‘If Caratacus wants to continue the war then he shall have it,’ Ostorius announced to his officers as they crowded round the small table which, together with a stool and bed, constituted the only furniture. ‘I shall not be returning to Londinium but making for the army headquarters at Cornoviorum at first light. Decianus, you will ride back to Londinium and inform the staff of my decision. They are to pack up and join me as soon as possible. Send word to the commanders of the Ninth and Second Legions that I shall be commencing the campaign as early as possible, and they will be responsible for ensuring the security of the province behind the frontier zone. Prefect Cato, you and Macro will ride to Glevum and report to Legate Quintatus.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Gentlemen, my plans are made, it only remains to put them into effect as swiftly and fully as possible. There will be no mercy shown to those who side with Caratacus. My orders are that there is no requirement to take prisoners. Such women and children as are spared will be marched to the rear and sold to the slave contractors at the depots. All hostile settlements we encounter are to be torched and razed. I meant what I said earlier. Those who take up arms against Rome are to be crushed. Is that quite clear?’

His officers nodded.

‘Then you had best retire for the night and get what sleep you can. That’s going to be something of a luxury in the days ahead. Dismissed.’

The officers saluted and filed out of the room into the darkness. Macro saw that the small garrison was under arms and spread out along the palisade. The optio must have spoken to some of the governor’s bodyguards and heard what had taken place in the sacred ring. He was taking no chances and had ordered his men to keep watch through the night. The legionaries of the bodyguard had settled round the garrison’s cooking fire and were warming themselves as they muttered in low, anxious tones about what they had witnessed. To one side Decimus was carefully bathing the wounds of Marcellus. The tribune had stripped to his loincloth and was carefully spooning gruel into his mouth and making a gurgling noise as he struggled to swallow. As he ate, the servant washed the grime from his pitifully emaciated body, revealing the bruises and cuts that told of the brutal treatment the tribune had been subjected to.

‘What will become of that poor sod?’ Macro wondered.

‘I am sure he has family in Rome. They will care for him, as best they can.’

Macro stared a moment longer. ‘It would have been kinder to kill him. Fucking barbarians. No better than animals.’