‘Yes, sir.’

‘You know, Cato,’ Macro smiled, ‘I’ve met some clumsy soldiers in my time, but you…’

‘It wasn’t me, sir! Bloody ground just gave way.’

‘I see.’ Macro turned to look at the place Cato had fallen from. A large section of moss had collapsed to reveal a crumbling round mass of decayed vegetation.

‘There, sir. See?’ a piqued Cato protested. ‘The whole thing’s rotten.’

He fell silent for a second, and then curiously pulled a clump of moss away, and then another, tossing them excitedly to one side.

Macro smiled. ‘No need to take it so personally.’

Cato ignored him and continued to clear the moss away until, a few moments later, the rotten remains of a tree stump became visible. He stood up and quickly glanced around; there were several other similar mounds covered in moss on either side of the track. He hurried over to the nearest and kicked the moss away to reveal the remains of another ancient tree stump, then looked up at Macro with a grin.

‘What on earth?’ The centurion was startled by the young man’s actions, which were eccentric even by his normal standards of behaviour.

‘Sir! Don’t you see?’

‘I see you’ve finally gone mad.’

‘They’re tree stumps, sir! Tree stumps!’

Cato paused, waiting for his comments to provoke a reaction, a wide grin splitting his mud-spattered face. For all the world, Macro could not help feeling a pang of paternal affection. Cato looked like a little boy — it was impossible to be angry with him.

‘Tree stumps?’ Macro replied instead. ‘Yes, well, I can see that they’re tree stumps. Probably been cut down for use on the track.’

‘Exactly, sir! Exactly. Cut down. How many of them would you say?’

Macro looked around. ‘Ten, twelve or so.’

‘Do you think that ten or twelve trees might be enough to constitute a copse?’

Macro stared at him and a familiar cold tingle traced its way down the back of his neck. ‘Everyone on their feet!’

The legionaries, tired and filthy, could have looked even less excited had they put their minds to it, but rose to their feet nonetheless.

‘The optio thinks we’re at the right spot. Start looking for the remains of the cart off the side of the track.’

The legionaries looked at the dull, gloomy morass surrounding them, and then back to their centurion as if waiting for more helpful directions.

‘Well, get on with it!’ Macro said firmly. ‘It’s not going to bloody well find itself!’

Without waiting for the others, the centurion started attacking the nearest mound of moss at the side of the track, wrenching away handfuls of the moist growth and hurling them to one side. The others reluctantly followed suit and soon the pleasant little hummock of grass was well on the way to utter ruin. Clods of moss and earth flew through the air and yet more filth adhered to the legionaries as they struggled to unearth any sign of the lost wagon. The sun slowly declined from its midday position with little further effect on the mist that clung to the vast expanse of marsh. The legionaries had found nothing and one by one they sat down and surveyed the dark brown debris of peat and rotten wood that was all they had to show for their exertions. Macro let them stop without a word and squatted down on his heels, fixing Cato with an accusing stare.