Some hours later, after a long uncomfortable ride through the hot humid air of the marsh, they came to a small farmstead. Raising his head Cato could see a loose settlement of round huts, surrounded by farmland. Two more warriors were waiting for them and respectfully rose to their feet at their commander’s approach. Caratacus halted his men and gave the order to dismount. Then he disappeared inside one of the huts and for a while all was still. Cato sensed an awful tension in the air as the warriors waited for Caratacus to reappear, and he felt afraid to move for fear of drawing any attention to himself. Instead he hung limply across the horse’s back and waited.

How long it was, he could not say. At last the men stiffened in expectation, and Caratacus was standing beside Cato, knife in hand. The Roman twisted his head and looked up at an awkward angle, trying to gauge the other man’s expression and wondering if this was the last view he would ever have of this life.

Caratacus glared back, eyes narrowed in disgust and hatred. He raised the knife hand towards Cato, and the centurion flinched and shut his eyes tightly.

There was a rasping tear and the length of rope that tied his hands to his ankles beneath the belly of the horse parted and fell away. Cato started to slide forward and just had time to duck his head between his arms before he toppled off and landed heavily on the ground.

‘Get up!’ Caratacus growled.

Cato was winded, but still managed to roll on to his knees and rise awkwardly to his feet. At once Caratacus grabbed him by the arm and dragged him towards the hut he had entered earlier. The loud buzz and whine of insects filled Cato’s ears and the warm sickly stench of decay hit him like a blow. A powerful shove propelled him through the small doorway and Cato fell into the dim interior. He pitched forward and landed on something cold and soft and yielding. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness and as he raised his head Cato saw that he had landed, face first on the bare stomach of a woman, a fringe of pubic hair rasped against his cheek.

‘Shit!’ he cried out, scrambling away from the body. A small pile of sharp flints lay to one side and he stumbled on to them, painfully grazing the palms of his hands as he spread his fingers to cushion the landing, and then tightly clenched his fingers around one of the sharp-edged stones. There were more bodies in the hut, also naked, sprawled amid wide tacky patches of dry blood. It was then that Cato realised where he was, and who had done this terrible deed. ‘Oh shit . . .’