Wobbling to his feet, Cato took aim at the nearest legionary and swung his fist as hard as he could. He missed completely and struck the wall instead, badly grazing his knuckles. He tried again, and this time the blow landed on the side of a man’s head with a painful jarring sensation. Cato became aware of a fist flying in towards his face, and for the second time that night the world went white. With a grunt he sagged to his knees and tried to shake his head clear. When his vision returned, Cato saw a legionary standing over him with a stool raised above his head. Instinctively he thrust his head forwards and smashed it into the man’s crotch. The legionary folded under the impact and crumpled to one side with a howl of pain, both hands clutched between his legs.

‘Nice move, son!’ Macro bellowed.

The blow to his head and the excess of wine he had consumed made Cato’s head swim horribly. He tried to get to his feet, and failed, but through the shouts and crashes of furniture he became aware of the distant pounding of footsteps.

‘Provosts!’ someone shouted. ‘Get out of here!’

Abruptly the fighting stopped and there was a mad scramble for the back of the bar. The main door opened and a squad of soldiers with black cloaks appeared. Cato was dragged to his feet by Macro and thrown bodily in the direction of the small rear door that the other brawlers were spilling out through. In a whirl of images Cato found himself out in the street, running clumsily after Macro. The centurion broke away from the main group and went weaving down an alleyway. The sounds of pursuit had faded when Cato became aware that he had lost track of Macro. He stopped and leaned against a wooden wall as he fought to catch his breath. The world around him was spinning sickeningly and he desperately wanted to throw up, but there was nothing apart from bile rising in his throat.

‘Macro!’ he called out. ‘Macro!’

In the near distance a voice shouted, and the sound of jostling armour grew louder.

‘Shit! What have I done?’

A hand grabbed hold of his arm and yanked him to one side, through a door and into the darkness of a building. Something hit him hard in the stomach and Cato dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Outside, footsteps crunched through the snow and then died away.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Macro, helping Cato to his feet. ‘But I needed to shut you up for a moment. No harm intended. You all right?’

‘N–no!’ Cato gasped. ‘Feel sick!’

‘Save it for later. We’ve got better things to do. Come here.’

Cato was shoved through a doorway into a small room lit by a single lamp. Two women were sitting on a pair of seedy looking beds, and they smiled as Macro appeared through the door.