'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.'

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.

'Relax.' Vespasian smiled. 'It's a private visit. Aside from being diverted from the campaign to sort out a little problem Verica is having with his subjects. I brought some people to see you before they head back home.'

He stood aside to allow Boudica and Prasutagus to enter. The Iceni warrior had to duck under the doorframe, and seemed to take up a rather larger portion of the room than was really fair. He smiled broadly at the two Romans in their beds.

'Ha! Sleepyheads!'

'No, Prasutagus old son,' replied Macro. 'We've been injured. But I suppose you wouldn't know about that. Being built like a bloody rock and all.'

When Boudica translated, Prasutagus roared with laughter. In the close confines of the room the sound was deafening, and Vespasian flinched. Prasutagus finally got control of himself and beamed down at Cato and Macro. Then he said something to Boudica, and the words came hesitantly, as if he was embarrassed.

'He wants you to know he feels a brother bond with you,' Boudica translated. 'If you ever want to join our tribe, he'll consider it an honour.'

Macro and Cato exchanged an awkward look, before Vespasian leaned over them, whispering anxiously.

'For Jupiter's sake, watch what you say. That's quite an honour he's suggesting. We don't want to offend our Iceni allies. Understand?'

The two patients nodded, then Macro replied.

'Tell him that's, er, very kind of him. If we ever quit the legions then I'm sure we'll look him up.'

Prasutagus beamed happily, and Vespasian puffed his cheeks and relaxed.

'Anyway,' Macro continued, 'when are you heading off?'

'Soon as we leave you,' replied Boudica.

'Camulodunum?'

'No. Back to our tribe.' Boudica looked down at her hands. 'We've got to prepare for our wedding.'

'Sa!' Prasutagus nodded happily, placing his paw on Boudica's shoulder.

'I see.' Macro forced a smile. 'Congratulations. I wish you both well.'

'Thank you,' said Boudica. 'That means a lot to me.'

A difficult silence thickened uncomfortably, before Vespasian stirred.

'Sorry. I meant to tell you straightaway. The general sends his greetings to all four of you. In fact, what he said was, he trusts that the mission you undertook to rescue his family will be emblematic of the relations between Rome and her Iceni allies. Plautius does not think any reward he could give you would do justice to the great deed you have done… Anyway, that was the gist of the message.'

Macro winked at Cato and smiled bitterly.

'I think he really meant it,' Vespasian continued. 'I really do. I dread to reflect on what might have happened if they'd been killed. The whole invasion would have degenerated into a massive effort to wreak vengeance on the Druids. Not that he'd ever admit it. And while he might not have provided you with a reward, he did authorise me to arrange a decoration, and organise a little adjustment in rank.'

Vespasian laid the bundle he was holding on the end of Macro's bed and carefully unwrapped the folds. First out came two phalerae, ebony inlaid with gold and silver, one each for Macro and Cato.

While Cato reverently handled the medallion, his legate continued unwrapping the bundle.

'One last thing, for you, Optio.' The legate suddenly drew up, smiling to himself.

'Sir?'

'Nothing. I just realised that's the last time I can call you that.'

Cato frowned, not yet understanding. Vespasian flicked back the last fold of wool to reveal a helmet, with a transverse crest, and a vine stick.

'Got them from the supplies this morning,' Vespasian explained. 'As soon as Plautius confirmed the promotion. I'll put them over in the corner with the rest of your kit, if that's all right.'