Cato could only nod at the prospect of the imminence of his death. It had come to this at last, and he felt his spine and neck clenched in the grasp of an icy fist. He was afraid, he reflected in some small rational part of his mind. At the very end he was afraid to die when it came down to it. But Figulus was right. Die he must, and right here and now, if he were to spare himself the lingering torment of a death at the hands of barbarians.

‘Romans! Surrender. You have the word of Caratacus that you will not be harmed!’

‘Bollocks!’ Figulus shouted back.

Suddenly there was movement all around them and at once figures drifted forward out of the mist, and solidified into the forms of native warriors, hundreds of them, hemming the small knot of Romans in on each side. They slowly closed in and shuffled to a stop no more than ten feet from the points of the Roman spears. Again the voice called out to them, much nearer now, but still invisible.

‘This is the last time Caratacus deigns to make his offer. Surrender now and you will live. You have ten heartbeats to decide . . .’

Cato glanced round at the fierce faces of the warriors, woad-patterned beneath jagged crests of lime-washed hair. They stood, poised and ready to rush forward and cut the handful of legionaries to pieces. There was a thud, and Cato glanced round to see that Metellus had dropped his sword. Several more of his men immediately followed suit. For a moment Cato felt nothing but contempt and rage for Metellus. He was on the verge of charging into the enemy line . . . Then he regained control of himself and realised that it would be a futile death. Quite futile. And while he lived there was always hope.

Cato took a deep breath as he straightened up. ‘Drop your weapons . . .’

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER THIRTY

‘What do you think they’ll do with us?’ Figulus muttered. They were sitting inside a cattle byre. The previous occupants had been moved, but not the soiled straw they had lived in, and the faecal filth caked on to the mud and grime that had become a second skin for the Romans.

Cato rested his forearms on his knees and was staring down at his boots.

‘I’ve no idea. No idea at all . . . I’m not even sure why they let us live. They’ve not taken many of us prisoner before.’

‘What happened to the ones they did take prisoner?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Who knows? All we’ve found is bodies - and bits of bodies. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’