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the staff; an aged attendant holding a waxed tablet and stylus. ‘Officer Corbulo, good day to you. The governor is holding his meeting in the Table Room. Do you—’
    Cassius didn’t break stride. ‘I know the way.’
    The courtyard was large – forty yards from corner to corner – and today contained two groups of people. One was a huddle of toga-clad men: senior administrators deep in discussion. The others were centurions, helmets cradled under their arms as they listened to another officer reading from a sheet of paper. None of the men looked up.
    Cassius passed through a portico then turned right into a corridor. Two maids were on their knees, rolling up a heavy rug. They were about to scramble out of Cassius’s way but he held up a hand and nimbly turned sideways to get past them. Slowing down as he approached the Table Room, he checked his helmet, straightened his tunic, and walked in.
    The room was well lit by three grilled windows and dominated by the eponymous table – a rectangular monstrosity far too big for the space that housed it. On the interior wall was a fading fresco; the inevitable seven hills of Rome. At the near end of the table stood two young clerks, silently sorting through some papers. Sitting at the far end were Governor Calvinus, Tribune Pontius and Chief Nerva.
    ‘Ah, Corbulo.’ Calvinus beckoned Cassius forward then addressed the clerks. ‘You two leave us. Shut the door behind you.’
    As the clerks complied, Cassius placed his helmet on a table next to Nerva’s (which looked in rather better condition) then slipped the satchel from his shoulder. The governor occupied the chair at the end of the table, the others to his right. Cassius took a seat to his left.
    Directly opposite him was Pontius: a tall, striking man. At twenty-six he was five years older than Cassius and the legion’s senior tribune. His light woollen tunic was of unmistakable quality, the wide purple stripe running from shoulder to belt. Pontius was a senator’s son, putting in his time in the provinces before returning to Rome to take up a political career. With the prefect away leading the legion’s crack cohorts in Syria, he was now effectively commander of the province’s forces. Brash and direct, Pontius was also a renowned rider, having won several prestigious contests. Cassius had tried to ingratiate himself with all those he dealt with at his new posting but Pontius remained as unreceptive as Chief Nerva – possibly the only thing the two had in common.
    Though technically a centurion, as the man in charge of the fortress, Nerva enjoyed a status only just below Pontius. Unlike the tribune – who might be back in Rome within a year – he had served with the Third Cyrenaican for two decades. Jowly and squat, his red tunic was far more faded than Cassius’s and looked at least a size too small. Pinned to his chest was a miniature silver spear: symbol of his post; and around both his wrists were broad gold bands: decorations for distinguished service.
    Calvinus was a little older: well into his fifties. According to local lore he had shunned the possibility of a future career in Rome because of his love of the province and its inhabitants. His broad face was topped by a thick head of silvery curls, his cheeks lined with red veins. He was said to like his drink but there was never any at these meetings. Cassius was a tad hungover, and wouldn’t have minded pouring himself some water from the jug on the table. But it was too far away and he was last to arrive, so he sat up straight and waited for the governor to begin.
    Calvinus ran a knuckle across his brow. ‘Chief Nerva passed this news to me early this morning. Pontius, Corbulo – you are the first to know. Five days ago the legionary fort at Ruwaffa was attacked. Burned to the ground. It was efficiently done – the fire was started in several places and the gates blocked from the outside. Almost the entire century perished. The three men that