Quertus glanced at the bodies and then his dark eyes fixed on Cato. ‘What happened here?’ he asked in a flat tone.

‘They tried to take the standard from that Silurian. He slew them both before I could intervene.’

Macro stirred beside him; the explanation had taken him by surprise. Cato fervently prayed that Macro would hold his tongue for the next few moments. Quertus nodded slowly.

‘Then they died heroes.’

‘It would seem so.’

At length the Thracian gestured towards Cato’s face. ‘You’re wounded, sir.’

‘It’s nothing.’ Cato turned away and strode across to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Macro hesitated a moment, glaring at Quertus, before he followed suit. Cato looked round the valley and saw the distant figures of the men and women of the tribe running for their lives, clutching their children by the hand as they made for the trees each side of the valley. He wiped the blood from his lips. Already it was beginning to clot in his nose and the flow was no more than an oozing trickle. He cleared his throat.

‘Centurion Quertus, order your men to round up prisoners. They are only to kill those who resist. The prisoners, and our casualties, are to be taken up to the chieftain’s hut. Is that clear?’

Quertus nodded.

‘I said, is that clear, Centurion?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s better. Then see to it at once.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Quertus wheeled his horse round and barked out orders to his men. Riders set off at once to inform the other squadrons as Cato and Macro rode back up the slope. Quertus beckoned to the rest of his men and they fell in behind the prefect and his companion. At the top of the slope, Cato made his way round to the open area in front of the large hut and saw twenty or so of the enemy sitting on the ground, guarded by several of the Thracian auxiliaries. Amongst the prisoners was the blond man, conspicuous by his stature and the lightness of his hair compared to the mostly dark-haired Silurians. He had been stripped of his weapons, his shield and his helmet, and now Cato had a clearer view of his features. He reined in a short distance away and stared at the man.

‘Macro, see that one?’ Cato pointed. ‘He seems very familiar. Do you recognise him?’

Macro looked and shrugged. ‘Can’t say that I do.’

Cato frowned. ‘I’ve seen him before. Recently. Sure of it . . .’

Cato steered his horse over towards the man and stopped six feet from where he sat. The native looked up defiantly.

‘On your feet!’ Cato ordered, gesturing with his hand.

The man did not move and Macro trotted up, red-faced. ‘You heard the prefect! On your fucking feet, you mangy dog!’

Slowly, and with as much haughty dignity as he could manage, the warrior stood up and squared his shoulders, regarding his captors with a contemptuous expression.