Cato thrust the limp body away from him, and saw the handguard of his sword pressed into the dark cloth of the Druid’s cloak. There was no sign of the blade, only a spreading stain around the guard. The blade had been driven right up through the Druid’s guts into the vital organs under his ribcage. Grimacing, Cato rolled to his feet and heaved on the handle. With a sickening sucking noise the blade reluctantly came free. The optio quickly looked round for the other Druid.

He was already dead, slumped back against the leather cover, blood pumping from a gaping wound in his throat where Prasutagus had hacked with his long Celtic sword. The Iceni warrior was off his horse and tearing at the ties binding the rear of the cover. From inside the wagon a child’s muffled shriek reached their ears. The last of the ties came undone and Prasutagus swept the flaps apart and stuck his head inside. Fresh screams split the air.

‘It’s all right!’ shouted Boudica in Latin, running up the track. She spoke angrily to Prasutagus in their native tongue and pushed him to one side. ‘It’s all right. We’re here to rescue you. Cato! Come here! They need to see a Roman face.’

Ducking her head back into the wagon, Boudica tried to sound calm. ‘There are two Roman officers with us. You’re safe.’

Cato reached the back of the wagon and looked into the gloomy interior. A woman sat hunched, with her arms round the shoulders of a small boy and a slightly older girl, both whimpering in wide-eyed terror. The clothes they wore had once been of fine quality but were now soiled and torn. They looked like common street beggars, huddled and frightened.

‘Lady Pomponia,’ Cato tried to sound reassuring. ‘I’m an optio of the Second Legion. Your husband sent us to find you. Here’s my centurion.’

Cato stepped to one side as Macro joined them. The centurion motioned to Prasutagus to keep watch up the track towards the hill fort.

‘All in one piece then?’ Macro glanced at the woman and two children. ‘Good! Let’s get moving. Before those bastards come back.’

‘I can’t,’ replied Lady Pomponia, lifting the tattered hem of her cloak. Her bare foot was chained at the ankle to an iron ringbolt in the bed of the cart.

‘The children?’

Lady Pomponia shook her head.

‘All right then, kids, get out of the cart, so I can get to work on your mum’s chain.’

They pressed still more closely to their mother.

‘Go on, do as he says,’ Lady Pomponia said gently. “These people are here to help us and take us back to your father.’