A small formation of legionaries was quick-marching across the plateau towards the enclosure and Cato saw the red crest of the legate rising above the other helmets. He turned to Prasutagus. 'See to the lady and her son. I'm going to report.'
The Iceni warrior nodded and sheathed his sword, trying not to look too intimidating as he walked over towards the general's wife. Cato kept his sword in hand as he stepped out of the gateway and raised his other hand in greeting to the legate, now clearly visible and smiling happily. A warm glow of contentment washed through Cato. He had kept his word, and the wicker man rising above the hill fort would not claim its victims after all. He noticed that his body was trembling, whether from nerves or exhaustion he could not tell.
Behind him Lady Pomponia screamed.
'Cato!' Prasutagus shouted.
But before Cato could react, something slammed into his back. The breath was driven from his body in an explosive gasp and he dropped to his knees. He felt something like a fist deep inside his chest. He jerked as the object was wrenched free. A hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head back, and Cato saw the blue sky and then the triumphant sneer on the face of the Chief Druid as he raised his bloodied sickle high in the air. That was his blood, Cato realised, and he closed his eyes and waited for death to come.
He dimly heard Prasutagus scream with rage, then the Chief Druid's grip convulsed, tearing at Cato's hair. A warm rain dripped down on him. Warm rain? The Chief Druid relaxed his grip. Cato opened his eyes just as the Chief Druid's body collapsed by his side. A short distance away rolled the Druid's head, still in its antlered headpiece. Then Cato fell forward on his face. He was conscious of the hardness of the ground against his cheek and someone grasping his shoulder. Then Prasutagus dimly shouting. "Roman! Roman, don't die!'
And the world went black.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It seemed as if he was shimmering between a deep, thoughtless dream and moments of painful, sharp, reality. There was no sense of the passage of time, none at all, just disconnected fragments of experience. The sound of plaintive cries on all sides, their source invisible in the dark. The vague outline of a man's back sitting on a bench above his head. The smell of mules. Beneath Cato, wheels rumbled, jarred and the moment faded and blackness returned. Later, he felt hands gently rolling him onto his front. Something was removed from round his chest, and a man, his voice distant, sucked in his breath.
'Messy Mostly muscle damage. The blade struck a rib, which stayed intact, mercifully. If it had shattered…'
'Yes?'
'Fragments might have penetrated his right lung, there'd be infection and finally, er, death, sir.'
'But he will recover?'
'Oh yes… In all probability, that is. He's lost quite a lot of blood, but he seems to have a strong enough constitution, and I have had considerable experience of dealing with wounds like this, sir.'
'You've considerable experience of sickle wounds?'
'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.'
Before Cato could ask any questions the surgeon had gone, his footsteps receding at a fast pace. Keeping his head still, Cato squinted at his surroundings. He seemed to be in a small cell with walls of timber and plaster. From the damp smell, the plaster must be quite fresh. In the corner sat a small chest. His armour, with its distinctive phalerae, lay on the ground beside the chest. Cato smiled at the sight of the medallions – he had been awarded those by Vespasian himself, after saving Macro's life back in Germania… But where was Macro now? Then Cato remembered the terrible wound his centurion had suffered. Surely he must have died. But didn't someone say he had survived? Cato tried to remember, but the effort defeated him. Someone slipped a hand under his head and gently raised it. Cato smelt the sweet, spicy vapour of the heated wine and parted his lips. The wine was not too hot, and Cato slowly drained the cup held in the medical orderly's hand. The warmth spread out from his belly, through his body and he soon felt pleasantly sleepy as his head eased back onto the coarse material of the bolster. While his mind slowly drifted off, Cato, with a soldier's delight in small luxuries, smiled at the fact that he had been given an entire room to himself. Wait until Macro found out.
When he next woke up, Cato was still lying on his front. He could hear the shouts and bustle of many men. The orderly had just changed the soiled bedding, and cleaned his patient. He smiled as Cato's eyes flickered open and fixed on him.
'Morning, sir.'
Cato's tongue felt thick, and he nodded his head slightly to return the greeting.
'You look much better today,' continued the orderly. 'Thought you was a goner when they brought you in, sir. Must've been a clean wound that Druid gave you.'
'Yes,' Cato replied, trying not to remember. 'Where am I?'
The orderly frowned. 'Here, sir. Here being the new hospital block in the new fort that's been thrown up in Calleva. Quick work. Just hope it don't fall down around our ears.'
'Calleva,' repeated Cato. That was days away from the hill fort. He must have been out for the entire journey. 'What's all the fuss?'
'More casualties coming in from the legion. Seems the legate has turned over another of them hill forts. We're out of space and the surgeon's tearing his greasy hair out trying to reorganise things…' The orderly's voice trailed away.