They crept up the inner slope and when they reached the short wooden stakes driven into the top of the earth rampart Macro turned and waved his hand down. There was a short, almost silent commotion as the men stumbled into each other, then Macro turned back to the palisade. Grasping one of the stakes in both hands, he worked it forward and backwards, while the veins bulged on his neck. At last, with a soft tearing sound, he ripped the stake out of the compacted turf. The second stake came out quickly and was gently lowered to the ground alongside the first. Cato glanced round anxiously, wiping the rain from his brow as he scanned the lines of tents for any sign of alarm. But the legionaries of the Third Cohort slept on, quite oblivious to the escape attempt of the condemned men. The next stake came out and there was a gap large enough for a man to squeeze through. Cato turned and sought out the looming hulk of Figulus.

‘Optio, you first. Get down into the ditch and head towards the corner of the camp. Stay low.’

Figulus nodded, and then eased himself through the gap, dropping at once on to his stomach and crawling down the steep incline into the defence ditch. Cato thrust the next man forward, and one by one they crept through and down, and then spread out along the ditch. Cato was the last man to leave. He turned towards Macro and they clasped hands clumsily. Cato realised that there was every chance that he would not live to see his friend again, and the thought of not having the reassuringly powerful and weathered figure of Macro at his side filled him with anxiety. But he had to be strong. Whatever future this small band of fugitives had, they would be depending upon him. Cato forced himself to smile at the dark, glistening features squatting opposite.

‘Thank you, sir.’

Macro nodded, and then gently thrust Cato into the gap. ‘Get going. You must be as far away from here as possible before they discover you’ve escaped.’

‘Right.’