The trotters were no longer lashing at his leg, but hung limp and still. For a moment longer the boar’s breath came in short, snatched gasps. At last, with a final sighing wheeze, it was dead.

Cato slowly relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the spear shaft and slumped to his knees, shaking with relief and excitement. He’d done it, he’d made his kill and he was alive and uninjured. His heart pounded as he looked over the boar. Now that it was dead it seemed smaller, somehow. Not much, but smaller all the same. Looking down at the head Cato saw the jaws hanging slightly open, with a blood-flecked tongue protruding between the sharp teeth. He shivered and rose to his feet.

‘Cato!’ Macro called from nearby, from the direction of the mortally wounded horse. There was no mistaking the anxiety in Macro’s voice.

‘Over here!’

‘Hold on, lad! I’m coming.’

As Cato rose to his feet there was a shout from close by, from the direction of the king. As he held his breath and strained his ears the voice cried out again.

‘Help! Help! Murder!’

Cato recognised Verica’s voice now, and turned to shout over his shoulder, ‘Macro! This way! Quick!’

Then he was running towards the shouts, crashing through beds of ferns and being lashed by branches as he sprinted in the direction of the king’s voice. Behind him he heard Macro calling out his name.

‘This way!’ he shouted back over his shoulder as he ran. His feet struck an object and he went flying forwards, arms instinctively raised to protect his face as he landed. He hit the ground hard, and rolled over before scrambling back to his feet. There was Tincommius, lying on the ground clutching his head. Blood oozed from between his fingers and his eyes flickered in a daze. His spear lay across his chest.

‘Tincommius! Where’s the king?’

‘What?’ The Briton shook his head, dazed.

‘The king?’

Tincommius’ eyes cleared and he rolled on to his side, his arm raised as he pointed down a narrow track. ‘That way. Quick! Artax is after him.’

‘Artax?’

‘I tried to stop him. Go! Get some help! I’ll follow Artax!’

Cato ignored him, and ran along the track. Looking down, he saw bright crimson drops on the ground and smeared on the ferns that he passed. The path suddenly opened out into a small glade. Twenty feet away was the thick trunk of an oak tree. At its base Verica lay crumpled on the ground. His white hair was matted with blood from a deep gash on the top of his head. Standing over him was Artax, a thick length of wood in one hand. As Cato crashed out of the undergrowth lining the path Artax looked up and bared his teeth in a grim smile.

‘Cato! Good! Come here, boy!’

‘Drop the club,’ said Cato. ‘Drop it!’