‘They’re tough enough,’ Albinus said grudgingly. ‘Tougher than many of the men who serve with the eagles. But the moment you try and make them drill in a formal and disciplined way, it’s an utter fucking shambles. Pardon my Gallic, sir. They can’t co-ordinate; it’s every man for himself in a mad charge at the enemy. About the only thing they will do is individual weapons practice. Even then they use the swords we’ve equipped them with like bloody meat cleavers. Keep telling ‘em that six inches of point is worth any amount of edge, but I’m not getting through. They just won’t be trained, sir.’

‘Won’t be?’ Vespasian raised his eyebrows. ‘Surely a man of your experience can make them train? You’ve dealt with difficult cases before.’

‘Difficult cases, sir. But not difficult races.’

Vespasian nodded. All the Celts he had met shared the same arrogant belief in their culture’s innate superiority, and affected a profound contempt for what they considered the unmanly refinements of Roman and Greek civilisations. These Britons were the worst of the lot. Too stupid by half, Vespasian concluded.

‘Do what you can, Centurion. If they won’t learn from their betters they’ll never be a threat to us.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Albinus’s gaze dropped despondently.

The muffled blaring of a signal trumpet sounded beyond the tent. Moments later they could hear orders being shouted. The centurion glanced towards the legate but Vespasian refused to be seen as a man who would be ruffled by any stray distraction. He leaned back in his chair to address the centurion.

‘Very well, Centurion. I’ll send a report back to the general to let him know about your situation, and these Druid raids. In the meantime, you’re to carry on with the training, and keep the patrols going. We might not keep the Druids out but at least they’ll know we’re looking for them. The scouts should make that job easier. Anything else to tell me?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Dismissed.’

The centurion picked up his helmet, saluted and marched smartly out of the tent.

Vespasian was aware that the shouting had increased, and the chinking of weapons and armour indicated that a large body of men was on the move. It was difficult to resist the impulse to rush from the tent to discover what was happening, but he would be damned if he allowed himself to behave like some excitable junior tribune on his first day in the army. He forced himself to pick up a scroll and start reading the latest strength reports. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards immediately outside the tent.

‘Is the legate there?’ someone shouted to the sentries guarding the entrance flap to Vespasian’s tent. ‘Then let me pass.’

The folds of leather parted and Plinius, the senior tribune, pushed through, panting for breath. He swallowed anxiously. ‘Sir! You have to see this.’