‘Not that you’d notice,’ Cato replied. ‘But most people are careful what they say around him these days — now that he has the Emperor’s ear.’

‘Does he still look the same?’ asked Flavia, absently gazing at her fingers as they stretched the hem of her palla.

Cato reflected a moment before replying. ‘A little greyer around the temples but not so different from when you knew him.’

‘I see— I see. And I trust our little secret is still safe?’ she asked softly.

He had been expecting the question for some time and nodded as he looked her firmly in the eye and replied. ‘Quite safe, my lady. I gave you my word. It still stands and will until I die.’

‘Thank you.’

An embarrassing silence settled between them as they both thought back to the night of a terrible storm raging over Rome, when a little boy, scared out of his wits by the thunder and lightning, had huddled in the corner of a small ante-room where a man and a woman were coupling in the glare of light flashing through the windows. Later, when the man had gone, Flavia discovered Cato trembling in the corner of the room. For a brief moment she had simply stared at him, afraid of the consequences of what he must have seen. Seizing his shoulders, she had sworn him to secrecy. Then, seeing the elemental terror in his expression, some instinct awoke inside her and she’d shielded his small body from the storm as best she could. Afterwards, despite the social gulf between them, she had felt a sense of responsibility for Cato and seen that he was well cared for by the other palace slaves. Then she had left the imperial household and met Vespasian.

Flavia decided to move the conversation on to safer ground. ‘Now, Cato, what do you miss most about Rome?’

‘The libraries,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘The nearest I get to a good read here is some weather-beaten army manual. When I left Rome I was reading Livy’s histories. It’ll be a while before I get a chance to continue them.’

‘Histories!’ Flavia exclaimed. ‘What on earth are you reading histories for? I thought you young men liked poetry — Lucretius, Catullus, Ovid — that sort of thing.’

‘Ovid is a little hard to come by, my lady,’ Cato reminded her. ‘In any case, I’m afraid my tastes are a bit conservative. I’ve only really bothered with Virgil.’

‘Virgil’s such a boring old stick,’ Flavia complained. ‘Not an ounce of feeling, or empathy. It’s just turgid elegance.’

‘I really must disagree. I find him quite sublime at times — able to put concepts into words in a timeless way. When all today’s cheap romantic poets are mere shadows in the memory of men, Virgil will still be a vibrant influence flowing down through the centuries.’

‘Most poetically phrased, Cato, but do you speak of time or legionaries?’

‘Hardly the latter.’ Cato laughed with the legate’s wife. ‘Literary aesthetics are not foremost in the minds of such men.’