At length, as darkness closed round the camp, Cato was shoved through the opening of one of the larger huts, and with his hands still tied together, he fell awkwardly on to the rushes strewn across the floor. Rolling on to his side, Cato saw a small fire crackling at the centre of the hut. Sitting on a stool behind the fire was a large man with sandy hair tied back from his face. He was wearing a simple tunic and leggings that emphasised the bulk of muscle they covered. Solid arms, ending in long interlaced fingers, supported a bearded jaw. A thick moustache curved down either side of compressed lips. The glow of the fire revealed the face of a man in his late thirties with a prominent brow and broad forehead. A gold torc glinted around his neck, and Cato recognised the design at once. He felt a wave of terrible apprehension.

‘Where did you get that torc?’ he snapped in Celtic.

The man’s eyebrows rose in surprise and he tilted his head with a look of bemusement.

‘Roman, I don’t think I had you brought here to discuss your taste in jewellery.’

Cato struggled to his knees and forced himself to calm down. ‘No, I don’t imagine you did.’

The binding around his wrists was uncomfortable, and Cato eased his backside on to the ground, sitting cross-legged, so that he could rest his arms. Then he examined the other man more closely. He was clearly a warrior, and had about him the composed aura of a natural commander of men. The torc was identical to the one that Macro wore about his thick neck. Macro had taken it from the body of Togodumnus, a prince of the powerful Catuvellaunian tribe and brother of Caratacus. Cato gave a brief bow of his head.

‘I assume you are Caratacus, King of the Catuvellaunians?’

‘At your service.’ The man bowed his head with mock modesty. ‘I had that honour, until your Emperor Claudius decided our island would make a nice addition to his collection of other people’s lands. Yes, I was a king - once. Still am, although my kingdom has shrunk to this small island in the marsh, and my army is made up of those few warriors who survived our last encounter with the legions. And you are?’

‘Quintus Licinius Cato.’

The king nodded.’I gather your people prefer to be known by the last of the names they list.’

‘Amongst our friends.’

‘I see.’ A faint smiled flickered across Caratacus’ face. ‘Very well, since the last name’s the easiest to use, you’ll have to consider me a friend, for now.’

Cato did not reply, and kept his face clear of expression as he sensed some kind of trap.

‘Cato it is then,’ the king decided.

‘Why have you sent for me?’