Cato hastily put aside that memory and turned his thoughts back to the plan he had hoped might win them a reprieve and send them back to their comrades in the Second Legion. He had clearly envisaged the scene: the motley column of bedraggled legionaries marching proudly back towards their astonished legate, who would listen in rapt attention as Cato told him where to find Caratacus and his warriors, pinpointed on one of the maps spread across Vespasian’s campaign desk. A sweet fantasy, that. He smiled bitterly to himself. Any comfort that vision had once offered him now seemed quite hollow, and the vision mocked him as he lay on his back staring unfocused at the sky above.

At length he could bear to torment himself no longer, and eased himself up into a sitting position. Looking round the camp he could see the other men, squatting in small groups, talking quietly. One or two glanced back at him as they saw that he was awake, and Cato wondered what they were really discussing as they refused to meet his eyes and looked away. Then he reminded himself that he had given orders that they were to make no unnecessary noise. He was looking for signs of danger all the time now, and if he were not careful it would drive him mad.

Something was not right . . .

Cato looked round the camp again and fixed his gaze on Figulus, sitting under a low bough a short distance away, whittling a fine point on the tip of a slim, relatively straight, shaft of wood. The centurion quickly rose to his feet and strode over towards Figulus.

‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on patrol.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Figulus nodded.’Someone volunteered to take the patrol instead.’

‘Someone?’ Cato glanced round and then stared down at the optio. ‘Metellus?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Where did he go?’ Cato asked with a sickening realisation that he could already guess the answer.

‘Out past that farm we found a few days back. He reckoned that there might be a track leading from the farm towards some larger settlement in the swamp.’

‘That’s what he reckoned?’ Cato said with bitter irony.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you believed him?’

‘Why not?’ Figulus shrugged. ‘He might find something useful, sir.’

‘Oh, he’ll find something, all right. You can count on it.’ Cato smacked his palm against his thigh. ‘Right . . . get up! You’re coming with me. Get us some spears.’

While his optio quickly rose to his feet and walked over to the weapons stacked in the centre of the camp Cato rubbed his eyes and decided what they must do.

‘Sir?’

Cato glanced round. Figulus was holding a spear shaft out towards him. He took it, leaned it against his shoulder and then checked that his dagger was securely fastened by the sash tied around his waist.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Figulus said quietly. ‘I didn’t think he’d do anything stupid.’