‘Not exactly. He opened his eyes, muttered a few words and was unconscious again.’

‘Words? What words? What’d he say?’

‘Nothing I could make out, except Tincommius’ name. The king seemed a bit agitated.’

‘That’s it? Nothing more?’ The surgeon shook his head, and Cato’s lips briefly tightened in frustration. ‘If there’s any change, either way, you send for me at once. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato took a last look at the king and was turning to leave when the surgeon grasped his arm.

‘Has anyone made it from the hospital?’

‘No.’

‘I see.’ The surgeon looked Cato in the eye. ‘What are our chances, sir?’

‘Not good. Just do your duty, for as long as you can.’

‘And when the end comes . . .?’

‘Protect the king. That’s all.’

Once he had reported back to Macro, Cato made a quick round of the palisade to make sure that the men were awake and watching for any sign of the enemy. With so few of the defenders left, even one unobservant sentry could lead to the death of them all. Then, satisfied that there was no more he could do, Cato found himself a place close to the gate, leaned back against a support post and almost at once fell into a deep sleep. He did not wake when the guard was changed, and it was only the urge to urinate that finally woke him, shortly before dawn. Consciousness returned quickly, and an instant fear that he had slept far too long. At once Cato tried to clamber up on to his feet. The stiffness of his muscles and the aching heaviness of total exhaustion almost denied him the ability to stand, and he groaned as he forced himself to straighten up.

Although it was still dark and gloomy overhead, away in the east the horizon was lit by the pearly grey of the coming dawn. The air was cool and the breath of the few men stirring around the royal enclosure came in faint wisps. There was a peculiar stillness in the air, and the sky was overcast, promising rain later on, or more likely the depressing drizzle that was so much a feature of this island’s climate. It saddened Cato to think that the drama of his death would unfold against such a dour backdrop. A paltry skirmish in some dark corner of a crude collection of barbarian hovels that scarcely dignified its description as a town. That’s where he, Macro, Silva and the others would find their graves - in obscure, uncivilised and backward Calleva. No place in the history books for them.