Cato dropped his knife and took a step towards the branches lying on the mud.

‘No!’ Metellus grabbed his arm. ‘It’s too late . . .’

Cato shook the arm free and turned back towards Proculus, and saw that the man’s head tipped back, eyes wide with terror as the mud slid remorselessly up the bridge of his nose. Then there was just the top of his head, and his arm raised up, fingers clawing at the air. The head sank out of sight, leaving a dim pool of dark water that bubbled for a few moments and was then still. To one side Proculus’ hand rose above the mud, fingers tightly clenched. Then, slowly, they relaxed and the hand gradually flopped forward from the wrist.

For a moment all was still and silent as the men on the bank gazed at the spot where their comrade’s head had been.

‘Fuck . . .’ one of the men breathed.

Cato slumped on to the grass, and the others slowly sat down each side of him. As they stared, the mud slowly, almost imperceptibly, began to swallow up the carcass of the deer, and all they could do was watch with a mixture of shocked grief for Proculus, and a gnawing hunger at the sight of the gradually disappearing deer. Eventually it too was swallowed up as the foul water closed over the bloodied hide, and then there was nothing.

At length Cato stood up and tucked his dagger back into his waistband. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Go?’ Metellus frowned as he looked up at his centurion. ‘Go where, sir?’

‘Back to the camp.’

‘What’s the point?’

‘We have to get moving,’ Cato said patiently. ‘The mist has lifted. We might be seen.’

‘Doesn’t matter, sir,’ Metellus replied with a despairing weariness.’Sooner or later, this fucking marsh is going to kill us all.’

05 The Eagles Prey

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Third Cohort reached the valley two days after leaving the camp by the Tamesis. Maximius gave the order to pitch tents and dig a defensive rampart as the light faded to the west. Before them lay a shallow vale no more than two miles across and perhaps eight miles in length. Beyond a broken line of foothills, the marsh stretched out as far as the eye could see - a dismal patchwork of stunted trees and reeds, broken only by dark expanses of water and the occasional copse atop hummocks of ground that rose above the marsh like the backs of great sea creatures.

From the small watch-tower erected over the camp gate Centurion Macro had a good view down the valley and could see dozens of faint trails of smoke rising up above the gentle slopes. Closer to the camp he could pick out the small clusters of round huts, and a dim haze hanging over a small forest halfway down the valley indicated a settlement of some size. All very peaceful, he mused. In the next few days that would change.