He half dragged the Briton towards the sound and Cato followed reluctantly. In truth, he would have gladly turned and run from the grove, but that would have meant leaving the security of the glow cast by the torch. The thought of being lost and alone in this terrible dark world of the Druids made him stick as close to the others as possible. Another cry rose through the night, much closer now, and ahead of them loomed the flat stone of an altar, and beyond it the being giving voice to the cries of agony that seemed so much a part of this dreadful place.

‘What the hell is that?’ Macro cried out.

No more than fifteen paces away, on the far side of the altar, the figure of a man slowly writhed. He was suspended from a wooden beam, his forearms lashed to its rough surface. From below he was impaled on a long shaft of wood which entered his body just behind his testicles. As they watched, the man tried to raise himself, straining at the ropes that bound his arms. Astonishingly he managed to do this for a moment, before his strength gave out and he slid down again, causing him to let loose another terrible wail of agony and despair. The inhuman noise subsided into prayers and curses, in a language that was almost as familiar to Cato as his own Latin.

‘That’s Greek he’s speaking!’

‘Greek? That’s not possible… Unless…’ Macro strode closer to the man, raising the torch as he approached. ‘It’s Diomedes…’

The Greek stirred at the sound of his name, and forced his eyelids to open. He stared down at them with a desperate glint in his eyes.

‘Help me!’ he mumbled in Latin through tightly clenched teeth. ‘For pity’s sake, help me!’

Macro looked round at his comrades. ‘Cato! Get up that beam and cut him free. Prasutagus! Keep his weight off that stake!’

The Briton tore his gaze from the terrible spectacle and stared blankly at Macro who quickly mimed a lifting action with his spare hand and pointed at Diomedes. Prasutagus nodded and hurried over. He grasped the Greek’s legs and eased him up, bearing Diomedes’s full weight in his powerful arms without difficulty. Meanwhile Cato, never terribly athletic, was struggling to shin up one of the supporting posts. With a sigh of impatience, Macro came over and stood with his back to the post.

‘Use my shoulders to get up!’

Up on the crossbeam Cato crawled along to the first binding. His sword cut through the coarse rope with some difficulty before the Greek’s left arm came free, flopping down to his side. Cato reached over to the other binding and a moment later the other arm was freed. The optio dropped down from the crossbeam.

‘Now then, let’s get him off the stake. Lift him up, you idiot!’