Cato and Macro exchanged a look. Both had seen the twisted pile of mutilated bodies that almost filled the well. Given the extent of the settlement, there must have been hundreds of them. What horrified Cato more than anything was that no living thing had been spared. The tangle of bodies included even the villagers’ dogs and sheep, as well as women and children. The raiders had made it clear what fate would befall those who sided with Rome. The young optio had reeled before the dark vision in the well, and had felt a chilling pang of horror and despair as his eyes fell on the face of a young boy, barely more than an infant, sprawled on top of the heap. Beneath a wild thatch of straw-blond hair, a pair of startling blue eyes stared up in wide-eyed terror. The boy’s mouth hung open to reveal tiny white teeth. He had been killed with a spear thrust to the chest and his coarse wool top was stained black with dried blood. Recoiling from the charnal pit, Cato had turned, bent over and thrown up.

Now, half an hour later, he felt cold and weary with the profound sorrow of those who have seen the utter grimness of life for the first time. Violent death was something he had lived with ever since he had joined the eagles. That was barely more than a year ago. So little time, he reflected. The army had succeeded in hardening him without his really being aware of it, but in the face of the bloody handiwork of the Druids of the Dark Moon cult, he was consumed with horror and despair. And as his mind tried to come to terms with the actions of men who so outraged every civilised standard, a steadily swelling urge to wreak savage revenge upon them threatened to overwhelm him. The image of the boy’s face flashed through his mind once more and instinctively his hand twisted and tightened on the pommel of his sword. Now the same Druids had their hands on a Roman family, no doubt destined for the same fate as the inhabitants of Noviomagus.