The men of the headquarters guard stood rigidly at their posts in full armour. Vespasian wondered how they could stand the heat, and saw the glistening trickles of sweat running down their faces as he strode by them into his tent. Inside, the shade offered no respite from the hot, still air; indeed, it was actually far hotter inside the tent than outside. Vespasian beckoned to his steward.

'I want water. From the river. Make sure it's drawn upstream from the camp. I want a light tunic, my silk one. Then have someone take my desk outside and have an awning rigged over it. As fast as you can.'

'Yes, sir.'

When the man was gone, Vespasian stood still as his body slave unfastened the buckles of his armour and then lifted the breastplate away. Beneath, the thick military tunic was drenched with perspiration and clung awkwardly to his body as Vespasian impatiently lifted the hem and pulled it over his head. Outside the tent he could hear the commotion as men struggled to set up his campaign desk and the awning. There was too much to do and he shook his head when the body slave asked if he required a wash.

'Just get me the tunic.'

'Yes, master.'

The silk felt good against his skin – soft and smooth, and scented with dabs of the citron oil his wife had sent him from Rome. After he had briskly rubbed his matted hair in a linen cloth Vespasian made his way out of the tent and sat down at the desk. A clerk sat at one end, ready to take notes, and a neat pile of scrolls and wax tablets was waiting for the legate at the other end, beside the plain Samian jug and goblet. Vespasian poured himself some water and downed it in one go, relishing the cool and refreshing sensation. He poured another goblet and, with a deep breath, began to tackle the day's paperwork.

First he dealt with the casualty lists and unit strength returns. The numbers on the sick list for the Third Cohort looked excessive and he made a note on a wax tablet to call the cohort's commander in for a little chat. It was unlikely that Centurion Hortensius would sanction such a large number of men unfit for duty out of leniency. Vespasian well knew the man's reputation for driving his men on savagely, and while the legate approved of firm discipline, he would not countenance unnecessary harshness and cruelty. He sighed. It would not be an easy meeting. Most legates only served for a few years and it might seem presumptuous for Vespasian to lecture the vastly more experienced centurion on matters of discipline. Yet he could not afford to let the centurion abuse the men under his command, if that was what was causing the inflated sick list. If not that, then what? Either way, Vespasian had to know, and then deal with the problem.

Vespasian cast a quick glance over the latest set of supply and equipment inventories, approved them with a quick scratch of the stylus and thrust them towards his clerk.

'File them. We're low on javelin heads – add that to our next supply requisition.'

'Yes, sir.'

Next, Vespasian read the latest dispatch from Calleva. Centurion Macro reported that he had raised enough good men to fill out the ranks of two cohorts. Training had begun and, despite the language difficulties, the Roman instructors were making pleasing progress in training King Verica's men. Vespasian had received a copy of a message sent to Calleva, authorising Centurion Macro to arm his native cohorts, and was still surprised that the general had agreed to this quite so readily. While Plautius might be desperate for reinforcements to safeguard the supply lines south of the Tamesis, it was not accepted practice to raise units to serve in the province of their origin. There had been occasions in the past when loyal tribal allies had treacherously turned on their Roman friends. Despite Verica's obvious affection, and affectation, for all things Roman, he had not quite shaken off the taint of barbarian ways. Vespasian quickly drafted a reply to Macro, commending him for his efforts and requiring that the centurion report to him at once on any sign of disloyalty amongst the Atrebatans.

'Copy for our files and then get that off to Calleva at first light.'

'Yes, sir.'

Finally, the legate moved on to the intelligence reports. The small complement of mounted men that accompanied the legion served as scouts as well as messengers and last-ditch cavalry reserve. They had been patrolling the countryside around the hillfort, and the squadron commanders' reports provided detailed information about the surrounding geography, which was carefully added to the maps being prepared by Vespasian's clerks. The scouts also reported the presence of native settlements they encountered. The locals were then bribed or beaten into supplying information on any enemy troop movements they had observed.

Vespasian leaned over the desk to read the latest reports most carefully. He returned to an earlier report that seemed to confirm his growing suspicions. There was little doubt about it. The enemy was massing forces to the north, just this side of the Tamesis. Worse still, some natives claimed to have seen Caratacus himself amongst the enemy columns arriving in the area. Yet the latest dispatch from the general informed Vespasian that the main body of the enemy forces lay before Plautius and his three legions.

Vespasian stroked his chin and frowned. What was the wily Caratacus up to now?

04 The Eagle and the Wolves

The depot was filled with excited chatter as the Atrebatans examined their equipment. All morning Macro and Cato had sat with the quartermaster at his desk in the headquarters building, carefully noting the identification stamps on the equipment leaving stores to be issued to the natives. Silva had achieved his rank by virtue of an orderly mind, and by documenting everything; in another life he would have been an equally competent lawyer. Each of the Atrebatans was provided with sword, scabbard, belt, boots, tunic, helmet and shield from the vast stores of equipment in the depot. There was no spare armour, and the shields were the oval auxiliary issue, not the rectangular variant used by the legions. They would have been given javelins, but some bungling clerk at Rutupiae had not sent the fixing pins along with the iron heads and the wooden shafts.

'Wait till I find the twat responsible for this!' Macro growled. 'I swear I'll nail his balls to the floor the moment I find those pins.'

Cato winced in empathy.

'Nothing to do with me.' Silva shrugged with all the confidence of one who knew he could prove it. 'Must be a clerical error at army headquarters. The pins are probably in the depot somewhere, shipped under the wrong label. I'll have some of my lot hunt them down.'

Macro nodded his satisfaction. 'Still, I suppose we can cut the javelin training out for the moment, concentrate on the basics. Are those standards ready?'

Cato nodded.

'What did you use?'

'Tincommius got hold of some wood carvings, from gable ends.'

'Gable ends? Whose?'

'He said Verica wouldn't miss them.'

'Oh, great.'

'Anyway, we've got the head of a wolf and head of a boar. Well, pig actually. I fixed a couple of tent pegs in for tusks, and had the heads gilded. They look fine. I mounted them on a couple of spare vexillation standards and painted I and II Atrebatans on the leather drops.'

Macro eyed him coldly. 'You used vexillation standards?'

'I was in a hurry.'

'But they've been touched by the Emperor's own hand.' Macro was scandalised. 'Shit! If word of this gets back…'

'I won't tell if you won't.'

Macro struggled to control his temper. 'Cato, I swear, if you weren't still recovering from that bloody wound, I'd kick your fucking head in… Come on,' he continued in a resigned tone, 'let's go and see them.'