‘Both, I should think. Why else put it here, where one of our patrols might encounter it?’ As he spoke the last word, it caught in his throat as he spied another body on a stake, off to one side of the track, then another opposite, forming a line across the route leading into the valley beyond. ‘There’s more of them, Macro. Look.’

He pointed them out and his friend swore. They gazed at the bodies a moment before Macro turned back and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Decurion! Bring your men on! It’s safe.’

Cato shot him a surprised look. ‘Safe?’

‘These three aren’t going to pose much of a threat, are they?’

Cato glanced at the bodies. ‘No, not them.’

There was a dull rattle of hoofs on loose stones as Trebellius and the rest of the column emerged from the mist and reined in in front of the line of stakes. Even though most of the soldiers had experienced the horrors of war, Cato could see the ashen expression on the faces of the men nearest to him. The prisoner, hanging over the back of one of Decimus’s mules, looked up and his eyes were wide in terror at the sight of the impaled men. He began to speak quickly, in a desperate pleading tone.

‘Decimus!’ Macro called out. ‘Shut him up.’

Decimus tore his gaze away and nodded. He turned his mule back to the prisoner and raised his fist menacingly. Turrus flinched, and clamped his jaw shut, watching the Roman warily.

‘Who are they?’ asked Trebellius.

‘Silurians, I’d guess.’ Cato pointed to the markings on the nearest man. ‘We can find out soon enough. Decimus! Bring the prisoner forward.’

The mules trotted up. Turrus’s jaw sagged slightly at the sight of the three bodies and then he started to tremble.

‘Ask him if these are his people?’

Trebellius translated the question and Turrus nodded anxiously.

‘Then this is the work of Quertus, all right,’ said Macro. ‘Only thing that makes sense.’

He was about to continue when there was a soft groan from the man to the right. The heads of the riders turned towards the figure and Cato saw that he was moving feebly, his feet struggling against the rough wood of the stake.

‘Dear Mithras.’ Decimus’s voice wavered. ‘He’s alive.’