Cato opened his hands despairingly. ‘Like what? There’s no kit for them to maintain, no barracks to be ready for inspection, no drilling, no marching and we daren’t get into any fight armed as we are. There’s nothing for us to do but lay low.’ He felt his stomach turn over and a faint gurgling rumble sounded from beneath his filthy tunic. ‘And find something to eat.’

Figulus shook his head.’That’s not good enough, sir. You’ve got to do better than that. The men are looking to you.’

‘Do what then?’

‘I don’t know. You’re the centurion. That’s your job. Thing is, whatever we do, we must do it quickly . . . sir.’

Cato looked up at his optio and gave a faint nod. ‘I need to think. While I’m out hunting, start the men on the shelters.’

‘Shelters, sir?’

‘Yes. We’re staying put for the moment. Might as well make ourselves as comfortable as possible. Besides,’ Cato nodded to the men, ‘it’ll keep them occupied.’

Figulus rose to his feet with a sigh of frustration and turned away, walking over to the side of the clearing where he drew his short sword and slumped back down on the ground. He fished about for the small rock he had tucked in the torn strip of cloth he used as a waistband and began to run it along the edge of the blade in a slow deliberate, grating rhythm. Cato watched for a moment, terribly tempted to shout at him and order him to stop making that irritating noise, but managed with difficulty to restrain himself. Figulus had been right, he realised at once. Soldiers without duties to occupy them were without purpose. And with no purpose it was only a matter of time before they degenerated into brigands.

But what could he achieve with twenty-eight men, armed only with swords, and the few shields and spears they had recovered from the Batavian dead? Mere survival seemed to be the limit of their capacity for action, and Cato sank further into the dark mire of depression.