Besides being empty-handed, the scouts brought no news of Caratacus and his warriors, also concealed in this marsh. It was as if the depressing miasma had simply swallowed up the remnants of the native army, as it had Proculus.
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.'
'Really?' Cato muttered. 'We'll find out soon enough. Come on.'
He turned and led his optio towards the exit from the camp. As he reached the edge of the small clearing Cato turned to call out to the others over his shoulder.
'No one leaves the camp. Stay alert.'
Cato strode down the track into the swamp, mentally mapping the tracks he had used since they had found the camp. If Metellus was making for the farm then he would most likely take the track they had followed the day they killed the pig. It had been one of the few patrols Metellus had been out on. Cato had worried that the man's disrespectful attitude might have caused problems, and had confined him to the camp as often as possible. There was a quicker way to the farm, a narrow track that almost disappeared into the marsh in places. It was hard to follow, but if Cato and Figulus hurried they might yet reach the farm before Metellus, and stop him from doing anything foolish.
So he hurried on, sacrificing the usual wary caution with which he had moved through this dismal landscape to the need for speed. The sun shone from a clear sky overhead and the swirling clouds of insects that hovered amongst the reeds closed round the sweating Romans as they waded through small stretches of the thick foul-smelling mud between lengths of the track that snaked through the marsh.
'What do they eat when Roman's off the menu?' Figulus muttered as he angrily swatted a horsefly that was gorging itself on his neck.
Cato glanced back. 'If we don't stop Metellus in time, then there'll be a lot more Romans on the menu. Come on!'
They had been going for nearly two hours, when Cato realised that the landscape around him was wholly unfamiliar. From the position of the sun, he knew they must be headed in roughly the right direction, but they should have come across the farm long before now. They must have missed it, passed it by, and failed to find Metellus. It was with a sinking heart that Cato was helping his optio out of a deep patch of mud when he glanced back the way they had come and froze.
'What is it, sir?'
Cato just stared for a moment longer and then pointed. 'Look there…'
Figulus stepped up on to the earth bank and straightened, following the direction indicated by his centurion. At first he didn't see anything unusual, then a faint smudge blossomed in the distance.
'I see it.'
As they watched the smoke thickened into a thin grey column that trailed up into the clear sky. The base of the column pointed unerringly to its source.
Cato glanced round at the sun, still well above the horizon. 'There's still an hour or two of light left. Too much. We have to get back, quick as we can.'
He plunged back into the mud they had just extricated themselves from and with a sigh of exhaustion and resignation Figulus turned and followed his centurion. The march back was twice as hard, as Cato forced them on as fast as he could manage, heedless of the burning weariness in his weakening limbs, all the while staring anxiously at the thin haze of smoke that, in the fading light, seemed never to get any closer.
They could hear the squealing of the pigs long before they emerged from the track through the marsh and ran the final distance through the trees towards the camp, breathless and leaden-limbed. The sun was now no more than a burnished disc of coppery fire low on the horizon behind them, and they pursued their long distorted shadows into the small clearing that formed their camp. There, beside the smoking remains of the fire, lay two spitted piglets. Tethered to one of the trees the sow looked on in terror, squealing for its young with shrill relentless cries. The surviving piglets clustered round her trotters, pink snouts nuzzling their mother for comfort.
The men were bent over the roast pigs, eating, and one by one they gazed up guiltily as they became aware of the officers' return. One of them nudged Metellus and he slowly rose to his feet as Cato and Figulus came panting up towards the fire. The legionary forced a smile on to his face, bent down and picked up a hunk of meat from the small pile he had carved. He straightened up and held it out towards his centurion.
'There, sir. Lovely strip of belly. Try it.'
Cato stopped several feet short of the fireplace, and stood leaning on the shaft of his spear, chest heaving as he struggled to regain his breath.