The surgeon from Cato’s ship came trotting up with his haversack of dressings and salves. He knelt down beside the survivor and examined him quickly, feeling his pulse. ‘He’s in a bad way, sir. Doubt I can do much for him.’

‘All right. Then I need to find out what I can before it’s too late.’ Cato leaned forward and spoke gently into the ear of the man. ‘Tell me your name, sailor.’

‘Mene . . . Menelaus,’ the voice rasped softly.

‘Listen to me, Menelaus. You are badly injured. You may not live. If you die, then you will want someone to avenge your death. So tell me, who did this? Romans you said. What did you mean? Roman pirates?’

‘No . . .’ The man whispered, and then muttered something more, a word Cato could not quite catch.

‘What’s that?’

‘Sounded like he said worship,’ Macro suggested. ‘Doesn’t make sense. Worship?’

Cato felt an icy thrill as he grasped what the sailor was trying to say. ‘Warship, that’s it, isn’t it? You were attacked by a warship?’

The sailor nodded and moistened his lips. ‘Ordered us to heave to . . . Said they were checking the cargo . . . Started killing us . . . No mercy.’ The man’s brow wrinkled at the memory. ‘He spared me . . . Said I was to remember his name . . . Then they held me against the mast and forced my hands up.’ A tear glistened in the corner of the man’s eye and then rolled down his skin and dripped from his ear.

‘His name?’ Cato prompted gently. ‘Tell me his name.’

The sailor was silent for a moment before his lips moved again. ‘Cent . . . Centurion Macro.’

Cato sat up and looked at his friend. Macro shook his head in astonishment. ‘What the fuck is he talking about?’

Cato could only shrug before he turned his attention back to the sailor. ‘Are you certain? Are you sure he said his name was Macro?’

The sailor nodded. ‘Macro . . . That was the bastard’s name . . . Made me repeat it to be sure . . . Centurion Macro,’ he murmured, then his face contorted in agony.

‘Sir,’ the surgeon intervened. ‘I have to get him out of the sun. Below deck in the Sobek. I’ll tend to his injuries there.’

‘Very well. Do what you can for him.’ Cato eased the sailor’s head down and stood up. The surgeon called over four of the marines and ordered them to lift the sailor’s body as gently as possible. Cato watched them make their way towards the gangway, and then turned to Macro. ‘Odd, don’t you think?’

‘I have an alibi,’ Macro responded with harsh humour. ‘Been busy hunting fugitive slaves.’ He jabbed his thumb at the sailor being carried across the gangway. ‘What’s that Centurion Macro business about?’

‘It’s Ajax. Has to be.’

‘Why?’

‘Who else would use your name?’

‘No idea. But if it is Ajax, why do it?’