But after Caesar's day other histories had been dusted off. It turned out that chariot-fighting had once been quite prevalent across much of northern Gaul and Germany, but it had died out in those lands centuries back. For all its mobility a chariot was vulnerable to toppling or breaking down, and its passengers spent more time riding around than in engaging the enemy. The outcome of a battle lay, as it always did, in the slow grind of infantry work. In this way as so many others, it seemed to Vespasian, the Britons on their island were out of step with developments on the continent-even with the practices of their barbarian neighbours, never mind the Romans.

That said, a chariot assault could be a distraction in the course of a battle. So, it was decided, the best way to deal with the threat was to eliminate it before the engagement even started. Hence the Batavians had been sent over to sort it out, which they had done most effectively.

Now it was the turn of the main body of the force to cross.

Vespasian emerged from the cover of the trees close to the river bank, at the place the scouts had picked out in the daylight. By starlight he could see the river's dappling surface-and a silhouetted line of men working their way down the bank, into the water, and, following a rope laid out by the scouts, wading all the way to the far side. The men had bundles tied to their heads and shoulders, and they whispered to each other as they strode through the silvery water. Like everything the Roman army did, even this cautious mass wading was planned and executed meticulously.

A soldier approached him, grinning, his bare legs muddy. 'Good evening, sir.'

'Marcus Allius, is that you? I'd recognise the stink of those feet even in the pitch dark.'

'Half of us are over already.'

'Good work. And no catastrophes?'

'Oh, I had to make the crossing twice myself before they'd go near the water.' Vespasian saw that Allius had his hob-nailed sandals slung around his neck, and he wore his new helmet, a design ordered by Claudius himself, based on a barbarian model from Germany, with a plate that offered better protection for the neck at the back.

Allius had served with Vespasian for years. Now he was a decurion in the first cohort of Vespasian's own legion-the largest cohort, no less than eight hundred men. Allius was a good, solid, unimaginative man, the backbone of any army. Vespasian had heard he had been the first Roman soldier to step ashore when the invasion had begun-he had even been the first to kill a Briton, even if it had only been an idiot boy who had come wandering out of the dark. Because of this Allius had acquired a certain iconic status of his own, which was why Vespasian had assigned him to this crossing, as a good-luck token.

Now Allius said, 'The men are grumbling, sir.'

'Legionaries always grumble. The leeches in the river will probably put up a tougher fight than those Brittunculi.'

It was a weak joke that won Vespasian a laugh from some of the men lining up for their crossing. But he thought he heard a note of concern. After all they were far from home, they had crossed the Ocean, and now they faced a barbarian horde that had fought Caesar himself to a standstill. Legionaries were not cowards, but they were superstitious.

Vespasian dismounted and walked up to the line. 'We're surviving, are we, lads?'

A mumble of assent. 'Seen worse, sir.' That was about as much enthusiasm as you'd get from a legionary.

'You.' Vespasian pointed at random at a man. 'What are your orders for tomorrow?'

'In the morning the Britons will realise we're here on their bank. We're to hold our ground until legate Geta has assembled his legion.'

'All right. But you're outnumbered, and will remain so even when Geta joins you. What do you think about that?' Some uncomfortable shrugs. 'You saw all that posturing by the river. Listen to me. First, even if some huge barbarian savage came at you with a club like a tree trunk, he could not defeat you. Why? Because you aren't alone. Your comrades likewise can't be defeated because they have you at their side.

'And then there is the question of the names. Do you know what these names of theirs mean-Catuvellaunian, Cassivellaunus? That vellau means good, the best, perfect. So Cassivellaunus called himself "the perfect man". The Catuvellaunians are "the best warriors".' He grinned. 'If they really were so perfect, would they need to tell themselves? You have no need of pompous names. You are citizens of Rome and the finest soldiers in history. Just remember that.'

That won him a whispered cheer.

Vespasian returned to his horse. 'I thought that went well,' he said to Sabinus. 'I've always believed humour is the best antidote to fear.'

'Maybe,' his brother said to him as they rode away. 'It's just a shame you don't have any good jokes.'

It had been a bad night for the Catuvellaunian forces. Many of them had been discouraged by the Batavians' assault on the chariots and their horses, and the night had been disturbed by the screams of hamstrung and disembowelled animals.

Then, as the light had gathered, they were disconcerted to see the Roman forces drawn up on the western side of the river-this side, the British side. Nobody had had the slightest inkling that the Romans had made the crossing in the dark. Indeed, nobody was even sure how they had done so. But here they were, in the grey dawn.

The Romans were drawn up in the units of a few hundred men each that Nectovelin called 'cohorts', orderly rectangles scattered on high points of the gently undulating ground. They looked like toy blocks thrown down by some immense child, Cunedda thought. By contrast the British were just a single undifferentiated mass, with the warriors roughly drawn up in a line, their families and baggage at the back.

And, before a spear was thrown or a sword raised, the British were already melting away. The princes' coalition had always been an uneasy one.

The morning wore on.

Cunedda, restless, asked Nectovelin, 'Why don't the Romans attack?'

'They are waiting for us to charge,' Nectovelin said. 'And we will, if we are fools. If we are wise, we wait.'

'How long? All day?'

'If necessary, and all night, and another day. This is our country, remember. Let them sit here and starve.'

Cunedda said, 'But this waiting is hard. Even I long to start swinging my sword.'

Nectovelin grimaced. 'That's the British way. You draw up your army to face the other fellow's horde. After a lot of screaming and insulting and arse-showing, you might have a minor punch-up. Sometimes you'll just send in a champion or two to fight on behalf of the rest. Then, when honour is satisfied, you go home to your farm.'

'But that's not the Roman way.'

'Oh, no. The Romans believe in finishing what they start.'

'Can we win today, Nectovelin?'

'Of course we can. There are more of us than them, aren't there? And they are a long way from home. But it's out of our hands, Cunedda. It's up to the princes. I don't doubt their courage. Let's see if either of them has half the wisdom of their father.'

So the two forces faced each other, the disciplined Roman cohorts eerily calm and silent, the braying British mob facing them. As the heat gathered and the last of the morning mist burned off, Cunedda grew hot, thirsty, weary from standing, irritable from the discomfort of his heavy armour. He longed for this to be over one way or another-he longed for something to happen, anything-and it seemed to him that the tension was gathering to breaking point.

At last one man rushed forward from the British line, eyes bulging, waving a gleaming sword and howling. Cunedda had no idea who he was or why he had done this, but it was enough to break the stalemate. In a moment the noise rose to a clamorous roar, so loud Cunedda could barely think, and all around him powerful bodies surged forward with a clatter of swords on spears. Cunedda hesitated, but a shove in the back propelled him forward after the rest.