'You two! Figulus and Sertorius! Over here.' The selected men broke ranks and trotted over to their centurion.

'Figulus, put him on your shield. The two of you'll have to carry him back to the gate. I'll carry the other shield.'

Figulus looked down at the prefect's bloody body with a look of disgust on his face.

'Don't worry, lad, the blood will come out of the shield lining easily enough. It'll just need a good scrub. Now get to it!'

While the two men bent to their grisly work, Macro turned to Cato. 'You can carry the head.'

'The head?' Cato went pale. 'Me?'

'Yes, you. Pick it up,' Macro snapped, then recalled the legate's presence. 'And, er, make sure you carry it with respect.'

He ignored Cato's glare and hurried over to the legate who was now standing at the edge of the square to get a better look at the forest.

Gritting his teeth, Cato leaned down and reached out a hand towards the prefect's head. At the first touch of the dark wavy hair his fingers recoiled. He swallowed nervously and forced himself to grasp enough hair to ensure a good grip. Then he slowly straightened up, holding the head away from his body, face out. Even so, the glutinous tendrils of sinew and clotting blood hanging from the severed neck made the bile rise in his throat and Cato quickly looked away.

A riderless horse burst out of the trees and galloped back towards the Second Legion's camp. Two more followed, and then another, this time with a scout in the saddle, bent low and kicking his heels, urging his beast towards the Sixth Century. Nothing else emerged from the trees, which remained still and silent.

'I shouldn't have ordered a pursuit,' Vespasian said quietly.

'No, sir.'

The legate turned towards Macro, eyebrows clenched together angrily at the implied criticism. But he knew the centurion was right. He should have thought. Vespasian felt sickened by the ease with which he had ordered the scouts to their doom.

Just short of the shields of the Sixth Century the surviving scout savagely reined in his horse, which reared up with a terrified whinny and kicked up a spray of snow. The scout released the reins and tumbled from his saddle.

'He's wounded!' shouted Macro. 'Get him behind the shields! Quickly!'

The nearest men ran out, grabbed the scout and dragged him inside the square. He slumped down, clasping a hand to his stomach where the bloody tear in his tunic revealed a long slash, cutting deep enough to expose some intestines. Macro knelt down to examine the injury. He grabbed the hem of the scout's cloak and made a cut in it with his dagger. Then he sheathed the blade and tore off a broad strip. Hurriedly, he worked it round the scout and tied the ends tightly. The man cried out and then clamped his teeth shut.

'There! That'll do until we can get him to the surgeons.'

'What happened?' Vespasian bent over the scout. 'Report, man! What happened to you?'

'Sir, there was scores of 'em… waiting for us inside the forest… We was following them down a trail… then suddenly they came at us on all sides, shrieking like wild animals… Didn't stand a chance… Cut us to pieces.' For a moment the scout's eyes widened in terror at the vivid memory of the terrifying enemy. Then his eyes refocused on the legate. 'I was at the back of the column, sir. Soon as I saw we'd had it, I tried to turn my mount. But the trail was narrow, my horse was scared and wouldn't turn. Then one of them Druids burst out of the forest and swung his sickle into me… I got him with my spear, sir! Got him good!' The scout's eyes gleamed with savage triumph before twisting shut as a wave of pain wracked him.

'That's enough now, lad' Vespasian said gently. 'Save the rest for your official report, once the surgeons have sorted you out.'

Eyes tightly clenched, the scout nodded.

'Centurion, give me a hand here.' Vespasian reached under the scout's shoulders and carefully lifted the man. 'Help me get him onto my back.'

'On your back, sir? Shall I get one of the men to do it instead, sir?'

'Damn it, man! I'll carry him.'

Macro shrugged, and did as he was told. The scout put his arms round the legate's neck and Vespasian leaned forward and supported the man's legs.

'That's it. Macro! Detail a man to lead that horse, then let's get moving.'

Macro gave the order for the century to move towards the camp. In close formation, the century's pace was necessarily slow, however much the men wished to hurry back to the shelter of the camp. In the centre of the square the legate staggered under his burden. To one side Figulus and Sertorius carried the body of Maxentius on Figulus's shield. Beside them walked Cato, staring directly ahead, his aching arm outstretched to keep the head he held as far from his body as possible. Macro, marching at the rear of the square, kept looking back towards the forest, watching for any sign of the Druids and their followers. But nothing moved along the dark treeline and the forest remained absolutely silent.

Chapter Nine

Three days later the snow had almost melted and only the odd patch still gleamed in hollows and crevices where the low winter sun could not reach. The first days of March brought a little more warmth to the air and the rutted track became slick with mud beneath the booted feet of the Fourth Cohort. They were marching south from Calleva, patrolling along the border with the Durotriges, in an attempt to discourage any more raids. The mission was more of a gesture of Roman support for the Atrebates than a realistic attempt to discourage the Durotriges and their sinister Druid allies. The reports reaching Verica of the devastation being wreaked on the smaller villages had so unnerved him that he had begged Vespasian to act. So the Fourth Cohort and a squadron of scouts, accompanied by a guide, were dispatched on a tour through the frontier villages and settlements to demonstrate that the threat from the Durotriges was being taken seriously.

At first the villagers were nervous of the strange uniforms and foreign tongues of the legionaries, but the cohort had been ordered to behave in an exemplary manner. Shelter and rations were paid for in gold coin and the Romans respectfully observed local customs, which were explained to them by Verica's guide, Diomedes. He was an agent acting for a trader in Gaul and had been living amongst the Atrebates for many years. He spoke their Celtic dialect fluently. He had even married into a warrior clan that had been just liberal enough to tolerate letting one of their less prized daughters become the wife of the dapper little Greek. With his olive complexion, oiled ringlets of dark hair, carefully trimmed beard and fine continental wardrobe Diomedes could not look less like the crude natives he had chosen to live among for so long. Yet he was well enough regarded to be warmly greeted in every settlement the cohort passed through.

'What use have this lot got for cash?' grumbled Macro as the cohort's senior centurion counted out coins for a village headman in exchange for several bundles of salted beef – dark withered strips strung together by lengths of leather thong. The centurions of the cohort had gathered to be introduced to the headman and now stood to one side with the Greek guide while business was concluded.

'Oh, you'd be surprised.' Diomedes grinned, flashing his small stained teeth. 'They drink as much wine as they can afford. They've got a real taste for the stuff from Gaul – it's made me a small fortune over the years.'

'Wine? They drink wine?' Macro looked round at the motley scatter of round huts and small animal pens within a flimsy palisade that was only intended to keep wild animals out.

'Of course. You've tried their local brews. All right if you have to get drunk, but not much fun to drink otherwise.'