Vespasian nodded. It was what they had all thought. Even though the battle had almost been lost, thanks to the Emperor’s foolish tactics, the legions had finally overwhelmed and crushed the native warriors. Caratacus, and what remained of his best troops, had fled the field. In the normal course of events the barbarians would have accepted that Rome had defeated them, and sued for peace. But not these confounded Britons. Far better, it seemed to them, to fight on and be slaughtered and have their lands laid waste, than to be pragmatic and come to terms with Rome. Most hostile of all were the Druids.

A handful of them had been taken alive after the last battle and were now held in a special compound under heavy guard. Vespasian felt a tremor of revulsion as he recalled his visit to see the Druids. There were five of them, dressed in dark robes and wearing charms of twisted hair on their wrists. Their own hair was knotted back and stiffened with lime; the reek of it offended the legate’s nostrils as he eyed them curiously from the other side of the wooden bars. Each man had a black tattoo of a crescent moon on his forehead. One Druid stood apart from the others, a tall, thin man with a gaunt face and a long white beard. Strikingly, his eyebrows were a mass of thick black bristles, beneath which dark eyes glinted from deep sockets. He did not speak in Vespasian’s presence, only stood glowering at the Roman, arms crossed and feet planted slightly apart. For a while Vespasian was content to observe the other Druids, conversing in sullen low tones, before his gaze was drawn back to their leader, who was still staring at him. The Druid’s thin lips had parted in a grin, revealing sharp yellow teeth that looked as if they had been filed. A dry rasping laugh stilled his followers who ceased their muttering and turned to look at Vespasian. One by one, they joined in the mocking laughter. Vespasian suffered it for a while, then angrily turned away and marched from the compound.

These Britons were childish fools, decided Vespasian, recalling the demeanour of the tribal leaders that had come before Claudius to pledge their good will following the defeat of Caratacus. Arrogant and stupid, and far too self-indulgent and self-regarding. Already, the emptiness of their words of friendship was becoming obvious, and much more of their blood, and that of the legions, would be shed before this island was conquered.