After the night when Boudica and Nessa had evaded Prasutagus, her relatives had been determined to restrict any further encounters with Roman soldiers. Only once had Boudica and Macro been able to meet again, and then only very briefly. A quick clinch in the back of a stable while curious ponies and cattle gazed on, munching their winter feed. Macro had attempted to make the most of it — too much so, for the taste of the Iceni maiden. When she sensed his fingers being rather more intimate than she would have preferred, Boudica wriggled from his passionate embrace, leaned back on the straw and slapped him.

‘What the fuck was that for?’ asked a startled Macro.

‘What kind of a girl do you think I am?’ she spat back. ‘I’m not some cheap tart!’

‘Never said you were. Just making the most of the situation. Thought you were up for it.’

‘Up for it? What kind of invitation is that?’

Macro shrugged. ‘Best I can manage.’

‘I see.’ Boudica glared at him for a moment, and Macro shifted away from her, sulking and moody. Boudica relented, reached over and stroked his cheek. ‘I’m sorry, Macro. I just don’t fancy it with all these animals looking on. Bit too public for my taste. It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’d envisaged something a little more romantic’

‘What’s so bloody unromantic about a barn?’ grumbled Macro.

And that was where things cooled off rather suddenly. Without another word, Boudica quickly rearranged her tunic and cloak, tucking her breasts back out of sight. With a last angry look at Macro, she rose to her feet and stormed out of the barn. He had been furious to be left in such a manner, and refused, on principle, to run after her. Now he regretted it bitterly. Before Camulodunum dipped out of sight, as the track passed down the far side of a low ridge, Macro glanced back ruefully. She was there, somewhere amongst the snow-covered thatch roofs that lay under the long, low smudge of woodsmoke. He had developed such deep feelings for the feisty native woman that his blood burned with desire at the merest recollection of her physical closeness. He cursed himself for being a romantic fool, and shifted his gaze away from the town and across the glinting helmets of his century, coming to rest on his optio.

‘What are you bloody grinning at?’

‘Grinning, sir? Not me, sir.’