Cato was awed anew by the scale of the ramparts. How many men had laboured for how many years to create this vast monument to the might of the Durotriges? How many men would it cost Rome to take this hill fort when the time came for the legions to march west? Of course it would be his legion, the Second, that would be tasked with storming those ramparts. The legion had only just managed to best the Britons in setpiece battles. Would they be able to storm their formidable fortresses? Cato had read of siegecraft as a child but had not been called upon to practise it since he had joined the eagles. The prospect of assaulting those towering ramparts of earth filled him with dread.

A heavy thump from below startled him and he nearly let go of the trunk. Cato looked down through the branches and saw Prasutagus searching around for him. By the tree trunk lay the body of a dead pig with a bloody tear in its throat.

‘Up here!’ Cato called.

Prasutagus tilted his head back, then laughed as he caught sight of Cato. He reached for one of the lower branches.

‘No. Stay there. I’m coming down.’

On the ground, Cato eyed the pig appreciatively. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘Uh?’

‘Where?’ Cato pointed at the pig.

‘Ah!’ Prasutagus pointed along the ridge, and mimed a valley, and another ridge. Then he paused, frowning, as he tried to think how to mime the next part. The word suddenly came to him. ‘Farm!’

‘You took this from a farm?’

Prasutagus nodded, smiling widely.

‘Where was the farmer?’

Prasutagus drew a line across his throat.

‘Oh great! That’s all we need,’ Cato said angrily.

Prasutagus raised a calming hand.

‘I hide body. No one find.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. But what happens when he’s missed? What then, you fool?’

Prasutagus shrugged his huge shoulders, as if that was no concern of his. He turned to the pig.

‘We eat?’

‘Yes.’ Cato’s stomach rumbled. Both men laughed spontaneously at the sound. ‘We eat. Now.’

With long-practised skill Prasutagus gutted the pig with his dagger, placing the inedible organs in a glistening pile. Then he shoved the lot down the hollow interior of the tree trunk, saving the liver for a little snack later. After wiping his bloodstained hands with clumps of damp moss, he started gathering branches.

‘No fire,’ ordered Cato. He pointed upwards, then towards the hill fort. ‘No smoke.’

Prasutagus had obviously fixed his heart on roast pork and for a moment he baulked at the prospect of eating the pig raw. But then he shrugged and drew his dagger again. He hacked strips of flesh from the pig’s loin and tossed one to Cato. The pink flesh had blood and white membrane on it, but Cato hungrily sank his teeth into the still warm meat and forced himself to chew.