Shortly before dusk Vespasian headed across the Tamesis to report to General Plautius in the main camp. He carried the results of his interviews in a large pannier bag hanging across the horse’s back behind his saddle. The auxiliary units had been busy during the day, digging huge pits a short distance away from the crossing. The bodies of the Britons massacred the previous evening were still being dragged away and the crushed grass where they had been heaped was dark with their dried blood. Vespasian’s horse wrinkled its nostrils nervously at the smell hanging in the air and he urged it on, anxious to reach the ridge and leave the unsettling scene behind him.

Inside the camp the legate dismounted outside the general’s headquarters and signalled to one of the guards to carry his pannier bags. A clerk ushered him into Plautius’ tents as the last glimmer of the sun set on the horizon. Inside the headquarters the general’s staff were busy with the administrative consequences of the previous day’s battle. There were after-action reports that needed collating for the official history: logging of unit strength returns; compiling weapons and supplies inventories; recording the numbers of the enemy dead and preparing orders for the next stage of the campaign. It was nearly September, Vespasian reflected, and Plautius had hoped to be firmly entrenched on the banks of the Sabrina by autumn when the rain and mud would bog the legions down.

Now that Caratacus’ army had been all but eliminated, the enemy would be limited to small operations - at least until large numbers of fresh tribal levies could be raised, armed and given some basic training. The warrior caste that had formed the backbone of his army had been whittled away over the last year and only a small cadre remained. Amongst them, in all likelihood, Caratacus himself. And while he lived the spirit of resistance would still smoulder in the hearts of the Britons, threatening all the while to flare up in the faces of the Roman invaders.

Vespasian frowned. That bloody man had far more than his fair share of luck. Far more, at least, than the thousands of natives being buried down by the river.

General Plautius was examining a large map spread across a table when Vespasian was ushered into his presence. The other legates and senior tribunes stood round him. Vespasian caught the eye of his older brother, Sabinus, and nodded a greeting. Seated to one side of the table, and looking thoroughly bored, was Narcissus, painstakingly peeling a pear with an ornate dagger.

The general glanced up. ‘Vespasian, you’ve joined us at an interesting moment. We’ve just had the reports in from the mounted units.’

Vespasian nodded to the soldier who had carried the bags and he set them down beside one of the leather sides of the tent, and then withdrew. Vespasian joined the others at the table.