The voice from inside the hut called out.

‘We’d better put a stop to that,’ whispered Macro. ‘Before someone hears.’

Leading the way, Macro hurried to the bar locking the cabin door, slid it out and tossed it to the ground. With a powerful heave he pushed the sturdy wooden door inwards. The light from outside fell on the blinking face of another black-caped man. He had raised himself on one arm and now scrambled for the sword lying beside him. Macro lunged forward, smothering the Briton with his body, and smashed the pommel of his sword into the side of the man’s head. With a grunt the Briton went limp, knocked cold by the blow.

‘Sir!’ Cato called out, but before Macro could respond to the warning, a figure charged out of the gloom at the end of the cabin, spear held ready to thrust into Macro’s naked side. There was a sharp crack as Cato smashed his sword down on the shaft of the spear and the leaf-shaped blade bit into the hard-packed earth a few inches from Macro’s heaving chest. As the Briton’s momentum carried him forwards, Cato flicked his blade round and the man tumbled throat first onto the point. The blade penetrated his brain and the Briton died instantly.

‘Shit! That was close!’ Macro blinked at the spear embedded in the ground close to his chest. ‘Thanks, lad!’

Cato nodded as he worked his sword free of the second man’s skull. With a soft crunch the blade came out, stained with blood. Despite all the death he had seen in the brief time he had served with the eagles, Cato winced. He had killed before, in battle, but that was instinctive, and there was no time to reflect on the matter. Unlike now.

‘Is there anyone here?’ Macro called out, straining his eyes into the gloom of the cabin. There was no reply. One end was piled with split logs. At the other some indistinct shapes lay huddled on the ground around the pitcher and what was left of the loaves Macro had seen enter the cabin a while earlier.

‘My lady?’ Cato called out. ‘Lady Pomponia?’

There was no movement, no sound, no sign of life in the cabin. Cato hefted his sword and slowly approached, a sick feeling of despair welling up in his guts. They were too late. With the point of his sword he lifted the top layer of rags and swept them to one side. Underneath lay a pile of wool capes and fur skins. Bedding, not bodies. Cato frowned for a moment, then nodded.

‘It’s a trap,’ he said.

‘Eh?’