Cato turned to see how Macro was coping with the last Druid. Thirty paces away, an uneven duel was being fought. The Druid had recovered from the surprise of the attack before Macro could reach him. With his long sword drawn he now slashed and chopped at the stocky centurion who had worked his way round to block the route back to the bridge.

‘Could do with some help here!’ Macro shouted as he threw his sword up to block another ringing blow.

Prasutagus was already up and running to his aid, and Cato sprinted after him. Before either man reached the centurion, he tripped and fell. The Druid seized his chance and slashed down with his sword, leaning right over the centurion to make sure of his blow. The blade connected with a dull thud and glanced off Macro’s skull. Without a sound, Macro pitched forward, and for an instant Cato just stared, frozen in horror. A howl of rage from Prasutagus brought him back to his senses and Cato turned on the Druid, determined to have his blood. But the Druid had more sense than to take on two enemies at once and he knew he must summon help. He wheeled his horse about and galloped back up the track towards the hill fort, shouting for his comrades.

Sheathing his bloody sword, Cato fell to his knees beside Macro’s still form.

‘Sir!’ Cato grabbed Macro’s shoulder and pulled the centurion onto his back, wincing at the savage wound to the side of his head. The Druid’s sword had cut through to the bone, shearing off a large flap of scalp. Blood covered Macro’s lifeless face. Cato thrust his hand inside his tunic. The centurion’s heart was still beating. Prasutagus was kneeling beside him, shaking his head in pity.

‘Come on! Take his feet. Get him to the wagon.’

They were struggling back with the limp centurion when Boudica emerged from the trees, leading the children by either hand. She stopped as she saw Macro’s body. Beside her the young girl flinched at the sight.

‘Oh no…’

‘He’s alive,’ grunted Cato.

They laid Macro gently in the back of the wagon while Boudica retrieved a waterskin from under the driver’s bench. She blanched at her first clear look at the centurion’s wound and then removed the stopper from the skin and poured water over the bloody mangle of skin and hair.

‘Give me your neck cloth,’ she ordered Cato, and he quickly untied it and handed her the length of material. Grimacing, Boudica eased the strip of scalp back into place over Macro’s skull and tied the neck cloth firmly round the wound. Then she removed Macro’s neck cloth, already stained with his blood, and tied that on as well. The centurion did not regain consciousness, and Cato heard him breathing in shallow gasps.

‘He’s going to die.’