Cato nodded as his eyes swept over the furs covering most of the floor space, the great upholstered beds set to one side, and the vast oak table and ornately carved chairs. The table held the remains of a half-eaten feast. Large wooden platters lay before the chairs, covered with joints of meat still resting in their congealed juices. To the side of each platter lay chunks of bread and cheese. Drinking horns rested in intricate gold stands decorated in the Celtic style.

‘Seems the senior Druids know how to live well.’ Macro smiled. ‘No wonder they wanted to keep prying eyes out. But what made them leave in such a hurry?’

‘Sir!’ Cato pointed to the far side of the hut. A small wooden cage rested on bare earth. The door was ajar. They crossed over to it. The inside was bare, apart from a piss pot, the top of which was mercifully covered. Cato looked closer, and leaned into the cage, reaching for the covering which was no more than a scrap of fabric.

‘I doubt they’re hiding in there,’ said Macro.

‘No, sir.’ Cato retrieved the material and held it up for closer inspection by the light of the torch. It was silk, with an embroidered hem. The middle was soiled.

‘Nice smell you’ve uncovered!’ Macro wrinkled his nose. ‘Now put it back.’

‘Sir, this is the proof we’re looking for. Look!’ Cato held the material out for his centurion to see. ‘It’s silk. Patterned in Rome, and the maker has stitched a small emblem in the corner.’

Macro stared at the neat design: an elephant’s head — the family motif of the Plautii.

‘That’s it then! They’re here. Or were here, at least. But where are they now?’

‘Must have gone with the Druids.’

‘Maybe. We’d better just check the site for any other signs of the general’s family — or what might have become of them.’

Outside the hut Prasutagus could not hide his relief at being in the company of other humans again. Macro held out the silk.

‘They were here.’

‘Sa! Now we go, yes?’

‘No. We keep looking. Is there any other place on the island they might have been taken to?’

Prasutagus looked at him blankly. Macro tried to make his meaning simpler.

‘We keep looking. Another place? Yes?’

Prasutagus seemed to understand, and turned to point at a track leading into the trees directly opposite the antlered chair.

‘There.’

‘What’s up that way?’

Prasutagus did not answer, and continued staring towards the track. Macro saw that he was trembling. He shook the warrior’s shoulder. ‘What’s up there?’

Prasutagus wrenched his gaze from the track and turned to face him, eyes wide with terror.

‘Cruach.’

‘Cruach? That dark god of yours? You’re taking the piss.’

‘Cruach!’ Prasutagus insisted. ‘Sacred grove of Cruach. His place in this world.’