‘Oi! Watch it!’ Macro called out, bracing Cato with his arm. ‘You nearly fell on me.’

‘Sorry.’ Cato was now wide awake, ashamed of his weakness and afraid that it might happen again. He stretched his shoulders and walked over to a water trough, removed his helmet and swept the strands of hay covering the surface to one side before ducking his head in, rocking his face from side to side as the cool water quickened his senses. Then he stood up, not bothered by the drops of water cascading down his face and on to his segmented armour and tunic. With a last stretch, and rubbing his eyes Cato set off for the great hall. He climbed through the gap between two of the wagons and dropped down into the redoubt.

Cadminius and some of the bodyguards sat by the entrance to the hall, talking quietly and drinking from some wine jars in the glow of a small fire. They looked up as Cato strode across to them. The centurion was frowning. He beckoned to Cadminius and entered the hall. Cadminius took his time finishing off the wine in his cup, and then rose slowly and followed Cato inside.

‘Drinking? Is that wise?’ Cato asked with a look of contempt. ‘You’ll hardly be in a fit state to defend your king tomorrow.’

‘Roman, drink is our way of life.’

‘Fine, but it can ruin a good death. Is that how you want to die tomorrow? A drunken rabble so pissed you can hardly strike a straight blow.’

Cadminius raised his fist and for a moment Cato felt sure the warrior would hit him. But Cadminius slowly relaxed his expression and muttered, ‘We’ll be all right. I give you my word.’

‘I’m counting on it. Now, I must see the king.’

‘No point. He’s just the same.’

‘Nevertheless, I must see him. Macro has ordered me to report on his condition.’ Cato did not give Cadminius any chance to protest further. He swung round and marched towards the door leading into the king’s private quarters. A sole guard stood on duty, and he pushed his back away from the wall and reached for his spear, but Cadminius waved him aside.

The royal bedchamber was brightly lit by oil lamps and torches, and stank of smoke. A small crowd of nobles sat and stood about the king’s table, talking in muted tones. Verica was almost impossible to see, swathed in fur covers up to his chin. Above them, his white hair flowed over a purple bolster. The king’s skin was almost as white as his hair and the faint rasp of his breathing was audible even from the doorway. The surgeon from the depot hospital looked up as Cato entered and smiled.

‘The king stirred briefly a few moments ago.’

‘He regained consciousness?’ asked Cato as he joined the surgeon at the bedside and looked down at the frail old man.