How, Vespasian wondered, could the legions deal with such tactics? Pinpointing and destroying Caratacus and his men would be rather like trying to sink a cork with a hammer. He smiled bitterly at the simile; it was too accurate a comparison for comfort.

'There!' General Plautius pressed his ring down on the last document. The clerk whisked it away from the table and tucked it under his arm with all the others.

'Get those ready for dispatching straightaway. The courier's to board the first ship leaving on the morning tide.'

'Yes, sir. Will that be all for tonight, sir?'

'Yes. As soon as the dispatches are ready, you can send your clerks back to barracks.'

'Thank you, sir.' The clerk saluted and hurried from the office before the general changed his mind. The door closed and Plautius and the commander of the Second Legion were alone in the office.

'Wine?' offered Plautius.

'That'd be welcome, sir.'

General Plautius rose stiffly from his chair and stretched his arms as he made his way over to a brass jug set in a small retaining stand over the delicate flame of an oil lamp. Thin wisps of steam curled up from the jug as Plautius lifted the wooden handle, and then poured two generous portions into silver goblets. He returned to his desk and set them down, smiling contentedly as he wrapped his hands round his warm goblet.

'I don't think I could ever come to love this island, Vespasian. Wet and boggy for most of the year, short summers and bitter winters. It's not a fit climate for civilised men. Much as I enjoy soldiering, I'd rather be home.'

Vespasian smiled, and nodded. 'No place like it, sir.'

'I'm determined to make this my last campaign,' continued the general in a more sombre tone. 'I'm getting too old for this life. It's time a new generation of generals took over. I just want to retire to my estate near Pompeii and spend the rest of my days savouring the view out across the bay towards Caprae.'

Vespasian doubted that Emperor Claudius would be keen to dispense with the services of a general of such great experience, but kept his silence so that Plautius might enjoy his reverie. 'Sounds very peaceful, sir.'

'Peaceful?' The general frowned. 'I'm not sure I even know what the word means any more. I've been in the field too long. If I'm honest I'm not really sure if I could stand being retired. Maybe it's just this place. Hardly been here a few months and I'm already sick of the sight of it. And that bloody man Caratacus is tasking me every step of the way. I really thought we'd beaten him once and for all in that last battle.'

Vespasian nodded. It was what they had all thought. Even though the battle had almost been lost, thanks to the Emperor's foolish tactics, the legions had finally overwhelmed and crushed the native warriors. Caratacus, and what remained of his best troops, had fled the field. In the normal course of events the barbarians would have accepted that Rome had defeated them, and sued for peace. But not these confounded Britons. Far better, it seemed to them, to fight on and be slaughtered and have their lands laid waste, than to be pragmatic and come to terms with Rome. Most hostile of all were the Druids.

A handful of them had been taken alive after the last battle and were now held in a special compound under heavy guard. Vespasian felt a tremor of revulsion as he recalled his visit to see the Druids. There were five of them, dressed in dark robes and wearing charms of twisted hair on their wrists. Their own hair was knotted back and stiffened with lime; the reek of it offended the legate's nostrils as he eyed them curiously from the other side of the wooden bars. Each man had a black tattoo of a crescent moon on his forehead. One Druid stood apart from the others, a tall, thin man with a gaunt face and a long white beard. Strikingly, his eyebrows were a mass of thick black bristles, beneath which dark eyes glinted from deep sockets. He did not speak in Vespasian's presence, only stood glowering at the Roman, arms crossed and feet planted slightly apart. For a while Vespasian was content to observe the other Druids, conversing in sullen low tones, before his gaze was drawn back to their leader, who was still staring at him. The Druid's thin lips had parted in a grin, revealing sharp yellow teeth that looked as if they had been filed. A dry rasping laugh stilled his followers who ceased their muttering and turned to look at Vespasian. One by one, they joined in the mocking laughter. Vespasian suffered it for a while, then angrily turned away and marched from the compound.

These Britons were childish fools, decided Vespasian, recalling the demeanour of the tribal leaders that had come before Claudius to pledge their good will following the defeat of Caratacus. Arrogant and stupid, and far too self-indulgent and self-regarding. Already, the emptiness of their words of friendship was becoming obvious, and much more of their blood, and that of the legions, would be shed before this island was conquered.

Such a terrible waste. As always, the worst suffering would be borne by those natives at the very bottom of this barbarian society. Vespasian doubted that they would be unduly concerned if the warrior class that ruled them was swept away and replaced by Rome. All they wanted was a decent harvest to see them through the next winter. That was the limit of their ambition, and while their overlords resisted Rome, their precarious existence would be battered by the tides of war sweeping across the land. Coming from a family only recently elevated to the aristocracy, Vespasian was sensitive to the realities of those who lived beyond the sight of the high and mighty, and readily empathised with their plight. Not that this helped him in any way; he saw it as yet more evidence of his unsuitability for the social position he held. He was quietly envious of the automatic assumption of superiority so evident in the attitude and bearing of those descended from the ancient families of the aristocracy.

Yet it was those very same qualities that had almost resulted in the destruction of Claudius and his army. Rather than take note of the skill with which Caratacus had resisted Rome thus far, the Emperor had dismissed the British commander as little more than a savage, with the most rudimentary grasp of tactics, and none of strategy. Such a woeful underestimation of his enemy had nearly proved fatal. Had Caratacus been in command of a more disciplined army, a different emperor would be ruling in Rome now. Maybe the world would be better off without these perpetually preening aristocrats, mused Vespasian, then quickly dismissed the idea as fanciful.

Having learned the limitations of throwing an untrained army against the disciplined ranks of the legions, Caratacus had reorganised his forces into small flying columns with strict orders to settle for small victories, won as cheaply as possible. In this way Rome might be persuaded that the Britons were too troublesome to bother with and quit the island. But Caratacus had not reckoned on the tenacity of the legions. No matter how long it took, no matter how many men it cost, Britain would be added to the empire – because the Emperor had ordered it. That was the simple truth of things. As long as Claudius lived.

Plautius refilled his cup and stared down into the spiced wine. 'We must still deal with Caratacus. The question is how? He won't want to risk another pitched battle, no matter how many more men he has recruited. And we can't afford to bypass him and move deeper into the heart of this island. He'd bleed us white before the end of the next campaign season. Caratacus must be eliminated before the province can be settled. That is our immediate goal.' Plautius looked up and Vespasian nodded his agreement.

The general reached to the side of the desk for a large vellum roll and carefully spread the map open between himself and the legate. Much of the ink notation was crisp and black, steadily added to over the winter as the cavalry patrols provided more and more information about the lie of the land. Vespasian was impressed by the detail on the map, and said so.