The cheers and shouts from the fight reached an abrupt crescendo, then there was a deep collective groan. Prasutagus had floored their first champion. In the sudden quiet Macro held his hand out to stop Cato. The Iceni warrior bellowed another challenge. Someone replied, and the shouting rose again.

‘Come on.’ Macro crept forward, crouching low and using his spare hand for balance. They climbed a small lip of earth at the top of the bank and then pressed up against the back wall of the main hut. Lungs still aching from the effort of swimming the river, and shivering with cold, Macro eased himself along the wall. Behind him Cato strained his ears for any sound of an approaching tribesman. Macro caught sight of the corner of the log cabin and stopped, flattening himself against the wall. Above the low bark roof he could see the guard’s spear tip, and below that the top of his bronze helmet. Macro bent low, barely breathing, and eased his way into the angle where the cabin leaned up against the hut. With his back to the cabin, he beckoned to Cato. For a moment they listened, but no noise came from the front of the cabin. Macro indicated that Cato should stay put, then he inched his way along the rough timber towards the corner.

Sword ready, he slowly peered round and saw the guard standing six feet away, outside the low entrance. Despite his spear, helmet and flowing black cape, he was little more than a boy. Macro moved his head back round the corner and with his eyes searched the ground by his feet. He picked up a hard clod of earth and stone and made ready to lob it.

Suddenly the guard started speaking. Macro froze. Someone responded to the guard — a low voice close at hand, and with a start Cato realised it came from within the cabin. He jabbed his finger towards the wall of the cabin behind him and Macro nodded. Someone else must have been imprisoned with the general’s family. Before the guard could reply, Macro threw the clod in a low arc across the roof of the cabin. The moment it landed with a soft clump, he rose and dived round the corner. As he had hoped, the guard had turned to investigate the sound, and before he could react to the soft pad of feet, Macro had clamped a hand over the guard’s mouth. He yanked the guard’s head back and rammed his sword through the black cape, the tip angled up under the Briton’s ribcage into his heart. The guard jerked and thrashed a moment, powerless in the centurion’s tight grip. The movements quickly became feeble, and then stopped. Macro held him a moment longer to make certain, and then quietly lifted the body round the corner of the cabin and laid it down against the wall of the hut.