Cato stepped away from the bed and headed towards the door leading into the hall. He paused before leaving the chamber. On the opposite wall was another door leading to the king’s private audience chamber, through which Cato could hear the muffled sounds of a heated debate. Then Quintillus called loudly for silence. It was tempting to go to the door and listen more closely, but Cato would not demean himself in such a way in front of the surgeon. Outside in the great hall Cato caught sight of Macro taking a seat at the nearest bench and hurried over to his friend to report on the king’s condition.

‘No improvement? What did the surgeon say?’

‘Not much,’ Cato replied, conscious that many eyes were on him as he had emerged from Verica’s bedchamber. ‘Artax must have hit him pretty hard. Verica’s lost a lot of blood, but the skull’s intact. He might live.’

‘He’d better.’ Macro glanced round the hall. ‘I get the impression that there’s quite a few of the locals who might welcome a change of regime. Not much love lost for us here.’

‘Maybe,’ Cato shrugged wearily, ‘but I think they’re just scared.’

‘Scared?’ Macro’s voice rose in surprise and a score of faces, dimly lit by the glow of the hall’s torches, turned towards the two centurions. Macro tilted his head closer to Cato. ‘A bunch of scared Celts? There’s something I thought I’d never live to see.’

‘You can hardly blame them. If the king dies they’ve lost him and his chosen successor in one go. Anything could happen. There’s no one named to succeed him. The king’s council will have to choose a new ruler. Just hope Quintillus can persuade them to pick someone who’ll keep the Atrebatans on our side.’

‘And where is our fine tribune?’

‘He’s with them now, in Verica’s audience chamber.’

‘Hope he’s turning on the charm.’

‘Charm doesn’t come into it,’ muttered Cato. ‘I imagine he’ll be quite blunt about the consequences of any change in the tribe’s relations with Rome. Just hope he can scare them enough to be sensible, for all our sakes.’

Macro was silent for a moment before he continued softly. ‘Do you think the tribune’ll succeed?’

‘Who knows?’

‘Any idea who they might choose?’

Cato thought briefly. ‘Tincommius is the obvious candidate. Him or Cadminius. If they want peace with Rome.’

‘That’s what I thought.’ Macro nodded. ‘Cadminius would be best.’

‘Cadminius? I’m not sure that we know him well enough.’

‘And you think you really know Tincommius?’ Macro looked at his friend earnestly. ‘Enough to trust him with your life? We’d be fools to trust any of this lot.’

‘I suppose.’ Cato ran a soiled hand through his lank hair and frowned. ‘But I think if we can trust anyone it would be Tincommius.’