Marcommius shook his head. ‘And no sign of Caratacus either. Hardly surprising, given how badly you Romans want to get your hands on him.’

‘The governor gave his word that all would be given safe conduct. Even Caratacus.’

‘Such guarantees are easily broken.’

Cato looked at Ostorius. ‘Not by some Romans, at least.’

A figure emerged from between the stone pillars behind the altar. Robed in black from shoulder to toes, the Druid wore a leather headpiece from which a set of antlers protruded like the bare branches of a tree in winter. As the Romans and the Iceni took their places, the Druid who had brought them here hurried to join the others standing beside the altar. There was a silence before the antlered figure stepped up to the altar and slowly raised his hands into the air, fingers spread so that his untrimmed nails looked like claws in the red hue of the fires burning on top of the earth rampart. Then he spoke, or rather chanted, in a high-pitched sing-song, and at intervals the other Druids joined in.

‘What are they saying?’ Macro whispered to Marcommius.

‘It is a prayer that all who are gathered here show wisdom, and do the will of the gods of their tribes. The High Druid asks that the spirits of the gods speak through us . . . He asks this in return for the offering.’

Cato turned to him. ‘What offering?’

Before Marcommius could reply, another figure emerged from between the pillars, a boy, barely into his teens, clad in a white robe with a garland of mistletoe about his neck. His eyes were wide and his lips trembled as he walked slowly towards the altar.

CHAPTER NINE

Behind the boy walked a man in a richly patterned cloak. He rested one hand on the boy’s shoulder and the other hung limply at his side. He struggled to contain his grief. When the boy reached the altar, the man stepped forward and kissed him tenderly on the top of his head and was still for a moment before the High Druid snapped a word of command. The man shrank away in fear, his mouth opened to cry out to the boy. But no sound came, and then two Druids took him by the arms and held him in place.

‘What in Hades’ name is going on?’ Macro growled. ‘This better not be what I think it is. Marcommius, tell me.’

‘This is the sacrifice demanded by the gods. An unblemished child. The man is his father.’

‘What? What father would play any part in this fucking horror show?’

‘It is an honour to be chosen, Roman. See, the boy goes quite willingly. And the father will be held in respect by his people when it’s all over.’

‘How could any man be respected for leading his son to the slaughter?’

There was genuine anger and outrage in Macro’s voice and Cato knew his friend well enough to fear that he would charge forward at any moment to put a stop to the ritual, with no thought to the consequences.