Scores of bodies were strewn across the ground and lay in mounds around the cohort. Hundreds of arrow shafts spiked the ground and protruded from bodies and shields, nearly all of which were battered and splintered beyond repair. From behind the shields rose the filthy, bloodied forms of exhausted legionaries. Centurion Hortensius pushed his way through his men and strode towards the camp prefect, arm raised in greeting.

‘Good morning, sir!’ Despite his best efforts, the strain showed through in his voice. ‘You took your fucking time.’

Sextus shook his hand, ignoring the blood congealing in a wound on the centurion’s palm. The camp prefect stood, hands on hips, and nodded towards the survivors of the Fourth Cohort. ‘And what kind of a bloody shambles do you call this? I ought to put the lot of you on fatigues for a month!’

Beside Cato, Figulus watched the centurion and the camp prefect exchange their greetings. He was silent for a moment before he spat on the ground. ‘Bloody officers! Don’t you just fucking hate ‘em?’

When The Eagle Hunts

Chapter Eighteen

The general eased himself onto a cushioned chair with a momentary wince. Several days in the saddle had not been kind to his backside and the slightest pressure was painful. His expression gradually relaxed, and he took the cup of heated wine that Vespasian offered him. It was slightly too hot for comfort but Plautius needed a drink and something warm in his belly to counter the numbness in the rest of his body. So he drained the cup and gestured for a refill.

‘Any further news?’ he asked.

‘None, sir,’ Vespasian replied as he poured more wine. ‘Just the details I sent to you at Camulodunum.’

‘Well then, any useful intelligence of any kind?’ Plautius continued hopefully.

‘Not just yet, but I’ve a cohort returning from patrol of the border with the Durotriges. They might have gathered some useful information. They seem to have run into a little trouble on their way back. I’ve sent a few cohorts out to see them home safely’

‘Ah yes. That would be the skirmish I saw on the far side of the camp as we rode up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Have the cohort commander debriefed immediately he returns to camp.’ The general frowned for a moment, staring into the faint coils of steam rising from the cup clasped in his hands. ‘You see… I have to know as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

Vespasian took a seat opposite his general, and an awkward silence grew. For almost a year Aulus Plautius had been his commanding officer and he was not certain how to respond on a more personal level. For the first time since he had met Plautius — commander of the four legions and twelve auxiliary units charged with invading and conquering Britain — the general was revealing himself as just an ordinary man, a husband and father consumed with fear for his family.

‘Sir?’