Ahead on the slope the track forked, one arm bending left, round the edge of the marsh and quickly lost to view in the haze that hung over everything and merged with the patchwork of mist still clinging to the dampest dips and folds in the ground. The other fork followed a track less rutted and worn that led straight into the heart of the marsh.

‘Keep to the right-hand path!’ Cato shouted out as he dropped out of line and turned towards Figulus. ‘Keep ‘em moving. Don’t let them rest until you are at least a quarter of a mile inside the marsh.’

‘Yes, sir. Where are you going?’

‘Just checking back over the hill; make sure we’re not being followed. Keep a good look out for me. I don’t fancy being lost in that marsh all on my own.’

Figulus smiled. ‘See you later then, sir.’

They parted company, Figulus leading the bedraggled fugitives west towards the unwelcoming sprawl of the wetlands, Cato turning back towards the ridge they had just crossed. He was not sure why he felt he had to go back for one last look. Perhaps he was driven by the need to stop and think, to plan the next step. Perhaps he just needed a rest and one last look at the world before he was plunged into a life of concealment and terrible deprivation. Whatever the motive, he walked slowly back up the slope, heart heavy with the hopelessness of his situation. What if there was no hope of redemption? What if he was doomed to spend what remained of his life running in fear of his discovery and capture by his own people? Was such a life worth living? Even if they managed to survive being caught between what was left of Caratacus’ army and the legions in the immediate future, the legions were bound to take control of the southern part of the island before the year was out. Then they would have ample time to search out and destroy any last settlements that dared to defy the rule of Rome. At some point the surviving fugitives would be discovered and hauled off to a place of execution - however dimly the military authorities would recall their crime.