‘Macro, for pity’s sake, control yourself.’ Cato clamped his fingers round the wrist of the centurion’s sword arm. ‘There’s nothing we can do. We cannot change what is going to happen.’

‘We’ll see about that!’ Macro snarled, shaking off his grip.

‘No.’ Cato stood in front of his friend, blocking Macro’s view of the altar. ‘Stand your ground. That is an order.’

Macro looked at him with a shocked expression. ‘An order? Cato . . . lad, you can’t be serious.’

There was a sick feeling wrenching at Cato’s guts as he heard the pleading tone in his friend’s voice. Part of him wanted to tell Macro he understood – he shared – his revulsion and a desire to stop this macabre ceremony. But there was also the soldier in him, the man who obeyed orders. But it was the need to protect Macro that decided him. He turned to two of the bodyguards.

‘Hold him. If he struggles, or shouts out, knock him senseless.’

One of the legionaries shook his head. ‘Sir?’

‘Do as you are ordered!’ Cato snapped fiercely. ‘Do it! Before he gets us all killed.’

The legionaries quickly grabbed Macro and held him firm, though he was too shocked to react at first. Instead he stared at Cato. ‘Why?’

‘We cannot save the boy.’

‘What’s going on here?’ Ostorius demanded as he edged through his men towards the commotion. The legionaries’ attention was broken and Macro pulled himself free. The governor ordered in a low voice, ‘Shut your mouths and stand still, damn you. Prefect, speak up, man. What in Hades’ name is happening?’

Cato turned towards his superior. ‘It’s sorted out, sir. Isn’t that right, Macro?’

Cato’s eyes pleaded with his friend and Macro glared back for a moment before he lowered his head and his shoulders drooped in despair. Cato turned about, so that his back would be in Macro’s way. The boy was struggling to climb on to the altar, whether because he was too scared or too weak, Cato could not tell. The High Druid stepped forward, grasped the boy by the waist and heaved him on to the top of the altar before forcefully pressing him down, his arms outstretched. The Druid turned the boy’s head to the side so that he was facing into the heart of the ring, and then raised his own arms to the heavens, tilting his antlered head back as he chanted. The sound of his voice was rich and melodic and he delivered his words with a steady cadence. A phrase was repeated, and the other Druids joined in, and then the rest of the tribesmen followed – even the boy as he lay on the altar, eyes wide as his lips moved as if they had a will of their own. The volume steadily rose until the chant was deafening and Cato felt as if his ears were being assaulted by the din driving into his skull, his body and his bones until he felt almost consumed by the rhythm.