'And the wounded?'

'Thousands.' The surgeon looked up. 'Mainly from the Ninth, thanks to those bloody slingers. I've never treated so many broken bones. Here, let me find you a souvenir. '

The surgeon scanned the ground for a moment and then pounced on something in the trampled turf. He straightened up and popped it into Cato's hand. It was small and heavy and in the dim light Cato could see an oval lump of lead the size of his thumb, but thickening in the middle.

'Nasty, isn't it?' The surgeon nodded at it. 'You'd be surprised just how much damage one of those can do in the hands of a good slinger. The impact will break bone, even through chain mail, or a helmet. I had to cut one out of a tribune tonight. Went right into his leg, smashing the thigh bone to pieces. Poor sod died from loss of blood before I could finish.'

'From one of these?' Cato tossed the lead shot up and felt the stinging impact as he caught it. Travelling many times faster, he shuddered to think of the damage it would do to a human being. As he rolled the shot in his hand he noticed an irregularity on its surface, and raised it to his eyes for a closer look. Even in the poor light he could see that something had once been stamped on the side of the shot and that someone had tried to erase the markings, rather too hurriedly.

'Can you see some letters there?' he asked, holding up the shot.

The surgeon gazed at it a moment, then frowned. 'Well, it looks like an L, then an E, but that's all I can make out.'

'That's what I thought.' Cata nodded. 'But what is Latin script doing on British shot?'

'Maybe it's one of ours being returned.'

Cato thought for a moment. 'But slings haven't been issued to the legions yet. So where can this have come from?'

'Someplace beginning with LE,' suggested the surgeon.

'Perhaps,' Cato said quietly. 'Or maybe the LE stands for LEGIO, in which case it really is one of ours. You see any more like this?'

'Look around.' The surgeon waved his hand. 'They're all over the place.'

'Really?' Cato tossed the lead shot up in the air again. 'That's interesting… '

'Right! That's you finished.' The surgeon stood up and wiped his hand on a rag tucked into his belt 'Get down to the river and take a boat back to your unit's camp. You're to rest up and keep the arm as still as possible. If there's any sign of pus in the burns, go and see the nearest surgeon immediately. Clear?'

Cato nodded. He tucked his tunic into his belt and picked up his equipment in his good hand. The salve and the cool air on the naked skin of his upper torso combined to take some of the sting out of his bums and he smiled gratefully.

'If you pass our way in the next few days I'll stand you a drink.'

'Thanks, Optio. That's very kind. I don't usually make house calls, but given your offer I'll be happy to make an exception. Who shall I ask for?'

'Cato. Quintus Licinius Cato, Optio of the Sixth Century, Fourth Cohort of the Second Legion.'

'Well met then, Cato. I'll look forward to it.' The surgeon placed the salve jar into his leather dressing bag and turned to leave.

'Er, might I have your name?' Cato called out.

'Nisus. At least that's my known name.' The surgeon replied bitterly and strode off between the lines of wounded.

The Eagles Conquest

As dawn flooded over the rolling British landscape, the Britons launched a desperate counterattack to regain control of the ford. It was a vain effort since the same boats that had been used to shuttle the wounded back to the eastern bank of the river had returned with bolt-throwers from the army's artillery train. Long before dawn, many of these weapons had been mounted on the western ramparts of the British fortifications, and covered all the approaches.

As the hapless Britons rose up from the mists wreathing the low ground behind the fort and roared their battle cry, many were cut down before they had a chance to draw a second breath. With reckless courage they charged forward, urged on by the braying of their war horns and the example of their standard bearers leading the way beneath their billowing serpents. The Romans had sealed up the gateways and had formed a solid shield wall along the length of the rampart. Disciplined and determined, the legionaries did not yield one foot of ground, and the wave of Britons dashed themselves to pieces on the defences.

Cato was being helped aboard one of the engineers' shallow-bottomed craft when the peal of British war horns sounded on the dawn air, somehow muffled and distant, as if they belonged to a different world. The sounds of battle drifted down to the grey glassy surface of the river but there was little sense of excitement amongst those in the boat. For a moment Cato sat up and strained his ears to listen. Then he glanced down at the weariness and pain etched into the faces of the men around him, too tired to pay heed to the desperate battle being fought, and Cato realised that it was no longer his affair. He had done his duty, he had felt the fire of battle coursing through his veins and shared in the exultation of victory. Now, more than anything else, he needed rest.

The other men's heads nodded and lolled as the engineers steadily paddled the craft over the water, but Cato concentrated on the activity around him to divert his mind from the pain of his burns. The small boat was passing close by one of the warships and Cato looked up to see a bare-headed marine leaning on the side, a small wineskin in his hands.

The man's face and arms were blackened from the soot of the incendiary fire the ships had been pouring down on the British the previous day. He raised his head at the sound of the engineers' paddles splashing into the smooth surface of the river, and raised a finger to his forehead in casual greeting.

Cato nodded back. 'Hot work?' 'You said it, Optio.'

Cato fixed his eyes on the wineskin, and instinctively licked his lips at the thought of its contents. The marine laughed. 'Here! You seem to need it more than I do, Optio.'

Cato, clumsy in his exhaustion, fumbled to catch the thrown wineskin.

The contents sloshed heavily inside. 'Thanks!'

'Typical bloody marine,' grumbled an engineer. 'Those tossers have got nothing better to do than drink all day long.'

'While the likes of us do all the bloody work,' complained his comrade on the other paddle.

'That's your problem, mate!' the marine called out. 'And watch what you're doing with them paddles, or you'll foul the anchor chain!'

'Piss off,' one of the engineers replied sourly, but increased his efforts on the paddle to steer the craft away from the stern of the warship.

The marine laughed and raised a hand in mock salute. Cato pulled out the wineskin stopper and took a deep draught of wine. He almost choked when a sudden whoosh and crack broke the stillness. A catapult on the deck of the ship had just hurled a flint-filled casket high into the air towards a small force of chariots downstream from the fortifications. Curious about the accuracy of the weapon, Cato watched as the casket arced up into the air in the general direction of the spectral shapes of the distant enemy. All eyes must have been fixed on the fight for the fortifications as there was no sign of any reaction to the black speck pitching down towards them. The casket disappeared into the faint shapes of men, horses and vehicles. Moments later a dull crash carried across the water, followed by cries of surprise and pain. Cato could well imagine the devastating impact of the casket and the wounds inflicted by the flints flying out in all directions. Moments later the British had vanished and only the dead and injured remained where the chariots had stood.

As the hulk of the warship fell away in the milky light, Cato slumped back against the hard side of the boat and closed his eyes, despite the agony of his burns. All that mattered now was snatching a moment's rest. Helped by the wine, the instant his aching eyes shut and he surrendered to the warm comfort of relaxation, the young optio fell into a deep sleep. So deep that he barely murmured as he was lifted from the boat and transferred to one of the Second Legion's hospital carts for the jolting journey back to the camp. He strained only briefly when the legion's surgeon had him stripped and prodded the burns to assess the damage. A fresh application of salve was ordered and then Cato, having been entered in the walking wounded lists, was carried back to the Sixth Century's tent line and gently transferred to his coarse sleeping roll.