Outside, Cato whistled with astonishment at the prospect of Bestia's bequest. But the centurion was paying little attention to his optio; he fingered the torc, relishing its considerable weight. They walked towards the hospital tent in silence until Macro looked up at the tall figure of the optio.

'Well, well. Wonder what Bestia's left for you.'

Cato coughed, clearing the tightness in his throat. 'No idea, sir.'

'I had no inkling the old boy had it in him to make that kind of gesture. Never heard of him doing anything like this the entire time I've served with the eagles. Guess you must have made quite an impression after all'

'I suppose so, sir. But I can hardly believe it.'

Macro thought about it a moment, and then shook his head. 'Neither can I. No offence meant or anything but, well, you just weren't his idea of a soldier. Must admit, it took me a while to work out there was more to you than a beanpole bookworm. You just don't have the look of a soldier about you.'

'No, sir,' came the sullen reply. 'I'll try and look the part from now on.'

'Don't worry about it, lad. I know you're a killer, through and through, even if you don't know it. Seen you in action, haven't I?"

Cato winced at the word 'killer'. That was the last thing he wanted to be known as. A soldier, yes, that word had some measure of civilised credibility. Obviously being a soldier entailed the possibility of killing but that, Cato told himself, was incidental to the essence of the profession. Killers, on the other hand, were just brutes with few, if any, values. Those barbarians who lived in the shadows of the great German forests were killers. They slaughtered for the sheer hell of it, as their endless, petty tribal conflicts illustrated all too well. Rome may have had civil wars in its past, Cato reminded himself, but under the order imposed by the emperors the threat of internal conflict had all but passed. The Roman army fought with a moral purpose: the extension of civilised values to the benighted savages who lived on the fringes of the empire.

What of these Britons? What kind of men were they? Killers, or soldiers after their fashion? The swordsman who had died in the legate's games haunted his mind. The man had been a true warrior and had attacked with the ferocity of a born killer. His self-destruction was an act of sheer fanaticism, a trait in some men that deeply disturbed Cato, filling him with a sense of moral terror, and a conviction that only Rome offered a better way. For all its corrupt and cynical politicians, Rome ultimately stood for order and progress; a beacon to all those terrified huddled masses hiding in the shadows of dark barbarian lands.

'Still regretting your bet?' Macro nudged him out of his self-absorption.

'No, sir. I was just thinking about that Briton.'

'Ah, forget him. Stupid thing to do, and that's all there is to it. I might have more respect for him if he' d used the sword on us and tried to make a break for it. But to kill himself? What a waste.'

'If you say so, sir.'

They had reached the hospital tent, and waved away the insects crowding the oil lamps by the tent flaps, before ducking inside. An orderly was sitting at a desk to the side. He led them to the rear of the tent where the injured officers were quartered. Each centurion had been allotted a small sectioned area with a camp bed, side table and chamber pot. The orderly drew open a curtain and waved them in. Macro and Cato squeezed in either side of the narrow bed on which a linen shroud covered the chief centurion's body.

They stood a moment in silence, before the orderly spoke to Cato. 'The items he wanted you to have are under the bed. I'll leave you two here a while.'

'Thanks,' Cato replied quietly.

The curtain fell back across the opening and the orderly returned to his desk. It was quiet, only a faint groaning came from somewhere else in the tent, and the more distant sounds of the camp beyond.

'Well, are you going to look, or shall I?' asked Macro in a hushed voice.

'Pardon?'

Macro indicated the chief centurion with his thumb. 'One last look on the face of the old man before he goes up in smoke. I owe him that.' Cato swallowed nervously. 'Go ahead.'

Macro reached down and gently pulled back the linen shroud, uncovering Bestia as far as his naked chest which bristled with grey hair. Neither of them had ever seen Bestia out of uniform and the mass of tightly curled body hair came as a surprise. Some kind soul had already covered the chief centurion's eyes with coins to pay Charon his fare for the crossing of the River Styx into the underworld. The injury that had finally killed him had been cleaned, but even so the mangled teeth, bone and muscle sinew that was visible where the flesh had been hacked from the side of Bestia's face was not a pretty sight.

Macro whistled. 'It's a wonder he managed to say anything to the legate in this state.'

Cato nodded.

'Still, the old bugger made it to the top, which is more than most of us achieve. Let's see what he's left for you. Shall I look?'

'If you want to, sir.'

'Fair enough.' Macro knelt down and rummaged about under the bed. 'Ah! Here we go.'

Rising, he held up a sword in a scabbard and a small amphora. The sword he passed over to Cato. Then he pulled the stopper from the amphora and sniffed cautiously. A smile split his face.

'Caecuban!' Macro crooned. 'My lad, whatever it is you did to impress Bestia. it must have been pretty damn miraculous. Do you mind if…?'

'Help yourself, sir,' replied Cato. He examined the sword. The scabbard was black and inlaid with a striking silver geometric pattern. Here and there, the casing had been dented and marked with heavy use. A soldier's weapon then, not some ornamental device reserved for ceremonies.

Centurion Macro licked his lips, raised the amphora and made his toast. 'To Chief Centurion Lucius Batiacus Bestia, a hard bastard, but a fair one. A good soldier who did honour to his comrades, his legion, his family, his tribe and Rome.' Macro took a healthy swig of vintage Caecuban wine, his Adam's apple working furiously, before he lowered the amphora and smacked his lips. 'Absolutely wonderful stuff. Try some.'

Cato took the amphora thrust towards him and raised it over the body of the dead chief centurion, feeling slightly self-conscious about the gesture. 'To Bestia.'

Macro was right. The wine was uncommonly tasty, a rich fruitiness with just a hint of musk, and a dry aftertaste. Delicious. And intoxicating. 'Let's have a look at your sword.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato handed the sword over. After a cursory glance at the scabbard, Macro grasped the ivory handle with its ornately turned pommel of gold, and drew out the blade. It was well-tempered and polished, and glinted like a mirror. Macro raised his eyebrows in honest appreciation as he softly ran a finger down the cutting edge. It had been honed to unusual sharpness for what was essentially a thrusting sword. He felt the weight, and murmured approval at the fine balance between pommel and blade. This was a sword a man could wield with ease, never stressing the wrist the way that standard-issue short swords did. No Roman made this. The blade was surely the work of one of the great Gaulish forges which had been making the finest swords for generations. How had Bestia come by it?

Then he noticed an inscription, a small phrase near the guard, written in an alphabet he had come to recognise as Greek.

'Here, what's this say?'

Cato took the sword and mentally translated: 'From Germanicus to L. Batiacus, his Patroclus.' A shiver of wonder went down Cato's spine. He looked down on the hideously disfigured face of the chief centurion. Had this man once been an attractive youth? Attractive enough to win the affection of the great General Germanicus? It was hard to believe. Cato had only known Bestia as a harsh, cruel disciplinarian. But who knows what secrets a man holds when he dies? Some he takes with him to the underworld, some are revealed.