Vespasian had left the camp and ridden across the ford a short while earlier, in response to the terse summons he had received from the general. Every step of the way his horse had had to pick a path through the dead that were strewn on the ground. Some men still lived amongst the corpses, moaning softly to themselves, or still possessed of enough strength to scream out in agony and cause the horse to start nervously. The sickly stench of blood drenched the air and made it seem hotter than it was. There had been no end to the bodies as the legate splashed through the ford and reached the small island in the middle of the Tamesis. More dead men lay along the track and were heaped in front of the remains of Centurion Macro’s rough barricade. But the very worst was saved for last as Vespasian’s horse emerged from the crossing and picked its way up towards the low ridge on which the general had set up his camp.

Bodies had been dragged clear of the track leading down to the ford, and the corpses were piled on either side, a shadowy tangle of torsos and limbs, stiffening as the sultry night dragged on. Beyond the nearest corpses the legate saw a field of bodies stretching out across the moonlit landscape, thousands of them. He shuddered at the thought of all the spirits of the dead that must be wreathing the air about him, lingering a while before beginning the journey to the land of endless shadows where the dead eked out their dreary existence for eternity. He knew well enough that these barbarians believed in an afterlife of endless drunken revelry, but the grim austerity of death made it hard for him to accept such a vision. The awfulness of the scale of human destruction all around him was the most oppressive sensation Vespasian had ever felt. Surely, he thought, next to a battle lost there is nothing so dreadful as a battle won.

‘The general will see you now, sir.’