‘I only said it might be the place we’re looking for,’ Cato said guiltily. ‘I mean, it seemed a reasonable guess, given the way things are going.’

‘Guess?’ Pyrax muttered angrily. ‘You seemed pretty damn sure of yourself earlier on!’

‘Maybe it was a mistake.’ Cato shrugged. ‘But where else can the wagon have gone? From the look of the track up ahead there’s no way it can have gone any further than this, and how many other trees have we passed? None. It has to be close by.’

‘Where then?’ Macro swept his arm round at the excavations. ‘We’ve looked.’

‘Well, we just haven’t found it yet.’

‘Fuck this!’ Pyrax stood up angrily. ‘Look, Centurion, the wagon isn’t here. Any fool can see that. Either we’ve missed it earlier on the track, or it was never here in the first place. Why don’t we just get back to the Legion?’

The other legionaries grumbled in support.

Macro looked down between his feet and thought for a moment before he rose stiffly. ‘No, not yet at least. The lad’s right. If it is anywhere then it has to be here. We’ll have a rest and then have another dig. If we find nothing by dusk we’ll head back.’

Pyrax swore and spat at Cato’s feet. His fist clenched.

‘That’s my decision, Pyrax,’ Macro intervened firmly. ‘Now back down and have a rest. That’s an order. Understand me?’

Pyrax remained silent, glaring coldly at the optio. Then he turned towards Macro for a moment and nodded.

‘I asked if you understood me?’

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Good. Now sit down.’

With a last glare at the optio, Pyrax turned away and slumped down with the other legionaries who all looked angrily at Cato.

It was more than the young optio could bear for the moment and he wandered down to the edge of the swamp to escape the immediate aura of hostility assaulting him from all sides. The remains of a sapling protruded out of the dark surface at the edge of the hummock and hung at an angle towards the track. With a deep sigh of frustration Cato leaned back against the sapling, firmly intending to empty his mind of immediate concerns and take in the view, such as it was. The moment the mass of his weight fetched up against the sapling it gave way with a loud creak and fell down on to the grass bank of the hummock. For a moment Cato felt himself toppling forwards for a second time, but a frantic windmill gesture kept him on his feet.

‘Cato!’ Macro shouted out. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake! Can’t you keep on your bloody feet for a little longer? I swear I have seen completely pissed sailors less clumsy than you.’

‘Sorry, sir. I thought this tree could bear my weight.’

‘Tree?’ Macro asked, then looked down in the grass where Cato indicated. ‘That’s no bloody tree.’

He bent down and examined the long shaft of wood. Under the lichen, grime and scraps of moss the wood was far too smooth and regular for a sapling. At the end of the shaft he wiped away the dirt and exposed an iron cap. A little more work revealed a foot-long iron collar with two handles protruding on opposite sides of the shaft.