Macro glowered for a moment and then eased himself back down on to his bed, careful to ensure that he kept the injured side of his head away from the bolster. It had been two months since a druid had nearly scalped him with a sword blow, and while the wound itself had healed, it was still painful, and the blinding headaches were only just beginning to abate. The orderlies came into the small cell and carefully lowered the stretcher, grunting with the effort.

‘What’s his story?’

‘Cavalryman, sir,’ replied the orderly when he had straightened up. ‘Their patrol was ambushed this morning. The survivors started coming in a short while ago.’

Macro had heard the garrison’s assembly call earlier. He sat up again. ‘Why weren’t we told?’

The orderly shrugged. ‘Why should you be? You’re just patients here, sir. No reason for us to disturb you.’

‘Hey, Cato!’ Macro turned towards the other bed in the cell. ‘Cato! You hear that? The man thinks that sorry little centurions like ourselves don’t need to be told about latest developments . . . Cato? . . . CATO!’

Macro swore softly, looked quickly around, reached for his vine staff, leaning against the wall by the bed, and then gave the still form in the other bed a firm poke with the end of the staff. ‘Come on, boy! Wake up!’

There was a groan from under the blanket, then the rough woollen folds were eased back and Cato’s dark curls emerged from the warm fug beneath. Macro’s companion had only recently been promoted to the rank of centurion. Before then he had served as Macro’s optio. At eighteen Cato was one of the youngest centurions in the legions. He had won the attention of his superiors for his courage in battle and his resourceful handling of a sensitive rescue mission deep into enemy territory earlier that summer. That was when he and Macro had been severely wounded by their druid foes. The leader of the druids had hacked into Cato’s ribs with a heavy ceremonial sickle, laying open his side. Cato had nearly died from the wound, but now, many weeks later, he was recovering well, and regarded the dull red scar tissue that curved round his chest with a measure of pride, even though it hurt like hell when he put any strain on the muscles down that side of his body.

Cato’s eyes flickered open, he blinked and then turned to look at Centurion Macro. ‘What’s up?’

‘We’ve got company.’ Macro jabbed his thumb at the man on the stretcher. ‘Seems that Caratacus’ lads are making themselves busy once again.’

‘They’ll be after a supply column,’ said Cato. ‘Must have bumped into the patrol.’

‘That’s the third attack this month, I think.’ Macro looked towards the orderly. ‘Ain’t that right?’