Narcissus was shocked. ‘You expect an emperor to reside in this midden?’

‘Secretary, this was the, um, “palace” of the great king Cunobelin, and of his sons who followed him. This is how they live here.’

‘Well, no Roman does - or Greek, for that matter. Of course if it really

is Cunobelin’s house we must be close to this dung-hill, but I won’t place Claudius inside it.’ Narcissus stalked around the big house until he came to a smaller building, more conventional to Mediterranean eyes, a low-roofed wooden hut on a rectangular plan. ‘How about this?’

One of the soldiers coughed and looked away; he seemed to be trying not to laugh.

‘Secretary, this is a barn, I think. Or a granary. You can’t lodge an emperor in a granary.’

Narcissus’s pride was pricked. ‘A good square plan will be much more to the Emperor’s taste. I have decided. Get it cleaned up, legate.’

Vespasian bowed, his face expressionless. ‘As you wish. Ah, here is Marcus Allius with the recruits.’

The three soldiers returned with some of the locals, around twenty of them, all men, none older than forty. Surely they could easily have overcome the three legionaries, but they came placidly, herded like sheep. Beyond them more townspeople drifted up to watch the spectacle.

With a few barked words from Allius in the local argot, and a glint of sword steel, the men were soon arranged in a rough line. Vespasian stalked along the row in his glittering armour, his magnificence even more enhanced by contrast with these shabby locals. ‘By Jupiter but they’re a sorry lot. Well-fed I granted you, but knock-kneed, pot-bellied, slack-jawed.’

Narcissus murmured, intrigued, ‘They watch us like cattle. They don’t know whether to fear us or to ask us for treats.’

‘Well, these will have to do,’ Vespasian said. ‘We can give them some basic training overnight, shape them up into a semblance of a force. Enough to give the Emperor’s chroniclers something to write about. Marcus Allius, do you know their jabber well enough to explain what is required of them? They will be paid for their part, but only if they fight reasonably well. We’ll try to minimise injury, and only a few will be killed.’

‘Tell them to paint their faces,’ Narcissus snapped.

Vespasian pursed his lips. ‘We didn’t see any painted faces in the field, secretary.’