Cato exchanged a look with Macro. ‘We’d better get back to the depot quick as we can.’

‘Right.’

‘Has he said anything?’ Tincommius gasped as they burst into Cato’s quarters, breathless. The surgeon was crouched over the body. Opposite him Artax was kneeling on the floor and looked round.

‘Na . . .’

A pool of blood glistened in the light from the high window in Cato’s office. More blood was splashed about the beaten earth floor, and was smeared on the whitewashed lathe walls either side of the wooden doorframe.

Cato took a sharp breath at the sight of Bedriacus. The hunter’s face looked whiter than snow, with a waxy pallor. His eyes flickered open and shut as his mouth hung loose, the tongue feebly moving over his trembling lips. Bedriacus’ red tunic had been removed and lay to one side, dark and wet. Only the loincloth remained on the hunter, and the drained white skin smeared with his blood made him look to Cato like a creature that had been caught and skinned.

‘How is he?’

‘How is he?’ Macro looked up from the surgeon. ‘Use your bloody eyes. He’s had it. Don’t need to be a quack to work that one out.’

‘Quiet, please, sir,’ the surgeon requested. ‘It’s best for him.’

Cato slowly crossed the room and kneeled to one side of the huddle of men. ‘Artax? He say anything to you?’

Artax raised his shaggy head and looked levelly at Cato, his expression clear of any feeling of any kind.

‘Did he say anything to you while you were waiting with him?’

Artax was still for a moment, and then gently shook his head.

‘Nothing? Nothing at all?’

‘Nothing that made any sense, Roman.’

Cato and Artax stared at each other, then Cato continued softly, ‘I find that difficult to believe.’

Artax shrugged, but said nothing. Before Cato could question him more closely Bedriacus let out a long gasping groan. His eyes opened wide, stared wildly round at the faces of the men leaning over him, and then fixed on Cato.

‘Sir . . .’

‘Bedriacus, who did this? Did you see who did this?’

‘Here . . . closer . . .’

Cato leaned forward, until his face was no more than a foot from Bedriacus’ staring eyes. The hunter’s left hand shot out and clenched Cato’s tunic by the collar. The centurion instinctively tried to pull back but there was an insane power in the dying man’s grasp and he pulled Cato closer. Cato could smell the stale odour of the hunter’s breath and the sweeter, thicker stench of his blood.

‘The king . . . in great danger.’

‘I know . . . Now, just-’

‘Listen! I came to tell you . . . Heard some men talking. Nobles . . .’ Bedriacus’ face contorted, and a violent spasm shot through his body.