‘Thought they might be.’ Vespasian stood up. ‘There’s nothing else to be said. I’ll pass the word for some hot food and baths to be prepared. I can offer you that at least as a reward for the work you’ve done.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘And my profound gratitude to you and your cousin.’ The legate bowed his head to Boudica. ‘The Iceni will not find Rome ungrateful for your assistance in this matter.’

‘What are allies for?’ Boudica smiled wearily. ‘I would expect Rome to do the same for me, if ever I have any children and they are placed in danger.’

‘Well, yes.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘Quite.’

He accompanied them to the exit of his tent and graciously held the flap open. Cato paused at the exit, a concerned expression on his face.

‘Sir, one last thing, if I may?’

‘Of course, your centurion.’

Cato nodded. ‘Has he… Did he survive?’

‘Alive, last I heard.’

‘He’s here, sir?’

‘No. I sent our sick back to Calleva in a convoy two days ago. We’ve set up a hospital there. Your centurion will have the best possible care.’

‘Oh.’ The renewed uncertainty weighed heavily on the optio’s heart. ‘Best thing, I suppose.’

‘It is. You’ll have to excuse me.’ Vespasian was about to turn away and walk back to his desk when he became aware of raised voices outside his headquarters tent.

‘What the hell is going on out there?’

Brushing past Cato he strode out through the wide flaps and squelched across the mud outside. Cato and the others hurried after him. There was no need to ask what the reason for the commotion was; every man in the Second Legion could see it. Up on the plateau of the Great Fortress, some kind of structure was slowly rising above the palisade. The sun was low in the sky to the west, silhouetting the vast mass of the hill fort and the strange contraption in a fiery orange glow. It rose very slowly into place, manoeuvred by invisible hands heaving on a series of ropes. As he watched, the terrible realisation of what he was witnessing suddenly hit Cato like a blow and his guts turned to ice.

The construction was nearing the vertical and it became clear to everyone what it was: a vast wicker man, crude in form but unmistakable, black against the sunset except where it was pierced through by shafts of dying light.

The legate turned to Boudica and spoke quietly. ‘Ask your man when he thinks they’ll set fire to that thing.’

‘Tomorrow night,’ she translated. At the Feast of the First Budding. That’s when your general’s wife and son will die.’

Cato edged closer to the legate. ‘I don’t think the general’s message matters any more, sir.’

‘No… We’ll attack first thing in the morning.’