‘Yes, sir. The third time. Hospital’s getting filled up, and we’re being worked to the bone.’ The last few words were given heavy emphasis and both orderlies edged a step closer to the door. ‘Mind if we get back to our duties, sir?’

‘Not so fast. What’s the full story on the convoy?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I just deal with the casualties. I heard someone say that what was left of the escort was still on the road, a short way off, trying to save the last few wagons. Stupid, if you ask me. Should have left them to the Britons and saved their own skins. Now, sir, do you mind . . .?’

‘What? Oh, yes. Go on, bugger off.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The orderly made a small smile and, shoving his partner ahead of him, he left the cell and closed the door behind him.

The instant the door was shut Macro swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his boots.

‘Where are you going, sir?’ Cato asked drowsily.

‘To the gate, to see what’s happening. Get up. You’re coming too.’

‘I am?’

‘Of course you are. Don’t you want to see what’s going on? Or haven’t you had enough of being shut up in this bloody hospital for the best part of two months? Besides,’ Macro added, as he began to tie his straps, ‘you’ve been asleep most of the day. Fresh air’ll do you good.’

Cato frowned. The reason he slept most of the day was because his room-mate snored so loudly that sleep was almost impossible at night. In truth, he was heartily sick of the hospital and was looking forward to being returned to active duty. But it would be some time before that happened, Cato reflected bitterly. He had only just regained enough strength to get back on his feet. His companion, despite an appalling head wound, was blessed with a tougher constitution and, barring the occasional shattering headache, was almost fit enough for duty.

As Macro looked down at his boot straps Cato gazed at the livid red scar stretching across the top of Macro’s head. The wound had left knotty lumps of skin and no hair grew around it. The surgeon had promised that some of the hair would return eventually, enough of it to hide most of the scars.

‘With my luck,’ Macro had added sourly, ‘that’ll be just in time for me to start going bald.’

Cato smiled at the memory. Then a fresh line of argument that might justify staying in bed occurred to him.

‘Are you sure you should go out, what with you fainting the last time we sat in the hospital yard. Do you really think it’s wise, sir?’