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was out cold. Macro nodded with satisfaction and lowered his cane.
    ‘You four.’ He gestured to some men from the Second Illyrian. ‘Scrape this piece of shit up and take him back to our guardhouse. He can stew there while I sort this out with his commander.’
    ‘Wait.’ A man stepped from the crowd and loomed over Macro. He was a head taller and broad to match and in the orange light of the lamp his face looked hard and weathered. ‘I’ll take this man back to the Tenth. We’ll deal with it.’
    Macro stood his ground and sized the man up.’I’ve given my orders. I’m placing this man under arrest.’
    ‘No, he’ll go with me.’
    Macro smiled faintly. ‘And who might you be?’
    ‘The centurion from the Tenth Legion who’s telling you what’s going to happen,’ the man smiled back.’Not a pissing little centurion from an auxiliary cohort. Now, if you auxiliary boys wouldn’t mind moving along . . .’
    ‘Small world,’ Macro replied. ‘I’m not a centurion from an auxiliary cohort either. I’m the prefect of the Second Illyrian, as it happens. I keep my vine cane for old times’ sake. From my days as a centurion of the Second Legion.’
    The other officer stared at Macro for a moment before stiffening and saluting.
    ‘That’s better.’ Macro nodded. ‘And who the fuck are you?’
    ‘Centurion Porcius Cimber, sir. Second century, third cohort.’
    ‘Right then, Cimber. This man’s in my custody.You find your legate and explain the situation to him. His man will be disciplined for taking a knife to one of mine.’
    Macro was interrupted by a deep groan from the ground as Menathus suddenly writhed, breaking free of Cato’s hold. The blood pumped out at once.
    ‘Where the hell’s that carrying board?’ Cato yelled, then pressed his hands on the wound again and leaned over Menathus. ‘Keep still!’
    ‘Shit . . . I’m cold,’ Menathus muttered and his eyes rolled aimlessly as the lids flickered. ‘Oh . . . shit, shit . . . it hurts.’
    ‘Hold on, Menathus,’ Cato said firmly. ‘We’ll get the wound seen to.You’ll be all right.’
    The crowd of soldiers, and the handful of townspeople who had joined them, stood and gazed on the scene in silence as Menathus groaned, his breath coming in sharp ragged hisses. Then he started trembling violently and his body spasmed, every fibre tense as rock for an instant, before he slumped back on to the street, his breath escaping from his lips in a long last sigh. Cato pressed his ear to the man’s bloodied chest for a while and then drew back, withdrawing his hand from the knife wound.
    ‘He’s gone.’
    For a moment the crowd was still. Then one of the auxiliaries growled, ‘Bastard murdered him. He’s going to die.’
    There was an angry chorus of agreement and at once the crowd shuffled into two groups, as auxiliaries and legionaries confronted each other. Cato saw hands bunch into fists, men crouching slightly as they braced their legs to charge, and then Macro strode between them and raised his arms into the air.
    ‘That will do! Enough! Keep your distance there!’ His expression was furious as he stared from side to side, daring the men to defy him. Then he nodded to Centurion Cimber. ‘Take your men back to the camp. Now.’
    ‘Yes, sir!’ Cimber saluted and thrust the nearest of them down the street towards the gate. ‘Move, you bastards! Show’s over.’
    He continued to push and shove the angry legionaries away from the bar and the body lying in the street. One of the auxiliaries called after them.’You ain’t seen the last of us! There’s a score to settle for Menathus!’
    ‘Silence!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Shut your mouths! Centurion Cato?’
    ‘Yes, sir?’ Cato stood up, wiping his bloodied hands on the sides of his tunic.
    ‘Give Cimber a head start and then get our men back to camp. Make sure that the prisoner doesn’t come to any harm.’
    ‘What about Menathus?’
    ‘Take him as well. Get the hospital