Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER XVIII

The first glow of dawn touched the eastern horizon to the sporadic accompaniment of birdsong. Vespasian was just finishing a tour of the five cohorts standing to, praising the men for their gallantry the previous day and encouraging them to face the perils of this new one with the same resolution. Maximus had rotated the ten cohorts allowing each four hours’ sleep under the clear sky that had burst forth with stars once the bright moon had set. Supper had been bread and salted pork eaten standing in formation; no fires had been lit so as not to provide light for the Britannic slingers and few archers to aim by. The slingers had come on a couple of occasions, unnoticed in the dark until their deadly shot clattered into the unsuspecting ranks, felling a few in the moments before shields were raised properly. After the first such attack only the very weary or reckless allowed their shields to drop, earning a sharp, hissed tirade from their centurions.

The II Augusta suffered no other attacks during the long night; however, the prolonged noise of battle from over the hill in the early hours implied that the XX Legion’s auxiliaries had encountered a night outflanking move by the Britons. The fact that no alarm had been raised had led Vespasian to conclude that they had been successfully repelled and a messenger from Geta had confirmed this shortly before he had begun his tour of inspection.

Vespasian drew a deep breath of fresh, early summer dawn air as he surveyed the spectral ranks of legionaries; he wondered how many, that day, he would be sending either to their deaths or to lives of limbless misery relying upon the charity of strangers. He knew that it was a morbid subject to contemplate but the weight of command lay heavy upon him after the battles of the previous day. Although he thought that he had acquitted himself well — the praise, albeit double-edged, from the far more experienced Geta had confirmed that — he was well aware of just what a close-run thing the securing of the bridgehead had been. The margin between victory and defeat had been fine, to say the least, and the thought of failure in front of the whole army had gnawed at him ever since his public dressing-down by Aulus Plautius for his neglecting to advance quickly enough to Cantiacum. Even though it had not had disastrous consequences it had been a salutary lesson to him and he now knew that a cautious general could be as much of a liability to the army as a rash one. Sometimes it was essential to make a decision without knowing all the facts; therefore the key to a successful decision was sound judgement. But that could only be gained by experience; and experience was something he was lacking.

As the other five cohorts, recently woken from their brief sleep, marched smartly back into position in the second line, he looked at the centurions’ weathered and hardened faces. He could see that each one had far more experience than he with his four years’ service as a military tribune and two years, so far, as a legate; and yet he was their superior by chance of birth. What did they think of him for his delay at Cantiacum? Did they trust him with their lives now after yesterday’s action when his timely reinforcement of the left flank narrowly saved the legion from being surrounded; or did they consider him to be another inexperienced commander placed over them because that was how the system worked and they were forced to make the legion function in spite of him? He did not know and he could not ask anyone. He smiled ruefully and reflected that this was the lot of a commander: loneliness. There was no one with whom he could share his thoughts and doubts, not even Magnus, because doing so would make him appear weak, and that was a quality that was universally despised in every soldier from the newest recruit to the most seasoned general.

A cornu rumbled from over by the ruined bridge and in the dim half-light he could just make out figures jogging across the newly positioned pontoon bridge upriver from it. Plautius was not waiting for dawn; he was seizing the initiative whilst the enemy was still rousing from sleep. Grateful for another lesson in decisive action, Vespasian consoled himself with the undoubted fact that if he survived this campaign he would be one of the most battle-hardened and experienced legates in the legions and he was learning from a general whom, despite his political slipperiness, he was coming to admire. He strode towards the II Augusta’s command point in the gap between the two lines of cohorts, where his new horse awaited, determined not to make any mistakes of judgement this day and steeling himself for hours of noise, blood and death. His confidence grew as he mounted up and surveyed the might of the legion all around him; they would triumph this day because Rome accepted no other result.

Vespasian drew another deep breath, tightened the chinstrap on his helmet and then looked down at the cornicen standing close to him. ‘The Second Augusta will advance!’

The Britons had, quite literally, been caught napping. The small force that they had left by the ruined bridge had not noticed the pontoon being towed soundlessly downriver in the complete darkness of the moonless part of the night. The first they knew about it had been when the lead cohorts of the XIIII Gemina, with Aulus Plautius and Sabinus in their front rank, had suddenly stormed across a bridge that had appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere. By the time any of them had worked out how it had been done they were facing the mechanical blades of the Gemina’s first cohort and the question was driven from their minds by the pain that they inflicted. Within a few moments those who were not lying dead or wounded were fleeing back to the main body of their countrymen further up the slope, who broke into a roar of anger so loud that it would have disturbed the peace of Hades itself.

The II Augusta marched steadily on, with the XX beside it; their auxiliaries followed behind. This was to be a day for close-quarters butchering; Vespasian had decided to use the lighter auxiliaries to chase the Britons once they had been broken into a defeated rabble. The legionaries knew that it was down to them to break the horde that was rapidly arming just a mile ahead of them. They thumped their pila slowly but rhythmically on their shields as they advanced, singing the hymn of Mars in low, sonorous voices to the beat, stirring courage into their hearts.

The men of the XX took up the song, doubling the volume; ten thousand voices now boomed out the ponderous hymn praising the god of war and asking him to hold his hands over them as they marched, rank upon rank, towards their enemies in the half-light.

Vespasian looked up and down the lines of iron-clad heavy infantry advancing steadily towards a fearsome enemy, many times their number; their expressions told that each man was determined to play his part to the best of his ability in the coming battle, to fight for himself and the men next to him in the spirit of camaraderie that glued a legion together, each man equally as important as the next. He pulled back his shoulders and sat bolt upright in the saddle, his heart swelling with pride; his self-doubt, which had been eating at him only moments earlier, dissipated to be replaced by a certainty: he would command his legion to the best of his ability. To doubt his ability would be to let down the men surrounding him. Rome would conquer and he would play his part in that victory and Rome would remember his name for his actions on this day.

More than half of the XIIII Gemina’s cohorts were across the bridge when the attack came. A multitude of disembodied voices rose out of the gloom, brewing into a shrieking of war cries, and the shadow of massed warriors rolled down the hill. Individual figures were indistinguishable in the dim yet waxing light, but their intent was clear: they were all heading in one direction, towards the XIIII to throw them back across the river before the II and the XX could link up with them. With all of their Batavian auxiliaries still occupying the high ground to the north the XIIII Gemina’s strength was just five thousand legionaries; five thousand against almost a hundred thousand. The weight pressing against their shields would be intolerable; they could not resist for long.

‘Advance at the double!’ Vespasian called to the cornicen over the tumultuous bruit of charging Britons and the rousing hymn of his men.

Within a few heartbeats the order was relayed throughout the legion; the pace increased but the song remained the same.

On the eastern bank the Hamians and artillery carts, shadowing the legion, also accelerated, knowing that, although their shafts would make little impact on the numbers of such a vast horde, every death they caused would count in some small way to the legion’s preservation.

In the growing light, individuals could now be made out, pelting down the slope towards the cohorts forming up beyond the pontoon bridge; the first line of five, with Sabinus in the front rank, had been completed and the rear line consisted now of two cohorts with the rest streaming over behind. The formation was a pitiful sight when compared to the mass surging towards it and Vespasian was under no illusions that it would not be swamped, having nothing to protect its flanks.

Judging the distance in the ever-growing light Vespasian reckoned that they were five hundred paces away; they could cover that ground in half as many heartbeats. Sabinus must hold for that time.

A dim pall soared from the XIIII Gemina: pila. An instant later another volley followed; both were absorbed by the Britons as if they had been cast, instead, into a river: the deaths of a few thousand of that multitude made no impact on their intent.

Then the charge carried home. The line shuddered, almost buckled and then gave a few paces before settling. Then it disappeared, engulfed. Above, the first rays of the sun hit high-altitude cloud with a deep red glow as if the sky itself was bleeding.

The only evidence of the legion’s existence was now the clamour of battle rising from within the packed mass of warriors. The last two cohorts crossed the bridge and disappeared into their midst proving that the legion still held, adding their weight to what would be, Vespasian knew from the previous day, an horrific heaving match of rib-crushing intensity.

With two hundred paces to contact, a goodly proportion of the Britons swirled away from the XIIII Gemina and turned to face the II Augusta, easing the pressure on Sabinus’ legion; they had held for those vital first few moments, they could surely hold a while longer against fewer enemies. The warriors still up the hill also changed their direction and made towards the XX, further reducing the threat to the beleaguered legion. On the eastern bank the Hamians began releasing volley after volley into the fray, felling hundreds, whilst the artillery carts’ crews levelled their weapons and frantically began the loading process.

Vespasian put his fear for his brother from his mind and concentrated on the timing of the signals. All around him the hymn to Mars soared to the sky, drowning out the clanking of equipment and the doubled footsteps of the legionaries but not the din of the battle raging deep within the howling enemy, who were now almost close enough to receive the first of the legion’s deadly weapons. He gave the order and the pila flew. More than two thousand of the cruel barbed points swept into the front ranks of the Britons, reaping a bloody harvest of ripe young lives and sowing terror into the hearts of their comrades behind as they leapt the skewered bodies seeping their lifeblood into the earth.

But they came on. Vespasian ordered the charge and the legion accelerated for the final few paces to the rumble of cornua. The hymn faltered as the long line of front rank shields, each with the weight of four armoured men behind it, powered into the Britons. A massed communal gasp burst from the lungs of both sides. The Roman shield wall drove forward with the impetus of the charge; the regimented discipline of the heavily armoured legionaries thrust the more numerous but lighter and less cohesive Britons back with grinding inevitability.

Then came the clash of iron; then the screaming started.

The legion gradually lost momentum and the battle settled. Much to Vespasian’s relief the Roman line remained firm, but it was perilously thin. Shouting over the tumult he ordered the second line of five cohorts forward to add their pila and their weight to the fight. Still singing the hymn at the tops of their voices the other half of the legion advanced; each soldier hurled both their pila in quick succession over the heads of their comrades and then joined the heaving files, pressing their shields into the backs of the men before them.

The extra weight of half a legion driving into the Britons broke whatever loose formation they had. Hundreds crumpled dead and hundreds more were punched back, blood pulsing from mortal wounds, as the legion regained momentum and ploughed on. The men in the first line who had stopped singing at first contact took up their comrades’ hymn again as they slew, praising the god of war as they savagely worked their blades.

A new terror then scythed into the warriors as the artillery shot weighty wooden bolts into their flank in one torsion-powered, devastating volley, clearing swathes of them away in a sudden acceleration of blurred motion as men just disappeared from sight to reappear again ten paces away with a bolt sideways through their chest and surprise in their dead eyes.

The men of the II Augusta sang on, blades slick with gore and faeces, stamping their feet forward over fallen Britannic warriors. The front rank straddled the bodies; the second rankers ground their swords into them, whether they looked alive or dead; wary of an upward thrust of a knife into their groins, they took no chances.

Pushed steadily back and back, pace by pace, tripping over corpses, the Britons’ resistance gradually waned as the sun rose. Vespasian had no way of knowing how long they had been fighting, time had become meaningless and he could only measure it in the regular artillery volleys; he thought that he had counted eight but could not be sure. What was sure, however, was that the deadly bolts had cleared the riverbank of the enemy and the first cohort was now almost unopposed. Through the gap he could see the left-hand cohorts of the XIIII Gemina; they still held. With one concerted effort the II Augusta could link up with them and the line would be complete.

Another artillery volley hissed into the Britons, plucking yet more from their feet in showers of blood and dropping them back down with their limbs at impossible angles, like puppets with their strings severed. This time the Britons wavered and the men of the II Augusta sensed it. Taking advantage of the momentary lull they surged forward with renewed vigour, stabbing their swords, punching their shield bosses, stamping their feet, stab, punch, stamp, stab, punch, stamp; the rear ranks still singing, the front saving their precious breath for the struggle.

The Britons began to fall back with greater urgency as the unstoppable Roman war machine increased its pace, dealing out death to all in its path. The first cohort now slewed, wheeling to the left, blocking the artillery’s direct line of fire, but closing on the left flank of the XIIII Gemina. More and more Britons were backing away, allowing the II Augusta more ground, which it gratefully accepted as it closed in on its sister legion.

The sun rose over the hill in the east, bathing the field of battle with morning light to the accompaniment of the long rumble of cornua and the blare of litui; massed horns crying from the top of the hill. The Britons looked up as they backed away, their faces falling in despair; at that instant the first man turned and ran.

The rout began.

Vespasian looked up to his right; along the hill’s crest was lined the VIIII Hispana and its auxiliaries, silhouetted against the golden, newly risen sun. On they came, marching in battle order over the hill and down, another deadly Roman war machine, fresh and ready to do the work that justified its existence. Having just faced three legions and been pushed back at great loss, the sight of a fourth was too much for even the most reckless warrior and the rout spread like fire through a field of wheat stubble.

The first cohort’s shoulders touched the flank of the XIIII Gemina; the line was complete. Vespasian ordered the auxiliaries and the legion’s cavalry up. Now was the time to finish it.

A deep booming from the cornua told the cohorts to open their ranks; gaps appeared between each unit. Taking his place at the front of the legionary cavalry, Vespasian kicked his horse forward and led them, along with Paetus’ ala and the Gallic ala, through the gaps towards the exposed backs of the fleeing warriors; behind them came the infantry cohorts. As they sped across the body-strewn ground more horns blared, this time from the hill occupied by the Batavian foot; Vespasian glanced up to see all eight cohorts charging down the slope towards the chaotic, porous flank of the broken horde. Vengeance for the hot and bloody time they had endured the previous day would soon be theirs and, as Vespasian’s sword slashed open the first exposed back that he came across, the Batavians carved into the other side of the rout with deadly intent.

The cavalry broke formation to sweep through the fleeing warriors, hacking and stabbing at them as they pounded back up the hill for their very lives. Here and there they came across little pockets of roughly organised resistance, men banded together for safety in clumps of a hundred or more retreating in tolerable order; these they avoided, not wishing to fall at the very moment of victory, concentrating instead on the plethora of individuals. They went down in their hundreds, shrieking curses as the invaders’ blades ripped the life out of them and they crashed to the blood-soaked earth of their homeland that Rome would now claim for its own.

Vespasian showed no mercy as he weaved his horse left and right, picking off as many of the vanquished as possible. He took care, however, that he and his cavalry did not venture too far into the main body of the Britons and risk being isolated and surrounded and, no doubt, subjected to a vengeful death. Further up the hill the XX Legion’s cavalry had broken out to reap their share of easy lives in amongst the more dense formation of the rout. A quick glance behind told him that the XIIII Gemina had moved aside and the first units of the VIIII Hispana were preparing to cross the bridge and begin their lightning march west to the Tamesis crossing point. Closer to him a group of Roman cavalry galloped in his direction with Aulus Plautius, resplendent in his general’s cloak and helmet crest, at their head.

‘Legate!’ the general shouted as he approached. ‘Pull your cavalry back before they get cut off. We’ll follow up with the auxiliary infantry; we’ll push them north into the Tamesis and hopefully a few thousand will drown trying to cross.’

‘Yes, general.’ Vespasian shouted at the nearest liticen, ‘Sound the recall!’

The man raised his horn and the order was sounded.

‘Your legion has served Rome and the Emperor well, Vespasian; I shall make sure that the right people know that. Today has been a good day for all our careers.’

Vespasian looked at Plautius; under the veneer of his cloak he was blood-splattered and cut and there were huge dents in his cuirass. ‘The Fourteenth had the hardest time, I should think; how is my brother?’

Plautius frowned, dislodging scrapings of crisp, dried blood from his forehead. ‘He’ll survive; he took a spear-thrust in his right shoulder just before the Britons broke. The bleeding has been stopped but he won’t be fit for command for a couple of days or so. I’ve got my personal doctor looking after him.’

‘Thank you, general.’ Vespasian struggled to keep his mount steady as, all around, the cavalry was rallying; frisky horses with the smell of blood in their nostrils stamped and snorted. ‘I’m sure he’s had worse. What are your orders for the Second, general?’

The high-pitched call of a lituus from further up the hill sounded before Plautius could reply; everyone recognised its meaning.

‘They’re in trouble,’ Vespasian said, looking in the direction of the call. About half a mile away he could see that a small group of the XX Legion’s cavalry had been sucked into the retreating mass of Britons.

Plautius spat, ‘Fucking idiots, that’s exactly what I didn’t want to happen. I’ve got few enough cavalry as it is, I can’t afford to lose those fools if we can avoid it. Legate, bring your men and follow me.’

Plautius flicked his reins on his mount’s neck and the beast took off up the hill. Vespasian charged after him, yelling at his men and Paetus’ ala to follow as the II Augusta’s auxiliary infantry caught up with them on their way to harry the enemy’s retreat.

Galloping up the hill they soon caught up with the rearmost stragglers; they ran them down if they could but made no attempt to chase them, such was their haste to come to the rescue of the isolated cavalry. The little pocket was surrounded by hundreds of warriors, herding them further away from the Roman lines and picking them off one by one. The lituus let out another shrill call that was abruptly terminated with a squeak, testifying to the demise of its owner.

Plautius crashed into the rearmost tormentors of the isolated cavalry, trampling two and bowling a few more aside with shattered bones. His horse reared, forelegs thrashing, raining down blows on skulls and shoulders as he swiped the head clean off a warrior; the man’s astonishment showed on his face as his headless body stood for a moment, emitting a fountain of blood, and then collapsed onto his severed head as the last of life faded from his eyes.

Vespasian followed his general in, his cavalry to either side, cleaving a bloody path through the Britons, who had been too intent upon their prey to notice the threat from behind them. Plautius’ wrath, aimed as much at his cavalry for getting themselves into this position as it was at the men who were trying to kill his precious mounted troops, drove him on in a fearsome killing spree that none dared oppose. Vespasian hunted in his wake, cutting down any who had managed to avoid the mounted terror scything its way through them, urging his mount on, its flanks drenched in blood, sticky beneath his calves.

Having already broken once that day, the Britons swiftly yielded up the prize they had surrounded and fled on up the hill. The eighty or so survivors of the XX Legion’s cavalry were left, shocked by their losses at the very close of the battle, facing their irate general.

Plautius rounded on the nearest decurion. ‘Get up the fucking hill after them and restore some pride!’ He turned to Vespasian. ‘Take your lads with them and make sure they don’t behave like raw recruits again. Just kill the stragglers and stop at the hill’s crest. Five each and that’s a thousand less of the bastards next time we face them.’

‘Halt!’ Vespasian shouted, raising his sword arm in the air; blood trickled down the blade onto his fingers and wrist. On the ground to his right lay the body of the final warrior he had killed in the harrying of the retreat. Grass was entwined with his drooping moustache and his bottom teeth were sunk into the ground; his eyes stared blankly at the gory crown of his skull that lay upright before him like a ghastly chalice.

As the cavalry rallied behind him, Vespasian surveyed the scene from the hilltop. To the north the bulk of the defeated army streamed towards the Tamesis, glittering in the warm sun just ten miles away. They were pursued, in good order, by the Batavian infantry and the II Augusta’s auxiliaries, picking off the rearmost but making no attempt to make contact with the main body as they drove them north. The rest of the Britons were heading west; a few chariots could be seen at their head a couple of miles distant and the lucky stragglers, who had narrowly escaped the cavalry spathae, were no more than two hundred paces away.

‘The sight of an enemy running always warms the heart, eh, legate?’ Plautius observed, pulling his horse up next to Vespasian. ‘A decent day’s work; we must have killed nearly forty thousand of the buggers. It’s ironic that after such a victory I have to write to the Emperor requesting his help.’

‘You’ve left him a few to deal with.’

‘Yes, a few too many for my liking; there must be twenty thousand heading west and another forty thousand making for the river.’

‘Why don’t you try and finish it, general?’

‘Because I don’t have enough fucking cavalry. They’re not stupid enough to turn and face legions again, but if I had fifteen thousand cavalry I wouldn’t need them to turn, I could just mop them up. But never wish for what you don’t have, it takes your mind away from using what you do have to full effect. I’ve sent orders to the auxiliaries to let the river and the fleet’s catapults do the rest of the day’s killing and I’m sure that they’ll be happy to leave it that way; the Ninth will follow the others west and take the Tamesis crossing point. And then Caratacus and Togodumnus will have to decide what to do.’

‘Togodumnus is dead, sir, I saw him die.’

‘Really? Who killed him?’

‘My horse.’

Plautius looked at the beast beneath Vespasian with an appreciative eye. ‘Quite an animal you’ve got there.’

‘It wasn’t this one, it was another; Togodumnus killed it and then managed to get underneath it as it hit the ground.’

‘Very careless of him. But I’m grateful for your horse’s sacrifice, that’ll make things a lot easier politically. Caratacus rules in the west but Togodumnus’ realm was to the north of the Tamesis based in Camulodunum, the capital that Claudius wants to enter himself. If they’re defeated and leaderless and we hold the north bank of the Tamesis I think that we could get them to see sense, provided that we don’t give them any more cause to hate us. Well done, legate, your horse might just have saved thousands of lives.’

Vespasian was tempted to ask Plautius to tell Geta that, but refrained. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Plautius nodded with satisfaction and turned to the remnants of the XX legion’s cavalry. ‘Which one of you unsponged arseholes is responsible for losing so many of my cavalry?’

The decurion who had been the object of Plautius’ wrath earlier ventured a reply. ‘It was our legate, sir.’

‘Geta? Where is the idiot?’

The decurion indicated down the hill with his head. ‘Back there, sir; he fell just as you broke through to us. I think he’s dead.’

Vespasian and Plautius retraced their steps down the hill littered with corpses and stained with blood in every direction. Vespasian stared about him aghast at the magnitude of what had happened: thousands upon thousands of dead Britannic warriors lay sprawled on the battlefield from the Batavians’ hill in the north, along the line of the XIIII Gemina’s stand by the pontoon bridge — which the VIIII Hispana was now traversing — and on to the line of the II Augusta’s first combat, the previous day in the south. They lay singly, in groups or in long rows, like driftwood marking the extent of high tide, showing where they had taken on the might of Rome, head on, with little hope of victory. There were Romans too amongst the dead, not nearly as many, probably one for every forty Britons, Vespasian estimated. It had been a decisive victory at relatively little cost but its aftermath was a sombre sight: endless corpses of young men cut down in their prime as they defended their homeland from an invasion that, as far as Vespasian could make out, was motivated not by any strategic necessity but by the desire of three freedmen to keep their unmartial, drooling master in power so that they could enjoy its benefits. He quickly banished the bitter thought from his mind, knowing that unless he retired back to his estates and forewent a career in Rome he would always be a witness to the selfishness of politics.

‘Apart from the Fourteenth’s defensive line this must be one of the few places on the field where more than twenty or so of our lads lie together,’ Plautius reflected as they approached the point where the cavalry had been rescued.

Vespasian surveyed the tangle of troopers and their mounts, nearly forty in all; their comrades were working their way through them looking for any signs of life as the auxiliaries of the VIIII Hispana marched by, acting as the vanguard for their legion. ‘My Batavians also took heavy losses buying us time to form up across the bridge.’

‘Yes, I watched that, it was bravely done; I shall see that Paetus comes to the Emperor’s attention when he gets here. And Civilis of the Batavian Foot, the diversionary action on that hill was the key to the battle. Did you know that he’s the grandson of the last Batavian King?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘His men treat him as if he was the King himself, they’d follow him anywhere.’

‘General!’ a trooper shouted from the midst of the corpses. ‘It’s the legate, he’s still breathing.’

Vespasian and Plautius dismounted and picked their way through the dead to where Geta lay. Blood seeped from under his breastplate; it was pierced just below the ribcage. He was unconscious but definitely breathing.

Plautius looked down at him with a mixture of regretful disapproval and sorrow. ‘Get him to my doctor, trooper, you’ll find him in a tent across the river.’

The trooper saluted; he and three mates began to prise the wounded legate out of the tangle of dead flesh.

Plautius shook his head. ‘He’s a fine soldier but why he made such an elementary mistake is beyond me. Everyone knows that you don’t take cavalry too deep into an enemy rout; it’s asking for trouble.’

‘Perhaps he saw Caratacus, and tried to get to him.’

‘We’ll find out, if my doctor manages to save him. You should get back to your legion now; I want a full report of casualties first thing in the morning. We’ll march west at dawn the following day once I’m sure that Togodumnus’ men are either dead or across the river; I wouldn’t like to have a force that size come and bite my arse. I want your legion to lead the way, seeing as you’ll be the only fit legate left to me.’ He looked at the first cohort of the VIIII Hispana now marching by with its Eagle at its head. ‘It’s their turn now.’ He spotted Corvinus sitting proudly on his horse riding to the side of the column and rode over to him. ‘March your lads hard, legate, it’s down to speed now and you’ve got thirty miles to go; I want you at the Tamesis by tomorrow afternoon.’

‘We’ll be there, general.’

‘I’m sure of it. The fleet will be following you in support once they’ve dealt with the Britons trying to cross the river. And remember, take the north bank and hold it; do not go further.’

Corvinus smiled thinly and saluted. ‘Of course, sir. Goodbye!’

The tone of the last word struck Vespasian as having a finality to it as he watched Corvinus riding away and, thinking of Narcissus’ suspicions, he wondered whether to confide in Plautius. ‘Do you trust him, sir?’

‘Trust him? I have to. Narcissus suggested to me that I should send him forward, just before we left for Britannia. He thought Claudius would appreciate me sending his brother-in-law to be the first Roman to cross the Tamesis since Julius Caesar; it would reflect well on the imperial family and the gesture would not go unnoticed by the Emperor. For once I agreed with that oily freedman.’

‘But he didn’t seem very keen on waiting for Claudius.’

‘He’ll obey his orders.’

‘What if he doesn’t?’

‘He will. Narcissus pointed out that he and his sister both have everything to gain from Claudius’ supposed victory.’

Vespasian stared, incredulous, at Plautius’ profile. ‘Are you sure he said that?’

‘Of course I’m sure, legate! I’m not deaf.’

‘I apologise, sir. I’ll return to my legion now.’ Vespasian gave a salute and turned. Riding away, he looked back up the hill at the VIIII Hispana and, in a moment of clarity, he realised what Narcissus had done and why: he had made his first move towards the removal of Messalina.