Vespasian turned towards the clerk, forcing himself to withdraw from thoughts of death that hung like a black mantle across the world outside the tent. He turned and ducked through the gap in the linen curtain the clerk held open for him. Inside, a few clerks still worked at their desks, even though it was the middle of the night. They did not look up as Vespasian was led towards another flap at the rear of the tent, and he wondered if they already knew something about his fate. He was cross with himself for entertaining such thoughts. These men were just busy, that was all. Nothing could have been decided yet. The clerk pulled back the curtain and Vespasian stepped into another, smaller, section of the tent. In the far corner, dimly lit, there was a camp bed and a few chests. In the centre stood a large table on which rested an ornate lamp-stand with several lights issuing flickering yellow flames as a huge Nubian slave slowly wafted a vast feather fan to cool the two men seated there.

‘Vespasian!’ Narcissus smiled warmly. ‘It’s good to see you again, my dear Legate.’

There was something dismissive about the tone in which Narcissus uttered the last word, and Vespasian recognised the customary attempt to put him in his place. Legate he may be, and from a senatorial family as well. Yet Narcissus, a mere freedman - lower in social status than the meanest Roman citizen - was the right hand of Emperor Claudius himself. His power was very real, and before it all the prestige and haughtiness of the senatorial class was as nothing.

‘Narcissus.’ Vespasian bowed his head politely, as if greeting an equal. He turned to General Plautius and saluted formally. ‘You asked for me, sir.’

‘I did. Take a seat. I’ve sent for some wine.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Vespasian eased himself down into a chair opposite the others, and found some small relief from the gentle current of air that emanated from the slave’s fan.

There was a brief silence before Narcissus spoke again.’The problem, as far as a mere bureaucrat can understand the military situation, is that the campaign is not quite over.’ Narcissus turned towards the general. ‘I believe I have that right. Now that Caratacus has slipped from our grasp . . . once again.’

General Plautius nodded.’It’s true, as far as we know. A few thousand men did cross the river before we brought Caratacus to battle.’

Vespasian’s eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. There had been no battle, just a pitiless massacre. Then he realised that the general’s description had been for the benefit of the Imperial Secretary, who, no doubt, would write a report to his Emperor the moment he reached his own quarters. A battle would win more plaudits than a massacre.