At the first distant thump of the ram, Cato pushed aside the rotting deer carcass he had been hiding beneath and clambered on all fours up towards the wooden structure. With natural agility, Prasutagus scaled the far side of the gully, reminding Cato of an ape he had once seen at the games in Rome. Around them were the rest of the men Cato had selected, tough and mostly of Gaulish extraction, so that they stood a better chance of passing for Britons.

By the time they reached the top of the gully, the thudding from the ram had become a regular beat, sounding the death knell of the hill fort and its defenders. Cato pointed at the space under the opening and, as before, Prasutagus shifted his powerful frame into position. Cato clambered up, and cautiously looked over the rim into the hill fort’s interior, by daylight this time. The plateau immediately to his front was deserted. Off to the right, beyond the giant figure of the wicker man, a dark mass of bodies was packed around the main gate, waiting to hurl themselves upon the First Cohort the moment the ram burst through the thick timbers of the gate. Among them were some black cloaks of the Druids and Cato smiled with satisfaction; the odds against him and his small party had lessened.

He pulled himself over the rim, and reached down for the hand of the next man. One by one they clambered through the opening and crawled to the side of the nearest animal pen. At last only Prasutagus remained, and Cato braced himself firmly against the timber frame of the platform before he reached his hands down to Prasutagus. The iceni warrior grabbed Cato’s forearms and heaved himself up, transferring his grip to the rim of the opening as soon as he could.

‘Are all the Iceni as heavy as you?’ Cato gasped.

‘No. My father — bigger than me.’

‘Bloody glad you’re on our side then.’

They scrambled over to the other men, and then Cato led them along the pens towards the Druid enclosure. At the last pen he signalled for his men to be still, and then slowly poked his head round the wattle panel, cursing softly at the sight of two Druids still guarding the gateway into the enclosure. They were squatting down and chewing on hunks of bread, apparently unconcerned by the desperate fight at the gate. Cato pulled his head back and motioned his men to stay down. They must keep out of sight until the main gate fell, and pray that the Druids had not already executed their hostages.

‘This isn’t going very well,’ Vespasian grumbled, watching the distant battle in front of the gate. Most of the men on the bastion were down, and die British fire was concentrated on the legionaries massed by the gate. Already the ground was littered with red shields and the grey mail armour of the Romans.