They sat at the table and let the heat from the glowing brazier warm them through, and small wisps of steam curled up from the folds of their damp tunics as they drank more beer. Cato, far more responsive to the effects of drink than his companion, became drowsy, slowly slumping back against the wall behind him. His eyes fluttered a moment and then closed. Moments later, chin drooping on to his chest, the young centurion was asleep.

Macro watched him with an amused expression, but did nothing to disturb his friend. He took a perverse satisfaction in this moment of weakness. While he had celebrated Cato’s promotion with a full heart, there were times when it pleased Macro to feel that, after all, his experience counted for more than Cato’s undoubted ability. Despite every battle the lad had fought his way through since joining the Eagles, despite all the courage and resourcefulness Cato had shown in the most desperate of circumstances, he was still not even twenty years of age.

In the orange glow of the gently wavering flames Cato’s face was smooth and unblemished, not scarred and wrinkled like his own, and Macro indulged himself in a moment of fatherly tenderness towards his companion before he took another swig of beer and looked round the great hall. The anxiety of the Atrebatan noblemen was palpable, and already they were forming distinct factions, gathered in close groups in the gloomy depths of the hall. Perhaps the lad was right, Macro reflected. Perhaps there was worse to come.

‘Wake up! Come on, Centurion! Wake up!’

‘What! What’s up?’ Cato mumbled anxiously as a hand shook his shoulder roughly. His eyes flickered open and he jerked upright. Tribune Quintillus was leaning over him. Macro stood to one side, bleary-eyed but erect. Beyond them the hall was almost still. The braziers had burned down, and the dim red embers revealed only the dark forms of men sleeping on the rush-covered floor.

‘You with us, Cato?’ asked Quintillus.

‘Yes, sir . . . Yes.’ Cato rubbed his eyes. ‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘It’s almost dawn.’

‘Dawn?’ Cato was immediately wide awake and furious with himself. Macro saw his friend’s brow crease into a frown and couldn’t help smiling. Quintillus eased himself back and wearily rubbed the stubble on his chin.

‘We have to talk. Follow me.’

The tribune turned abruptly and strode towards the door to the king’s bedchamber as Macro and Cato scrambled to their feet, hurrying after him. The royal bodyguards edged away from the entrance to the chamber to let them through, closing ranks the moment the door shut behind Cato. Once inside, the small group instinctively looked over to the bed where Verica lay. There was no movement, only the rhythmic thin rasp of breathing.

‘Any change?’ asked Quintillus.

The surgeon, seated on a stool beside the bed, shook his head. ‘He hasn’t regained consciousness at all, sir.’