‘Yes, sir.’

‘Now fetch me Tribune Quintillus.’

‘Tribune Quintillus, sir?’

‘Caius Quintillus. Joined the Ninth a few days ago. You should find him in their mess. I’ll speak to him in my private quarters at his earliest convenience. Go.’

The clerk turned and hurried out of the tent, keen to get away from his general as quickly as possible. As Plautius watched him disappear through the tent flaps he wondered at his leniency. A few years ago he’d have broken the man back to the ranks for that kind of error. He must be going soft. Further proof of his failings as a commander in the field.

The storm was right over the camp as Tribune Quintillus read through the report. Lightning flashed white at the gap in the curtains left open at the entrance to the general’s tent. For the instant of each burst of brilliant light the raindrops outside were held still like weightless shards of twinkling glass in a lurid white-washed world. Then the lightning was gone. At once thunder cracked and boomed, rattling the goblets resting on the table between the two officers. Then there was just the drumming of the rain on the leather tent and the moan of the wind.

General Plautius studied the man sitting opposite, head bowed over the scroll as the tribune scrutinised the report. Quintillus came from one of the older families that still owned several vast estates south of Rome. The tribune was the latest in a long line of aristocrats with distinguished careers in the senate. His appointment to the Ninth Legion was in return for a large interest-free loan Quintillus’ father had made to General Plautius some years earlier. But there was more to the appointment than the settling of an old debt. The tribune had connections to the Imperial Palace and the only reason why any aristocrat would cultivate such connections was because he was driven by ambition. Very well, Plautius reflected, an ambitious man was generally a ruthless man, and that would serve the general’s current purpose well.

‘Most interesting, I’m sure,’ Quintillus said, placing the scroll down on the table and gracefully sweeping up his goblet in the same gesture. ‘But might I ask what this has to do with me, sir?’

‘Everything. I’m sending you to Calleva at first light.’

‘Calleva?’ For the briefest instant a look of surprise flashed across the tribune’s fine features, and then the mask of supreme indifference dropped back in place. ‘Well, why not? It would be nice to take in some of the local culture, before we eradicate it . . .’

‘Quite,’ Plautius smiled. ‘But do try not to give the impression when you meet the natives that alliance with Rome is necessarily a euphemism for surrender. Tends not to go down very well.’

‘I’ll do my best . . .’