Cato shifted with embarrassment. ‘Sorry sir, but someone else has to lead the other party.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t swim.’

‘You told Vespasian you could. That night you joined the Legion.’

‘I’m afraid I was exaggerating, sir. Sorry.’

‘Lying, you mean.’

‘Yes.’

Macro glared at him. ‘Well, that’s just terrific, Optio. Now I’ll have to bloody do it.’

‘Yes, sir. I’ll make sure I learn as soon as we get back to the Legion.’

‘Fine.’ Macro unfastened the clasp on his cloak and nodded to the others to do the same. The small party checked that their swords and daggers were firmly attached to their belts, then Macro led them down the track away from the Syrians, closely hugging the ground and slithering along the muddy surface. Once they had eased themselves into the water and swum off into the gloomy mist, Cato risked a quick glance round the side of the cart. The Syrians stood as before and, to one side, the unmistakable shadow of Vitellius sat atop a small mound close to where Pulcher tended their mounts. There was a sudden blur as an arrow flew close by and Cato ducked back down. The three other men, still unwounded, held their draw swords tight in their hands and crouched expectantly.

For a while it seemed nothing was happening, all was still and quiet as before. As the light failed Cato began to wonder what had become of his centurion. Then Vitellius stood up and called out impatiently.

‘Time’s up, Centurion. Surrender the chest now or die. What’s it to be?’

Cato looked round at the other legionaries.

‘Well, Centurion?’

‘Say something!’ one of the men hissed.

‘What? Say what?’ Cato asked helplessly.

‘Anything, you fool!’

‘That’s it, then,’ Vitellius concluded angrily. ‘You’ll bloody well die and like it.’

With a roar of fighting rage, Macro and his four men rose up from the shadows immediately behind the line of archers and raced down the track. The noise momentarily surprised Cato as well, but he recovered in an instant and was up on his feet running for the nearest Syrian, shouting at his party to follow. As he saw Cato running towards him, teeth bared in a feral war face, the Syrian dropped his bow and reached for the cleaver at his side. He fumbled as he unsheathed the blade and it fell to the ground. Cato shouted as loud as he could and the man ran for it leaving his weapon lying in the mud. Cato thrust his sword at the Syrian’s back but the point barely penetrated the cloak and caught him in the buttock instead. The man yelped and sprinted down the track as fast as his feet could carry him, frantically weaving round Macro and the others who were mercilessly despatching his comrades.

Frustrated by the enemy’s escape, Cato turned wildly about to look for another foe and saw Pulcher heaving Vitellius up into the saddle.

‘Over here!’ Cato cried out. ‘Don’t let him get away! Quick!’