As soon as the last skeins of pink light had faded from the horizon, Cato gave permission for Metellus to light a small fire. The rest of his band sat in wide-eyed hunger, impatiently waiting for the fire to die down enough to allow them to roast the splayed pig over the red glow and grey ashes of the embers. Soon the rich aroma of cooking meat and the sharper tang of the fat fizzing down into the fire filled the men’s nostrils, and they moistened their lips in expectation. At the earliest possible moment Cato ordered Metellus to remove the meat from the fire and start cutting portions for the men. The legionary eagerly sawed away at the tough skin and then sliced through the meat, which oozed red juices as the blade cut it away from the bones underneath. Then, one by one, the men sat round the fire, hot meat cupped in their filthy hands as they tore at it with their teeth. Only now and then would they meet each other’s gaze and exchange a contented smile or wink as the warm pork quickly filled their stomachs.

Cato waited until the last man had taken his share, then nodded to Metellus. ‘You first.’

The legionary nodded and hacked off a length of loin he had been saving for himself and then moved aside for his centurion. As he pulled out his knife Cato saw that the best cuts had gone and he had to content himself with a chunk of flesh sawn off from around the back of the piglet’s neck. Then he sat with the others and lifted the meat to his mouth. At once, the aroma was irresistible and he sank his teeth in with all the eagerness of a street beggar tearing at the scraps fallen from a rich man’s feast. He smiled at the thought. Right now Cato would be more than happy to change places with the meanest pauper on the streets of Rome. They at least were not living in perpetual fear of being hunted down and killed like dogs.