‘No, sir. Lacerations resulting from sharp edges. Sickle wounds are something of a rarity. Not your usual choice of battlefield armament, if I may be so bold as to generalise, sir.’

‘Just look after him, and make sure he goes into quarters appropriate to his rank when you reach Calleva.’

‘Yes, sir. Orderly! Drain the wound and change the dressing!’

‘I’d really rather you changed the dressing and, er, drained the wound.’

‘Yes, sir! At once, sir.’

Cato felt someone probing his back, halfway down, and then an agonising prickling sensation. He tried to protest, but merely murmured and then lost consciousness.

His next awakening was as gradual as the passage of a shadow across a sundial. Cato was aware of a faint light through his eyelids. He heard sounds — the muffled hubbub of a busy street. Snatches of human voices speaking a language he did not understand. The pain in his back had subsided into a steady throb, as if some giant with fists the size of boulders was roughly kneading his flesh. As Cato thought of the wound, he remembered the Chief Druid wielding his shining sickle, and opened his eyes with a start. He tried to turn onto his back. The dull throb at once turned into a searing, stabbing agony. Cato cried out and slumped back onto his chest.

Footsteps thudded on wooden flooring and a moment later Cato sensed a presence behind him.

‘Awake, I see! And earnestly trying to rip open your back. Tsk!’

Fingers gently probed the area around the wound. Then the man walked to the other side of the bed and knelt down. Cato saw the olive features and dark oiled hair of the eastern empire. The man wore the black tunic of the medical corps, trimmed with blue. A surgeon then.

‘Well, Centurion. Despite your efforts the drain is still in place. You’ll no doubt be delighted to hear that there’s almost no pus this morning. Excellent. I’ll have that closed up and bandaged in a moment. How do you feel?’

Cato moistened his lips. ‘Thirsty,’ he croaked.

‘I imagine you are,’ smiled the surgeon. ‘I’ll have some heated wine sent to you before we put the stitches in. Wine mixed with a few rather interesting herbs — you won’t notice a thing, and you’ll sleep like the dead.’

‘I hope not,’ Cato whispered.

‘That’s the spirit! Soon have you back on your feet.’ The surgeon rose. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I have some other patients that need my attention. Our legate seems to want to keep me fully occupied.’