Cato shook his head as he sat down on the bench beside Macro. He had just returned from the royal bedchamber where the depot’s surgeon was attending the king, under the watchful eye of Cadminius. Macro was drinking some of the local beer and slowly drying out beside the glowing embers of a brazier. It had been a long, uncomfortable day. The rain had closed in around the hunting party as they hurried back to Calleva with their wounded king. They reached Calleva at dusk, drenched and shivering, Tribune Quintillus had ordered Cato and Verica’s bodyguards to accompany the king back to the royal enclosure while Macro rode to the depot to fetch the surgeon. Quintillus roused the Wolf Cohort from its quarters and had them mount guard on the depot and the looping ellipse of the ramparts of Calleva, in case any of Verica’s enemies tried to take advantage of the attack on the king. While the men took up their stations under the flare of hastily lit torches, and waited for further news, Macro made his way up to join Cato in the royal enclosure.

The great hall was filled with men clustered in small groups around the trestle tables. Several of the king’s bodyguard barred the way into Verica’s private quarters, swords drawn and alert to any danger. Whispers and carefully moderated voices filled the air, and all eyes frequently flickered towards the doorway leading into Verica’s bedchamber. Word of Verica’s injury had started to spread beyond the royal enclosure, through the muddy byways of Calleva, and Atrebatans of every rank anxiously waited for further news.

Earlier Cato had watched the surgeon carefully clean the blood and mud away from the old man’s torn scalp. The surgeon sucked in a deep breath before he gently probed the discoloured skin beneath the thinning hair. Then he sat back and nodded at Cato.

‘He’ll live, for now.’

‘What are his chances?’

‘Can’t say. With this kind of injury he might be fine in a few days, or dead.’

‘I see,’ Cato muttered. ‘Do what you can.’

The king lay on his bed, his face deathly pale where it showed beneath the dressing the Roman surgeon had applied to the wound. The old man’s breathing was shallow. But for the faint rise and fall of his chest he looked as good as dead.

‘Let me know the moment there’s any change,’ Cato told the surgeon.

‘Yes, sir.’