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lying on the temple steps. He picked it up and opened it. It was a map of the route he was to follow to get to Rome.
    At that moment the sun finally began to break through the fog and stripe the ground with shadows. Publius Sextius put a couple of fingers in his mouth and whistled, then watched as a bay horse promptly trotted up. He jumped on to its back and spurred the horse on.
    ‘No need to break your neck, centurion!’ rang out a voice.
    ‘It won’t be today, or even tomorrow.’
    But Publius Sextius had already disappeared from sight.
    Nebula came out from behind a stack of bundled twigs left by the men pruning the grapevines. ‘Then again, maybe it will,’ he said to himself.
    Mutinae, in Caupona ad Scultemnam, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora tertia
    Modena, the Scoltenna River Inn, 8 March, eight a.m.
    T HE RIVER RUSHING nearby, swollen by recent rains, was just as loud as the buzz of the regulars and the customers planning to spend the night. Nebula entered after wiping his boots on the mat at the entrance and crossed the nonetheless muddy floor of the inn, settling into a spot in a corner at the back near the kitchen. The person he was waiting for was not long in arriving.
    ‘Well? How did it go, then?’
    ‘There are two missions, not one. Both are vital for the man who holds supreme power in our republic.’
    ‘Where is your man now?’
    ‘He’s racing faster than the wind along the shortest route that leads back to Rome.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    Nebula gave a sigh, but said nothing.
    ‘All right. How much do you want?’
    ‘To get this information I was forced to go into debt and risk my very life.’
    ‘What a bastard you are, Nebula. Spit it out and let’s get this over with.’
    ‘He’s following a map that I made for him. I’m the only one who knows the route.’
    ‘How much?’
    ‘Ten thousand.’
    ‘Forget it.’
    Nebula shrugged. ‘Too bad. That means I’ll have to make a hasty retreat before my creditors send me to the underworld. Into Pluto’s arms. But if I die, it’s all over, just remember that.’
    ‘Come outside,’ growled the other man, a veteran of the civil war who had fought on Pompey’s side. His arms had more scars than the paws of a wolf caught in a trap.
    Outside, they walked over to a cart under the close watch of a couple of nonchalant but clearly armed thugs.
    ‘You can put the money on my mule,’ said Nebula, handing him a copy of the map.
    The man stuck it into his belt, then smiled smugly. ‘Now that I think about it, it seems that two hundred ought to be enough.’
    ‘Do you really imagine you can screw Nebula? An idiot like you?’
    The smirk disappeared from the other man’s face.
    ‘You think you’re so clever. You’ll be giving me all of it, down to the very last penny. There’s a key for reading the map and the fellow who’s got it works for you lot at the Medias horse-changing station. Weasel-faced guy named Mustela. He’s in with me on this, you see, and he’ll open his mouth only after you’ve given him my receipt for payment, which you’ll find in the usual place. By then I’ll be long gone. Oh, and by the way, Mustela is included in the price. He’ll do the walking, because you’d never manage it on your own.’
    The man nodded, cursing under his breath, and transferred the money, all of it, on to the mule’s packsaddle. Nebula then mounted and set off at an easy trot.
    ‘I forgot to tell you,’ he added. ‘As soon as you have the receipt you’d better get a move on, because Mustela won’t wait long.’
    Romae, in Domo Publica, a.d. VIII Id. Mart., hora quinta
    Rome, the residence of the Pontifex Maximus, 8 March, ten a.m.
    T HE STORM had abated and, having gathered up his papers, Silius went from his office to Caesar’s.
    ‘There are documents here to be signed, commander.’
    ‘What are they?’ asked Caesar, raising his eyes from the scroll he was writing on.
    Silius couldn’t help but notice that he was doing the