Vespasian caught the aroma of crisp roasting pork as he drove his horse the last few hundred paces up the hill to the farmhouse on his parents' new estate at Aquae Cutillae. Ahead of him, the westering sun still held some warmth; it caressed the stonework and terracotta tiles of the low buildings, accentuating the different shades of red, amber and copper, causing the complex to glow amidst the dark conifers and fig trees that surrounded it. It was a beautiful place to come home to; situated high in the foothills of the Apennines, overlooked by mountains to the north and east, and overlooking the plain of Reate to the south and west. It had been his home for the last three of his almost sixteen years, since his family had moved there with the money that his father had made from farming taxes for the Empire in the province of Asia.

Vespasian kicked his heels into his mount's sweating flanks, urging the tired beast to greater haste in his desire to be home. He had been away for three exhausting days rounding up and moving over five hundred mules from their summer pastures on the eastern edge of the estate to fields closer to the farm buildings, in preparation for winter. Here they would spend the colder months, with access to shelter and feed, safe from the snows and high winds that would whistle down from the mountains. In the spring they would be sold to the army, by which time a new batch would have been foaled and the whole process would start again. The mules had, of course, not wanted to go and a long struggle had ensued, which Vespasian and his companions had won by sheer bloody-mindedness and judicious use of the whip. The satisfaction he felt upon completing the task had however been tempered by the number of mules that were missing from the final stock-take.

He was accompanied by six freedmen and Pallo, who had taken over as estate steward after his father Salvio's murder two months earlier on the road between Aquae Cutillae and the family's other estate at Falacrina, where Vespasian had been born. Since that incident they had never travelled alone or unarmed, even within the estate. Aquae Cutillae was surrounded by hills and gullies and as such it was perfect country for bandits and runaway slaves to hide out in. They preyed on the livestock from the estate and on the traffic that plied the Via Salaria that ran along its southern edge from Rome to Reate and then on across the Apennines to the Adriatic Sea. Nowadays only a fool would travel without bodyguards, even so close to a major town like Reate, which was just visible on top of a hill nine miles to the west.

The smell of cooking grew stronger as they drew closer to the farm and the bustle of household slaves became apparent. Thinking that the activity around the house seemed livelier than usual Vespasian turned to Pallo and grinned. 'It looks like my parents are laying on a feast to celebrate the return of the heroic mule-wranglers from their annual struggle with the four-legged enemy.'

'And no doubt we'll be invited to paint our faces red and be given a triumphal parade around the estate,' Pallo replied. His young master's high spirits were infectious. 'If only we'd shown mercy and brought some captives home to sacrifice to Mars Victorious in grateful thanks for our victory.'

'Mercy?' Vespasian cried, warming to the theme. 'Mercy for a foe as ruthless and terrible as we have faced? Never; it would lead to mule uprisings all over the estate and before long they would beleading us in triumph, and you, Pallo, would be the slave riding in the mule-general's chariot tasked with whispering into his long ear, "Remember, you are only a mule!"' Vespasian rode through the heavy wooden gates of the homestead followed by the laughter and mock-braying of his comrades.

The farm buildings were set around a rectangular courtyard, sixty paces by thirty, with the main house on the right forming one side, and the stables, storage rooms, freedmen's lodgings, workshops and the field slaves' barracks the other three. With the exception of the stable block, which had the house slaves' quarters on the first floor, all the buildings were single storey. The courtyard was full of people, either slave, freed or free, all busy but careful to bow their respects to the younger son of their master as Vespasian passed. He dismounted and giving his horse to a waiting stable boy asked him what the commotion was in aid of. The young lad, unused to being directly addressed by a member of the family, flushed and stuttered in thickly accented Latin that he did not know. Realising that probably no one outside the immediate family would be able to tell him what was going on, Vespasian decided to wait and ask his father, who would no doubt call for him after he had received his steward's report on the state of their livestock. He nodded to the boy and headed into the main house by the side door straight into the peristylium, the courtyard garden surrounded by a covered colonnaded walkway, off which his room lay. Any hopes that he had of avoiding his mother were dashed as she appeared out of the tablinum, the reception room leading to the atrium.

'Vespasian,' she called, stopping him in his tracks.

'Yes, Mother,' he replied warily, meeting her stern gaze.

'A message from your brother arrived whilst you were away playing at being a farmer. He's returning home; we expect him this evening.'

Her dismissive tone immediately soured his excellent mood. 'So the preparations are not in honour of my return from three days in the field?' he asked, unable to resist goading her.

She looked at him quizzically. 'Don't be impertinent; what makes you think that you would be honoured for doing menial tasks around the estate? Sabinus has been serving Rome; the day you decide to do the same rather than skulk up here in the hills fraternising with freedmen and mules is the day that you can expect some honour. Now go and get cleaned up. I expect you to behave civilly to your brother this evening, though I doubt that anything has changed in the way you feel about him in the years that he has been away. However, it would do you no harm to try and get along with him.'

'I would do, Mother,' Vespasian replied, running a hand through his sweaty, short-cropped, dark-brown hair, 'if he liked me, but all he ever did was bully and humiliate me. Well, I'm four years older and stronger now so he had better watch himself, because I won't stand for it like an eleven-year-old boy any more.'

Vespasia Polla peered at her son's round, olive-skinned face and noticed a steely determination in his normally good-humoured, large brown eyes; she had never seen that before.

'Well, I'll speak to Sabinus when he arrives and ask him to do his part in keeping the peace, as I expect you to do yours. Remember, it may be four years since you last saw him, but it is eight for your father and me as we were already in Asia when he joined the legions. I don't want your fighting to ruin our reunion.'

Giving him no chance to reply she disappeared off in the direction of the kitchen. No doubt to terrorise some lowly kitchen slave, Vespasian thought as he went to his room to change, his good humour now completely destroyed by the unwelcome news of his brother's imminent return.

Vespasian had not missed Sabinus at all for the four years he had been serving as a military tribune, the most junior of the officer ranks, with the Legio VIIII Hispana in Pannonia and Africa. They had never...