Inside the redoubt Macro cast a glance round the men defending the half-circle protecting the entrance to the great hall and nodded his satisfaction. For the moment, at least, they could hold off the enemy and he could spare time to see to the men and consider the situation. Around him squatted the rest of his legionaries and Cato’s men, exhausted and mostly injured; some with superficial cuts and a few with more serious injuries that would need attention. One of the men was beyond saving; he had been gutted by a spear and he sat, pale and sweating, with his hands clamped over the wound to keep his intestines from spilling out.

Macro went over to Cato, who was leaning against the back of the wagon as he caught his breath.

‘That was close,’ Macro said quietly.

Cato looked up and nodded.

‘You’re wounded.’ Macro pointed to the young centurion’s leg. Cato shifted it forwards and saw that his calf had been slashed below the knee. He had only been aware of a dull blow as he had turned and run through the gap. Now that he saw the blood flowing down the back of his leg and over his boot the wound began to burn.

‘Get it bound up,’ ordered Macro. ‘Surgeon’s just inside the hall. Once he’s seen to you get him out here to deal with the others.’

‘Yes.’ Cato looked round the redoubt, watching the backs of the men who were keeping the Durotrigans out.

Macro smiled. ‘It’s all right, lad. I can spare you for a moment. Now go.’

Cato drew himself up and walked stiffly to the entrance of the great hall. He paused on the threshold to take a last look round the redoubt and Macro caught his eye and jabbed his finger at the hall. Cato went inside.

The contrast between the afternoon sunshine outside and the dim interior of the hall was stark, and at first Cato could make very little out; just shadows flitting across the rush-covered floor. Then, as his eyes grew used to the gloom, Cato saw that the floor was covered with injured men, being tended by the surgeon and Verica’s household slaves. But they could do little more than bind wounds and make the dying as comfortable as possible. The surgeon looked up, and as soon as he saw Cato, he rose to his feet and hurried over.

‘You hurt, sir?’

‘My leg. Tie it up.’

The surgeon kneeled down and gently examined the wound. ‘Nasty. Looks clean enough, though. Quite a lot of blood here. Do you feel faint?’

Looking round at some of the terrible injuries surrounding him Cato felt guilty and ashamed about the attention he was being given.

‘Sir?’ The surgeon was looking up at him. He had taken a roll of linen from his haversack and was winding it around Cato’s calf.

‘What?’

‘How do you feel?’