The Iceni warrior nodded and sheathed his sword, trying not to look too intimidating as he walked over towards the general’s wife. Cato kept his sword in hand as he stepped out of the gateway and raised his other hand in greeting to the legate, now clearly visible and smiling happily. A warm glow of contentment washed through Cato. He had kept his word, and the wicker man rising above the hill fort would not claim its victims after all. He noticed that his body was trembling, whether from nerves or exhaustion he could not tell.

Behind him Lady Pomponia screamed.

‘Cato!’ Prasutagus shouted.

But before Cato could react, something slammed into his back. The breath was driven from his body in an explosive gasp and he dropped to his knees. He felt something like a fist deep inside his chest. He jerked as the object was wrenched free. A hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, and Cato saw the blue sky and then the triumphant sneer on the face of the Chief Druid as he raised his bloodied sickle high in the air. That was his blood, Cato realised, and he closed his eyes and waited for death to come.

He dimly heard Prasutagus scream with rage, then the Chief Druid’s grip convulsed, tearing at Cato’s hair. A warm rain dripped down on him. Warm rain? The Chief Druid relaxed his grip. Cato opened his eyes just as the Chief Druid’s body collapsed by his side. A short distance away rolled the Druid’s head, still in its antlered headpiece. Then Cato fell forward on his face. He was conscious of the hardness of the ground against his cheek and someone grasping his shoulder. Then Prasutagus dimly shouting. “Roman! Roman, don’t die!’

And the world went black.

When The Eagle Hunts

Chapter Thirty-Five

It seemed as if he was shimmering between a deep, thoughtless dream and moments of painful, sharp, reality. There was no sense of the passage of time, none at all, just disconnected fragments of experience. The sound of plaintive cries on all sides, their source invisible in the dark. The vague outline of a man’s back sitting on a bench above his head. The smell of mules. Beneath Cato, wheels rumbled, jarred and the moment faded and blackness returned. Later, he felt hands gently rolling him onto his front. Something was removed from round his chest, and a man, his voice distant, sucked in his breath.

‘Messy Mostly muscle damage. The blade struck a rib, which stayed intact, mercifully. If it had shattered…’

‘Yes?’

‘Fragments might have penetrated his right lung, there’d be infection and finally, er, death, sir.’

‘But he will recover?’

‘Oh yes… In all probability, that is. He’s lost quite a lot of blood, but he seems to have a strong enough constitution, and I have had considerable experience of dealing with wounds like this, sir.’

‘You’ve considerable experience of sickle wounds?’