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Cappadocia, the wide street which – a stone’s throw to the left – led straight into Bostra’s legionary fortress. Beyond the marble arch of the gatehouse and the high wall lay the sprawling complex: headquarters of the Third Cyrenaican, Arabia’s only standing legion. Two sentries holding spears and in full armour flanked the gate. Above them a large red and gold standard hung limply from its pole.
    ‘Afternoon, sir,’ said one of the men as Cassius reached the pavement.
    ‘Afternoon.’
    Given the villa’s location, Cassius had come to know the faces of the sentries and this fellow was unusually cheery. The second soldier just about managed a nod. Cassius imagined he – and most of the others – weren’t overly concerned about impressing an officer of the Imperial Security Service, long-standing rival of the regular army.
    Setting off along the street in the opposite direction, Cassius realised he no longer worried as much about such things. The attitude of his compatriots, ranks and officers alike, was something he could do little about; and the benefits of a life free from the punishing grind of conventional soldiering still outweighed the disadvantages, for the time being anyway.
    The morning was bright and windless, his light linen tunic ideal. This was Cassius’s third spring in the eastern provinces and it was a pleasant time: little rain and plenty of sun, but without the stifling heat of the summer.
    He, Indavara and Simo had arrived in Bostra three months earlier. Though the city lacked the grandeur and history of Antioch, there was a fine theatre, several excellent baths and some decent inns. The occasional appearances of the desert folk – the Saracens – added something to the place, as did the myriad colours of the native clothing and the exotic smells of the spice market.
    All in all a reasonable posting, except that much of the province’s army had been despatched to assist with fresh rebellions brewing in Syria and Egypt. The Third Cyrenaican was now down to just six cohorts; fewer than three thousand men. Worse still, the Tanukh – a confederation of Arabian tribesmen traditionally allied to Rome – could no longer be relied upon; rumours abounded of dissent in the south.
    ‘Officer Corbulo. Officer!’
    Over the wall of the villa he was passing, Cassius spied a familiar figure bustling along the path. He stopped outside the gate just as Mistress Lepida opened it, already smiling.
    Most of the residents on the Via Cappadocia had some connection to the army and Lepida was the wife of a tribune who’d been transferred to Egypt. According to Muranda, her husband had lost interest in her long ago and she freely sought her pleasures elsewhere. Even so, Cassius had resisted her advances. It was rarely advisable to indulge with the wives of fellow officers, and though she was in good shape for her age – which he reckoned was about thirty – the large mole on one side of her nose was singularly off-putting.
    ‘Good day to you, sir.’
    ‘Good day, Mistress Lepida.’
    Cassius was all set to walk on when he saw a younger lady exiting the villa.
    Lepida didn’t seem overly concerned by the speed at which he shifted his gaze. ‘May I introduce my cousin, Miss Helena Umbrenius.’
    ‘Miss Helena.’
    Cassius stepped into the garden and took her hand; and a well-manicured hand it was too. She was rather short but slim with it; and far darker than Lepida. She looked like the local girls, in fact, with jet-black hair and remarkably white teeth.
    ‘Helena arrived from Qottein yesterday. She is staying with me for now because of the troubles. Any news, Officer? There’s talk that the rest of the legion might be recalled.’
    ‘I’m really not sure.’
    ‘I thought you were supposed to know about these things.’
    ‘As you know, I deal mainly with logistics.’ Cassius smiled. It was a running joke between them.
    ‘Come now, Officer.’
    ‘Cassius, please.’
    ‘Very well – Cassius.