As the soldiers moved into position, Cato and the others swung themselves up into their saddles and formed a line across the track. Ostorius stood listening, and was the last man to mount, easing his horse forward so that it stood in the middle of the track a short distance in front of his officers. Cato saw the governor’s left hand slip down to rest on the pommel of his sword as he waited. The sound of the approaching horses was much more distinct now and one of the junior tribunes at Cato’s side cleared his throat nervously.

‘How many of them, do you think?’

Cato was unsure who the question was aimed at but knew that the young officer needed reassurance. He had heard enough cavalry in his time to hazard a guess. ‘No more than ten, I’d say.’

The tribune nodded and, following the example of his commander, he rested his hand on the pommel of his sword. Cato noticed the nervous tremor in the officer’s fingers. He recalled his own fears in the early days of his army service when combat seemed imminent. The fear had gone, but he still suffered from the gnawing anxiety of letting his comrades down, Macro foremost. That and the terror of a crippling wound that would leave him as an object of pity and ridicule. Then his thoughts were distracted as his mount shied and tried to retreat from the line. He dug his heels in firmly and gritted his teeth as he struggled to still the brute and get it back into position. By the time that was done the sound of hoofs was much closer and then a shadowy form emerged from the gloom, and there was a shout an instant later, in a tribal tongue. The rider reined in abruptly and then there were several more, forming up on each side, and others behind.

A challenge sounded, in the same language, and Ostorius raised his left hand in greeting. ‘Romans!’

There came a gruff muttering in response and then stillness and silence. A faint metallic scraping sounded close to Cato and he glanced aside to see the tribune’s sword emerging from its scabbard.

‘Put that back, you fool!’ Cato hissed. ‘We do nothing without an order from the governor.’

The tribune eased his blade down and the fingers of his hand clenched and unclenched.

‘Advance and be recognised!’ Ostorius called out. There was a tense pause before one of the Britons urged his horse forward and emerged from the mist, revealing a large man in a fur-trimmed cloak, beneath which mail gleamed dully. His hair fell across his shoulders and as he drew nearer, the governor lowered his hand and bowed his head in greeting. ‘King Prasutagus.’

‘Governor Ostorius,’ came the deep, rumbling reply. ‘I thought that it was maybe an ambush, for a moment.’

‘Who would ambush you here, in territory we control?’

‘We all have our enemies.’ Prasutagus turned and beckoned to his retinue and they trotted forward to join their leader, as Ostorius called out to Macro and his bodyguards to return to the road. The Iceni riders looked round suspiciously as the legionaries appeared from both sides. The governor edged his mount forward and clasped arms with Prasutagus.