The following day was spent building up the fortifications of the main legion camp, and constructing a series of outposts to the north, overlooking the Tamesis, and to the west, to guard against incursions by the Durotriges. The morning after their arrival a party of horsemen approached the camp from the direction of Calleva. The duty cohort was instantly summoned to the walls, and word of the horsemen passed to the legate. Vespasian hurried to the guard tower and, breathing hard from the climb up the ladder, stared down the slope. The small column of horsemen was casually trotting up towards the gate, and just behind the head of the column fluttered a pair of standards, one a British serpent, the other bearing the insignia of a Roman vexillation detached from the Twentieth Legion.

A creaking on the ladder announced the arrival of the legion’s senior tribune. Gaius Plinius had recently been appointed to the position, replacing Lucius Vitellius, now well on the road to Rome and a glittering career as a favourite of the Emperor.

“Who is it, sir?’

‘Verica, I’d imagine.’

‘And our lot?’

‘His bodyguard. General Plautius sent a cohort of the Twentieth to lend some weight to Verica’s cause when he reclaimed the throne.’ Vespasian smiled. ‘Just in case the Atrebates decided they’d be happier without their new ruler. Better see what they want.’

The roughly hewn timber gate swung inwards to admit the horsemen. On the muddy ground to one side of the churned track a hastily assembled century lined up to greet the guests. At the head of the column rode a tall man with flowing grey hair. Verica had been an imposing man in his prime, but now age and years of fretting in exile had reduced him to a frail, stooping figure who wearily dismounted from his horse to greet Vespasian.

‘Welcome, sire!’ Vespasian saluted, and after the briefest hesitation Plinius followed his legate’s example, swallowing his distaste for such deference to a mere native, albeit a king of his people. Verica walked stiffly up to the legate and clasped the forearm extended towards him.

‘Greetings, Legate! I trust the winter has been kind to you and your men?’

‘It hasn’t quite finished with us.’ Vespasian nodded at the slick mud lying all around them.

‘Goes with the turf!’ Verica grinned, pleased with his joke. Then he turned back to the horsemen, whose excitable beasts were champing and snorting at the unfamiliar surroundings. ‘Centurion! If you’d be good enough to give the word for the men to dismount. Then please join us!’

Beside the vexillation standard bearer a Roman officer saluted and quickly gave the order.

Vespasian turned to his senior tribune. ‘Plinius, see to it that they’re given something to warm them up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘My thanks, Legate.’ Verica smiled. ‘I’d appreciate a drink as well. I seem to recall a certain fondness for Falernian you had when we last met.’