To be sure, there were animals living around them, but so far they had not been able to catch any of the birds, and only once had they seen anything bigger: the hind quarters of a small deer, swiftly disappearing through a tangle of gorse bushes the moment it scented the men. The spears that Cato’s men had taken from the bodies of the Batavians remained un-bloodied, and the pained gurglings from the stomachs of Romans threatened to drown out the almost constant booming of a bittern some distance away.

‘I’ll take a party out as soon as there’s enough light,’ Cato said. ‘I’m sure we’ll find something to eat.’

‘What if you don’t, sir?’

Cato looked carefully at the expression on the face of his optio, but sensed no challenge to his authority there, and felt a moment of shame. Figulus had nothing to prove. Not after he had risked his life to help Cato and the others escape. The optio’s current peril was a poor return for the loyalty he had shown his centurion, a fact that only made Cato feel more wretched and guilty. It was a debt he would probably never be able to repay.

But if the loyalty of Figulus was not in doubt, the loyalty of the rest of this sorry band of outcasts most definitely was. Since they had entered the marsh four days earlier Cato had been acutely aware that the distance between them and the legion was more than geographical. The men were only just beginning to realise the true desperation of their situation, and in time they would no longer respond to his rank. When that happened, only Figulus would stand between the centurion and a complete breakdown in authority. If he ever lost the loyalty of his optio Cato was finished. They all were, unless they stuck together and functioned as a unit.

How would Macro have handled things? Cato felt sure his friend would have a much surer grasp of the situation were he here, and he lowered his head to hide his despair before he responded to Figulus’ question.

‘Then I’ll keep taking men out until we do find something to eat. If we find nothing we starve.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it, Optio. That’s all there is for us now.’

‘What happens when winter comes, sir?’

Cato shrugged. ‘I doubt that we’ll last that long . . .’

‘That depends on you, sir.’ Figulus glanced round, then shuffled round the fading embers so that he was close enough to his centurion not to be overheard.’But you had better come up with a plan. The men need something to keep them occupied. To keep them from thinking about what happens next. You’d better come up with something soon, sir.’