When he rose in the morning, Cato prepared himself for his fate. Numbly he chewed the last of the cold pork, then he climbed to the top of the bill. More Durotrigan warriors were streaming into the hill fort, and he marked them down in the small waxed tablet he carried in his haversack. The information might at least be of some use to Vespasian if he did not return. Boudica would carry it to the legate.

While Boudica took her turn in the tree, Prasutagus mysteriously disappeared, and for a while Cato wondered if the Iceni warrior could not face the night’s impossible task. But even as he wondered, he knew this was not the case. Prasutagus had proved himself a man of his word. If he said he would lead the way to the hill fort’s drainage outlet, then he would.

Shortly before the sun dipped beyond the trees and plunged the forest into gloom, Prasutagus at last reappeared, carrying a bag filled with roots and leaves. He lit a small fire and began to boil the plants in his skillet, producing a sharp odour that irritated Cato’s nostrils. Boudica came and joined them.

‘What’s he doing?’ Cato nodded towards the bubbling brew.

She spoke to Prasutagus a moment, then replied, ‘He’s making some dyes. If you get into the fortress you’ll need to blend in with the tribesmen, as far as you can. Prasutagus is going to paint you and lime your hair.’

‘What?’

‘It’s that or be killed on sight.’

‘All right then,’ Cato relented.

In the light and warmth of the fire he stripped off his tunic and stood in only his loincloth as Prasutagus knelt before him and traced a series of swirling blue patterns across his torso and arms. He completed the work with smaller, more intricate patterns on Cato’s face, painting with an intensity of concentration that Cato had never seen in him before. While he worked, Boudica prepared the lime and plastered it on his hair. He flinched at the tingling sensation on his scalp and then forced himself to be still when Boudica tutted.

Finally, the two Iceni stood back and admired their handiwork.

‘How do I look?’

Boudica laughed. ‘Personally, I think you’d make a great Celt.’

‘Thanks. Can we get going now?’

‘Not quite. Take off the loincloth.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. You need to look like a warrior. Wear my cloak fastened over your body. Nothing else.’

‘I don’t recall seeing any of the other Durotriges in the altogether. Can’t imagine it’s habitual.’

‘It isn’t. But spring has begun. It’s the time we Celts call the First Budding. In most tribes the menfolk walk naked for ten days in honour of the Goddess of Spring.’

‘Naturally the Iceni are exceptions.’ Cato looked at Prasutagus.

‘Naturally.’

‘Bit of a voyeur, this goddess.’