‘So I’ve been told.’

‘Well now. I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Good news is your wound’s healing nicely. I imagine you’ll be up and about in a month or so.’

‘A month!’ Cato groaned at the prospect.

‘Yes. But not all of it will have to be spent lying on your stomach.’

Cato stared at the surgeon for a moment. ‘And the good news is?’

‘Ha ha!’ The surgeon chuckled obsequiously. ‘Well then, the thing is we’re a bit pressed for space, and while I’d normally not dream of imposing on my officer patients, I’m afraid you’re going to have to share.’

‘Share?’ Cato frowned. ‘Who with?’

The surgeon leaned closer, looking over Cato’s shoulder in the direction of the doorway. ‘He’s a bit of a sod. Grumbles all the time, but I’m sure he’ll respect your privacy and pipe down a bit. Sorry, but there’s nowhere else I can stick him.’

‘Does he have a name?’ muttered Cato.

Before the surgeon could reply, there was a commotion at the door and muttered curses.

‘Watch it, you bloody fools!’ growled a familiar voice. ‘This isn’t a bloody battering ram you’re playing with.’

More muttered curses followed.

‘Who’s this you’ve landed me with? If he talks in his sleep I’ll have your balls off.’

The orderlies struggled round the end of Cato’s bed and set their patient down with a thump on the bed next to him.

‘Oi! Careful, you hopeless wankers. I’ve got your number!’

Cato looked over, smiling fondly. Centurion Macro looked as white as a toga, his face pallid and gaunt beneath the tightly bound bandage. But there he was, very much alive and on form. With Macro snoring in the same room, he’d never get another decent night’s sleep.

‘Hello, sir.’

‘Hello yourself!’ Macro snapped back, then his eyes blinked wider and he propped himself up on an elbow, grinning with unrestrained pleasure at the sight of his optio. ‘Well, I’ll be buggered! Cato! Well, I… I… It’s good to see you again, lad!’

‘You too, sir. How’s the head?’

‘Hurts like hell! An every-hour-of-every-day hangover.’

‘Nasty.’

‘And you? What happened?’

‘Druid stuck a sickle in my back!’

‘Get away! A sickle in the back? That’s bollocks, that is!’

‘Centurion Macro,’ interrupted the surgeon. ‘This patient needs his rest. You mustn’t excite him. Now, please settle down — and I’ll see to it that you get some wine.’