‘Please, Prasutagus. I gave my word. If there is a way, all you need do is lead me to it. I’ll go alone from there.’

After Boudica translated, Prasutagus considered a moment, spat into the fire, and nodded slowly before he replied to his cousin.

‘He says there might be a way. A drainage outlet on the far side of the fort, opposite the main gate. It might be possible to climb through it and get inside. He’ll take you there, tomorrow night, but that’s it. Then you’re on your own. He’ll wait at the drain but the moment he hears any commotion, he’ll go.’

‘Fair enough,’ agreed Cato. ‘Tell him I’m grateful.’

Prasutagus laughed when Boudica translated. ‘He says he doesn’t want gratitude from a man he’s leading to his death.’

‘Thank him anyway.’

Cato knew the risk in what he planned to do was appalling. They might be discovered as they clambered up the ramparts, the drain was likely to be guarded, especially after the rescue attempt on the wagon. And once inside, then what? Where would he look inside that vast fortress filled with Durotrigan tribespeople and Dark Moon Druids? If he escaped their notice, and actually located the general’s wife and son, could he really free them on his own and lead them to safety, from the very heart of the enemy’s greatest fortification?

In a more rational world Cato would have dismissed the idea out of hand. But he had given his word to Lady Pomponia. He had seen the terror in the boy’s eyes. He had witnessed the terrible atrocities that the Dark Moon Druids had visited on Diomedes, and on the peaceful village of Noviomagus. The blond child’s face, submerged in his memories these last few days, loomed forth again, cold and beseeching. Then there was Macro. The centurion was all but dead, and he had been prepared to give his life to rescue the general’s family.

The moral burden of all he had seen and experienced was overwhelming. Reason had nothing to do with it. He was driven by a compulsion far stronger. There was no reason in the world, he reflected somberly — just an endless sea of unreasonable compulsions, shifting with the tides and carrying its human flotsam where it willed. He could no more turn his back on a final attempt at rescuing the general’s wife and son than he could reach up and stroke the face of the moon.