Macro took a breath and threw his leg up over his horse, swinging his body after it. A graceless moment of subdued curses followed before he was properly seated and had a good grasp of the reins. Being taller, Cato managed to mount his horse with a little more style.

Prasutagus muttered something to Boudica and Macro swung round. ‘What did he say?’

‘He wondered if it might be better if you and your optio travelled on foot.’

‘Oh really? Well, you tell him —’

‘That’s enough, Centurion!’ Vespasian snapped. ‘Just go.’

The Iceni warrior and woman mounted with familiar ease and turned their horses towards the camp gate. Behind them, Macro and Cato tugged on the long reins of the pack animals and followed on. As the hooves thudded on the frosted mud of the track, Cato took a last look over his shoulder. But Vespasian was already marching back towards the warmth of his quarters and was quickly swallowed up by the darkness.

Ahead loomed the gate, and at their approach a quiet order was given. The locking bar squealed back into its receiver and one gate swung inwards. As they passed through, a handful of legionaries watched them in silence, curious but obedient to the strict instructions not to utter a word. Beyond the ramparts, Prasutagus twitched his reins and led them down the slope towards the forest from which the Druids had emerged with the fleet prefect several days earlier.

Without his helmet and shield, and the comforting security of the camp around him, Cato suddenly felt horribly exposed. This was worse than going into battle. Much worse. Ahead lay enemy territory. And the enemy was unlike any other that the Romans had faced. Looking to the west, where the land was so dark it almost merged with the night, Cato wondered if his eyes were deceiving him, or was the blackness there made yet more black by the shadows of the Druids of the Dark Moon?

When The Eagle Hunts

Chapter Twenty-One