“I can’t spare one for you,” the centurion replied coldly.

Outside on the plain a rush of flame from the funeral pyres lit the night. The darkness of the tent lessened slightly and the centurion’s gaze fell on a bowl of soup on a wooden stool. He picked it up and grimaced at the shining clots of phlegm that floated there.

“I’ll get you some clean food and a clean pot to piss in,” he said in disgust. “I can do that much for you.”

“Thank you,” Brutus said, closing his eyes against the pain.

“Don’t thank me. I don’t want anything from you,” the man snapped.

Brutus could hear the outrage in his voice. He raised the knife without looking. “They left this,” he said. He heard the centurion snort.

“You keep it. I heard what they were saying to you. Maybe they were right. Not by their hands, though, not on my watch. But maybe you should think about doing it yourself. It would be clean.”

With a huge effort, Brutus threw the knife away from him, hearing it thump into the earth somewhere near. The centurion did not speak again and after a time he left.

The crackle of the pyres went on for hours and Brutus listened to the prayers before he slid into sleep once again.

As dawn came, the cries of the wounded men in the tent grew louder. The legion healers bathed and stitched and splinted as best they could. Infection and sickness would come later for most of them.

Brutus slept lightly, but it was the sudden silence that woke him. He raised his head and saw Julius had come into the tent. The men would not let the consul see their pain and those who moaned in sleep were shaken awake.

With a struggle, Brutus raised himself up as best he could. The men lying nearby stared openly at him. He could feel their dislike and resolved not to reveal his own pain, clenching his jaw against the sharp stabs from his broken arm.

Brutus watched as Julius spoke to each of the men, exchanging a few words and leaving them sitting proudly in his wake, their agony suppressed. Whether it was his imagination, Brutus did not know, but he felt the tension increase as Julius neared him until at last the consul of Rome pulled up a stool at his side and sat heavily on it.

Julius’s eyes were red-rimmed from smoke. His armor had been polished and, compared to the men in the ward, he seemed cool and rested.

“Are they looking after you?” Julius asked, glancing over the splints and bandages that tied his battered frame.

“Flowers and grapes every morning,” Brutus replied.