‘Well done, Centurion!’ a voice called out of the growing gloom of mist and dusk.

Macro snapped round, his hand going straight to the pommel of his sword. The other men were on their feet in an instant, alert, some with swords already drawn.

A vague shape slowly emerged from the mist and took the form of a Roman staff officer — Tribune Vitellius. Behind him several more figures materialised, men in Syrian garb leading horses. At sight of them, Cato felt a cold chill of recognition and slowly drew his own sword. And there, holding the bridle of the tribune’s horse, stood Pulcher.

Vitellius walked up the track towards them and stopped ten paces from the cart.

‘I take it that is the chest you were sent to retrieve?’

Macro was still recovering from the shock of the tribune’s sudden appearance. He frowned with suspicion, but made no reply.

‘Well, Centurion? Is that the chest?’

‘Yes, sir. But what…’

‘That’s a job well done. I congratulate you and your men.’

‘Thank you, sir—’

‘And now I’ll take charge of things. The chest needs to be returned to the legate as quickly as possible.’ Vitellius turned his head back to the waiting horsemen. ‘First two men — here!’

Vitellius walked over to the cart and patted the chest with a smile. ‘You must be exhausted. I expect you’ll be glad to be relieved of this. Get some rest before you follow us back to the Legion.’

Macro nodded while his mind worked quickly to frame his next words as carefully as possible. He could see the credit for his achievement slipping away. ‘Sir, our orders were to hand the chest over to the legate in person.’

‘I know. But the orders have been changed.’

‘The legate was quite specific, sir. To him in person.’

‘Are you questioning my authority, Centurion?’ Vitellius asked coldly. ‘I’m telling you that the orders have been changed. Now you will hand over the cart to my men, understand?’

Macro stared at him, eyes cold with bitter resentment that his superior was about to snatch the prize from his grasp.

‘Tell your men to stay away from the cart, sir,’ Macro said quietly.

‘What?’

‘Tell your men to back off. You’re not taking the chest.’

‘Centurion,’ Vitellius tried to sound reasonable, ‘there’s nothing you or I can do about it. I’m obeying a direct order from Vespasian.’

‘My orders come from Aulus Plautius,’ Macro bluffed. ‘We’re not giving up the chest until I get different orders from the general, in person.’

Vitellius stared at him silently, and his men — sensing a confrontation unresolved — stopped short of the cart. Then Vitellius smiled and backed away a few paces as he spoke.

‘Very well, Centurion. You keep the chest for the moment, but this isn’t the last you’ll hear of the matter — I swear it.’

He turned and beckoned his two men to follow as he retreated from the cart back towards the waiting horsemen. As he watched, Cato saw the tribune move to one side of the track, casually moving out of the line of sight between his men and the cart. A sudden movement from the figures in the mist caught Cato’s attention and his eyes returned to the tribune. Vitellius had flicked the cape off his sword arm and was looking back towards the cart. Cato’s eyes widened in sudden realisation of the danger.