AD 31 (Winter in Caesarea)

The candle flickered as a gust of wind rattled through the shutters of the fort's window, sending a thin spiral of smoke drifting towards him. Fabius blinked rapidly, and rubbed his eyes; they felt gritty and kept watering but he continued writing, his hand moving in short nervous jerks, his pen scratching across the papyrus as if every urgent thought in his head needed to be expressed before dawn. He blew on his fingers. Despite his woolen gloves, they were cold and ached from gripping the pen.

He dipped it into the small clay inkpot and paused, lifting his grey head briefly to compose the next sentence before bending over the long wooden table again. An icy draught whistled around the great hall. He had tried not to let it distract him, but the excruciating pain in his stiffening legs forced him into make circles with his ankles to stir his circulation.

He paused again, this time frowning over the contents of his letter, concerned that it might sound as though he was simply getting something off his chest or airing a grievance; although there was an element of truth in both, he thought guiltily. His pen hovered, his sore eyes drifted to the opening sentences and as they scanned down the lines he gave a tut of annoyance. His handwriting was sloping all over the papyrus, and there were a few sentences that were barely legible. Perhaps he should have taken more time, he thought ruefully. But it was too late to do anything about it now. The courier would be leaving for Rome as soon as it was light. He flinched as he realized he'd been up writing half the night.

A squall of rain battered at the shutters. Fabius lifted his head, watching them rattle without actually realizing that they were doing so. Then bending his head over the parchment again, he signed his name at the bottom; his breath coming in long, heavy judders.

Staff Centurion Fabius Salonianus.

Former Chief of Staff to Procurator Pontius Pilate. Governor of Judea.

Not that he was afraid, he told himself blowing on the wet ink; at least not on his own account. But what if his wife and his children ... No; no one would dare ...

Deliberately dismissing the stream of negative thoughts building in his head, he rolled the papyrus, firmly reminding himself that this unexpected arrival of an old comrade must surely be the fate of the gods. They would never give him an opportunity like this one again, so he had no option; he had to take it. Tying the letter with a leather cord, he slid it among the pile of wax tablets and parchments sitting on the table, so that it looked as though it was part of the material he used for teaching the new auxiliaries at the fort. Then sliding off his stool to avoid scraping it noisily across the wooden floor he opened the shutters to one of the windows. It let in a blast of cold wet air which blew the candle out, but also let in the first faint rays of dawn.

Fabius walked quietly across the dimly lit hall with his tablets and letter, but then he was a quiet man, in his speech, in his manners, in his actions, and in his dealings with people. He knew that what he had just done was so completely out of character that not even his wife would believe him when he told her. He winced as the wooden door creaked on its hinges. He didn't want to be spotted, not this early in the morning. His usual time of arrival wasn't for another three hours yet.

Making his way to the kitchens he opened the door to a blast of hot air. The two legionaries on breakfast duty glanced up briefly as he entered but they were more engrossed in throwing trays of fresh wheat biscuits into hot ovens for the imminent arrival of hungry auxiliaries than to take notice of him. Fabius was relieved to see that the only other person present was his old comrade. He was seated at a table in the corner with a plate of yesterday's wheat biscuits, a glass of milk and an apple.

'Ah! Fabius my friend. I was hoping I'd see you before I left.'

Fabius made his way over to him. He was in his centurion's uniform ready for his long journey north, his travelling bag and heavy cloak at his side. Like Fabius, he had slipped over the far side of middle age but would have looked younger if a long jagged scar hadn't left one side of head bereft of hair, his cheek mutilated, and if a black patch hadn't covered his eye. Despite his ugliness, the smile was pleasant, the teeth white and even, and there was genuine warmth in his greeting.

The smile faded as he gestured to the stool on the other side of the table. 'What's wrong?'

Fabius sat down. 'I need you to do me a favour,' he said quietly.

'Of course.'

'Do you still have access to the Emperor Tiberius?'

There was a pause. 'Yes.'

Fabius glanced around furtively, but the legionaries appeared to be finding breakfast more interesting than the conversation of two old soldiers. He pulled his letter out from under his tablets and turned the scroll protectively in his hand, looking at it as though it contained every precious thought in his head.

'When I was in Palestine ...' he bit his lip. 'While I was there I saw things that ... things that made me ashamed to call myself a Roman,' he said quietly. 'I thought I'd forget them when I returned to Caesarea. I thought my wife, my children, working on my land and teaching here at the fort would drive those memories away.' He took a deep breath, which he held for a moment, but when released came out in judders. 'When I saw you arrive yesterday with the fresh intake of auxiliaries it was like a ... a sign from the gods telling me I could no longer sit back and do nothing.' He slid his precious letter across the table to his companion. 'Can you get this into the hands of the Emperor Tiberius without anyone knowing?'

The nod of the head was a firm one. 'I can. Tiberius still sees me as the man who brought his son through his first battles even though poor Drusus is now dead. The Emperor enjoys my rare visits. Besides, I have a box of his favourite sweetmeats so I can slip this letter in with them.'

Fabius watched his letter being pushed into the travelling bag as though he was watching one of his children being dragged away from him.

'Don't worry, Fabius.' The pleasant smile, the even white teeth were reassuring. 'I won't let you down.' The stool scraped across the kitchen floor as he stood up. 'Now I must go. I only wish my time here had been longer. We have too many years to catch up on.'

Fabius noticed the hand that reached down to pick up the bag gripped it firmly, and in a manner that suggested nothing was going to be pried out of his fingers. 'Be careful,' he said quietly. 'Be very careful.'

AD 31 (Late winter, Rome)

Vivius ran his finger pensively over his lower lip as a smattering of applause echoed around the circle of senators sprawled across their wooden benches in the Senate House. It was followed by a mumbled response which to his ears sounded ominously like a low rumble of thunder. Throwing his arm over the back of his bench, he traced his forefinger over the carvings on the top and tuned his ears to the whispered comments from behind.

'Unbelievable! Sejanus was forbidden to marry the mother so he betroths himself to her daughter? Ridiculous! She's only a child.'

'That man will do whatever it takes to ingratiate himself with the Imperial house.'

'And eliminate anyone who gets in his way. He gets more powerful every...