The centurions were returned to their places in front of their centuries and then all were made to wait in silence, in the wavering glare of the reed torches, until six clerks emerged from the headquarters tent. Each carried a plain Samian ware jar. They spread out, one heading towards each of the centuries of the Third Cohort. When they were in position, Tribune Plinius stepped forward.

‘Every man in each century is to draw a corn tally from the jar in front of them. If you draw a white tally you will return to your unit. Any man who draws a black tally will be escorted to one side.’

A groan of despair welled up from the Third Cohort as they realised the nature of their punishment.

‘Silence!’ screamed the senior tribune. ‘You will be silent when a senior officer addresses you!’

He glowered at the terrified men on parade in front of him. ‘Begin!’

The legionaries approached the clerks by sections to draw their lots. Beside each clerk stood two men from the First Cohort, one holding a torch above the jar to ensure that each man’s tally was clearly visible when it emerged and the other to escort the unlucky ones away. Cato turned towards his men.

‘First section! To the front!’

The eight men marched up to the clerk. He raised the pot above eye-level so that the men could not see inside, and then the first man reached in. There was a dull rattling noise as his fingers probed the tallies.

‘Draw it quickly!’ the legionary holding the torch growled.

The man withdrew his hand and showed the tally to the clerk - a wooden disc, the size of a denarius.

‘White!’ the clerk called out and the first man turned round and walked quickly away, hurrying back towards the rest of the century, hands trembling with relief.

‘White!’ cried the clerk for the next man.

‘Black!’

The third man stared into the palm of his hand, frozen in place, staring as if at any moment the disc would turn white in front of his eyes.

‘Come on, you!’ The legionary grabbed him by the arm and thrust him towards the squad of guards waiting behind the senior tribune. ‘Over there. Let’s go!’

The man stumbled as he was half dragged away from his comrades. He glanced back over his shoulder and caught Cato’s eye. The appeal for help was as clear as it could be, but there was nothing Cato could do, and he shook his head helplessly, and looked away.

So it continued, and a steady trickle of victims was separated from the rest of the cohort. Cato saw Maximius take his turn, draw a white tally and turn away, clutching it like a lucky talisman. Maybe that was an omen for him too, he decided, and he turned to his optio.

‘Come on, Figulus. We’ll draw ours with the next section.’