Vespasian nodded his satisfaction at the progress in dismantling what fortifications remained, then turned away, striding back into the camp towards his headquarters. There were few men around, since most of those who were off duty were sheltering from the blazing sunshine in the shade of the leather tents that stretched out in neat rows on either side of the main thoroughfare. Even with both flaps open Vespasian knew that the interiors of the goatskin section tents would be stifling. That was why he had given permission for the cohorts that were stood down to swim in the river - they might as well be comfortable. Certainly they would be cleaner. To one who was raised in the Roman custom of frequent baths, the acrid stench of dirty sweating men was quite abhorrent. So the chance for the men to wash their clothes, and at the same time themselves, was to be seized with relish. Besides, the legion’s chief surgeon was constantly urging his legate to force the men to adopt more hygienic practices. The men should wash as often as possible. Aesclepus claimed that it reduced the sick list. But then he would, being a follower of the more fancy eastern medical practices. Not that Vespasian lacked faith in Eastern medicine, it was just that he, like most Romans, believed that the East was a corrupt stew of soft, self-indulgent effeminacy.

The men of the headquarters guard stood rigidly at their posts in full armour. Vespasian wondered how they could stand the heat, and saw the glistening trickles of sweat running down their faces as he strode by them into his tent. Inside, the shade offered no respite from the hot, still air; indeed, it was actually far hotter inside the tent than outside. Vespasian beckoned to his steward.

‘I want water. From the river. Make sure it’s drawn upstream from the camp. I want a light tunic, my silk one. Then have someone take my desk outside and have an awning rigged over it. As fast as you can.’

‘Yes, sir.’

When the man was gone, Vespasian stood still as his body slave unfastened the buckles of his armour and then lifted the breastplate away. Beneath, the thick military tunic was drenched with perspiration and clung awkwardly to his body as Vespasian impatiently lifted the hem and pulled it over his head. Outside the tent he could hear the commotion as men struggled to set up his campaign desk and the awning. There was too much to do and he shook his head when the body slave asked if he required a wash.

‘Just get me the tunic.’

‘Yes, master.’