Cato pushed himself in front of Boudica and waved his arms. Beside him, Prasutagus looked puzzled and turned round to see who the cavalry could possibly be charging. A short distance from the bridge the decurion reined in and raised his sword to slow his men, clearly disappointed that the three ragged vagabonds weren’t going to put up a fight.

‘I’m Roman!’ Cato cried out. ‘Roman!’

The decurion’s horse came to a halt inches from Cato’s face, and the animal’s breath stirred his hair.

‘Roman?’ The decurion frowned, looking Cato over. ‘I don’t believe it!’

Cato looked down and saw Prasutagus’s swirling patterns through the open front of his tunic, and then touched his face, realising that it, too, must still bear the remains of the disguise he wore the previous night.

‘Oh, I see. Forget this stuff, sir. I’m the optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort. On a mission for the legate. I need to speak to him at once.’

‘Oh, really?’ The decurion was still far from convinced but he was too junior to bear the responsibility of making a decision about this miserable looking wretch and his two companions. ‘And these are Romans too, I suppose?’

‘No, Iceni scouts, working with me.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘I need to speak to the legate urgently,’ Cato reminded him.

‘We’ll see about that when we get back to the legion. For now, you’ll mount up with my men.’

Three rather unhappy scouts were detailed for the task and grudgingly helped Cato and the others up behind them. The optio reached his arms round his rider and the man growled.

‘Keep your hands on me saddle horn, if you know what’s good for you.’

Cato did as he was told, and the decurion wheeled the small column and led them back up the slope at the trot. As they crested the hill, Cato smiled at the progress the legion had already made, despite having arrived here only an hour before. Ahead of them, at least a mile away, he could see the usual screen of skirmishers. Behind them the main body of the legion was toiling to construct a marching camp, already piling the soil from the outer ditch inside the perimeter where it was packed down to make a defence rampart. Beyond the camp, the legion’s vehicles were still trundling into position. But there were no surveyors marking the ground around the hill fort.

‘No circumvallation?’ Cato asked. ‘Why?’

‘Ask your mate, the legate, when you speak to him,’ the scout grumbled.

For the rest of the short ride Cato kept his silence and, with more difficulty, his balance. The decurion halted the scout patrol just inside the area marked out for one of the legion’s four main gates. The duty centurion rose from his camp desk and strode over. Cato recognised him by sight, but didn’t know his name.