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banned him from ever entering Italy, but he had been a good ruler overall. ‘He was in power for forty-five years. Part of me thought he’d go on forever.’
    ‘Most of us had the same idea,’ said Fenestela.
    Tullus glanced out of the tent. A group of legionaries stood just outside. No one had noticed, but the distress evident everywhere else was absent among them. Instead, the group had huddled together, with their heads almost touching.
    Tendrils of unease snaked up Tullus’ back. Years as a centurion had given him an uncanny ability to sniff out trouble. ‘They’re up to something,’ he whispered to Fenestela.
    It was worrying that instead of telling him that he was imagining it, Fenestela replied, ‘I think so too.’
    Tullus’ enjoyment of what had been a pleasant evening vanished, like frost under a rising sun. There was trouble coming: he could feel it in his bones.
    For the emperor was dead.

Chapter II

    ON THE EVENING of the second day following the terrible news of Augustus’ death, legionary Marcus Piso was taking a rest in the tent he shared with seven other men. He was tired – his centurion Tullus had seen to that with his endless marching – but he wasn’t quite ready for sleep. That was what would take him, however, if he didn’t soon stir from his bed. The warmth of his woollen blanket beneath him, the flickering of the oil lamps on the floor, and the quiet muttering of his comrades combined in a familiar, eyelid-closing mixture.
    The snores reaching Piso’s ears told him that at least one of the other soldiers was asleep. A quick glance confirmed that this was correct. The two nearest him were lying head to head, talking in quiet tones and sharing a skin of wine. He sat up a fraction, so that he could peer at the men in the far end of the tent. Vitellius, his closest friend, had his eyes closed. Two of the others were hunched over a
latrunculi
gaming board lying between them. The last soldier, another friend of Piso’s, wasn’t in his bed. He could be anywhere, thought Piso – the latrines, in another tent, or on the scrounge for wine or food. His best chance of recruiting other gamblers lay with Vitellius.
    ‘Anyone for a game of dice?’ asked Piso, ever the optimist.
    There was no answer.
    ‘Who wants to play dice?’ he said, louder.
    The snoring of the man opposite stopped. He grunted a couple of times and rolled over, presenting his back to Piso.
    With a sigh, he eyed the drinking pair. ‘Interested?’
    ‘You know me. I’ve got no money,’ answered one.
    ‘Not a chance. You always win, maggot,’ said the other.
    Piso studied the two playing latrunculi. ‘Either of you fancy it?’
    ‘This game’s just starting to get interesting,’ came the reply. ‘Maybe later.’
    His frustration building, Piso stared at Vitellius. ‘Pssst! ’Tellius!’
    ‘Mmmmm …’
    ‘’Tellius, wake up!’
    Vitellius’ thin face twisted, and he rubbed a hand over his eyes. He gave Piso an irritable look. ‘This better be good. I was in the middle of getting down to it with that redheaded whore in Bacchus’ Grove.’
    ‘You can’t afford
her
,’ said Piso with a snort. Bacchus’ Grove was one of the better brothels in the tent village outside the camp, and the redhead was the one of the finest-looking whores in the place. Everyone in the legion wanted to lie with her, but few had the coin.
    ‘I can in a dream, you fool,’ retorted Vitellius. ‘But you’ve woken me now. What do you want?’
    ‘A game of dice.’ Piso made a dismissive gesture. ‘Not with this lot. With one of the other
contubernia
, or in another century’s tent lines.’
    ‘I remember a certain night when you started playing dice,’ said Vitellius with a nasty chuckle. ‘It didn’t end well.’
    ‘That was years ago,’ Piso shot back, remembering how he’d stripped another soldier of his money, fair and square, not long before Arminius’ ambush. The loser had been so angry that he and a gang of his