Ahead of him, Cato stopped dead and stared down at something a short distance to one side. ‘There’s your answer, Centurion.’

Rufus waded up to his side to see what Cato had spotted. A body lay in the water, torso collapsed back against the stems of the reeds. The eyes stared blindly at the sun and a trickle of dried blood from the sagging jaw stained the man’s chin. There was a steady drone of insects as they fed on the corpse’s sweat and blood.

‘One of theirs, I think,’ said Cato, noting the man’s light complexion.

‘Good. That means the lads in the leading section have caught up with the stragglers.’

Cato’s lips wrinkled as a large mosquito alighted on one of the man’s eyes. ‘Here, hold my shield.’

He handed it to Rufus and then bent forward to examine the body more closely. The water was dark and brackish, and he could just see a vague outline below the surface. Reaching down into the water, his fingers brushed against a blade and he groped along the metal until he grasped the handle. Straining, he lifted the handle and the body rose up with it, breaking the surface with an oily swirl of ripples. The point of the sword and a good deal of the blade pierced the stomach at an angle close to the ribcage.

Centurion Rufus pursed his lips briefly. ‘Suicide?’

‘That, or his comrades did this to spare him from capture.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Look there.’ Cato pointed with his spare hand as he rolled the body over slightly. There was a large wound in the man’s side, like a wide thin mouth. The water had washed most of the blood away, and now thin tendrils of red oozed over the exposed wet flesh. ‘He was carrying a wound. He would have held them back.’

Cato released his hold on the sword handle and let the body sink back into the water. Rufus returned his shield and the pair of them returned to the narrow passage beaten through the reeds. The rest of the men had halted behind the two officers and stood, knee deep in the stinking water, as they rested on their shields. Rufus thrust his arm out as he saw one of the men raise his canteen and reach for the stopper.

‘What the fuck are you doing, Legionary Polonius? Did I give you permission to take a drink?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then lower that canteen and don’t lay a bloody finger on it until I say so. You drink that, and pretty soon you’ll have drained your waterskin as well. Then you’ll die of thirst.’

The legionary hurriedly did as he was ordered and thrust the strap of the canteen over his shoulder.