The legate was kept waiting at the entrance, standing just inside the tent flaps, as the clerk pushed through a linen curtain into the section reserved for Plautius and his staff. A number of lamps glowed through the fine material and the distorted shapes of men flitted across its uneven surface. The entrance was lit by a single lamp hanging by a chain from the tent pole and the dull yellow flame guttered at every waft of air. Outside the entrance, between the squad of bodyguards that lined the approach to the tent, the ground sloped down to the river, gliding serenely by under the moonlight. Down at the ford it twinkled as the current raced over the shallow pebbles and round the dark heaps of bodies that still choked the passage. On the far bank, in the pale silvery light of the moon, he could clearly see the ramparts of the Second Legion's marching camp. Within its dark outline tiny fires glinted brightly, like fallen stars.
Vespasian had left the camp and ridden across the ford a short while earlier, in response to the terse summons he had received from the general. Every step of the way his horse had had to pick a path through the dead that were strewn on the ground. Some men still lived amongst the corpses, moaning softly to themselves, or still possessed of enough strength to scream out in agony and cause the horse to start nervously. The sickly stench of blood drenched the air and made it seem hotter than it was. There had been no end to the bodies as the legate splashed through the ford and reached the small island in the middle of the Tamesis. More dead men lay along the track and were heaped in front of the remains of Centurion Macro's rough barricade. But the very worst was saved for last as Vespasian's horse emerged from the crossing and picked its way up towards the low ridge on which the general had set up his camp.
Bodies had been dragged clear of the track leading down to the ford, and the corpses were piled on either side, a shadowy tangle of torsos and limbs, stiffening as the sultry night dragged on. Beyond the nearest corpses the legate saw a field of bodies stretching out across the moonlit landscape, thousands of them. He shuddered at the thought of all the spirits of the dead that must be wreathing the air about him, lingering a while before beginning the journey to the land of endless shadows where the dead eked out their dreary existence for eternity. He knew well enough that these barbarians believed in an afterlife of endless drunken revelry, but the grim austerity of death made it hard for him to accept such a vision. The awfulness of the scale of human destruction all around him was the most oppressive sensation Vespasian had ever felt. Surely, he thought, next to a battle lost there is nothing so dreadful as a battle won.
'The general will see you now, sir.'
Vespasian turned towards the clerk, forcing himself to withdraw from thoughts of death that hung like a black mantle across the world outside the tent. He turned and ducked through the gap in the linen curtain the clerk held open for him. Inside, a few clerks still worked at their desks, even though it was the middle of the night. They did not look up as Vespasian was led towards another flap at the rear of the tent, and he wondered if they already knew something about his fate. He was cross with himself for entertaining such thoughts. These men were just busy, that was all. Nothing could have been decided yet. The clerk pulled back the curtain and Vespasian stepped into another, smaller, section of the tent. In the far corner, dimly lit, there was a camp bed and a few chests. In the centre stood a large table on which rested an ornate lamp-stand with several lights issuing flickering yellow flames as a huge Nubian slave slowly wafted a vast feather fan to cool the two men seated there.
'Vespasian!' Narcissus smiled warmly. 'It's good to see you again, my dear Legate.'
There was something dismissive about the tone in which Narcissus uttered the last word, and Vespasian recognised the customary attempt to put him in his place. Legate he may be, and from a senatorial family as well. Yet Narcissus, a mere freedman – lower in social status than the meanest Roman citizen – was the right hand of Emperor Claudius himself. His power was very real, and before it all the prestige and haughtiness of the senatorial class was as nothing.
'Narcissus.' Vespasian bowed his head politely, as if greeting an equal. He turned to General Plautius and saluted formally. 'You asked for me, sir.'
'I did. Take a seat. I've sent for some wine.'
'Thank you, sir.' Vespasian eased himself down into a chair opposite the others, and found some small relief from the gentle current of air that emanated from the slave's fan.
There was a brief silence before Narcissus spoke again.'The problem, as far as a mere bureaucrat can understand the military situation, is that the campaign is not quite over.' Narcissus turned towards the general. 'I believe I have that right. Now that Caratacus has slipped from our grasp… once again.'
General Plautius nodded.'It's true, as far as we know. A few thousand men did cross the river before we brought Caratacus to battle.'
Vespasian's eyebrows rose briefly in surprise. There had been no battle, just a pitiless massacre. Then he realised that the general's description had been for the benefit of the Imperial Secretary, who, no doubt, would write a report to his Emperor the moment he reached his own quarters. A battle would win more plaudits than a massacre.
'Caratacus,' Plautius continued,'may well be amongst those who escaped across the ford. It is of little consequence. There's not much he can do with a handful of men.'
Narcissus frowned. 'I hate to split hairs, General, but to me a handful of men implies a somewhat smaller number than several thousand.'
'Maybe,' Plautius conceded with a shrug, 'but on our scale of operations it will not cause us any concern.'
'So I can report to the Emperor that the campaign is over?'
Plautius did not answer, and glanced quickly at the legate, a warning look. Before the conversation could continue a slave arrived with the wine and carefully and quietly set the bronze tray down on the table. He poured a honey-coloured liquid from an elegant decanter into the three silver goblets and, setting the decanter down, he turned and backed out through the entrance. Vespasian waited for the others to take their goblets before he reached for the last one. The silver was cool to his touch and when he held it under his nose a rich aroma filled his nostrils.
'It has been chilled,' Plautius explained. 'In the river. I thought that after the heat of the day's battle some soothing refreshment was well deserved. A toast then.' He raised his goblet. 'To victory!'
'To victory,' said Vespasian.
'To victory… when it comes.'
The general and the legate stared at the Imperial Secretary as he slowly downed his drink and set the goblet lightly upon the table.
'A fine refreshment indeed! I shall have to get the recipe before I return to Rome.'
'How soon will you go?' Plautius asked bluntly.
'When the campaign is over. The moment I can report to the Emperor that we have ended organised resistance to Rome in the heartland of this island. When that is achieved the Emperor will be able to face his enemies in the senate knowing that they know that victory has been achieved. We cannot afford to have any tongues whispering that the war is still unresolved here in Britain. I have spies in your legions, and so do the Emperor's enemies. It is up to you to make sure they have nothing to report that can be used against Claudius.'