Before the enemy commander could act the sound of voices - anxious and alarmed - reached the ears of the two men in the hut and both turned towards the small entrance. Caratacus ducked and hurried outside, momentarily darkening the hut as he squeezed under the lintel. Then Cato rose up, took a last glimpse at the corpses, and followed his captor.

‘What is it?’ Caratacus called out to his men. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Roman patrol, sire.’ One of the warriors thrust an arm out, pointing down the track that led into the farmstead. ‘Maybe twenty men, on foot.’

‘How far away?’

‘Half a mile, no more than that.’

‘They’ll have cut us off before we can ride out of here,’ Caratacus said. ‘Does anyone know if there’s another way off this farm?’

‘Sire,’ one of his bodyguards cut in, ‘I know this land. It’s almost entirely surrounded by mud flats and marsh. We’d never get the horses through it.’

Caratacus smacked his hand against his thigh in frustration. ‘All right then. Get the horses. Take ‘em to the far side of the farm and keep them out of sight. They mustn’t make a sound, understand?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Then go!’

The warrior shoved a companion ahead of him and both men ran towards the horses tethered to a rail in the middle of the ground between the huts. Caratacus beckoned the other three men. ‘Take the prisoner, and follow me.’

Cato was grasped by the shoulder and pulled along in the wake of the enemy leader. Caratacus led the small party across the farm buildings, ducked between two animal pens and ran towards the only part of the farmland that seemed to rise any appreciable height above the surrounding landscape. A stunted copse grew on the low crown of the slope just over a hundred paces away and Caratacus led them towards the trees at a brisk pace. Cato knew this was a chance to wrench himself free and try to escape. He felt his pulse quicken and his muscles tensed. He tried to brace himself for the decisive moment and he briefly imagined how it would happen, and just as briefly saw himself cut down by a sword as he tried to make for the safety of his comrades. He might be under sentence of death, but he might yet redeem himself by passing on the information about the location of the enemy camp.

By the time these thoughts had raced through his mind it was already too late. They were close to the trees and the man holding Cato’s shoulder tightened his grip painfully and thrust the centurion towards the shadows beneath the low boughs of the nearest tree. Cato tripped over a root and thudded down on the ground, knocking the wind from his lungs. With a sickening rage of self-loathing he knew he had missed his chance to escape.