‘Suit yourself, Centurion.’ Caratacus reached down, grasped the shank and tossed the leg towards a hunting dog curled up against the side of the hut. The joint deflected off the ground and struck the animal on the muzzle. The yelp of surprise was quickly stifled as the dog seized the joint in its huge jaws and, holding the end down with a shaggy paw, it began to chew. Cato felt sick with hunger and despair at the sight of the long pink tongue slathering over the meat. He tore his gaze away and turned back towards the enemy commander. Caratacus was watching him closely, with wry amusement.

‘I wonder how many of your centurions would have turned that down.’

‘All of them,’ Cato replied quickly, and Caratacus laughed.

‘I find that hard to believe. I think you are not as typical of your kind as you make out, Roman.’

Cato assumed that this was some kind of compliment, and that realisation made him feel like even more of a sham.

‘I’m not typical. Most centurions are far better soldiers than me.’

‘If you say so,’ Caratacus smirked. ‘But if you are the worst of them, then I must fear for my cause.’ He tore off a small strip of meat from another joint and began to chew slowly, gazing abstractedly into the shadows between the roof supports of the hut. ‘I find myself wondering if we will ever be able to better such men. I have seen thousands upon thousands of my best warriors die on your swords. The cream of a generation. We shall never see their like again. The great muster of the tribes will soon be no more than a memory of the few who still live and fight at my side. As for the rest . . .the lamentation of their wives and mothers fills the land and yet their deaths have bought no victory, only honour. If our fight is futile, then what is the value of an honourable death? No more than a gesture.’

He stopped chewing and spat out a small piece of gristle.

Cato cleared his throat softly, and spoke. ‘Then send a message to General Plautius. Tell him you wish to seek terms. Honourable terms. You don’t have to be our enemy. Embrace peace, and find a place for your people in our Empire.’

Caratacus shook his head sadly. ‘No. We’ve talked that over already, Roman. Peace at any price? That is a licence for enslavement.’

‘The choice before your people is peace, or death.’

Caratacus stared at him, still and silent as he pondered Cato’s words. Then he frowned and lowered his forehead on to the palm of one hand and ran his fingers slowly through his hair.

‘Leave me, Cato. Leave me be. I must . . . I must think.’