Macro was the first to move, striding forward, jaw clenched, and Cato followed him. The centurion leaned down and gently took the tribune’s arm. The other man flinched and instinctively recoiled with a meaningless croak.

‘Let’s get you up on your feet, sir,’ Macro said evenly, even as he felt sick to his core at the ruined features of the face that turned blindly towards him. Cato took his other arm and between them they lifted Marcellus up and led him towards the other tribunes and the bodyguards, who looked aghast.

‘It’s all over now, sir,’ Macro continued. ‘You’re back with your own kind.’

Cato gestured to two of the bodyguards. ‘Over here. Take care of the tribune. Get him to the outpost at once and see that his wounds are treated and he is fed.’

The legionary nodded as he and his comrade took over from the two officers and led the tribune away round the periphery of the circle. Macro watched them for a moment before he muttered, ‘If that ever happens to me, then swear you’ll cut my throat.’

‘And answer to your mother?’

Macro turned to his friend with a dark expression. ‘You’ll be sparing her as much as me, Cato. Promise me.’

Cato nodded. ‘As you wish.’

‘Swear it!’

Cato was surprised by the intense glare in Macro’s eyes. ‘I swear it, on my life.’

Macro let out a deep breath. ‘And I’ll do the same for you.’

Cato cocked an eyebrow at Macro’s readiness to end his life. Then the image of the tribune’s ruined face filled his mind and he felt an icy squirm in the pit of his stomach as he imagined himself in the tribune’s place, returning home crippled and useless, and the looks of horror, disgust and pity that would distort Julia’s face when she saw him. Not that he would see it. But he would hear it in her voice. Perhaps there was a woman waiting for Marcellus in Rome, he reflected, doomed to endure for real what he was only imagining.

Caratacus had allowed his moment of theatre to play out, standing to one side. Now he occupied the centre of the circle again and continued to address the gathering.

‘The tribune was in command of nearly a thousand legionaries. All were killed or captured in just one raid. If such a powerful column can be overwhelmed then I find it hard to share the governor’s certainty that Rome will win this conflict. There is not one outpost on the frontier with the lands of the Silures and Ordovices that is safe from my army, not one supply convoy; nor are any of the roads safe for Romans and their allies to travel on. This is how it will be from now, until the day that we have worn away our enemy’s will to continue the fight. Even mighty Rome cannot endure steady losses of men and morale forever. And I say to you all that our will to defend our homeland and fight for our liberty is greater than their will to conquer! In the end victory will be ours . . .’