made their way through the base arresting men named on a list supplied by Narcissus. Most of the victims were veterans who had joined the eagles in the last years of Augustus’s reign and despised the moral decline that had followed when first Tiberius, and then Caligula, became Emperor. Most were too drunk or tired to put up a fight as they were dragged out of their tents. Pulcher saw to it that they were securely bound before being thrown into the back of a wagon. When one of the more alert tried to shout for help, Pulcher promptly cut his throat and threatened to do the same to the very next man who muttered a single word. And so, as the sky lightened in the east, the little procession silently passed through the gates of the camp and made for a distant forest where it halted in a clearing well beyond earshot of the slumbering legions.