At the promise of wine, Macro clamped his mouth shut. The surgeon and the orderlies left the room. Only when he was sure that they were out of earshot did he turn to Cato and continue in a whisper, ‘Heard you got the general’s wife and son — minus a finger, I’m told, but otherwise intact. Bloody good job! Should be a gong or two coming our way’

‘That would be nice, sir,’ Cato replied wearily. He wanted more sleep, but the sheer pleasure of seeing his centurion again made him smile.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing, sir. Just glad to see you still with us. I really thought you’d had it.’

‘Dead? Me?’ Macro sounded offended. ‘Take more than some bloody Druid with an attitude to top me! Wait till I have another crack at those bastards. They’ll think twice before they wave a sword in my direction again, I can tell you.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Cato’s eyelids suddenly felt very heavy; he knew there was one more thing that needed saying, but for the moment it eluded him. Beside him Macro was complaining about being confined to bed, and if he heard the surgeon tell him to sleep one more time he’d have the man’s guts for garters. Then Cato remembered.

‘Excuse me, sir.’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I beg a favour of you?’

‘Of course you can, lad! Name it.’

‘Could you make sure that I get to sleep first, before you try?’

Macro glared at him a moment, then angrily launched his bolster across the gap at his companion.

A few days later they had visitors. Cato had been shifted round and lay on his back, still bandaged, but much more comfortable. A board lay between the edge of his bed and Macro’s and they were playing dice, at Macro’s insistence. The run of the luck had been going Cato’s way all morning, and the piles of pebbles they were using as stakes were very uneven. Macro looked ruefully at Cato’s latest cast of the dice and at the few remaining pebbles before him.

‘Don’t suppose you could sub me a few of yours if I lose this one?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied, clamping his jaws together to stop a yawn escaping.

‘Good of you, lad!’ Macro smiled, swept the dice up into his cupped hands and shook them. ‘Come on! Centurion needs new boots…’

He opened his hands, the dice dropped, tumbled over and came to rest.

‘Six! Pay up, Cato!’

‘Oh, well done, sir!’ Cato smiled in relief.

The door opened and they looked round as Vespasian stepped into the room, clutching a woollen bundle to his chest. The legate waved a hand at them as both men ridiculously tried to straggle towards some equivalent of coming to attention.