The rain gradually subsided into a light drizzle as the morning wore on, but the gloomy overcast remained in place and denied the fugitives any warming ray of sunshine. Cato and Figulus drove them on, alternately running and then walking, mile by mile towards the distant marshes that offered the best chance of evading the inevitable patrols sent to hunt them down. The rain had washed off most of the mud from the night before but the men were still streaked with grime and reduced to shivering as the sweat chilled on them when they slowed to a walk. With no canteens the only chance to slake their thirst had been at the stream where they had left Pollius behind, and Cato found that his tongue felt increasingly big and tacky as the relentless pace continued. Despite their weariness, not one of the other men dropped out. There were no stragglers, since every man knew that death would be waiting on any who fell behind. Cato was relieved at this, since he was certain that no amount of cajoling or physical punishment could lift a man who had reached the end of his endurance.

As he trotted on, breathing heavily, and fighting the stitch that stabbed at his side, Cato tried to keep some sense of the passing time. With no sun crossing the sky to mark the passage of the hours he could only roughly estimate their progess, so that it might have been close to noon when they crossed over a low ridge and beheld, barely a mile ahead, the fringe of the vast area of flat land that sprawled towards the distant horizon. The poor light lent the dismal vista an even more gloomy aspect, and the fugitives gazed down on the endless mix of reeds, narrow waterways and scattered hummocks of land, with their stunted trees and thick growths of hawthorn and gorse.

‘Not very homely,’ Figulus grunted.

Cato had to breathe deeply and compose himself before he could respond. ‘No . . . but it’s all we’ve got. We’re going to have to get used to it for a while yet.’

‘What then, sir?’

‘Then?’ Cato chuckled bitterly before he replied in an undertone, ‘There probably won’t be a then, Figulus. We’ll be living from moment to moment, always in danger of being discovered by either side and ending up dead . . .unless we can win a reprieve.’

‘Reprieve?’ Figulus snorted. ‘How’s that going to happen, sir?’

‘I’m not sure,’ admitted Cato. ‘Best not build the men’s hopes up too soon. I’ll tell you when I’ve had a chance to think things through in detail. Let’s keep moving.’