With long-practised skill Prasutagus gutted the pig with his dagger, placing the inedible organs in a glistening pile. Then he shoved the lot down the hollow interior of the tree trunk, saving the liver for a little snack later. After wiping his bloodstained hands with clumps of damp moss, he started gathering branches.

'No fire,' ordered Cato. He pointed upwards, then towards the hill fort. 'No smoke.'

Prasutagus had obviously fixed his heart on roast pork and for a moment he baulked at the prospect of eating the pig raw. But then he shrugged and drew his dagger again. He hacked strips of flesh from the pig's loin and tossed one to Cato. The pink flesh had blood and white membrane on it, but Cato hungrily sank his teeth into the still warm meat and forced himself to chew.

After they had eaten their fill, Prasutagus pushed the carcass into the hollow trunk and covered the end with some branches. Then they rested in turns until nightfall, when they moved down the slope, carrying the pig with them. They headed away from the hill fort until they discovered a small hollow where an ancient oak had fallen, wrenching up the earth attached to its myriad roots. There they toiled to light a small fire with dry moss and flints from Cato's haversack. When the kindling had finally caught, they carefully built the fire up and roasted the pig. In the red glow of the warming flames, Cato sat with his arms round his knees savouring the sizzle of fat and the rich aroma of meat. At length, Prasutagus stood up and carved it, placing a large steaming pile on a stone beside Cato. They feasted till they could not eat another scrap and fell asleep with warm, full bellies.

For the next two days they took turns to keep watch on the hill fort, and saw a steady stream of tribespeople making their way towards it. There were wagons too, and small herds of animals, including sheep, driven up from their spring pastures, even though the lambing season was imminent. Clearly, the Durotriges were preparing their people for a siege, which meant they had had news of an approaching enemy. Right now that enemy could only be Rome; the Second Legion must be on the march. Cato's pulse raced at the realisation. In days, perhaps, the legionaries would throw a ring of steel round the hill fort and the Druids and their prisoners would have nowhere to flee. The general's wife and son would be used as bargaining counters to ameliorate the terms of the hill fort's surrender – unless the Durotriges were every bit as mad as the Druids and opted to fight Rome to their last breath. In that case there was little hope for Lady Pomponia and Aelius.

Cato had agreed with Prasutagus that on the third day one of them should return to the place Boudica had left them; that was the earliest she could be expected to return. So at dusk Cato slipped back across the track and headed towards the forest. Despite his certainty that he could recall the route by which he and Prasutagus had travelled, the trees seemed strange in the dark, and he failed to find the ruins of the silver mine. He tried to retrace his steps and only succeeded in becoming even more lost. As the night wore on, caution gave way to speed and the undergrowth crackled and rustled under his feet. He was on the point of calling out for Boudica when a dark figure stepped out from behind a tree directly in front of him. Cato flipped his cloak back and drew his sword.

'Why not just sound a trumpet next time you want to attract some attention?' Boudica chuckled. 'I thought I must have discovered one of Claudius's lost elephants.'

For a moment Cato just stared at Boudica's outline, then with a nervous laugh he lowered his blade and took a deep breath.

'Shit, Boudica, you scared me!'

'You deserved it. Where's my cousin?'

'He's fine. He's keeping watch on the hill fort. Unless he's gone hunting for pig farmers again.'

'What? Never mind. Explain later. Now listen to me. There's not much time, and I've got something really scary to tell you.'

Chapter Thirty-One

The edge of the night sky was washed with the pale glow of dawn by the time Cato and Boudica reached the hollow where Prasutagus was waiting. They had left her horse tied to a tree in the silver workings, with a full bag of feed to keep it company. The two Iceni embraced warmly in greeting, each obviously relieved that the other was safe and well. Although safe was pushing it a bit, Cato reflected. Being camped in a forest barely a mile from their savage enemy was not so very safe at all.

Boudica gratefully accepted some cold pork, but sniffed suspiciously before taking a bite.

'How old is this delightful morsel?'

'Nearly three days. It should be all right to eat.'

'Well, I'm hungry enough, so thanks.' She tore off a strip off the grey meat and chewed. 'Now then, my news. You'll have to excuse me if I talk while I eat.'

'Fine.' Cato nodded impatiently.

'I managed to reach an Atrebate village the night after I left you. They told me that a Roman army had passed through earlier in the day. Seemed quite awed by the experience. Anyway, I set off straight away and we caught up with Vespasian a few hours later. The Second Legion is making directly for the Great Fortress. Vespasian aims to knock it out of the campaign first, as an example to any Durotriges planning to hold him off in other hill forts.'

'Makes sense,' said Cato. 'And he'll go in hard. But how's Macro?'

'Macro was taken straight to the field hospital.'

'He's still alive?'

'For the moment. The chief surgeon didn't sound hopeful, but then I suppose they never do,' she continued quickly when she saw the look on Cato's face. 'Vespasian was delighted to see the general's daughter, but then showed me something that had been tied to an arrow and shot over the camp gate just after nightfall…' Boudica paused.

'Go on.'

'It was a finger, a small finger. There was a message from the Dark Moon Druids on the strip of cloth that tied it to the arrow. One of the legion's native scouts translated. It said that the finger was cut off the hand of the general's son as a warning not to try any more rescue attempts.'

Cato felt sick. 'I see,' he muttered.

'No, you don't. Plautius left orders with Vespasian that if any harm befell his family, then the head of the senior Druid in Vespasian's charge was to be cut off and sent to the Durotriges. The others are to be killed at two-day intervals and their heads sent back, until the surviving members of the general's family are released.'

'They're dead the moment that first head arrives, aren't they?'

'If they're lucky.'

'Has Vespasian carried out the order?'

'Not yet. He's sent the daughter back, with a request for confirmation of the orders.'

'Which Plautius will give, the moment he hears his daughter's story.'

'I'd imagine that's how he might react.'

Cato did some quick calculations. 'That was two days back. Allow two days each way for the message to reach the general and the order to be confirmed, then a day for the head to be delivered… That means we've got two days, three at the outside. No more.'

'That's what I reckon.'

'Oh great…' Cato looked down at his folded hands, then continued thoughtfully. 'Unless Vespasian delays carrying out the order.'

'He might,' agreed Boudica. 'But I think he has other plans. Your Second Legion will arrive under the walls of the hill fort in two days' time. I think he means to storm the fortress as quickly as possible and rescue the general's family himself.'

Cato was shocked. 'The Druids would never let it happen. They'd kill the hostages the moment the wall was breached. All we'd find are the bodies.'

Boudica nodded. 'But what choice does he have? They're dead either way.' She looked at Cato. 'Unless someone gets in there and gets them out before the legion turns up.'