As if reading the Roman’s mind the man who had been ordered to guard him rolled Cato on to his front and, wrenching his hair back the Briton slapped the flat of his dagger blade against the throat of his captive.

‘Shhh!’ the warrior hissed. ‘Or I’ll slit you from ear to ear. Got it?’

‘Yes,’ Cato quietly replied through gritted teeth.

‘Good. Keep still.’

They lay still, peering through the long grass that grew under the outermost branches of the trees, and waited. Not for long. Cato saw the red of a legionary shield emerge round a bend in the track. For a moment he felt a desperate longing for the company of his own people. The scout trotted forward, glancing round at the huts as he reached the centre of the farm. The legionary stopped, looked round cautiously, head cocked to one side as if listening, then he backed away, turned, and ran off.

Shortly afterwards the patrol marched into the village, and Cato picked out the crests of a centurion’s helmet, and that of an optio. The two officers led their men into the loose circle of huts and halted the patrol. Then the centurion barked out a few orders, sending men running to search the nearest huts. He unbuckled the strap beneath his helmet and lifted it from his head. Cato took a sharp intake of breath as the dark hair and high forehead of Macro came into view. What the hell was Macro doing with such a small patrol? Cato’s heart rose at the sight of his friend and he lifted his head to see better. The blade at his throat slid round so that the edge rested on his skin and rasped painfully.

His guard thrust his face close to Cato’s and whispered fiercely. ‘One more move, Roman, and you die.’

Cato could only watch from afar, in an agony of despair and helplessness as the Romans searched the huts, and Macro glanced round, his gaze sweeping right over Cato and the other men still and hidden just inside the fringe of the copse. There was a muffled shout and Macro turned and hurried inside a large hut. He emerged shortly afterwards, in response to another shout and made his way to the very hut that Cato had been kneeling in shortly before. This time it was longer before he emerged, and Macro walked slowly from the dark entrance, a knuckled fist held to his mouth. For a moment all was quite still, as Macro paused and stared at the ground, shoulders slumped wearily. Then, as Cato and the warriors either side of him watched silently, Macro looked up, stiffened his back and shouted out a string of orders. The men of the patrol trotted over to him, closed ranks and stood facing the copse, waiting for the command to move.